by Oliver Skye
After obtaining Norman’s mobile number from Mildred, the detective hoped that by speaking to him he would finally get the peculiar affair of the missing shopkeeper out of his hair. But since first conversing with Norman’s sister – and seeing the astonishing though obscure footage on the CCTV footage from the park – he couldn’t get rid of the notion that there was more to the whole business than met the eye.
He was soon to find out how right he was.
Berserk & Topsy-Turvy
WHILE MUNCHING yet another croissant – not long after becoming aware that the alligator-skin shoes were humming – Norman’s phone rang again, the piercing melody startling him in mid-swallow. He’d forgotten to turn the Pomp and Circumstance ringtone down and its melody again echoed throughout the luxurious café.
Norman was surprised to receive another call so soon. He’d just spoken to Roger Winter, giving his flustered assistant instructions not to let anyone know where he was. As Mildred disliked mobile phones intensely, he knew it wasn’t her. After all, she would have no reason to think he hadn’t arrived at their shop ... as usual. He was also aware it would take more than a major catastrophe for Roger Winter to phone Mildred.
‘Heese speaking,’ Norman said in a measured tone after swallowing another mouthful.
‘Ah! Mr Heese ... so glad to reach you, sir. This is Detective Chief Inspector Breeze, Scotland Yard.’
‘Scotland Yard!’ Norman spluttered after a lengthy pause. ‘I say, this is rather droll, what! Are you sure you have the right person?’
‘Yes, indeed. I managed to get your number from your ... uh ... sister, and—’
‘MILDRED!’ Norman cut the inspector short; aware that if she knew he was sitting in a café at this time of the morning, she’d go right through the roof. ‘Begging your pardon, Inspector ... it’s just that ... allow me to explain: my elder sister is rather forceful to say the least. But because of feeling quite exhilarated right now, I really don’t want her spoiling everything ... with her usual over-the-top histrionics.’
‘Really? Oh, that’s nice to hear,’ the inspector said curtly. ‘I mean, that you’re feeling over the moon. And your sister insists that you don’t consume any—’
‘Thank you Inspector,’ Norman interrupted, missing the last part of the detective’s comment. ‘You see, it really wouldn’t do for her to know where I am right now....’
Norman was aware of how this must have sounded, but couldn’t think of any other way to explain how he was feeling.
‘Mr Heese,’ Inspector Breeze continued with a hint of agitation, ‘your sister reported you missing at around 09h15 this morning. You apparently didn’t arrive at your shop at exactly nine o’clock—’
Norman listened to the detective with a sinking feeling, gathering what was coming next. Yet he knew he simply had had to try the shoes on. He also sensed that he was entirely in the wrong place. Somehow – despite the absurdity of it – he knew the shoes desperately wanted to be somewhere else, though it didn’t make sense to him at the time
‘—a police officer then found your Italian-made shoes in Hyde Park. Prior to that, a number of tourists reportedly observed you behaving ... er ... let’s say, rather erratically. You allegedly removed your own shoes, put on another pair – wherever they came from – and proceeded to perform a jig. It seems there was also loud music exuding from your person. And so, Mr Heese, I should very much like to know if you’re feeling all right ... if you get my meaning?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Norman said, missing the detective’s insinuation, while taken aback by how much he seemed to know. ‘And it has occurred to me to hand the shoes in, as they’re probably lost property. I’m afraid, Inspector, I just couldn’t help slipping them on. They are, you see, uncommonly handsome and exceptionally comfortable; in fact, the most fantastic shoes I’ve ever worn. The extraordinary thing though is that they’ve since begun to hum—’
‘Hum!’ the inspector ventured cautiously.
‘Indeed. At first I thought I was imagining it, but there’s no doubt.’
‘When you first met up with these ... er ... shoes, Mr Heese, was there anything curious regarding their position, gravitationally speaking?’
‘No, not that I can recall,’ Norman spluttered. ‘Though, let me see. Come to think of it, there was something rather out of the ordinary....’
Declining to answer the detective’s question in full, Norman wasn’t about to relate to the detective what he’d observed, as he himself was still trying to come to terms with that bizarre sight.
