The Ho Ho Ho Mystery

by Bob Burke

Answer: Gentleness is his path; harm will not be the stone upon which he trips.

  If I was to interpret what we were being told correctly, Santa hadn’t been seen at the North Pole since his last visit some thirty-six days earlier and no one knew of any reason why anyone might want to do him harm. At least, that’s what I think they were telling me. I wasn’t sure the other ninety-three interviews would change that.

  Or would they?

  Candidate eighty-six set all kinds of alarm bells ringing. His story was the same as all the others, but when he’d left the room I told Basili we needed to carry out further investigations into that particular elf.

  ‘Why so, Mr Harry?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, did you notice anything strange about him?’

  ‘No, I was so concentrating on staying awake that I did not fully take in what he was talking about.’

  ‘No, Basili,’ I said. ‘It’s not what he was saying; he sounded just the same as all the others. Did you not notice anything about his personal grooming?’

  Basili raised an eyebrow.

  It looked like it was time for elves 101. ‘Let me list them for you: he was unshaven, his hair was greasy (and not tied back in an ever so look-at-me-I’m-cool ponytail), his clothes weren’t ironed and, most importantly, he had BO.’

  ‘So?’ Basili was even more confused.

  ‘So, when have you ever seen an elf that wasn’t immaculately turned out? They fancy themselves as style icons (if you like Lincoln green tights and pointy boots, that is) and are obsessed with personal hygiene. I think it’s fair to say elf number eighty-six is a ringer and a badly prepared ringer at that. He really should have washed himself, or at least applied some deodorant.’ I stood up, excitement building now that we had a lead at long last. ‘Let’s see what we can find out about him.’

  ‘Why don’t we take him down to the station, let the boys be sorting him out?’ Basili was hopping up and down enthusiastically (and let me tell you it wasn’t a pretty sight). I wondered what kind of TV shows he’d been watching while stuck in the lamp.

  ‘That’s not how things are done,’ I said – although, it being elves, the idea did have some merit. ‘Anyway, we don’t want to let him know we’re on to him. The best thing to do is keep a discreet eye on him and see what he does; or maybe,’ a thought had just struck me, ‘we can try to get close to him and see if he’ll let anything slip. He certainly doesn’t strike me as being too bright.’

  ‘Yes, but how? We are much too big and, anyway, you are a pig. Even he would be spotting the attempt at deception.’ Basili was right. Apart from the three elves we’d met when we arrived, all the others were northern elves and much smaller than their southern cousins. In fact, they were just like the elves you’ve seen depicted in those cheerful Christmas cards showing Santa’s workshop – just a lot less cheerful and a lot more pompous in reality. Even the dimmest of elves would have no difficulty seeing through whatever disguise we might adopt. No, we needed someone else; someone smaller; someone with the brass neck to be able to pull a deception like this off.

  I smiled broadly. ‘Basili, I think I have a plan.’

  ‘No way! There is no way on this planet that I’m wearing those things.’ Jack Horner was indignant. He flung the fake ears we’d given him on the ground. ‘They’re the most idiotic things I’ve ever seen. They look like they were made out of a cereal box.’

  There’s ingratitude for you. With Mrs C’s help, we’d managed to fly him at inordinate expense to a place most children would give both arms to visit and all he had to do in return was dress up as an elf for a few minutes. Sometimes I just don’t understand children.

  I tried to placate him. ‘Jack, Jack, take it easy. We need someone to mingle with the elves and find out what number eighty-six is up to. That someone has to be fearless, able to think on his feet and be brave in the face of certain danger.’ OK, I was laying it on with a trowel, but I knew how to get to him. ‘When I started to draw up a list of suitable candidates only one name sprang to mind. I still remember how you risked certain death to rescue me from Edna’s.’

  Jack preened himself. I could see my hyperbole was working. ‘You know, I might just be the answer to your prayers,’ he said. ‘But there’s still no way I’m wearing those stupid cardboard ears. Get me something that looks real and I’ll think about it.’

  Result!

  I grinned happily. ‘Looks like the team are all together and hot on the trail once more.’

