Copyright © 2007 P. Grey. All rights reserved.

But the company that Mr. Pottoman worked for was very small. They weren’t well known either. So they had to send people out to the streets to promote their wares. And the loud-mouthed, fast-talking Mr. Pottoman suited this type of job very well.

He sold perfumes and cologne for both men and women. In his car he had a large, brown leather suitcase with his name emblazoned boldly on top. Inside this large, brown leather suitcase were dozens upon dozens of perfumes and colognes: Elizabeth Arden, Guerlain, Dior, Yardley, Givenchy, Ralph Lauren, Yves St Laurent - they all stocked up the pockets to the edge.

Mr. Pottoman worked five days a week. He’d start the day at eight by carrying his suitcase over from his house to his car. He’d switch on the engine, let it run for a while and then chug off down the road. He’d attend to any appointments he had with customers first. Before the early afternoon, he’d have finished. Then he’d go off to a neatly-trimmed suburb, park his car off alongside the pavement and go knocking on doors.

This day was like the rest. At half past eleven, Mr. Pottoman was already walking through garden gates and ringing doorbells. The ladies at the first two houses told him that they didn’t need any perfume or deodorants. Mr. Pottoman pressed further but they were adamant. Soon he gave up, said goodbye and went on his way.

Mr. Pottoman looked at his watch. This is normal, he told himself; it is before lunch. It is always better to pay visits to houses just after lunch. Before then, the people are either busy cleaning up or preparing their food. If you go knocking at that time, they are irritable and won’t hesitate to chase you away. But if you go just after lunch, they’d be satisfied and more welcoming.

So Mr. Pottoman went back to his car. He left his suitcase in the backseat and sat in the front. From the cubby-hole he picked out a small, plastic box. This was his lunch - four brown bread sandwich slices of chicken meat. Mr. Pottoman liked chicken meat. He bit on the slices thoughtfully and gazed at the trees that lined along road. When he was done, Mr. Pottoman reached for the cubby-hole again. This time he produced a small flask. This was his coffee. He unscrewed the lid and drank the entire contents.

By now it was one o’ clock. Mr. Pottoman knew it was time to go knock on doors again. So he hauled out the suitcase, locked the car doors and walked off. The first house he went to was a large Bali-styled feature. Mr. Pottoman nodded his head. This was the kind of house where the owners wore expensive perfumes. There was a great chance that he could convince them to a buy a few bottles more.

There was a long path from the gate to the door. The yard was green and expansive. A pebbled pathway with low-lying lights meandered among the flower shrubs. Mr. Pottoman looked at it with envy. His house was very tiny and his yard tinier still. All he could do was sit in his living-room and look out the window at the street alongside. It was a poor view.

There were three steps on the porch. Mr. Pottoman took each of these slowly. According to him, a sale does not begin when you start speaking to the customer. A sale begins as soon as you start your approach. Mr. Pottoman had no idea if the customer was watching him ascend the stairs. But he might as well do it in the proper and dignified manner, just in case he was being watched. Young salesmen are all too hasty, and some of the sparky ones would even try to take all three steps in one bound. If the customer peeped through a window at that moment, you’d lose all credibility. You might as well walk back to the gate instead of knocking on the door.

But now Mr. Pottoman was feeling confident. His face wore a smile and his finger pressed the doorbell. A gong rang at full volume inside the house. Half a minute passed. Mr. Pottoman bode his time. Fifteen seconds later he pressed the doorbell again. The gong sounded again. But still nobody came to the door. Mr. Pottoman stepped back and looked around.

"Hello!" He called. "Hello!"

He stepped up again and rang the bell. The gong had hardly finished sounding when the door swung opened violently. Still Mr. Pottoman stood calm and cheerful. Standing in the doorway was a small, thin man. His mouth was arched down and he eyed the salesman distrustfully.

"What do you want?" He asked.

"Sorry for disturbing you, but good day," greeted Mr. Pottoman.