‘Aaaaaaaahhh!’ Norman shouted, trying to plug his ears and hold on to his mobile at the same time. ‘The humming’s frequency is ... aaaaahhhhhhh—’
‘Where exactly are you, Mr Heese?’ Inspector Breeze asked quickly, frowning heavily. ‘I think perhaps we should pop round to see you.’
‘What! You come here ... the police!’ Norman blurted. ‘I’m at an Austrian café ... Wiener Mischung ... in Mayfair. But surely it’s not THAT serious. I am dreadfully sorry about swapping the shoes and all that. Oh well, do come along if you must ... only not with Mildred!
‘Great alien hedgehogs!’ Norman added urgently, ‘the humming’s getting much louder. I can’t at all imagine what’s going on here....’
At this point Inspector Breeze had become convinced as to what Norman’s real state of mind was, momentarily rejecting the insobriety theory. So, after terminating the conversation, he hurriedly called St. Bart’s hospital. After reaching the superintendent there, he arranged for a consignment of orderlies to meet him in Mayfair ... on the double!
Norman seldom frequented cafés or restaurants and didn’t realise he’d been speaking to Roger Winter and Inspector Breeze rather loudly – as well as yelling at the top of his voice once the shoes’ humming had reached an intolerable pitch. Ordinarily very well-mannered, this all had to do with his heightened state of excitement.
The coffee shop’s patrons were now giving him a variety of fiercely disapproving looks. Wolfgang Hohlbein had also noticed the new customer’s erratic behaviour, as well as the high-pitched whining clashing with the piano. It seemed to be coming from the oddly-dressed customer’s direction, who for some reason reminded him of someone he’d seen before. Meanwhile the pianist, in tails and a bow tie, was banging away at the grand piano while looking round in alarm.
On hearing the screeching of a harshly-braking car above the now incessant electronic howling, Holby shuffled towards Norman’s table. This was in one corner stylishly made up with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Cautiously moving closer while covering his ears, the disgruntled proprietor – who happened to be an extremely bulky man – struggled across the deep pile of golden carpeting, wondering how best to get rid of the unusual patron without causing a rumpus.
* * *
It was with great reluctance that Jeremy climbed into the passenger seat of his aunt’s powerful sports car. The smoking of the tyres was spectacular as Mildred hit the accelerator. Simultaneously, she fiercely held on to the steering wheel, head thrust forward peering through the windscreen. Though Jeremy had his seatbelt on he was firmly clutching the dashboard – even before they’d reached the first corner.
Racing towards central London, the sleek car retracted its roof at the touch of a button. The foggy flow of crisp air blew Mildred’s hair in all directions, giving her an unearthly appearance – like a manic Medusa caught in a cyclone.
Jeremy swallowed hard, trying not to look at his aunt, wishing he had a scarf and a pair of aviator’s goggles on. Freezing in the autumn chill, he stared fixedly ahead as they weaved through London’s obscure traffic. He was amazed they hadn’t hit anything yet. ‘Look out!’ he tried to yell. ‘Watch where you’re going!’ but the words wouldn’t escape his clenched jaws.
‘I’ll sort your uncle out in a jiffy!’ Mildred shouted, flicking strands of hair out of her eyes. ‘This really is too much! Fancy relaxing at a swanky café when he should be at our shop. I’ll soon put a stop to i
t....’
While Mildred and Jeremy were rapidly approaching Mayfair from the north, Inspector Breeze’s police Range Rover was tearing along Victoria Street. At the same time, a white hospital van was converging on Café Wiener Mischung from the east along Oxford Street.
‘You never can tell if there’s going to be any trouble,’ Inspector Breeze growled, looking round at his three grim-faced colleagues. ‘There’s something really peculiar about this Heese fellow; it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s as nutty as a fruitcake.’
On reaching the coffee shop, the inspector parked in front of the hospital van that had preceded them. ‘Humming shoes ... just imagine!’ he commented again as they climbed out. Shaking his large head he stepped towards the two orderlies dressed in crisp white overcoats, one of them clutching a multi-buckled Day-Glo straitjacket.