  ‘Yep,’ replied Jack. ‘Now we just need to find some fake ears.’

  ‘We’re in the biggest toy-manufacturing facility in the world; just how difficult do you think it’s going to be?’

  Very, as it turned out.

  Play-Elf outfits were so last year that no one wanted them any more. All available stock had been recycled as Robin Hood costumes, but as Sherwood Forest’s most famous inhabitant wasn’t noted for having pointy ears, they had all been melted down and remoulded into Hubbard’s Cubbard action figures (and they weren’t selling too well either; rock bands aren’t in great demand as toys). We had scoured workshops, storage bins and were rummaging through a disused warehouse full of obsolete toys when Jack shouted, ‘Would this work?’ and waved a large, if somewhat battered crate at us. We gathered around to see what he’d found.

  I blew years of accumulated dust off the top of the box and read the contents. ‘Yes, this might just do the trick.’ Opening it, I took out a pair of black pants and a dark blue top. Throwing them to one side, I continued to search. ‘So far, so good,’ I murmured. ‘Now somewhere in here there should be … aha, got you.’

  Very carefully, I removed what looked like two dead pink slugs and carefully unrolled them in my hand. ‘I haven’t seen one of these in years. They were all the rage in the sixties.’

  Beside me, Jack picked up the cover of the box and studied it.

  ‘What’s logic?’ he asked. Before I could answer he continued, ‘What’s a phaser?’ and, barely pausing for breath, ‘Who’s Mr Spock? He looks kinda weird.’ He handed me the box and I read it:

  Now you too can be a master of logic.

  Be the envy of your friends as you stun them with

  your Vulcan nerve pinch.

  Beam up this box and be Mr Spock.

  Note: the phaser is a toy and will not disintegrate

  either humans or aliens (batteries not included).

  A picture of one of science fiction’s most famous pointy-eared non-humans adorned the cover.

  ‘This guy was one of the most famous TV aliens of all time but, most importantly,’ I held up the two unrolled pink things, ‘he had pointy ears. Let’s try them on, but be careful, they’re old so they might be a bit delicate.’

  Ever so gently, I attached them over Jack’s ears. They snapped on easily and when I took my hands away they stayed upright.

  ‘Live long and prosper,’ I said to him. He looked at me blankly. ‘Before your time, never mind. Now we just need to borrow one of those Robin Hood suits and you’ll be good to go.’

  Once we’d dressed him up he looked just like any of the Santa’s little helpers who swarmed around the workshops building, packing and shipping millions of toys.

  ‘Are you sure this is going to work?’ Jack asked anxiously as he attached a small microphone to his vest (we’d ‘borrowed’ it from an old James Bond Junior Spy Kit).

  ‘Nope,’ I said, ‘but I don’t think you’re in any danger, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘It isn’t. I’m just wondering how long I’m going to have to wear this stupid costume – it itches.’ He scratched his back furiously – mostly for effect.

  ‘You’ll be fine. Just talk to our suspect as if you’re his best friend. Judging by his personal hygiene I suspect no one else will so he’ll probably be glad of the company. Don’t be too pushy’ – which, of course, was like asking water not to be too wet – ‘don’t bombard him with questions. Just play the “I’m new here too” routine and see if he
responds.’ I patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. ‘Remember, we’ll be listening in. If there’s any hint of trouble, we’ll pull you out of there faster than blackbirds out of a pie, OK?’

  Jack nodded once. ‘Right, let’s do it.’

  ‘Good man. Remember, we’re counting on you.’

  ‘So no pressure then.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I said.

  ‘Good. Now where do I go?’

  ‘You see all those elves over there building toy robots?’ Jack nodded. ‘Yep.’

  ‘See the way they’re all studiously avoiding that one guy who’s attaching the legs?’ There was a large elf-free space around our suspect (which didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest).

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Well, he’s your guy. Just try not to mention the smell.’

  ‘What smell? Hey, you never told me the guy smelled. How close will I have to get to him?’

  ‘It’s not too bad and after a few minutes you won’t even notice it. Now get to work.’ I pushed him away and into the workshop. Within seconds he’d disappeared into a sea of bright-green elves. I spoke into the microphone that was taped to my jaw. ‘Jack, can you hear me OK?’

