Smoked Havoc

by Rupert Harker

  “Did you agree to her requests?”

  “Oh, yes. Our fee is dependent upon our doing so.”

  I sat up a little straighter in my chair. “Our fee.”

  “Yes, Rupert,” he said and a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “The FSB is taking this matter very seriously, and is offering us fifty thousand pounds apiece if we provide information leading to the apprehension of Saxon Schwarzkröte. The fee will be doubled if they also take possession of the Apple of Eden.”

  “But did you not state that it would be disastrous if they were to do so?” I asked.

  “I said that I had agreed to her requests,” he replied evenly. “I did not say that I was truthful.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “So how are we to proceed?”

  “Our first objective is to locate the Fourth Atman. We shall use it to draw Schwarzkröte into the open and then…” He slammed the side of his fist into his open palm. “Then we shall have him like a rat in a trap, a fly in a web…”

  “A bun in the oven,” I offered helpfully. “A partridge in a pear tree.”

  “Not quite, Rupert.” Urban-Smith sighed and reached for the television remote control. “Not quite.”

  *

  After supper, I spent an hour or so trying out my new purchases, after which I shaved and showered before setting out on foot, wrapped up tightly in my thickest overcoat, with Randy the Rabbi tucked beneath my arm in a plastic bag. Nell and Clara were due to appear on stage together at The Blue Belvoir at half past eight, and I hurried against the icy wind, keen to be at the bar before the show started.

  I made my way from Chuffnell Mews onto Baker Street, turning left onto the Marylebone Road before cutting across Bilbury Square to reach The Spawn, upon which resides central London’s premiere gentlemen’s club, The Blue Belvoir.

  I entered through the hallowed oaken doors, past the besuited security guard, who doffed his cap and tugged his forelock as I passed, and made my way through to the main hub. I was served by a charming young Indian woman by the name of Fapya, who slipped me a card with her telephone number and hourly rates along with my G & T.

  I found a table at the back of the room and settled down. No sooner had my weight settled than the lights dimmed, a pounding rock rhythm spilled from the speakers, and Clara slunk onto the stage wearing a figure-hugging black dress, clear stilettos and a smile. She shimmied to the shiny steel pole that thrust upwards from the centre stage, and began to spin about it, her head back and one knee drawn up to her stomach, accenting the smooth curves of her haunches. She danced for a minute or two, and then was joined onstage by Nell, attired in an identical outfit, save for the colour of the dress. The two embraced and exchanged a long lingering kiss, undressing one another while the members of The Blue Belvoir applauded politely and offered well-mannered encouragement. I drained my glass and waved Fapya to my table, requesting her to bring me a further two drinks. She hurried away, her expediency lubricated by my insertion of a ten-guinea note into the waistband of her hosiery.

  Nell and Clara continued to entertain for a further twenty minutes, leaving the stage to enthusiastic applause before reappearing shortly afterwards and mingling with the assorted gentleman members of The Blue Belvoir, collecting tips, exchanging banter and kisses, and (in Clara’s case) distributing business cards.

  The club steward seized the microphone and announced the next performer, the club’s latest addition, Fapya, who sidled onto the stage clad in traditional Indian dance clothing, and began undulating and swaying, the taut muscles of her slender torso rippling and flexing beneath her brown skin. I reached into my pocket to withdraw her business card, keen to see what her hourly rate may be, when I was interrupted by a pair of hands placed over my eyes from behind me.

  “Guess who,” Nell cooed in my ear, before swinging her leg around and depositing herself onto my lap. She greeted me with a lingering kiss. “I can’t stop,” she said. “Clara and I seem to collect more tips if we circulate together. Are you staying until the end?”

  “Of course,” I confirmed. “Back to Clara’s is it?”

  “That’s right. Clara says she has something special planned for tonight.”