"And?" asked the small, thin man.

"My name is Andre Pottoman," replied the salesman, "I sell lifestyle fragrances, only the best. Would you like to sample some of them?"

"Not interested," answered the man at the door.

"Are you sure?" asked Mr. Pottoman, still armed to the teeth with his cheerful smile. "There is no obligation to buy. And it will only take five minutes of your time."

"Five minutes?"

"Five minutes."

The small, thin man paused. Mr. Pottoman slowly lowered his gaze. He did not want to stare the customer directly in the eye. This has the habit of intimidating clients and frightens them away. Then the sale is over and nothing can be done to rescue it. It is best to wait submissively, which is what the Mr. Pottoman did.

"Not interested," said the man finally, "Now get out."

Mr. Pottoman easily recognised a difficult customer. The man at the door was such a customer. It was only the early afternoon and it would be wise not to persist. Besides, there would be many more houses he could visit with possibly friendlier receptions.

Nevertheless he asked, "Are you sure?"

"Yes." The answer was quick and terse.

"All right then," said Mr. Pottoman brightly, "I am sorry for wasting your time. Goodbye."

He nodded his head, turned around and walked off. At the moment that he took the second step, he heard the man at the door call out, "Lifestyle fragrances? Is that like perfumes?"

"Exactly!" answered Mr. Pottoman and swung his head. "They are like perfumes."

The man at the door considered the salesman on the steps. "Come inside," He said, "I want to have a look."

Mr. Pottoman did not understand why he had changed his mind but he was pleased. He went up the third step and through the door. The man closed it behind them.

"Your home is lovely," said Mr. Pottoman after he had a quick glance around.

They had entered into a long passage. To either side were tall, smoothly-plastered walls painted white. Small framed black and white photographs hung on them.

"Is this your family?" asked Mr. Pottoman.

"Yes," answered the man, "Come this way. Show me your lifestyle fragrances."

Mr. Pottoman followed him to the end of the passage. There was a huge landscape painting on the end wall. They turned left and went into the dining room area where a large mahogany table stood centrally. There was another painting in this room, even more lush and grandiose than the landscape painting in the passage.

"You have an eye for paintings," remarked Mr. Pottoman, "This is abstract, isn’t it?"

The man looked at the painting and nodded. "Yes, abstract," He said.

"Sorry," said Mr. Pottoman, "I didn’t catch your name?"

"Carl."

"Ah, Carl," agreed Mr. Pottoman, "And where is the lady of the house?"

"She’s gone out," replied Carl, "To see her friends, or something."

"It doesn’t matter," said Mr. Pottoman with a shrug of his shoulders. "Shall we sit down? I shall show you what’s on offer."

Carl nodded. He took his seat at the dining table and Mr. Pottoman sat opposite. He placed his suitcase on top and flicked open the lid. As he did so a proud smile lighted on Mr. Pottoman’s face. Carl stared at the contents. There were boxes of parfum and eau de toilettes inside.

"So this is it?" He asked, "What’s the difference between them all?"

Mr. Pottoman knew his business well. "The life of any fragrance," He began, "is in the amount of oil contained in its mixture. Perfume is always costliest because it has a large quantity of essential oils."

"How much?"

"The price or the oils?" replied Mr. Pottoman, "The price varies between the manufacturers. But they always have about 22% oils. Eau de Parfum, or EDP, comes next with between 15% and 22% oils. Next is Eau de Toilette. It’s commonly called EDT and has…"

Carl did not listen. He looked through Mr. Pottoman and the salesman noticed. He coughed and Carl woke up.

"As I was saying," said Mr. Pottoman, "Eau de Toilette contains about 8 to 15% oils. Eau de Cologne had just 4% oils and for those who crave subtlety, there is Eau Fraiche which has just about 2% essential oils. I’m boring you, aren’t I?"