‘Be on the ready in case anything unexpected happens!’ he warned, gesturing towards the café’s entrance.
The detective had scarcely spoken when Mildred’s convertible came hurtling round the nearest corner, barely on all four wheels. Jeremy was still gripping the dashboard, his eyes wide with terror. The four officers gasped as Mildred applied the brakes so forcefully the car screeched to a halt in a cloud of white smoke.
‘That must be Heese’s weird sister,’ Inspector Breeze muttered. ‘I wonder what she’s doing here!’
Ignoring the six men gaping at her, Mildred jumped out slamming the door. With a weak-looking Jeremy in tow, she purposefully marched towards the café’s chic foyer.
* * *
Just as Wolfgang Hohlbein was laboriously zeroing in on Norman’s table, Mildred, chomping at the bit, made her forceful entrance, the police officers and orderlies bringing up the rear.
The first thing Inspector Breeze noticed was the high-pitched whining sound, clearly audible above the tinkling piano. There was no doubt: it was emanating from the man with the bowler hat on, whom the detective guessed must be the elusive Knightsbridge shopkeeper.
‘Jumping jars of marmalade!’ the inspector cried, ‘what on earth—’
Whhheeeeeeeeeeeee—
The thunderous discord quickly drowned out his words.
Now a few things happened all at once.
Glancing up in surprise while wiping his mouth with a crisp white serviette, Norman was baffled to see eight people stampeding in his direction like a herd of buffalo. Mildred, with a frightful scowl and her chin jutting out, was leading the way. Jeremy, looking very uneasy, reluctantly tagged along behind her.
Holby, who had just reached Norman’s table, was mystified to see a redheaded woman in a gaudy outfit, four police officers, a chubby schoolboy, and two hospital orderlies charging towards him.
The café’s patrons, sensing something exceptional was afoot, all craned their necks to get a better view.
Moments later, tight-lipped and hands on hips, Mildred reached her brother’s table. ‘I say, Millie, what a pleasant surprise!’ Norman exclaimed above the increasing din.
That instant, while the shoes’ whining became much much louder, Norman’s chair started turning in an anticlockwise direction. Observing her brother and his chair beginning to gain height, and while the chair’s spinning became all the more rapid, Mildred heard Norman shout:
‘So dreadfully sorry, Millie—’
Whoooooosh....
‘I was waylaid—’
Whoooooosh....
‘By a pair of—’
Whoooooosh....
‘SHOOOOOOOOES!’
Whoosh ... whoosh ... whoosh....
From Norman’s perspective, the room was now revolving at a frantic pace. All he could do was hold on to the chair as tightly as possible. At that instant, everyone was amazed to see him and his chair transform into an oscillating, blurred multicoloured ball. Meanwhile the whining had become so deafening, everyone stuck their fingers in their ears. A row of long mirrors close by shattered, while the pianist did his best to make his pedantic playing heard above the cacophony.
Then, with an intense flash, while all stared horror-stricken, the whirling Norman-ball exploded into trillions of fragments, followed by a soft thud. These rapidly dissolved while soaring through the air, as snowflakes do when landing on an outstretched hand.
The humming and piano playing immediately ceased, replaced by a deafening silence.
Instantly the now motionless chair was back at its table, with Norman’s glowing silhouette remaining behind, his profile glimmering while exuding a strong electrical smell. Slowly pulsating, Norman’s outline then faded from view.
Mildred screamed and then fainted, falling back into Inspector Breeze’s arms.
Jeremy was so stunned he burst into tears. And you really can’t blame him, for it would come as a pretty great shock to see someone explode right in front of you – especially someone you loved.
Holby jumped three feet in the air. ‘Ziss iss impossible!’ he yelled repeatedly, staring as if his eyeballs would pop out of his cannonball head.
Next, everything went berserk and topsy-turvy.
The coffee shop’s clientèle became hysterical, while Inspector Breeze, his grim face as white as a sheet, called on everyone not to panic.
A police officer barked into his walkie-talkie for reinforcements, while the orderlies looked round dumbfounded.