  ‘Messages are clear; communication will be unbroken this day.’ Well at least he was getting into the spirit of things. Maybe he was suited to undercover work; two minutes in and he already sounded like an elf. I just prayed he wouldn’t stay like that as I didn’t fancy having to listen to elfspeak twenty-four seven; I didn’t think my head could take it.

  As Jack tried to ingratiate himself with the world’s most slovenly elf, I mulled over the case and our progress to date – or, more accurately, our lack of progress. We hadn’t really got very far other than establishing that something fishy was going on and the two people closest to Santa were not telling me the entire truth. Santa had clearly been abducted, otherwise why would someone have tried to kill us? But the big questions were why? And indeed who? In terms of the case itself, we still had very little to go on – elf impostor aside. I suspected he was planted purely to keep an eye on things and wasn’t a big player in whatever was going on, but he might know something.

  There were a few things that we might be able to follow up on though: we’d been attacked by a jet-powered sleigh. It was most definitely a luxury item, so who might have bought one? Surely there couldn’t be too many winging their way through the skies – and, after our little adventure, there was probably one less. Mrs C might be able to point me in the direction of flying-sleigh vendors; after all, she had enough of them.

  Who dropped the pseudo-elf into the workshop – and why? That one was a long shot, but you never know.

  Why were Mrs Claus and Rudolph not telling me the whole story? Although I didn’t think they had anything to do with Santa’s disappearance, they’d been evasive when I’d asked them about it. They knew something they were unwilling to tell me; but what – and how did it tie into the case?

  I sighed in frustration. There was something strange about this case; something I couldn’t quite figure out, but I knew I’d get there eventually – as long as I didn’t get beaten to a pulp first.

  9

  Dashing Through the Snow

  Wow, electronic surveillance was boring. For an elf-alike, Mr Scruffy was positively taciturn. Not only did he fail to spout the usual meaningless waffle, he barely acknowledged Jack and his replies to the questions put to him were variations on the monosyllabic grunt. If I’d any suspicions that the guy was an impostor, his lack of verbals confirmed it. Through my earpiece, I could hear Jack valiantly – and none too subtly – trying to find out whatever he could without making it too obvious.

  ‘Have you been working here long?’

  ‘Unh-unh.’ Which I took to mean no, seeing as he was shaking his head at the same time.

  ‘Where did you work before here? I was in snow globes.’ Uh-oh, now he was laying it on with a trowel. Maybe he was getting into character a little too much.

  ‘Unh.’ Nope, I have no idea either.

  Jack was persisting though. ‘No, I mean really. Where did you come from?’

  Mr Scruffy evidently found this particular line of questioning a little too direct by elf standards and began to smell an unsavoury rodent of some type. In an instant, he’d pushed Jack away and was running for the door. Seconds later I was after him. Seconds after that Basili was lumbering after me, followed by an indignant Jack. ‘Did you see that? He pushed me. I’m not letting him get away with it.’

  Privately, I hoped I’d get to him first. An angry Jack Horner was not someone to be trifled with.

  Mr Scruffy had raced out of the workshop and across the lobby towards the exit.

  ‘Is he nuts?’ I said. ‘It’s freezing out there.’ My question was promptly answered when he grabbed an unsuspecting elf who had just come in and ripped his furs off him. The dazed elf was still standing at the door trying to figure out where his furs had gone as our quarry raced out through the entrance and into the snowy wastes outside.

  I skidded to a stop. ‘Whoa, let’s think about this for a minute, guys.’

  ‘We can’t let him get away,’ shouted Jack. ‘He knows something; I know he does. He might be our only chance.’

  Now don’t ever say this back to him, but, in this instance, Jack was right. We had little enough to go on – and what little we did have was disappearing into the wilderness outside. Cold or no cold, we had to follow. I rolled my eyes upwards, nodded to Jack and said, ‘OK, let’s go get him.’

