Becoming a Landlord: A Scandinavian Mystery Classic Short Story

By Frank Heller

At a loose end, gentleman-swindler Mr Collin is drawn into spending an evening in Hamburg's underworld by a Russian Grand Duke in disguise - but his new friend delights in sailing close to the wind. From the elegant night club Papillon de Nuit to an illegal gambling den, can Mr Collin keep their necks and their pocketbooks intact?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kabaty Press
• Release date: Sep 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9788396426062

Frank Heller

Frank Heller was the first internationally famous Swedish crime writer. The son of a clergyman, to avoid arrest after a financial fraud he left Sweden for the continent. In desperate straits after losing the swindled money in a casino in Monte Carlo, he tried his hand at writing novels with immediate success, and produced forty-three novels, short stories and travelogues before his death in 1947.

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Frank Heller

Becoming a Landlord

A Scandinavian Mystery Classic Short Story

This edition published by Kabaty Press 2022

Copyright © 1924 by Frank Heller

Translation by Robert Emmons Lee

ISBN: 978-83-964260-6-2

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Contents

BECOMING A LANDLORD

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

THE GRAND DUKE’S LAST CHANCE

BECOMING A LANDLORD

Good Lord, how monotonous is life! sighed Mr. Philip Collin one day in January, 1909, as he sat lost in the commodious depths of an armchair, in the lounge of the Atlantic Hotel in Hamburg. Mr. Collin, who was visiting the town for business purposes, had just finished a late lunch at Pfordte. A bright fire was burning in the open grate: the smoke of a cigar which he held between two fingers curled in blue spirals above his head, and round him floated the melodious strains of an invisible orchestra.

But his inner man, despite this outward show of relaxation, was filled with a sense of spleen, caused either by the opulent lunch or by his successes in business. Many small successes, says Hafiz, weaken the disposition and produce weariness of the spirit. The philosopher Volpitius, commenting upon these words, adds that a threatening danger, a powerful exertion or a phenomenal adventure is needed to counteract such a state of mind.

Deeply depressed, as he was condemned to spend at least six hours more amid this misery, Mr. Collin began to rummage in a pile of newspapers which lay at his side and tried to divert himself by looking through them. But in vain. One paragraph after another only elicited a sneering grumble: Parliament has not—Let it! A new steamer has been launched by the Vulcan Wharves—What the devil do I care? Bülow has made a speech—To hell with all official speeches! Grand Duke Peter Nikolaievich has fallen into disgrace: thus the rumor in St. Petersburg. Damned smart, if it’s the result of kicking over the traces! thought Philip Collin. Why can’t he come here and have an extra fling?

B’r-r-r! Life is far too dreary and monotonous.

He dropped the paper on his knees, stared pessimistically at the advertisements on the last page, Theaters and Entertainments, and skimmed lazily through the programs: they all seemed as dull as ditchwater.

I know what’s amiss: things are too comfortable. If I were stranded here, penniless and forced to pull through, relying solely on my wits and my energy, it would be another story altogether. A new idea—that would be a safety valve!

Just as he was thinking this, his glance fell on an advertisement near his left thumb. It began with the word Discretion, and in the expectation that it concerned a private money-lender, he read it through absent-mindedly, hoping to find an opportunity to express his dissatisfaction with life. But it proved to be something quite different.

Discretion. Owner of a new Night Club is looking for Ladies and Gentlemen (real gentlemen) to lend the premises greater elegance and to contribute to the entertainment. (On the first evenings refreshments free of charge—eventually also a fee.) Only distinguished guests need apply. Adr. Rudolf Moose.

Suddenly seized with a premonition of the possibilities that were opening up before him, Mr. Collin rose from his chair with a new light in his eyes. For a few seconds he stared thoughtfully at the river Alster, then he rapped on the table and paid his bill.

Can you imagine what this is? Philip asked the waiter, handing him the paper.

The latter read the paragraph and reflected for an instant. That is probably Le Papillon de Nuit, the new night restaurant near the Central Railway Station. I hear it is tiptop. Shall I telephone and reserve a table for M. le Baron?

Thanks, responded Philip, adding imprudently: I’ll go there myself, for this advertisement interests me.

On reaching the offices of Rudolf Moose, Philip had been sent to Director Breitman of the Papillon de Nuit, who engaged him at once, and provided him with a blue entry card. Eleven o’clock found him at his post, ready to begin on his evening’s work.

In five minutes Philip was abundantly convinced that he had never seen anything like it before—though Paris, Budapest and the Riviera held no secrets for him.

The restaurant had been built in two sections, the one opening out of the other. The first presented nothing unusual in its appearance and was adorned on conventional lines by masses of palms: the second, however, was curiously decorated. In Moorish style, with slender columns and a mosaic floor, it was shaped like a horseshoe: lamps in beaten metal projected from the walls: swelling carpets covered the floor, leaving a circular space for the mosaic, and chairs were everywhere replaced by divans. In the background an orchestra of red-coated Hungarians was fiddling and Philip nodded to their conductor, whom he knew from the Rat Mort; at several tables, wrapped in thin veils which allowed glimpses of brown skin, sat Nubian women (guaranteed genuine) with curious musical instruments. Sometimes when the Tziganes stopped playing, they twanged their instruments and arose in a weird and breathless dance.

Philip was not quite sure of his part, but played it as to the manor born. He danced with the women who were there, drank champagne and tried to add to the luster of the restaurant by all the means at his disposal. Toward midnight the guests from the theaters and music halls began to trickle in, an elegant, though not very numerous, public; and Philip wondered how such an enterprise could possibly flourish.

In spite of his fears, by one o’clock the place was filled with an impeccable public, gentlemen in evening dress and patent-leather shoes, such as himself; women in elegant, perhaps a trifle too elegant, raiment. Champagne flowed at all the tables and the majority were having supper at the exorbitant prices charged in this haunt of pleasure. The specifically gay atmosphere of the night club, the absence of which can transform it into the semblance of a funeral vault, had set in. Philip was about to order a second Mumm when his attention was attracted by a scene at the entrance.

He saw there, engaged in a violent altercation with the porter, a person whose exterior most aptly recalled a shoemaker in his Sunday best. His slouching figure