by Bob Burke
I thanked Jill and hung up. Where did I go from here? Neither case seemed to be on the verge of a breakthrough and both had anxious clients – although they were anxious in very different ways, it had to be said. As I mulled things over, I caught a glimpse of a huge advertising hoarding on the side of the road. It was an ad for Olé ‘King’ Kohl and his Fiddlers Three. They were giving a Christmas recital at the Grimmtown Cauldron later today. The hoarding showed Olé and his boys mugging for the camera and waving their violins around. My brain began to make connections. Musicians; horsehair and resin, critical components in violin bows; did I finally have a useful clue? Once more I reached for the phone. It rang twice and was followed by a ‘yes’ and a meaningful pause.
‘Lieutenant Crane, it’s Harry Pigg again.’ This time I wasn’t counting.
‘Yes, Mr Pigg, and what can I do for you now.’
‘Your horsehair and resin, I think they come from a violin bow.’
The pause this time was definitely sarcastic (remember, I can sense it).
‘Violin bow? Mr Pigg, that,’ pause, ‘is something we’re already aware of.’
‘Already aware of? Well, why didn’t you tell me.’
‘Because, my friend, you’re a detective. What kind of scientist would I be if I didn’t allow you to do some detecting – and you appear to have done a fine job. It took you less than a day to discover something I knew at the crash site. My congratulations.’
I didn’t give him time for any more meaningful or sarcastic pauses, I just cut him off. Smartass.
If I wasn’t confused before, I certainly was now. Had Santa been kidnapped by a mad, jet-sleigh-flying, Christmas-hating musician? If so – and it did sound unlikely – then why? And more to the point, how was I going to get him back? On top of that I had to find forty identical, monkey-suit-wearing cat burglars or be at the receiving end of Ali Baba’s displeasure. Some days it’s just great being me.
As if someone up there was reading my mind and felt I needed some more incentive, my phone rang once more. When I answered it, I couldn’t hear anything. Great, one of those calls. ‘Hello, whoever you are, I’m not that kind of pig.’ I expected to hear heavy breathing but instead I got what sounded like someone whispering.
‘Mr Pigg, is that you?’
‘Yes, who is this? Speak up, I can’t hear you.’
‘It’s me, Ivy from Sleigh Belles, and I can’t talk because … well, remember you asked us to phone you if anyone enquired about getting their sleigh repaired?’
I was all businesslike now. ‘Yes, are they there now?’
‘Yes, that’s why I’m whispering; I don’t want him to hear me. Holly is trying to keep him occupied for as long as possible. Can you get here as quickly as you can?’
‘I’m on my way.’ I turned the car and did a very unsubtle and highly illegal U-turn in the middle of the freeway and headed back towards the airport.
As I accelerated, Mrs C grabbed the door and held on tightly. ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.
I quickly filled her in as we raced in and out through the traffic, flirting with several traffic offences but not committing to any. We made it back to the airport in half the time and I parked the car where it couldn’t be seen by anyone in Sleigh Belles. As I got out, I turned to Mrs C. ‘Stay here, things might get a bit hairy.’
She snorted indignantly. ‘No chance. If there’s any possibility that this might lead us to my husband, then I’m going with you.’ She flexed her arms, which I took as both a threat and signal of her intent. I also knew when I was beaten so I nodded and told her to stay close. ‘And under no circumstances are you to go wandering off on your own, regardless of what happens.’ I wasn’t too concerned for her safety, I wanted to make sure that we were able to keep whoever was in Sleigh Belles conscious long enough to get information out of them. If Mrs C got her hands on them, there was a distinct possibility they wouldn’t last the day.
We skirted round a large warehouse and ran towards the Sleigh Belles main entrance, crouching low to avoid detection. When we got to the door, I stuck my head up and peered through the window. A very nervous Ivy was behind the counter casting anxious glances back into the maintenance area. I tapped on the glass gently and when she saw me she waved me inside. I opened the door a fraction and sneaked in, followed by Mrs C.
‘Who’s in the maintenance hangar?’ I whispered.
‘Holly and one of the guys who originally bought the sleigh. He wants the engine fixed and she’s trying to keep him talking.’