  I pushed the door open and stepped out on to the ice – and promptly slid twenty feet along the ground, legs spinning, like a crazy cartwheel, before landing painfully on my rear. There were hoots of hysterical laughter from behind as my – obviously highly amused – partners took pleasure in my pain. Seconds later I was laughing as well, as they too slid on the slippery surface, tried to grab on to each other for support in a flailing mass of arms and pulled each other down on to the ice – although I did feel a tad sorry for Jack, Basili landed on him.

  With as much dignity as I could muster, I carefully stood back up and leaned on a nearby snowdrift for support. As I did so, there was a low humming sound from beyond the drift. I peeped carefully over the edge and almost had my head taken off as a bright red jet ski careened wildly towards me. I barely had time to pull my head back down before it crashed into the edge of the drift above me, covering me in a mini-avalanche of snow, and flew through the air on to the ice beyond. It slid wildly from side to side before the driver eventually recovered control and headed away from me at high velocity.

  ‘He’s getting away,’ Jack yelled.

  I saw my fat fee disappearing in the flurry of slush that was being forced up by the passage of the jet ski – no way; not on my watch; especially not where money was concerned. ‘No he’s not. We’re going to follow him.’

  Jack and Basili looked at me as if I was quite mad – which was a distinct possibility.

  ‘What do you suggest we do, run fast? Harry, we’ll freeze without proper outdoor gear.’ Jack was clearly concerned.

  ‘We’ll have to take that chance. We can’t afford to let him get away.’

  There was a loud roaring from behind us and a familiar voice said, ‘Hopefully you won’t have to.’ Two jet skis pulled up beside us; one piloted by Mrs C, the other by Mary Mary. Slung across the back of both was a heap of furs. The ladies flung the furs at us.

  ‘Get ‘em on you, we’ve no time to waste,’ bellowed Mrs C, trying to be heard over the noise of the engines.

  I didn’t need a second invitation. I quickly donned the furs, threw myself up on the jet ski behind Mrs C and hung on tightly – praying that I wouldn’t fall off. Beside me, Basili had joined Mary Mary on hers. A look of disappointment crossed Jack’s face.

  ‘What about me?’

  Mrs C gave him an affectionate hug. ‘Too dangerous, Jack. Your mother would never forgive me if something happened to you. Just keep an eye on things here while
we’re gone. If we don’t make it back, it’ll be up to you to break the case. We’re counting on you.’ It was certainly dramatic, but it had the desired effect. Jack cheered up instantly with his new found sense of responsibility and gave an elaborate salute.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said proudly. ‘This case is in safe hands with me.’

  Before I could say anything else, there was a sudden jolt as the jet ski lurched forward. I just about managed to stay on by grabbing Mrs C tightly and holding on to her for dear life. If this was what it was like while we were starting, what would it be like when we were racing across the snow? One of those ‘This isn’t such a good idea’ thoughts marched into my mind and demanded my attention. I chose to ignore it, although I knew it was right. If I’d really thought about it, I’d have realised how ridiculous the whole thing was: a city pig like me at the North Pole, risking near death from exposure in pursuit of someone with bad personal hygiene who might (and it was a long shot) just provide a breakthrough in the case, riding across freezing wastes on a jet ski piloted by a woman who claimed to be the wife of a mythical character who brought toys to millions of children once a year. Had I missed anything?

  I was bumped, jostled and swung from side to side as we lurched after our quarry. But for the fact that I was gamely trying not to be flung off the violently bucking machine, it didn’t feel like we were moving at all. The only things that weren’t white were the red dot in the distance that we were just about keeping up with and the four of us. With the furs on, we looked like grizzly bears out for a jaunt on the snow. Grizzlies on ice! That would make their polar cousins turn their heads and stare in amazement.

  ‘Faster, faster, we’re gaining on him,’ I roared in Mrs C’s ear, hoping she could hear me over the noise of the engine and howling wind. She nodded and gunned the accelerator, trying to squeeze out every last particle of speed we could muster.

  Now the jet ski ahead was definitely getting closer. I could make out Mr Scruffy giving an occasional panicked glance behind to see where we were. Not too far was the answer. Only a few more minutes and we’d be right on top of him.