For sure, Carl had drifted again. Mr. Pottoman almost kicked himself for being so silly. He should have summed Carl up at the door–this man was obviously not interested in fragrances. This, of course, begged the reason for Carl having invited him inside the house.

"So," Mr. Pottoman decided to plunge head on, "Which perfumes do you wear?"

"What?" muttered Carl.

"I said, which perfumes you wear?" asked Mr. Pottoman again, "Perhaps I can find the one that you wear, or show you a sample that is similar."

Carl shook his head. "You might not have the one I wear," He said bluntly, "It’s Rank; have you heard of Rank?"

For sure Mr. Pottoman had heard of Rank. He was shocked to hear that an inhabitant of such a luxurious house would wear a simply spray-on as Rank. This was the kind of common deodorant you pick up at a night supermarket or petrol garage shop. It cost just more than the price of bread.

"Rank?" repeated Mr. Pottoman, "You wear Rank?"

"That’s right."

"Ah Carl," laughed Mr. Pottoman, "We’re not living in the Sixties anymore, you know."

Carl started. He leant over the table. "What?"

"I was saying," began Mr. Pottoman and then he realised his mistake, "Oh, it was nothing."

But Carl would not let the remark go. "Are you making fun of the perfume I wear, Mr. Pottoman?"

"Not ever," replied the salesman, "I’m not!"

Carl rose up from his seat. Mr. Pottoman did not like the hardened look on the man’s face. "Carl?" He asked.

The man did not answer. Instead he pushed the chair aside and rapped on the table. Mr. Pottomon hurriedly closed his suitcase lid. "I must go now!" He cried, "You must excuse me!"

But before he could lock the latches, Carl had hurtled around the dining table and grabbed him by the collar.

"Excuse me!" shouted Mr. Pottoman, "What are you doing?"

The poor salesman tried to fight off his attacker. But Carl proved to be dangerously skilled. More so, the small, thin man suddenly seemed to have grown much larger. Before long, the salesman was knocked on the nose and on the head.

"My face!" howled Mr. Pottoman, "How dare you Carl?"

He sprawled on the floor like a squashed cockroach. Then he tried to creep away. But Carl grabbed his shoes and pulled him back. Instinctively, Mr. Pottoman kicked and got Carl on the chin. It was Carl’s turn to yell and he fell onto Mr. Pottoman and ripped his shirt in the process. The salesman’s business cards tumbled out his pocket and slid across the tiles. Carl punched Mr. Pottoman again, more than twice this time. The salesman scrambled and pushed over a large vase that stood on the ground. It toppled next to Carl, and broke into two pieces.

"Ha!" cried Carl.

Mr. Pottoman grabbed the smallest ceramic piece and with it, he smacked Carl on top of the head. The man cried out in pain. Seizing his chance, Mr. Pottoman got up and ran. He stumbled down the passage and sailed through the front door and into the yard. He did not stop to catch his breath and leapt over the stones in the pathway. More than once he turned around to check if the brute was following. But Carl was not to be seen.

Finally Mr. Pottoman got onto the open road. But even then he didn’t stop. The man was a terrible sight. He bled from the nose, his shirt was torn and his pants scrambled against gravity at his waist. Mr. Pottoman raced past his car on the roadside. He was so dazed that he didn’t even recognise it. After travelling two roads in frantic haste, he halted and collapsed dramatically on the pavement. The lady, who lived in the house across from where Mr. Pottoman lay, called the local authorities. She didn’t like the idea of this vagabond sunning himself on the roadside. It gave the neighbourhood a bad name.

A police van rattled up the street ten minutes later. Mr. Pottoman heard the engine hum and jumped up in joy. The broad smile on his face made him an even crazier sight than usual.

There were two officers in the van. Both got out. "Now here," said the first, "What’s this?"

"I’m so glad you’re here!" heaved Mr. Pottoman, "I was attacked!"

"You was what?"

"Attacked by a badly-perfumed monster!!" cried Mr. Pottoman, "But I escaped!"