  “I can hardly wait,” I replied, but I was talking to her back as she scampered away, dressed in her tight cotton dress sans undergarments to capitalise on her performance. As I gazed about me, I could see that she faced some pretty stiff competition courtesy of Fapya, who was gyrating against the pole sensuously, the harsh stage light glinting upon her oiled belly and calves, her small breasts shuddering with each thrust of her pelvis. I downed my second drink and reached for my third. A warm glow was spreading from my stomach, and a pleasing numbness crept into my thoughts, and I leaned against the back of my chair and wished I were that metal pole. I retrieved Fapya’s card and slid it deep into the recesses of my wallet, for it always pays to remember the boy scouts’ motto; be prepared.

  *

  8. Enter the Dwagon

  I spent Sunday recovering from the previous night’s exertions. Randy the Rabbi had indeed proved popular with my two frechas, especially the tefillin (although the leather straps had left my arm rather bruised).

  Urban-Smith spent the day scrabbling at his canvas, forsaking all refreshment and conversation, as was his way when his mind was wrestling with some weighty problem. Finally, at around nine o’clock, he set aside his brush and paints and rotated the canvas for my approval.

  “What say you, Rupert?” he asked. “It is entitled The Last Gasp of Winter.”

  I stared awhile at the composition, a grey-green backdrop awash with red and white streaks, blue blobs and other seemingly random additions.

  “Is it upside down?” I asked, tilting my head to one side and covering first one eye, then the other, then both together.

  “No, Rupert. It is you who is upside down,” he replied somewhat cryptically. I returned to my quarterly, but out of the corner of one eye, I saw him surreptitiously turn the painting upon its head, and step back for a moment to give a begrudging nod of contentment.

  *

  On Monday morning, as Urban-Smith and I sat contemplating the breakfast pots and listening to Mrs Denford berate Gonzáles for jumping up and laddering her stockings, there came to our ears the dulcet ringtone of Urban-Smith’s telephone. He flipped open the device and put it to speakerphone in case the call should be of interest to me also.

  “Hello. You have reached the telephone of Fairfax Urban-Smith.”

  “Pwaise be! Mr Urban-Smith, it is Godfwey Pingum. I wequire your urgent assistance.”

  “Sir Godfrey Pingum, MP for Upper Clefton?”

  “Cowwect, Sir?”

  “How may I be of assistance, Sir Godfrey.?”

  “I am in tewwible danger. I have weceived information, information of a cwitical nature, and I am now in dwead for my life.”

  “What is the nature of this information, Sir Godfrey?”

  “As you may or may not wealise, as well as my tenure as a Member of Parliament, I also hold seats on sevewal advisowy boards and committees. Over the last few years, I have begun to have my suspicions about certain other members of the committees and, dare I say it, some of my fellow party members.”

  “What kind of suspicions?”

  “Mr Urban-Smith, have you ever heard of The Fervent Fist?”

  “The name is familiar+,” replied Urban-Smith guardedly. “What is your connection to them?”

  “So help me, I have stumbled unwittingly into the dwagon’s den.” Sir Godfrey’s voice quavered with fear. “They are everywhere, lurking awound evewy corner, in the highest echelons of Government, industwy and even the awistocracy. I have pwoof, Mr Urban-Smith but I am certain that they are onto me. I see people following me as I head to work, I hear footsteps on the pavement outside my window in the dead of night, and I hear clicking in the background when I make telephone calls. I hear them now. It can only be a matter of time before I end up like Kevin Ferno and Bernard Ashman.<
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  “I must pass this information on before it is too late, but I know not who I can twust. You are said to be incowwuptible, the soul of discwetion. Please, Mr Urban-Smith, you must welieve me of this tewwible burden.”

  “Can you e-mail the information?”

  “No, no. It is not safe. I hardly dare use my telephone, but I am despewate. I am afwaid to leave my house.”

  What is the address?”

  “Number thwee, Bullbwass Place, Westminster.”

  Urban-Smith rose. “We are on our way, Sir Godfrey. Do not answer the telephone or door to anyone other than myself.”

  “Bless you, Sir. I await your awwival with bated bweath.”

  Urban-Smith terminated the call.

  “It is as we feared, Rupert. The Fervent Fist has its fingers inserted into the deepest recesses of Her Majesty’s government. Grab your coat, there is no time to lose.”

