The Ho Ho Ho Mystery

by Bob Burke

  Some thirty minutes later I’d learned something else about my temporary lodger: it was impossible to wake him up when he went to sleep. I’d pulled at him, kicked him, shouted at him, poured cold water on his head, threatened him, pulled all the covers off him and the best I could get from him was a mumbled ‘G’way, I’m tired.’

  Eventually, frustrated, angry and still very, very tired I went back to my living room and fell into a dreamless slumber on the sofa. Ah bliss; sleep at last – or at least it was until I was awakened almost immediately by a loud banging at my door. This was really turning out to be one of those days – and nights. Now I wasn’t even being let have a decent night’s sleep.

  ‘Go away,’ I muttered, pulling a cushion over my head. It was no use; I could still hear the banging – which seemed to have gotten louder. Whoever it was, they really wanted to see me.

  ‘Call at my office,’ I shouted. ‘I should be there by nine.’ Or probably much later, if I didn’t get any sleep.

  Strangely, I was too tired to be scared – or maybe it was just that I was all scared out by events over the past twenty-four hours. Either way, the knocking at the door didn’t bother me unduly. It could have been an abominable snowman outside and I wouldn’t have been too concerned; I just needed my sleep and no one (or nothing) was going to stop me. But the banging continued: THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

  Resigned to being awake at least for the foreseeable future, I rolled off the sofa, on to the floor and, eventually, got myself upright.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ I shouted, trying to be heard over the noise of the knocking. Reaching the door, I went to unlock it and then paused as I decided a bit of caution wouldn’t go amiss. ‘Who’s there? What do you want?’ I shouted, hoping I’d be heard over the battering noise that was now threatening to wake up not only everyone in the building but very probably everyone in the neighbourhood too. Although the neighbours were, by now, used to strange things happening in or around my apartment, they still tended to frown upon being woken up in the middle of the night.

  ‘Open up, Harry, it’s me.’ Over the thumping I could just make out Mrs C’s voice.

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’ I roared. ‘I’d really like to get some sleep.’

  ‘But I’ve something important to tell you. I’ve found out who sold that jet-powered sleigh.’

  Unlocking the door, I dragged Mrs C inside and pointed her at the sofa. As she sat down she sniffed the air. ‘What’s that awful smell? And where is that noise coming from?’

  ‘Trust me, you don’t want to know,’ I said as I sat facing her in my comfortable chair. ‘Now, tell me all about the sleigh.’

  ‘Right. I spoke to the guy who makes all our sleighs, Wenceslaus King. He’s been supplying us with high-quality vehicles for hundreds of years now. If anyone knows about these things, it’s him. I asked him about the jet-powered sleigh and after some huffing and puffing about new-fangled devices and how he wouldn’t have anything to do with them (he’s a bit of a traditionalist you know), he finally admitted that he knew of one company that manufactures them. Apparently they’re new on the market.’

  ‘You don’t say. Who would this high-tech sleigh company be?’

  ‘Well, apparently it’s called Sleigh Belles and is run by two very successful business women – hence the name.’

  ‘And do we have names for these queens of industry?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, they’re called Holly and Ivy, and I’ve even got an address for them.’ She reached into her bag and extracted a folded piece of paper. ‘They have a hangar out at Grimmtown Airport and their offices are attached to it.’

  ‘We can go there first thing in the morning. But for now I’m going to try to get some sleep.’ I slumped down into my chair and rested my head on a cushion.

  ‘Why don’t you go to bed?’ Mrs C asked the obvious question, but it would take too long to explain.

  ‘Trust me, this is the best option just now,’ I said and closed my eyes once more.

  It seemed like only minutes later that a strident ringing woke me up. Was I destined not to get any sleep tonight? To my surprise, when I opened my eyes it was daylight and, instead of Basili’s flatulence, I could smell freshly brewed coffee. What was going on? As I tried to wake up and get a grip on the situation a steaming mug was put on the table in front of me and a ringing telephone thrust into my trotter.

  Blearily, I put the phone to my ear. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Pigg, it’s Crane. I have that analysis you were looking for.’ I looked at my watch, seven a.m.; wow, he was on the ball early.

