Missing Mamba (George Bailey Detective Series Book 4)

by Mike Hershman

  “Probably a good place to put a bunker,” George said.

  “Yeah,” Walt said, “so you could blast away at Germans in those funny spiked helmets after they came half way around the world to capture Hamilton Island.”

  “All you’d ever hit out here are scrawny rabbits, lizards and rattlesnakes.” I said.

  “Wonder how the heck that got there?” George asked pointing at a palm tree in a nearby gully.

  “Some bird ate a palm tree seed and use the gully for a bathroom,” I said.

  “Speaking of bathroom, maybe I’ll run over to that tree for a second myself.” Walt said.

  I probably could have used the palm tree too, but it was harder for me. I took one look at the cactus plants and decided I could hold it.

  After Walt got back, we drove the short distance to Cecil’s bunker.

  “Well I guess we might as well go up and say hi.” Walt laughed.

  “What’ll we tell him?”

  “Don’t worry Sharon, you’ll think of something.

  21.

  “I don’t need any ice.”

  “Ah –were not delivering ice sir. These are my friends Walt and George and we just came out for a drive – saw your interesting house and thought we’d stop by and say hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Ah –well we were a little thirsty too and wondered if you could spare a glass of water.”

  “I reckon I could spare some – what was your name again.”

  “It’s Sharon.”

  Cecil looked a little like Santa Claus. He was about as fat with a great big grey beard. If his beard was a little whiter and he wore a red cap he’d look just like Santa. He’d need the hat cause Cecil was completely bald. His eyes weren’t blue either like most Santa’s I’ve seen –at least the ones in Coca-Cola ads. His eyes were green. It was hard to tell though because he mostly looked down all the time.

  “Well come in then –have a seat– I’ll get you each a glass, but I don’t have any ice.”

  “Sounds like we should have brought some.” Walt said.

  Cecil didn’t think he was funny at all.

  The only room had old wicker furniture that looked like it sat out on somebody’s front porch too long. The room had high concrete walls and a sealed up large door on one side. A sign above the door said “AMMO ROOM”.

  Walt, sitting in a wrecked chair, leaned forward tapping his fingers on the coffee table. George sunk into a broken down love seat next to the “AMMO ROOM” door.

  I looked around the room at new Lobster Traps stacked against one wall – a large wooden toolbox with three shelves on another. In the back corner stood a small Army bunk bed. The sheets on the bottom bunk looked like they hadn’t been changed since World War I ended. The top bunk, with no mattress, held a pair of work boots and an old army chest.

  “This place stinks,” George whispered.

  “Shhh--.” I said.

  Cecil came back from what looked like the kitchen area holding three mayonnaise jars half- filled with water. He offered the first glass to me - then handed the second to Walt.

  “So this used to be an Army fort?” Walt asked.

  “A bunker, it had a big 16 inch gun that could fire a shell 25 miles.”

  “Wow,” I said. I already knew from George that 16 inches was the diameter of the gun’s hole, which is pretty big when you think about it. Imagine a bullet 16 inches wide.

  “I heard the shells weighed 2000 pounds.” George said.

  I knew George could list the complete specifications on a 16-inch gun.

  “About as much as your Ice Truck,” Cecil said, “if it was loaded with ice.”

  We sipped our water in silence. I was trying hard to think of something to ask Cecil. He wasn’t the most talkative person I’ve ever met. Of course I suppose most people who live all by themselves in a converted Army bunker miles from anyone else probably aren’t too chatty.

  “Did you make those Lobster Traps ?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Cecil said, “I make them for the Lobster fisherman – course a lot of the fellows make their own.”

  “They look really well made,” Walt said, “do you make any other traps.”

  Sometimes Walt makes me want to scream. His suspect interrogation techniques were horrible. I wondered why he didn’t just ask if Cecil ever made Black Mamba or hamster traps.

  Cecil looked at Walt for a second and said.