  *

  As the crow flies, it is scarcely a mile and a half from Chuffnell Mews to Bullbrass Place. The London traffic was already as thick as curdled custard, so we elected to travel by foot rather than by taxicab, and within the half hour, we were hammering upon the front door of number three, Bullbrass Place.

  “Curses,” spat Urban-Smith. “There is no response. He set off at a brisk pace back from whence we came, disappearing down a narrow walkway between two houses, and scooting in the direction of Sir Godfrey’s town house with me scuttling along behind him.

  The rear of the property was adorned with a small gated courtyard. The gate was locked, but due to his exceptional height, Urban-Smith was able to reach over just far enough to release the bolt and gain access. We hurried to the rear window, which afforded a view into Sir Godfrey’s kitchen.

  “Great Scott!” I cried.

  Sir Godfrey lay face down upon the tiled floor, arms akimbo and without a flicker of movement. A bloody knife, clearly the cause of Sir Godfrey’s demise, rested upon the kitchen counter,

  “Stand clear, Rupert,” demanded Urban-Smith grimly, “whilst I break the lock.” It took but two blows with the sole of his boot to grant us access.

  “You attend to Sir Godfrey,” he barked, “and I shall search the house.”

  I squatted besides Sir Godfrey, taking care not to step in the bloody pool, and felt at the poor fellow’s wrist and neck for a pulse, but without much hope. It was apparent that Sir Godfrey had succumbed to blood loss, and evidently not too long ago, for the body was warm to the touch, and the blood still liquefied and uncongealed in places.

  “There is nobody here.” Urban-Smith had reappeared at the kitchen door. “Should I summon an ambulance?”

  “It’s too late. He has exsanguinated, and nothing can revive him.” I rose to ease the cramping in my thighs. “Best not to turn him over, we don’t want to disturb the evidence.” From this relatively elevated vantage point, I noticed a peculiarity, and leaned forward to inspect the blood smeared beneath Sir Godfrey’s outstretched right hand.

  “Do my eyes deceive me?” I whispered. My heart shuddered within my thorax, and the bile rose into my throat at the macabre sight before me. Sir Godfrey had attempted to leave a message, scrawled in his own blood upon the tiled floor, but as he drew his last gasp, he had slumped forward, obscuring the first part of the message and leaving but one word; DWAGON.

  “It says, something-something-dwagon,” said I, stating the obvious.

  Urban-Smith scratched his nose, clearly perturbed. “It is most peculiar,” said he. “I have come across many who speak with an impediment, yet none who write with the same.”

  “Nor I,” I concurred. “I suspect it is due to oxygen deprivation in the language centre of the brain from his catastrophic blood loss.”

  “Perhaps,” muttered Urban-Smith, withdrawing his mobile telephone from his pocket and taking several pictures of the body and its grisly message.

  “Should we not summon the constabulary, Fairfax?”

  “Not yet, Rupert. I wish to make my inspection of the house undisturbed.” He led me through to the dining room, which was in a state of disarray with draws opened and upturned, and detritus strewn about the floor. “It seems that we have disturbed his killer in the act. They made their escape through the back of the house, locking the door from outside as they fled.” He indicated an upturned vase upon the side table. “An altercation has begun here, continuing into the kitchen, and culminating in Sir Godfrey’s murder. The bloodstains here, here and here indicate that the killer then returned to the dining room to begin their search. I saw no evidence of the search extending to the two upper floors, but it is too soon to say whether they found what they came for, or fled empty handed.”

  Urban-Smith dropped to all fours and laid his head on the carpet, looking across the nap.

  “It would seem that our killer is a woman.” He straightened up and indicated for me. “Although the pile is short, you can see recent indentations made by a lady’s heeled boot or shoe, evidenced by the larger indentation at the front and the smaller at the rear, rather than the uniform indentation one sees with a flat-soled shoe. The separation indicates a size 5, about average.” He clambered to his feet and strolled out into the entrance hall. “From the stride length, I would estimate our killer’s height to be between five-five and five-eight.” Slowly he ascended the staircase. “I see no similar footprints on the stair carpet. She did not climb these stairs.”