"You were attacked by a badly-perfumed monster?" asked the officer again.

"That’s right!" shouted Mr. Pottoman.

"He’s a lunatic," mumbled the second officer.

Despite Mr. Pottoman’s protests, they grabbed him by a shoulder each and hauled him in the back of the van.

"I’m telling you," said the man through the bars, "I was attacked! There are strange people living in this neighbourhood! What are you doing?"

He was locked up in the back and the officers made their way back to the station. All the meanwhile Mr. Pottoman banged on the windows in rage.

"Let me out, you…you…," He shouted, "Let me out!"

The officers wouldn’t listen. When they arrived at the station, they calmly unlocked the back door. Mr. Pottoman, still mad and confused, jumped out and almost toppled the most senior of the officers. The junior one, being dutiful and responsible, grabbed the salesman by the neck and dragged him into the booking office.

"Attacking a policeman, hey?" He asked, "Come with me."

It took some time before Mr. Pottoman could get his story out. It took even longer for the policemen to believe him. He talked so fast and his story was so incoherent that at first it was difficult to grasp the details. Mr. Pottoman realised that he was far too excited and allowed himself to calm down by breathing slowly. When at last the policemen were satisfied that he was telling the truth, they agreed to take him back to the house where he was attacked.

"My suitcase is there as well," said Mr. Pottoman, "That Rank-wearing thief would have used them all up!"

"Rank?" They asked.

"Yes! "Mr. Pottoman replied, "Can you believe it?"

They arrived at the Bali-styled house twenty minutes later. Mr. Pottoman had chatted all the way about how his civil rights had been violated. The policemen had been saying yes to all he claimed, hoping that he’d at least shut up. Even then Mr. Pottoman wouldn’t stop talking. He was even the first to get out the car when they arrived. But then he paused at the gate and waited for the two officers. They were as calm as ever and Mr. Pottoman was slightly disappointed.

"Aren’t the both of you going to take out your pistols?" He asked.

"Just walk along," beckoned one of them.

They went in through the gate and up the long pathway with pebbles and low-lying lights. Mr. Pottoman followed, but in a very timid manner. He kept his eye out for Carl. That menace may just be hiding somewhere.

Just as they had begun to walk up the porch steps, the front door flung open. At the entrance an old man appeared. Mr. Pottoman didn’t recognise him.

"Ah!" cried the old man, "You’re here at last!"

"Pardon?" asked the senior officer.

"You’re here at last!" repeated the old man. He looked over them with approval and then peered at Mr. Pottoman. "Who’s he?"

"Andre Pottoman!" replied the salesman with gusto. "Who are you?"

"Me?" replied the man, "My name is Carl!"

"Carl?" echoed Mr. Pottoman, "You can’t be Carl!"

The old man’s eyes twitched. He leant closer towards Mr. Pottoman. "Andre? Andre Pottoman?" He whispered, and then thundered, "You thief!"

He threw himself onto the salesman and they both tumbled over the steps. Both policemen, bewildered by suddenness of the old man’s actions, set upon them and tore the men apart.

"Do you see?" cried Mr. Pottoman, "Attacked by two Carls on the same day! What is wrong with these people?"

"What do you mean, you liar?" asked the old man. "Where did you find him, this thief?"

"Thief?" cried Mr. Pottoman furiously, "You are calling me a thief?"

He flung himself on the old man but the policemen grabbed him back. "Right look here," One of them said, "Just wait a minute; I said wait!"

A few minutes later, the feuding Mr. Pottoman and Carl the Second were settled and calmed. The policemen ushered them both down the long white-walled passage of black and white photographs. The salesman saw the huge landscape painting he had seen earlier at the end of the passage. It had been shifted slightly to the left. Soon they were sitting at the large mahogany table in the dining area. The policemen asked both to explain the circumstances.