  “Well I did make a cage once for a Black Mamba – but I never made any other animal or snake traps.”

  22.

  “A Black Mamba! “Isn’t that some kind of a snake?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” Cecil said, “a very dangerous snake. I once made a cage for Dr. Frieda Krinkdel. Do you know her?”

  Cecil looked right at me. I had to think quick cause maybe he’d seen me leaving the house or talking to Frieda somewhere.

  “Oh, I know her, she and I really enjoy talking about flowers.”

  “Flowers?” Cecil’s green eyes felt like they looked right through me.

  “Petunias.” I smiled.

  Walt studied the workmanship on the Lobster Traps while George and I talked to Cecil.

  “What brought you kids way out here again?”

  “Oh, I just bought that ice van about a week ago -- wanted to take it out here for a ride –wasn’t sure if it would make that hill back there.”

  “Looked like it almost didn’t.”

  “Yeah.” George laughed.

  “Next time have your friend pee before you go up – you’ll be lighter.”

  We all laughed and Cecil seemed to warm up a little. I thought I’d try to find out a little more about him.

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked.

  “Few years – came over when I lost my mainland job –figured I could always camp out here and fish –least I wouldn’t starve. Say you kids better head back to town now –it gets mighty dark out here at night.”

  Boy was he ever right. On the way back we could only see a few feet in front of us. Not only was it dark, but the fog rolled in. For a while it got so bad and we were going so slow that Walt got out in front the van and walked along giving directions.

  “Road bends to the right up ahead,” He shouted.

  Suddenly Walt screamed, ran back to the van and leaped in.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Something big with yellow eyes was looked right at me –maybe a mountain lion.”

  “A lion! On Hamilton Island!” I laughed, but scooted a little closer to George.

  George drove slowly forward with his nose pressed up against the windshield -- his chin resting on the steering wheel.

  “There it is,” he laughed.

  A deer stood frozen in the middle of the road, stared at us for a second, and then leaped off into the brush.

  “Hey Wautera –there goes your lion,” George said.

  23.

  It was fun to watch Henry Lido and Walt Jenkins sipping tea from dainty little teacups in Frieda Krinkdel’s dining room. George didn’t seem nearly as out of place –maybe because he wore his police cadet outfit. For some reason he looked to me like the inspector in an Agatha Christie mystery. The truth is we all enjoyed our English tea and crumpets with Frieda. She seemed to really enjoy my story about our trip out to Cecil’s bunker. I naturally censored the part about Walt’s restroom stop, but included his meeting with the deer. Frieda laughed.

  “That Cecil is a strange man,” Frieda said, “it’s so difficult to speak to him because he never makes eye contact with you. He did beautiful work and insisted on not charging me much for Margie’s cage. More tea Henry?”

  “Sure, thanks,” Henry said, making sure to look right at her.

  Henry’s interest in Packet Post seemed to soften Frieda’s attitude towards him. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Henry before – I think she just assumed that he was only interested in golf. After tea, she opened the wood chest in the living room to let Henry see Ferndock’s
collection.

  “How come he has some cards from other ports, I thought he only collected them from Durban?” Henry asked as he held up a card.

  “He would often use them to trade with collectors interested in different African ports – like Alexandria, Cape Town or Port Elizabeth.” Frieda said, “ We actually sailed from Port Elizabeth when we went to Durban.”

  “This is really fun.” Henry said. I like reading the cards --listen to this one—“

  Henry waited until he got George and Walt’s attention.

  Dear Father,

  I saw my first lion yesterday. She attacked a Wildebeast near a waterhole. The Wildebeest fought hard but didn’t have a chance against the King of Beasts. It was like watching Jack Johnson fighting some poor guy from a local gym –only worse. Next stop Durban. Africa is splendid indeed!!

  Love

  Clarence

  “That’s funny – I thought the deer was the king of beasts.” George laughed.

  “Who the heck is Jack Johnson?” Walt asked.