‘OK, you stay here while I take a look.’ I crept to the door that separated the office from the hangar and peeped through. At first I couldn’t see anything other than sleighs, bits of sleighs, sleigh engines and tools for fixing sleighs. Then I heard voices from behind a large sleigh to my left. If I wasn’t mistaken (and I rarely am), it was the same craft that had indulged in the aerial acrobatics with us two nights ago. The dents certainly suggested so. Making sure I didn’t step on anything that might give my presence away, I slunk up against the fuselage and inched my way forward.
Now I could make out the voices. One was clearly a nervous Holly, trying her best to stall and doing a very bad job of it. The other was a man’s voice and, by the sound of it, becoming increasingly frustrated by Sleigh Belles’ actions.
‘Can’t you be more specific?’ demanded the male voice. ‘To me it seems obvious: one of the engines is faulty. We collided with a flock of birds and we need to get it looked at.’
‘Flock of birds,’ a likely story.
‘Well, um, it’s not as simple as that,’ stammered Holly. ‘We don’t have the parts here. I’ll have to order them and that will take … um … a few days.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t have the parts? Surely, parts for a jet engine are standard operating procedure? You sell jet-powered sleighs, don’t you?’
‘Yes but the flange inductor has been totally wrecked and the hyperfilters look like they have what appears to be the heel of a very expensive boot embedded in them. These aren’t the kind of things that happen to engines every day, you know.’
Well, that was true anyway.
‘Flange inductor? Hyperfilters? There are no such things. You’re making this up.’ He did have a point, from where I stood it sounded like Holly was reaching a bit. It was time to do something and fast, otherwise the girl was in big trouble.
Just as I was about to finally get a glimpse of the sleigh owner there was a loud clanging noise from behind me, followed by a sheepish ‘sorry’. I knew I hadn’t made the noise because I was being very careful – and as a detective I was a master at sneaking around – so the noise could only mean one thing.
I looked around at Mrs C. ‘I thought I told you to stay in the office,’ I whispered.
‘You did, but I had to see what was happening out here.’ Mrs C was trying to be indignant but she knew she’d fouled up. ‘Sorry,’ she said once more.
‘Well, you’re about to get your wish,’ I said as the owner of the voice raced around the sleigh to see what had made the noise. ‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded a very tall man in a very dapper tuxedo. ‘And why are you spying on me?’ Tuxedos? What was it with tuxedos and my cases? Now, however, wasn’t the time to contemplate the ins and outs of sartorial elegance as a large, tuxedoed man was heading straight for me, arms outstretched – and I didn’t think he was asking me to dance.
I’d like to say that my next move was planned and superbly executed, but as my attacker lunged at me I slipped on the selfsame pipe Mrs C had knocked to the ground seconds before. The pipe shot backwards and I shot forwards, slipping under the clutches of Mr Tuxedo and colliding with his stomach. There was a satisfying explosion of breath and he fell backwards on to the ground. Before I could grab him – or at least fall on top of him – he rolled to one side and pushed himself upright once more. I swung an arm at him but he easily avoided it. Rather than risk further entanglements, he turned on his heels and sprinted for the hangar ent
rance.
‘Stop that man,’ I shouted, but as the only other three people in the hangar were watching him go from a very safe distance, it was a pointless request.
As I stood trying to figure out why he looked so familiar, I received a nudge – no, a jab – in the side. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ said Mrs C. ‘Get after him.’
Rolling my eyes upwards in that world-famous gesture of resignation, I lumbered after my retreating quarry, hoping that the burst of speed he was displaying was just an adrenalin rush and he’d soon slow down.
How wrong was I? He must have been a marathon runner in his spare time as he seemed to go faster. There was no chance of me catching him but I figured I’d better make the effort or face the wrath of Mrs C again – not something I was too keen on. I struggled pigfully after him as he ran around sleigh machinery towards the open doors. If he got outside I’d never catch him, so I figured I’d better come up with something fast. Maybe if I could slow him down somehow … ah, the old throw something and knock him out trick. That might work. I grabbed a hammer off a table as I ran – well, jogged – past and, pausing to take careful aim, I flung it at the escaping well-dressed gent. It completely missed him and I groaned in exasperation.