Like a troop of inquisitive monkeys, the café’s patrons started jabbering at the top of their voices. Some jumped up onto chairs and tables for a better view.
While the once elegant establishment disintegrated into panic-stricken activity, those who stood nearby stared aghast at the empty chair, where the bowler-hatted shopkeeper had sat only moments before.
Part Two: Tons of Chocolate-Flavoured Fudge
Ethereal Celestial Mass
THE ALLIGATOR-SKIN shoes Norman so unexpectedly bumped into hadn’t arrived from a distant galaxy somewhere, though they wouldn’t blame anyone for thinking so.
Far from it.
The shoes’ existence really began in this solar system, on planet earth, smack-bang in the middle of New York City on the east coast of North America. If we all existed in another other than our own Milky Way galaxy, perhaps it would read: in the Traya System, on Mylnar, in the middle of Kriston Valengia on the plains of Sigma.
The now retired computer scientist and cosmologist, Professor Percival Rutherford McCrackenbatten, was only partly responsible. The real minds behind the computer shoes’ manufacture were the professor’s newly developed twin processors. They, in his laboratory, had spontaneously evolved farther than the elderly scientist intended. He, with the help of one of his best robots, Quigley-8, had merely made the shoes according to the Twins’ intricate plan, which proved a tremendously challenging project indeed.
* * *
In the first place, Percy McCrackenbatten was a genuine, full-blown genius. Just one look at him and you realised he had a first-class brain. Yet for all his ingenuity he was an unassuming, gentle, though sometimes stubborn and rather vain man. He was quite short with a shock of white hair, a broom-type moustache and goatee beard. In addition, he wore oval bifocal silver-rimmed spectacles perched on the edge of his large nose, making his brown eyes look larger than they really were. All this – with the white slacks and matching dustcoat he wore, its top pocket stuffed with clutch pencils and pens, and a magnifying glass clipped to his lapel – contributed to him looking like a typically scatterbrained scientist. Especially one who’s many interests included trying to grasp the endlessness of the universe and time travel – the intense study of which had driven some of his colleagues right round the bend.
In his spacious laboratory, the professor kept an assortment of robots he’d invented: robots that crawled, glided, or even floated around the lab. He even designed robots that invented and built other robots. These he called tobors. The robots that the tobors had made were called sobors. Some of the robots, tobors and sobors were quite large. The biggest one was the size of a small car and situated in the middle of the
lab. Some were medium-sized like vacuum cleaners. Others were smaller, like books. Many were the size of beetles or as tiny as ants, while some of the sobors were microscopic and even submicroscopic.
Occasionally, the professor had to destroy some of the sobors because they got up to weird pranks and weren’t reprogrammable. One sobor for instance had sneaked out at night and deflated the tyres of all the cars parked down the long Greenwich Village street.
One of his robot’s, Beefeater, crawled along the ceilings, walls and windowpanes with the help of its little gecko-like suction feet. Its mission was to keep the laboratory free from insects, zapping them with a laser connected to its mechanical snout. The only insects the professor hadn’t programmed it to eliminate were spiders and praying mantises. Of these he happened to be especially fond.
Another robot, a wheeled on called Periwinkle, the size of a rabbit, had developed the habit of following the professor around. It did so while flashing its colourful lights and making funny electrical chirping noises. It also went for walks with him to his favourite diner in Central Park.
The professor and Periwinkle had become a familiar spectacle to locals and taxi drivers around the Village. When feeling like a walk, he’d hail a taxi to take him and his robot up 7th Avenue to the park. Opening the back door with its mechanical arm, and allowing the professor to get in first, Periwinkle would manoeuvre itself onto its hind wheels and jump up from the pavement besides its owner.
* * *
As a child, Percy – his schoolmates always called him ‘McBatty’ – had tinkered with electronics, microscopes and toy chemical labs. He often told his Mum and Dad, whose grandparents had settled in America from Scotland, that he wanted to be an inventor. He said that someday he would design machines that would make things disappear and reappear again ... anywhere around the world! Young Percy had also always thought that cars should float above the surface of the road rather than roll on wheels. They just laughed and thought he was very cute.