  We proceeded to the first floor, which was dominated by a living room that extended the full length of the house. The walls were painted in a pale lemon shade, and the floor was of a laminate composite with a woodgrain effect, overlaid by a buff rug.

  There was a leather sofa and matching armchair, a large flat-screened television, and an expensive sound system. Upon the walls hung a handful of abstract prints interspersed with framed photographs showing the late Sir Godfrey hobnobbing with all manner of noblemen and dignitaries. I suspected that the pictures were there to impress visitors rather than to fulfil any sentimental function.

  My eye was drawn to a statuette of a Chinese dragon upon the mantle. “Look here,” said I, indicating the beast, “perhaps this is the dwagon in question.” I picked it up and examined it, but I could see no break or opening that would imply anything hidden within it. I handed it to Urban-Smith.

  “It seems a very typical ornament, with no features of interest other than its tastelessness.” He held the statuette to the light and shook it before replacing it. “What are your thoughts on the accommodation, Rupert?”

  “Other than the corpse in the kitchen, the place lacks a woman’s touch,” I observed. “Sir Godfrey was evidently a bachelor.”

  “Very much so,” agreed Urban-Smith, rifling through a bookshelf stacked with DVD’s. “However, I am given to understand that Sir Godfrey was most prolific in matters of an intimate nature, but that his tastes did not extend to members of the fair sex. They say it is genetic, you know.”

  “Homosexuality?”

  “Yes. Do you agree?”

  “I couldn’t say. It doesn’t appear to run in families.”

  “Ha. I imagine that it would not. Ha ha.”

  From the living room, we ascended to the topmost floor, where we found Sir Godfrey’s voluminous bedroom and en-suite bathroom. IN contrast to the rest of the house, the wallpaper and carpet were garishly bright, and a large waterbed dominated the room. A glass bowl, full to the brim with prophylactics of all different shades, textures and flavours, rested upon the bedside table

  “Ding-dong!” I announced.

  “Dong-dong indeed,” concurred Urban-Smith. “A veritable bear-trap of a room if ever I saw one.” He made for the wardrobe and began rifling through the contents. “It is a most expansive closet from which Sir Godfrey has emerged,” he called, disappearing inside.

  “Be vigilant for lions and witches,” I cautioned.

  “Ha-ha,” came the reply from deep within the wooden recesses. “Sir Godfrey certainly had expensive tastes in clothing; much of it is tailor-
made and….good gracious!” He withdrew, bearing a rather natty striped tie. “An Eton tie. How tragic that he and I did not get to sing the old school song together.”

  We examined the rest of the room, but it yielded neither clues nor dwagons, so we dialled the three nines and returned to the dining room to await the police.

  “Dwagon,” said I.

  “Dwagon indeed, Rupert.”

  “What can it mean?”

  “I cannot say, but clearly it is of critical importance. If only we had the message in its entirety. Dashed inconsiderate of the fellow to sprawl all over it like that.”

  “Perhaps it is not a dragon, but something that drags on,” I offered.

  “Such as?”

  “Hmmm,” I pondered. “There you have me. The problem is that we don’t know enough about Sir Godfrey to appreciate what significance dragons may have held for him.”

  We batted ideas to and fro for a few minutes, until there came a pounding on the front door, signifying the arrival of the police. I answered the door to two young gentleman constables, PC’s Abbott and Costello, and ushered them through to the kitchen.

  “Bloody Hell!” said PC Abbott. “Why didn’t you call an ambulance?”

  “I’m a doctor. I have already pronounced the fellow dead.”

  PC Abbott left us in the care of PC Costello, and went to investigate the rest of the house, muttering into his radio as he went. PC Costello produced his notebook and scribbled while Urban-Smith and I explained how we came to be at the scene of the crime.

  The murder of a member of the House of Commons is no trifling matter, and within a few minutes, we heard a car screech to a halt outside and the front door was flung open to admit the senior officer on duty, none other than Detective Chief Inspector Dominic Gadget.

  DCI Gadget (pronounced Gad-jay) stormed into the kitchen and came to an abrupt halt. His eyes narrowed, his lip curled back into a snarl and his loathsome moustache quivered like a jellyfish at an aerobics class.