  “A famous pugilist,” Frieda said.

  “Huh?”

  “A boxer –pugilist is another word for boxer,” Henry said, “Jack Johnson was a great boxer – I bet he coulda even beat Braddock.”

  Sometimes Henry Lido amazes me. He only gets average grades in school. He does better than Walter, but then, most everyone does. I think Henry would do better in school if he didn’t have to work so hard to support himself and his mother. He seems to know a lot about history and boxing – course be is a gambler and boxing is a big gambling sport.

  “I like the idea of collecting from Africa,” Henry said, “at first I thought it would be fun to collect them from Panama, but I think Africa seems like more fun.”

  “Why don’t you try Port Elizabeth Henry?” Frieda said. “I can get you started with Ferndock’s small collection. I’m naturally very attached to his Durban postcards and want to keep those, but I’d be happy to let you have the Port Elizabeth ones – as well as some others from Cape Town which you can use to trade.”

  “Wow thanks – that would be great!”

  Henry dug into the big chest full of cards sorting out the ones from Port Elizabeth.

  George and I offered to help while Walt examined the chest.

  “Did Cecil make this for you?”

  “Oh no, Ferndock built it years ago. It was his pride and joy.”

  “I can see why,” Walt said, “it’s really well built.”

  “I have a small cigar box that he also built – I think it even contains a Cuban cigar ---would you like to have it?”

  “The cigar –you bet,” Walt said

  We all laughed.

  “Not the cigar,” Frieda said, “you’re too young to smoke, I meant the cigar case – perhaps you can give the cigar to someone.”

  Since she’d given a cigar case to Walt and the Packet Post collection to Henry, she naturally had to search around for something to give George and me. I really didn’t care because I just enjoyed the tea and her company. Well maybe I did care a little. George ended up with a great ivory-handled magnifying glass that Ferndock used to inspect the stamps on his Packet Post.

  Since we were all detectives –we probably looked a little jealous of George’s gift –except Henry, who was busy arranging his Port Elizabeth postcards.

  I got a collection of her mother’s crocheted tea service doilies. They were beautiful.

  “Soon you can have your own tea party,” Frieda said.

  I didn’t mean to cry – I really didn’t.

  24.

  George and I looked at Margie’s cut cage lock sitting next to the red vise on his workbench. The garage had that musty smell of damp newspapers, dirty oil and sawdust that most garages have. George examined the lock with his new magnifying glass.

  “I think Cecil’s hiding something,” I said.

  George turned and looked at me through the magnifying glass, which made his right eyeball look like a whale wearing glasses. I thought the tiny pimple near my ear must have looked like Mount Vesuvius to him.

  “Put that damn thing down!”

  “Hiding something –like what?” George set the magnifying glass next to the lock.

  It was hard to put it into words, I mean, I wasn’t really sure, but it seemed like the way Cecil never wanted to look a person right in the eye when he talked to them meant, at least to me, that he wasn’t being completely honest. I remember a girl I knew in the fourth grade, her name was Janice, who was like that. Always looking down when she talked to you.

  “It’s like Janice,” I said.

  “Janice.”

  “Janice O’Reilly.”

  “What does she have to do with Cecil?”

  “She never looks you in the eye either. Haven’t you ever noticed that?”

  “No.”

  I was glad to hear that, because even though Janice O’Reilly never looked you in the eye –she was easily the prettiest girl in our class.

  “Well your certainly not very observant for a detective. What are you looking for now?”

  George held the magnifying glass in one hand and the lock from Margie’s cage in the other. All he needed, I thought, was that funny hat and high collared coat Sherlock Holmes always wears. I knew George loved his new magnifying glass.

  “Clues.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you notice anything strange about the way this cut was made?”

  I took the microscope and held it about four inches away from the cut. George leaned in close to me.

  “Look there,” he said, “the cuts don’t line up.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  That’s when he kissed me on the cheek. Which was nice, and made me feel better because he must not have seen the pimple.