Mr. Pottoman started first. He repeated his story, from the time he first entered the yard to when the police brought him back to the house. Everyone was satisfied with the tale except Carl.

"He is lying," He said curtly, "I was away on holiday; and I returned just an hour ago."

"On holiday?" asked one of the policemen.

"That’s what I said," replied Carl. "And when I returned, my house was bare!"

One of the policemen turned to the salesman. "Mr. Pottoman," He asked, "Is this the man you met at the house?"

The salesman shook his head. "This is not him."

"Then are we at the correct house?" asked the policeman.

"Yes," replied Mr. Pottoman, "I am sure."

"Of course he knows my house!" Carl fumed, "He’s the one who cleaned me out! Look, I found his cards on the dining room floor!"

From his pocket, Carl produced a few cards. They were familiar to Mr. Pottoman – indeed they were his own business cards. He remembered that they had fallen out during the struggle.

"Do these belong to you?" asked one of the officers.

"Yes," answered Mr. Pottoman, "They have my name on it."

In the end the news came out. The real Carl had left his home and gone on holiday. This morning the robber Carl–a different person altogether and probably not his real name–had broken into the house. Mr. Pottoman had come along selling perfumes. The robber Carl welcomed the salesman and attacked him. Mr. Pottoman escaped and returned with the police. By this time the robber Carl had gotten away and the real Carl had returned from holiday, only to find his home in a state. He had found Mr. Pottoman’s business cards on the floor and assumed Mr. Pottoman had been the thief.

"So that is it," The officer replied, "It is as clear as day. Very well Carl, you must lodge a formal complaint to the police for the burglary in your house. Mr. Pottoman, when we find the real thief, we shall remember that he assaulted you."

Mr. Pottoman nodded. "There is nothing more that can be done?"

"There is nothing more that can be done," answered the officer.

"I will come to the police station in my car," said Carl. "I first want to take note of what is missing."

"We can call in the Robbery Unit," suggested the officer, "They’ll be here in half an hour or so."

But Carl shook his head. "No," He replied, "Listen, I am just back from holiday. None of this has sunk in yet. You will give me some time, please?"

The officer looked blankly at Carl. "All right," He said, "But you make sure you call the Robbery Unit soon. And don’t go touching anything. They may want to dust for fingerprints."

"Yes," replied Carl, "I know that."

The two officers and Mr. Pottoman got up from the table. Carl did the same and led them through the passage.

"Thankfully the thief didn’t take any of these photographs," said Carl, "They are off my family and very dear to me. I am sorry, Mr. Pottoman, for thinking you were the thief and attacking you."

He said goodbye to the three at the door and shut it closed. Mr. Pottoman and the officers walked down the porch steps, through the garden path and towards the car.

"Thank you officers," said Mr. Pottoman, "My car is nearby. Please let me know when you find Carl…I mean the man who robbed the house and assaulted me."

"Goodbye Andre," They said, "Good luck."

Mr. Pottoman waved and they drove off. He walked back to his own car. It was a pity they did not catch the thief - he would have liked to see that small, thin man behind bars. After all that he had done, the rat deserved to be in jail, perhaps for a year. No, three. Yes, three years will be good enough, maybe even four if there was a hard judge in the courthouse that day.

"My suitcase!" yelled Mr. Pottoman suddenly.

In all the haste, he had forgotten to ask Carl if his suitcase were still in the house. That suitcase, with all its expensive lifestyle fragrances, was worth far more than people expected. But trust that Rank-wearing thief not to steal away with it because he wouldn’t know something classy if it were right up his nose. Never mind though, it was for the better and he, Mr. Pottoman, would get his wares back.

So the salesman ran quickly to his car, started it and drove his way back to the large Bali-styled house. He parked off by the side of the road. This wasn’t going to take long. Mr. Pottoman walked up the long, familiar path at a brisk pace.

"Carl!" He called as he walked, "Carl! It’s me, the salesman; Mr. Andre Pottoman!"

