The Emphasis of Inkling

Seen lately in NYC subway tunnels - graffiti in brilliant green paint “Inkling Lives”.

Dear Anaconda,

I understand, through a series of coded messages, that you have moved your Rook to Queen’s Rook 5. I took the necessary precautions and had your tailor’s mistress in Panama kidnapped. Perhaps you will relinquish your headstrong ambition to create a seki with double ko and consider releasing one of my informants. Perhaps not. My bid is 2 No Trump.

Prison was interesting. I’m sorry they let the old man dry into jerky. These clerical types can never admit their errors and we all suffer. Blankingworth was a good sort, for an embezzler, although it must be said that some of the more advanced murderers in our section were considering assassinating him just to relieve the boredom. He may not have come out of it that badly, all in all. Depends on your definition of “that badly”.

One complaint: the interrogators you had sent to my cell were not up to your usual standards. They gave me the wrong mixture and I went insane for a week. That’s just money down the drain, old man. I know you’re partial to Albanians, but the quality has suffered.

On the other hand, I must thank you for employing such a charming and devious wench in your financial office. She dug a lovely tunnel and she, I, and the contents of most of your Austrian accounts are enjoying the sun here in Durban. Come down. I think the sharks would love to see you again. They missed you last time you were here, curse them.

I must go. Your money won’t spend itself, I’m afraid.

Bishop to King’s Knight 2,

Anders Inkling.

Dear Mr. Cartographimera-Sythe,

It is with some measure of embarrassment that I pen this note to you. Well type this note to you. You know what I mean.

It seems there has been a sort of an administrative error over in our internment division. It’s really nothing to worry about, a simple case of mislaid files. Somehow the file of one A. Inkling was placed in with the B’s, I’m not quite sure how it could have happened. However the matter has been put to rights and I can assure you that our files are now once again in tip-top shape.

Of course there is still a small discrepancy that will require your earnest and diligent attention: after a routine inspection we found that our internment occupancy no longer matched our exacting files, per-se. To be specific we found a Mr. Brian Blankingworth in what was believed to be an empty chamber in the “I” division. Unfortunately due to the oversight, no meals or exercise breaks were provided for Herr Blankingworth, much to his displeasure. Well we can only assumed that he was displeased as it turns out this oversight was made some 8 months ago and the good Blankingworth ceased to express any mood or emotion after the first fortnight. Needless to say this does not concern you, my old friend, but you see we have to put our files straight, and as best we can see from our now remedied files, room 26 in the “B” wing, once thought to be the well-attended room of the late Blankingworth should in fact, have been housing the aforementioned A. Inkling. As of this morning B-26 was without occupant and I’m certain that the Assistant Director to the Internment Supervisor’s Records Clerk will be quite upset to hear that his favorite cribbage partner is no longer expected for their afternoon cribbing.

With Fond Memories,

Albert Isaacstern
Junior Assistant Director to the Filing Secretary

Don’t be alarmed, Anders Inkling is not dead. That is to say there have been no recent reliable reports of his death. In point of fact Mr. Inkling dies with some frequency. Declarations of his untimely undoing surface with clock-like regularity in the tabloids, the financial press, and the odd police blotter. Yet to date, the genial Mr. Inkling has shown a remarkable tendency to show up. Inkling sightings occur at all the right parties, all the important fashion events, and he seldom misses an opening bell at any of the major exchanges. All this regardless of the most studied declarations put forth by an increasingly longish line of nonplussed medical examiners. To say that the man is resilient is akin to saying that Manute Bol’s stature is a smidge above average.

The truly odd thing is the fact that a man of such singular appearance and peripatetic vitality is so often mistaken for a corpse. Although in defense of coroners across the globe, the majority of the suspected ex-Inklings tend to turn up with a dearth of distinguishing marks (some with a dearth of attached limbs), yet these carcasses (one can hardly call them anything else) are always accompanied by an overwhelmingly persuasive array of evidence confirming the identity of the victim. Or so it would seem, until the next film premiere where Anders will certainly appear, squiring a small cadre of supermodels.

Of course the grim reaper is not the only spectre that Mr. Inkling has demonstrated a flair for avoiding; he is also highly accomplished in the art of paparazzi dodging. Apart from a global army of customs agents, there are none known to have seen an unclouded photo of the man. The visage of the scion of Wall Street, the scourge of the Tokyo Stock Exchange, is immediately recognizable, yet inexplicably undocumented.

My Dear Ms. Pettigrew,

It can no longer be doubted. Yes, the sudden influx of chartered accountants setting up shop in Paris, London, Tokyo, Prague, L.A., and New York was an early warning sign that should have been heeded, but alas, it was all too easily and ironically dismissed as a statistical anomaly. Tsk, tsk. I’m afraid there will have to be several adjustments and a journal entry in the ledger. So be it. However, today, when 14 global suppliers of bicycle tubing all announce product shortages for the coming quarter, one can only conclude that Anders Inkling is orchestrating a return.

