Mortimer

To call it a mansion would have, perhaps, been too much. It was certainly a large house with marks of dignity, but of a tired sort. The stretching wooden walls had paled. The immaculate ceilings, while still impressive, held no great charm anymore. It is the kind of house that had given all it had to generations of occupants. In this fashion, the only current resident resembled the house. He too glowed of a lost glory. He lived what some would call a quiet life within its walls; primarily occupying himself with reading and writing. What he read seemed to be a bit of everything. What he wrote was signed in a name that was not his own. Occasionally, he would take leave of his domicile but when he did it would be for a matter of weeks. Very rarely would he have a caller, but when he did they only stayed a matter of hours. The guest rooms had been bare for years.

This particular morning, however, there was an uninvited visitor inside the house. The current occupant was preparing his breakfast at the time. The intruder was slow, almost hesitant in his movements towards the kitchen. He didn't make a sound as he gripped cold metal in his hands in anticipation. The resident, on the other hand, was happily chattering away to himself.

“That fire's certainly burning cheerfully now, isn't it? Now where'd I put that fryer? I could have sworn that I hung it... Oh of course! How muddle-headed of me. Now let's see... two, no four eggs should do it. I should still have enough in the cellar. I shall have to see about procuring some more of those soon, though. Now, I wonder where I could...”

The voice tapered off as the man exited the kitchen in search of his eggs. The intruder began to quicken. Rounding two corners, he found himself in the kitchen. The man had not closed the cellar door. He stealthily entered the dark basement and nestled himself into a corner at the top of the stairs. He drew his firearm and took the safety off. Even if the old man heard the click, he'd just think it was the crack of the fire. All he had to do now was wait.
Suddenly, the door closed and latched behind him.

“Really, boy? Who keeps eggs in a cellar?” came a voice from the other side.

Silence.

“I apologize," said the owner when he realized he wasn't going to get a reply. "I suppose I am really being quite rude. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Mortimer Wilkins, owner of this house. I would ask your name, but I doubt that you would give me a truthful response, given your current situation. However, if you'd like to come out of there and join me in a civilized meal, I'd be happy to oblige. It has been quite a long time since I've had good company, and eggs are really only good when they're fresh.”

Still no response, save some rustling about.

“Oh, I assure you that you're quite trapped down there, I'm afraid. Place is designed to keep cool in the summer, you see. Built right into the earth so there's no direct contact with sunlight or outside air. Right comfortable in the summer... 'fraid it's a bit chilly in the spring, though. Could catch a nasty cold in there on a day like this. Are you sure you won't join me for breakfast?”

There was a silence; then, “Sir, I believe you are confused... or perhaps mad. That you would consider sharing a meal with-”

“Nonsense!” he cut him off. “I see no good reason why two gentlemen such as ourselves couldn't do just that.”

Bewildered by this turn of events, and presented with the reality of his situation, the intruder gave in. “Very well. I would join you for breakfast in return for being released from this prison you've made for me.”

“Splendid! Although I must make sure that my safety is assured upon opening this door. If you would be so kind as to toss your firearm to the bottom of the stairs I will gladly let you out. I won't have you shooting me today.”

“Of course” he replied, quickly undoing his belt and tossing to the bottom of the stairs; the buckle making a satisfying thunk when it hit bottom. “I am unarmed, feel safe to open the door.” When the door opened he immediately fired twice into the opening. When he paused to make out details through the smoke he was met with a sharp blow to the forehead and a quick removal of his gun from his person.

“I told you I wouldn't have you shooting me today. Did you not believe me?”

Silence again. The morning light coming through the kitchen windows revealed the would be assassin for what he was. Young, that was to be certain. Probably twenty five or twenty six. Scruffy too, although by his clothes he tried to appear refined. Unfortunately, they fit all wrong and he was without even a belt. As it was, the best way to describe his appearance was 'out of place'. His body language now mirrored this. He didn't know whether to hang his head or stand in defiance. As it was, he was displaying an uncomfortable mix of the two. It did not suit him.

Mortimer suddenly smiled. “Anyways, our breakfast is getting cold. I hope you won't think me a horrible host but I made your eggs over easy. I know some people prefer them cooked otherwise, but I can't think of a better way to have a breakfast. Please, sit.” he gestured to the empty place at the table as he took his own seat.

The stranger looked at the table, then made a glance at the door.

“I hope you wouldn't think of running out on a warm meal.” Mortimer said, putting his hand on the gun he had taken. “That would be quite ungentlemanly of you.”

The stranger seated himself at the table.

“Now that's more like it!” Mortimer smiled again. “So tell me, what brings you to my humble abode? Oh, and please eat. You look awfully scrawny."