There wasn’t any answer from the house. Mr. Pottoman reached the three entrance steps and jumped the first two, landed on the third and skipped onto the porch. He knocked hard on the door.

"Carl!" Mr. Pottoman shouted, "I’ve come to see if my suitcase is still here!"

Still there wasn’t any answer. Carl must be somewhere in the house and checking on what was stolen, though Mr. Pottoman to himself.

"I’ve come for my suitcase Carl!" yelled the salesman. His finger pressed the doorbell. The gongs did not sound in the house. Mr. Pottoman pressed the doorbell again. But still the gongs did not sound in the house.

"I’m sure they worked earlier," said Mr. Pottoman aloud. In the normal run of things, Mr. Pottoman would not open a door to a house without being asked to do so. But this was not the normal run of things. And all he wanted was his suitcase back. So Mr. Pottoman turned the handle. The door swayed open and Mr. Pottoman placed one foot inside the house.

"Carl?" He said.

The house was quiet. Mr. Pottoman entered the long white-walled passage with the picture frames of black and white photographs. At the end he saw the huge landscape painting again. This time though it was not hanging by a hook on the wall. Instead it lay on the floor. The wall was coloured an off-white on the spot where the painting had been. Plugged straight in the middle of the off-white patch was a dull, grey safe box. Its door was opened wide.

The lines on Mr. Pottoman’s face tightened. He treaded softly on the passage carpet. With each step he moved closer and closer to the safe box. Eventually his face was at the lid and he stared down the opening. The box was empty.

"Carl?" called the salesman quietly, "It’s me, Mr. Pottoman. I’ve come for my suitcase. Did the thief take it?"

Mr. Pottoman turned to the dining room. This was where he had left the suitcase last. When he was here with the policemen earlier, he had not seen the suitcase. But still Mr. Pottoman searched the room.

"Carl," called Mr. Pottoman again, a little louder this time. "I’ve come for my suitcase. Did you see it?"

There wasn’t any answer from anyone inside the house. Instead the only the noise was of a motor car starting its engine outside. Then a familiar horn blared wildly. At first Mr. Pottoman did not bother. Then the horn blasted again. The sound lasted longer this time. Mr. Pottoman pricked up his ears.

"My car!" He gasped.

The salesman dashed out the dining-room, passed the fallen painting and hurried down the long white-walled passage to the front door. He reached for the handle and turned it. The door swung open and he ran through the entrance-way. The car horn sounded again.

Mr. Pottoman bounded on the porch and jumped all three steps at one go. He landed on the long pebble path to the gate and raced down.

"Excuse me!" shouted Mr. Pottoman. "That’s my motor vehicle!"

He reached the front gate, passed through like a wild horse and ran towards the car. Through the front windscreen, he saw two men. At that instant Mr. Pottoman stopped. He recognised them both.

Sitting in the driver’s seat was a small, thin man with a sour look on his face. It was the fake Carl, the original thief, the rat.

In the front passenger seat was another man. He was old and his hand hung downside out the window.

"Carl!" shouted Mr. Pottoman, "What are you doing there with the thief?"

The real Carl, the man who Mr. Pottoman and the officers had met at the house, grinned from out the front window. Only he wasn’t the real Carl. Neither of them might have been Carl at all. Mr. Pottoman didn’t know what was going on.

"Andre," said the real Carl, "Keep quiet about this, will you? You understand my friend?"

Mr. Pottoman wouldn’t say anything.

The old man continued. "By the way," He said, "Thanks for the car. As a way of saying thanks, we’ve left something behind that you’ll find far more valuable."

The car pulled off. Mr. Pottoman followed its motion with his head until it reached the end of the road. Then it disappeared from sight. Just as slowly as he had turned forward, Mr. Pottoman turned back to where the car had been standing. Sitting close to the pavement, where it had previously been blocked out by the back tire, with his name emblazoned boldly on top; was his large, brown leather suitcase.