I can only advise one course of action: hiding. There is simply no time to counter with field MBAs. Campus recruiting is down. Our online training courses have been allowed to lie fallow leaving our ranks woefully depleted. Even our most lethal economists are outflanked. Such is the siren’s song of complacency: even we, the most vigilant, are caught napping after five years of quiet on the frontier. The gossip, the rumors - Inkling’s a ghost, Inkling’s dead, Inkling’s retired, Inkling lost it all in a ponzi scheme. Blithering ninnies! We’ve been caught resting on our collective heels while Inkling’s accountants leap nimbly hither and yon.

Inkling is playing his first card and your best chance, your only chance, is to mobilize the stenographers. That’s right, the stenographers. There is no point in arguing. There methods are violent and antiquated, yes, but effective, and more importantly, violent. Once set out on a task they operate autonomously, and relentlessly. Set loose in the wild they MAY succeed in creating enough mayhem to misdirect his attention long enough to allow you to escape. It’s a fool’s hope, how could they succeed? How many are even left? Six? Seven? Oh where are the secretarial pools of my youth? But succeed they must! You can’t be caught, you must escape!

Escape, yes. Was I not clear on that point? Well let me endeavor to be crystalline: FLEE! RUN! Hide! Dodge! Evade! Go underground! Duck! Cover! Tuck and roll! It’s your only chance to survive long enough to recover the valise. It is the only thing he fears. Even now his daring is boundless. Even here in this office building, this steel and glass citadel that is my fortress, even here he launches his nefarious ploys with all his sneering contempt. Inkling’s junior ad execs have infiltrated my mail room staff. I spotted their clumsy stapling on an inter-office memo this afternoon. Lucky for me Inkling’s ad team never could handle a stapler properly, always insisting on stapling at creative angles relative to the plane of the paper - arguing that the dynamic tension of an oblique staple was “just the thing” to tip the signal-to-noise ratio of inter-office demographics. Poppycock, paper clips are “just the thing,” but the point is moot: They are in.

The escape chute under my Herman Miller office chair has grown snug in the five years since I had it installed, but I congratulate myself on my foresight nonetheless. If we meet again it will be under darker circumstances. Mobilize the stenographers! I beg you! If not for yourself, if not for the safety of the valise, then think of me and what we once meant to each other.

Fondly,

Anaconda

My Dear Anaconda,

So, you thought you could trick me by sending an email to my email address. You must be reading Game Theory again, Old Man, taking the direct approach. My only question is where to begin. Literally, that is my question. Is the part of the story at the top of the blog the latest entry or is it at the bottom of the blog?

The story at the top seems to have so many unanswered questions to it, but then I always was a slow reader. One is loathe to begin yet another plot line - at our age.

And yet I feel we shall. Our “partnership” has been quiet too long. East Asia is finished. Russia has gone cold. The Middle East is for the amateurs now. But Europe…once again Europe is crawling with thieves, and that’s just the way we like it, isn’t it Anaconda?

Yours as ever,

Inkling

I can only conclude by your lack of reply that either (a) you failed
to receive the original, or (b) the shock of seeing the original was
simply too much for your frail constitution and you were struck down
by a grave case of hysterical blindness. In the case of the former
please send some immediate sign of your health and well-being so that
Mrs. Hergapenshoennersveltenkrauss can cease her incessant
handwringing. In the case of the latter, well then this missive is a
bit moot, isn’t it?

-Mr. Hergapenshoennersveltenkrauss

The Morningstar Arms is an unremarkable yet pleasant hotel in the more fashionable end of London’s SoHo district. A typical boutique operation it typically catered to modestly budgeted tourists - the kind that visit a city year after year and would never dream of wasting their money on anything so high hat as a Ritz or Hyatt. Brown suits, gray dresses, tan macks, sensible shoes these were the dress of the day. Billowing yellow silk, high heels and a pleasant waft of “Joy” were to say the least attention getting. So were the eyes and the crisp and business-like manner of the woman who had invaded the sleepy lobby at 3:30pm, when Roger was working the desk. She signed the register, Katherine Arlington, and said she was visiting from Dover, but Roger was from Dover and he knew the accent wasn’t quite right - Bristol maybe or ______. It didn’t matter - this one had come a long way from where she started and there wasn’t much use in quarreling about just where that past had been.

She wanted a room, which had surprised Roger almost as much as her sudden entrance. Women like this simply didn’t stay at the Morningstar Arms - at least he had never seen one, in twenty one years of working there. He thought maybe she wanted directions or her car had a flat or she had her purse pinched by some Soho thug. The thought that she would be a guest simply had never occurred to him.

She asked for a room facing the street, he gave her the key for 4C, she let her fingers linger lightly atop his hand as she grasped the key then she deliberately walked past the elevator and took the stairs. Roger never saw her or anyone like her ever again, but that night he felt good.

The room was simple and dressed in brown just like the lobby clerk