  “We’re investigating a crime at the moment Mr. Watson – I wish you’d keep your mind on the case.” I think I sounded a little like Nora Charles in “The Thin Man” – my favorite movie.

  “Oh sorry – couldn’t resist.” George sounded a lot like Nick Charles. “Well, this cut wasn’t made by a hacksaw –it was made by the edge of a file. When you put the two cut pieces together they form a V. A hacksaw doesn’t do that –but a file does.”

  “So.”

  “Maybe if we could find the file and match it up with the cut we could find whoever cut this lock.”

  Now in my boyfriend’s defense, he was once able to figure out that abalone divers used an abalone bar to pry open a person’s garage and steal a diving helmet. In this case there were a few obvious problems.

  “Lots of people own files,” I said

  “Yeah, I know, but look how wide the cut is. This is from a really big file -- like maybe from someone who has lots of tools. Like maybe a handyman?”

  “Exactly.”

  That’s when I kissed him back.

  25.

  We sat on the bench at the end of the pier. The sun felt warm. It was Sunday afternoon -- the boat moorings in the harbor were half empty now. They were never full these days, and besides, boaters who had to work on Monday usually left before noon. Sailboats waited a little longer ‘til the wind picked up. “Dulcinea,” a beautiful sloop with chalk-white sails headed out the harbor. The captain yelled, ”Trim that damn jib Johnny.” George and I looked at each other and laughed.

  “Must be his dad,” George said.

  “Maybe his mom’s name is Dulcinea,” I laughed.

  “Nah, that’s the girl’s name in “Don Quixote,” Henry said.

  I stared at Henry wondering, “How did he know that.”

  A seagull landed near my feet started picking at leftover breadcrumbs –another landed on the pier railing and glanced down –jealous of his feasting friend.

  “Look at the postcard I got from some guy named Gus in Santa Barbara,” Henry said, handing it to me. “ I traded him a Cape Town for it.”

  I looked at the faded yellow card postmarked “Port Elizabeth.” It was addressed t
o Hector Francis on Marin View Street in Mill Valley, California.

  “Does Gus collect Cape Town Packet Post?” I asked.

  “Nah –Havana – but he thinks my Cape Town postcard will be easier to trade ‘cause more people collect those.”

  I thought that made sense –most people have heard of Cape Town, South Africa. I know we studied it Geography back in Fifth or Sixth Grade. I’d never heard of either Port Elizabeth or Durban, South Africa until Frieda’s tea party.

  “Maybe you should have picked Cape Town – they’d be easier to find,” I said

  “I like that it’s harder.

  “Here comes Walt,” George said.

  Walt still wore church clothes. He must have gone to the late Mass at St. Catherine’s.

  “What’s the matter with him? He looks kinda strange,” George said.

  I stood up and looked closer –George was right – Walt’s cheeks were real white and his eyes reminded me of a drunk stumbling out of the Hurricane Cove.

  I walked over and felt his forehead with the back of my fingers like the school nurse always does. He felt like a cold damp sponge.

  “Are you sick Walter?” I asked.

  “Ah –not really – I just tried out that cigar Frieda gave me. Thought I’d smoke it while I checked out the cigar box, but my Mom caught me –said she smelled it through our kitchen window. “I only got to take a couple puffs.”

  “Good thing,” George said, “otherwise you’d be dead by now.”

  “Heck -- I was thinking about askin’ if you’d let me have it,” Henry said.

  “What for – don’t tell me you smoke cigars too?” I put my hands on my hips, shook my head, and sat back down on the bench.

  “I wanted to trade it for more postcards --figured Gus might like ‘em since he collects Havana.”

  “Huh?” Walt gave Henry a blank stare.

  “Never mind.”

  The other seagull hopped down, flapped his wings and, after a quick silly fight, started working on the rest of the crumbs. I moved my feet over – didn’t want any seagull poop on my clean tennis shoes.