  ‘And?’ I was still half asleep so my powers of speech were going to be a tad limited for a few more minutes.

  ‘We’ve done a preliminary investigation and it’s definitely not human.’ I wondered whether he was taking his glasses off and on while he spoke, but I refrained from asking. ‘I’d say it’s animal, probably horse but I’ll need to do a more detailed analysis to confirm.’

  ‘OK, so we have what could be horsehair, I’m with you so far. Any idea what the white powder is yet?’

  ‘That’s more interesting indeed. According to the analysis, the powder is some sort of resin.’

  ‘Resin? As in the stuff gymnasts and weightlifters use for better grip?’

  ‘The very same. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get this report to the investigating team.’ Before I could thank him, he’d hung up. Polite as ever.

  I considered what Dr Crane had told me. What did all that mean? The thought of a horse on the parallel bars – even one as graceful as Black Beauty – or doing a clean and jerk with two hundred pounds of weights was so improbable that I dismissed it as highly unlikely in this particular case, although I have to confess I would have paid good money to see it. Resin, horsehair – that combination suggested something but I just couldn’t place what exactly it was. It hovered there in my subconscious just out of reach, taunting me. Well, it could wait, another more immediate mystery demanded investigation: who’d handed me the phone and, more importantly, where was the glorious coffee smell coming from?

  Master detective that I was, I had the mystery solved in no time, helped in no small way by the fact that Mrs C was in my kitchenette, washing up what I suspected was a week’s worth of dirty dishes (I’m very busy, you know, and don’t always have enough time for the domestic duties. I’m usually very good around the house).

  ‘Have you been here all night?’ I asked her.

  ‘Well, there wasn’t much point in going home and then coming back in the morning was there?’ Mrs C said. ‘Anyway, this place needed a good cleaning. I don’t know how you manage to live in squalor like this.’

  It wasn’t that bad. Sure, there were unwashed dishes in the sink and some underwear drying on the radiators, but I wouldn’t have described it as squalor – that was a bit harsh. On the other hand, my apartment was now gleaming. All exposed surfaces had been polished, the floor had been swept and there wasn’t any sign of my underwear anywhere. I hoped she’d put it away as opposed to thrown it away.

  In fact, the apartment was now cleaner than when I first moved in.

  ‘Um, thanks, but you didn’t really have to.’

  ‘Yes, I did; besides it gave me something to do while you and your sidekick snored in stereo. I certainly wasn’t going to get much sleep with that racket.’

  ‘I don’t snore,’ I said indignantly.

  ‘Yes you do, just not as loudly as he does.’ She jerked her thumb at the bedroom. ‘Honestly, you were like a pair of reindeer. Now get up and drink that coffee, we’ve work to do.’

  I took a sip of my drink – even that was fabulous. It seemed almost a shame to drink it; I wanted to keep it forever and worship it first thing every morning.

  ‘Damn fine coffee.’ I raised the mug in tribute.

  ‘It should be: I’ve had over two hundred years of practice.’

  I didn’t doubt it.

  I tried to drink it slowly, savouring the moment but Mrs
C was having none of it. ‘Come on, come on, we’re wasting time here. We need to get a move on or we’ll be late.’

  I wanted to say, ‘Serves you right for making such good coffee’, but it came out as ‘Yes, ma’am, just one more sip.’ Don’t know how that happened!

  Minutes later we were in my car and heading for the airport.

  ‘Do you know anything about Sleigh Belles?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really, we’ve never done business with them. We tend to be a bit more traditional. From what I’ve heard they’re very professional and capable. Anything more than that I suppose we’ll find out when we get there.’

  It didn’t take long to reach the airport. After making a few enquiries we were directed to a large hangar on the outskirts of the cargo area. Inside, I could see a handful of jet-powered sleighs undergoing maintenance.

  ‘Looks like the right place,’ I said as we headed to a door with a sign which read ‘Sleigh Belles – Office. Please ring to enter.’

  I rang, the door opened and we entered. Inside the office was warm, comfortable and empty. ‘Hello, anyone at home?’ I shouted as I walked over to what I assumed was the reception area.

