THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY
It is amazing how people will insist on nothing but the police until the word compensation is mentioned. It was handed out in huge dollops by the hotel in order to keep the incident quiet. For the sake of a wasted afternoon and a packet of Rolos, I received three night’s free accommodation plus the princely sum of two hundred Scottish pounds.
All I have been able to ascertain is that, by switching on the strobe lights after we had been lulled into such a near hypnotic state, the whole audience had effectively been put into a kind of trance from which we only awoke almost as one, long after Humphries had gone. I have been unable to squeeze any information from the staff or management as to the credentials of the now infamous professor, or his whereabouts - or anything else about him in fact, so that is why I decided to invest my almost useless Scottish money in hiring a Private Detective.
He is an odd fellow, an Englishman currently ‘visiting his Scottish offices’. It transpires that at this time of year he normally works in and around Salisbury, but for four days during the waxing phase of the moon which he spends up here in Scotland. He also spends one night every three months, preferably during a new moon for some reason, squatting in a tent in Romney Marsh. Quite why he does this he seemed reluctant to tell me.
When he handed over his card I noticed several strange things immediately - well who wouldn’t, when presented with a business card with no name or address on it? All that appeared on the little white square were the words ‘Shamanic Detective’ in bold letters and then underneath that ‘Spiritual Arbitrator’ in slightly smaller script. What any of it is supposed to mean I have no idea.
“Call me Eric,” he said.
“Eric,” I repeated, “Ok.” He then hesitated a moment.
“No, hang on. Not Eric, Vincent. Yes, that’s it. Vincent. Vince.”
“Fine,” I said, although somewhat puzzled. “Vince is fine. And your last name?”
There was another moment’s pause. “Dragon. Vince Dragon.” I had to laugh. In a thick Scottish accent he told me it was highly rude up here to mock someone’s name.
“I didn’t know you were Scottish,” I said.
“Aa’m no, but it’s still bad manners,” he replied.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally, “I don’t mean to mock your name, I just thought it a little unfortunate that you are what you are with a name like that: a Private Dick, with the initials V.D.”
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