  ‘Just a moment, we’ll be with you shortly,’ came a voice through a partially open door in the back wall, which I assumed led to the hangar proper. Moments later two dishevelled ladies in oil-stained overalls came in, one carrying a large wrench, the other a welder. As soon as they saw us, they smiled broadly.

  ‘Hi,’ said one, a short brown-haired girl extending her hand. ‘I’m Holly.’

  ‘And I’m Ivy,’ said her tall blonde companion.

  ‘And we’re the Sleigh Belles,’ they chimed in unison, dazzling us both with gleaming smiles.

  ‘Whether it’s a commercial cargo sleigh,’ said Holly.

  ‘Or a small, private sleigh,’ said Ivy.

  ‘Then Sleigh Belles have just the sleigh for you,’ again in unison. ‘When it comes to choosing a sleigh, the Belles will show you the way.’

  I didn’t know about anyone else, but I was threatening to overdose on the saccharine diatribe of the Sleigh Belle girls. As I listened to them I could feel my blood-sugar level rising. I wondered who their PR people were so I could find them and beat them to a pulp for coming up with that jingle. It was the least I could do.

  ‘OK, ladies, enough with the sales pitch; we’re not here to buy.’

  Their faces dropped but only for a moment. Within seconds their innate (and annoying) perkiness was once more to the fore.

  ‘Well, how else can we help? That’s what we’re here for,’ twittered Holly.

  ‘We’re interested in your sleighs, or rather in who’s been buying them,’ I said.

  Ivy’s face dropped and she shook her head. ‘Oh no, I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly give you that information, it’s confidential.’

  I tried the guilt trip once more. After I’d delivered yet another passionate speech about how Christmas would be ruined for all the children of the world and the poor woman beside me was suffering because her husband was missing (I was quite good at it by now), I was greeted by more firm shakes of the head from both girls and another definitive ‘no’. Wow, they were a tough audience.

  It was time for Plan B. I turned to Mrs C. ‘Perhaps your powers of persuasion might be a tad more effective.’

  Within seconds both Holly and Ivy were resting their chins on Mrs C’s forearms while she pinned them against the wall, their legs kicking frantically. Well, I’d found it an effective means of persuasion so I was sure Holly and Ivy would too. And as things turned out I was right. Within a few seconds of Mrs C doing her stuff, we were going through Sleigh Belles records – or should that be record, as they’d only sold one jet-powered sleigh since opening for business.

  ‘It’s a very exclusive market, you know,’ trilled Ivy by way of excuse. ‘Not many people can afford one.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ I reached for the Sleigh Belles ledger and scanned the first page. It didn’t take long as the number of entries could be counted on the fingers of one finger. The only sale they’d made was to a company with a suitably generic and meaningless name, Sleigh Aviation. From the sound of it, I was sure the name was a fake and a quick call to Sol Grundy confirmed my suspicions. Sleigh Aviation didn’t exist. I hadn’t expected anything else, but I asked him to dig a bit deeper to see what he could find out about them. After thanking him, I hung up and updated Mrs C on what he’d found (or hadn’t found if I was to be accurate). Her disappointment was plain.

  ‘All is not yet lost, Mrs C.’ I turned to Holly and Ivy. ‘If someone was looking to repair one of your sleighs, where would they go?’

  ‘Oh, it depends on the damage,’ Holly said. ‘What kind of repairs are you talking about?’

  ‘A jet engine clogged up with dozens of … what were they called again, Manolos?’

  Mrs C nodded a mournful confirmation as she recalled her shoes’ fate.

  The Sleigh Belles didn’t bat a fake eyelash. ‘Goodness, then they’d almost certainly have to come to us. We’re the only ones that could do that kind of repair. It’s very specialised, you know.’

  I didn’t doubt it. ‘If anyone makes enquiries about fixing a jet engine then you’re to give me a call right away,’ I said. ‘Otherwise you know what will happen?’ I nodded in Mrs C’s direction. ‘And we wouldn’t want a repeat of that now, would we?’

  ‘No,’ chimed both girls, clearly unimpressed at the prospect.

  ‘Good, I’ll be waiting for your call. Bye now.’ I turned and headed for the door, Mrs C close behind.

  For some reason the girls seemed relieved that we were leaving. Now why ever could that be, I wondered?

  13

  A Run Across the Rooftops

  On our way back into town I filled Mrs C in on Dr Crane’s call. She was just as confused as I was. ‘Horsehair and resin? That’s a strange combination.’ Again, the sense of familiarity taunted me but when I tried to focus on it, it slithered away once more. I knew that it should mean something, but what just wouldn’t come to me. I’d have a look on the Internet when I got to the office and see if that would suggest anything. As I drove, I told Mrs C about my mysterious nocturnal visitor.

  ‘He said “Time is of the essence.” Any idea what that means?’ I asked her.

  She shook her head, but yet again I got the feeling she was holding something back. What was it with this case and people being evasive? I was used to criminals not telling the truth, but when it was your client or those supposedly helping you … Still, I couldn’t really accuse her on the basis of my feeling, could I?

  I caught a glimpse of something in my rear-view mirror that vanished almost as quickly. Was I being followed? I couldn’t see any sinister types in any of the cars behind, nor did any of the vehicles give the impression they were tailing me. Just as I relaxed, thinking I’d imagined whatever it was, it happened again. This time I got a better look: it wasn’t a car, it was a carpet. I was being tailed from above.

  Ali Baba! I’d forgotten about him – and he wasn’t someone you could easily forget. If I didn’t show him I was doing something, I could well be falling from that selfsame carpet sometime later in the day. In desperation, I reached for the phone once more. It was a long shot but maybe Detective Inspector Jill might have some info that hadn’t been released to the press; something I might be able to use.

  ‘Hey, Jill, it’s me, Harry.’

  ‘Harry Pigg, twice in two days. This is quite an honour.’ ‘Look, Jill, I need another favour, I’m in a bit of a bind.’ I could almost hear her eyes roll upwards. ‘What is it now?’

  ‘I’ve taken on another client since we last spoke and he’s very interested in me solving his particular dilemma as soon as possible.’

  ‘Well, let me be the first to congratulate you.’ Jill’s voice dripped sarcasm – and I can spot sarcasm at a hundred paces. ‘But how does that involve me?’

  ‘Because you suspect him of forty robberies; crime
s, I might add, he claims he’s innocent of.’

  There was a sharp (and, I think, impressed) intake of breath. ‘Ali Baba, wow, as clients go that one’s a doozy.’

  That’s not how I would have described him but I wasn’t in a position to discuss semantics with Jill. ‘Look, he says he didn’t do it and he wants me to prove it. I have evidence to show that he is innocent but I’m not in a position to share it just at the moment.’ Primarily because the evidence suggested he was busy committing another crime altogether – but I wasn’t going to tell her that. ‘I just need you to give me something to work with, anything. Please.’

  The silence from the other end of the phone suggested that not only did Jill have something, but she was considering whether or not to share it with me. I tried to help her make up her mind. ‘Please, Jill. If he’s innocent then I need to help him. I know he’s a crook, but just not on this particular occasion.’ Just ask Danny Emperor!

  ‘OK, Harry, but bear in mind that I’m putting my ass on the line here. Make sure it doesn’t get back that your source was me.’

  ‘My snout is sealed.’

  ‘All right. Here’s the weird thing about this case: CCTV footage didn’t capture too much, but what it did capture seemed to suggest that the thieves were identical to each other, all dressed in tuxedos.’

  I was confused. ‘You mean they looked similar?’

  ‘No, I mean identical; same height, same clothes, same shoes, same everything. It was like the robberies were committed by clones or something – but that’s ridiculous.’

  I had to agree with her. Whoever had committed the crime, it probably wasn’t the result of a bizarre scientific experiment. ‘Just so as I’m clear, you’re saying that the perpetrators were exactly the same in every respect.’

  ‘Yep, but bear in mind we only caught glimpses of the thieves on camera but what we did see suggested they were.’ Now I was even more confused, but I could also see why the police liked Ali Baba for the crimes. Forty apparently identical thieves committing burglaries at exactly the same time at forty different locations: how bizarre was that? Then again it couldn’t be any more bizarre than a missing Santa, a reindeer with an attitude problem and jet-powered sleighs, could it?