But I was too quick with my frustration. The hammer sailed past him but then rebounded off the frame of a stripped-down sleigh, spun up into the air, deflected off the overhead light and plonked down on his head. Did it stop him? Of course not; I’d never be that lucky, but it did slow him down. I suspect having a hammer bounce off your skull will do that. The success (sort of) of my devious plan fuelled me with a fresh burst of energy and I raced after my staggering prey once more, hoping to nab him before he recovered.
Behind me, Mrs C was roaring, ‘Go on, Harry, you nearly have him.’ It was an exaggeration of sorts and I was also aware that she wasn’t doing too much to help by way of joining in the chase either; I was still on my own. Typical.
I ploughed on, weaving through maintenance tables and bits of sleigh, hoping against hope that I could catch this guy. I really needed a break in the case and this was the only one that I was likely to get between now and a deadline I had no control over – Christmas Eve would fall on Christmas Eve regardless of what I did and it needed a Santa if it was going to work properly.
And the only link I had to getting Santa back was haring out of the hangar. If I didn’t catch him Christmas was a bust.
I reached the hangar doors seconds after Mr Tuxedo. Racing out into the cold winter air I looked around but couldn’t see any sign of him. Stretching away on both sides of me were other hangars, none close enough to have been reached before I got out. In front of me a short taxiing route led to the main airport runway. He wasn’t running down that either, so where the hell was he? I was pretty sure he hadn’t vanished into thin air – although that was always a possibility in my cases – so he had to be here somewhere. I looked around again, more carefully this time. Hangars, runway and no obvious place to hide. Or maybe I was wrong. A heap of wooden crates was stacked between Sleigh Belles’ hangar and the one to the left of it. It was the kind of thing that a man on the run might use as cover.
‘I have you now,’ I whispered, as I approached the crates.
If he wasn’t there I’d be gobsmacked, so I was gobsmacked when I threw myself around the boxes and leaped on to … well, nothing actually. There wasn’t a sign of him. There was, however, a ladder leading to the hangar roof and when I looked up I caught a glimpse of his heels as they disappeared from view above me. This was just so unfair: now I had to climb as well. I grabbed a rung and began to ascend. About halfway up I had a horrible thought, what if he’s waiting at the top for me to stick my head up? I’d be a sitting pig. Then I’d be a falling pig, followed by a pizza pig on the asphalt below. Before I could think about it I was interrupted by a shout from below.
‘He’s running along the roof. If you don’t get your finger out he’ll escape.’ Mrs C. was watching out for me once more.
Well at least I knew I wasn’t going to be ambushed.
I clambered up the remaining rungs as fast as I could and scrambled on to the roof – just in time to see the well-dressed man leap on to the next hangar beyond and continue running. No matter how optimistic I was, I knew I had no chance of catching him this way.
‘Bring the car around and try to get to the last hangar before him,’ I roared at my fan club below. ‘We might be able to head him off before he gets back to ground.’
Seconds later, as I ran across the roof, I heard a screech of tyre rubber as Mrs C accelerated around the hangar and shadowed me from the ground. I waved her on, urging her to speed up and not follow me, but she just waved back, grinning broadly. It’s possible she may have misunderstood my intentions. ‘Go faster,’ I roared at her. ‘Don’t wait for me otherwise he’ll get away.’
I could see the ‘Oh, right’ expression as the penny finally teetered on the edge for a few seconds before falling into the vast chasm of her mind. Almost immediately, she gunned the accelerator and the car sped forward, racing parallel to the hangars.
Mr Tuxedo reached the edge of the roof. Did he stop and turn around with his hands in the air, acknowledging that he had no way of escaping and that I finally had him? Did he hell. He didn’t even break stride as he jumped across the gap and on to the next building.
I followed and, as the gap didn’t look too wide, I leaped without fully contemplating the consequences. I barely made it across to the adjoining roof, teetering on the edge, arms flailing before I managed to regain my balance.
And so we continued our not-so-merry chase across the maintenance hangars of Grimmtown Airport. He managed the gaps with a degree of flair and athleticism; I managed them by gritting my teeth, closing my eyes and jumping – all the while hoping for the best.
Now my quarry had run out of hangars to run across. He’d reached the edge of the last one and, unless he had a well-concealed jetpack under his jacket, the only way was down. Mr Tuxedo took a quick look over his shoulder to see where I was and didn’t even slow down before throwing himself off the edge and disappearing from view. I ran to where he’d jumped, fully expecting to see him soar gracefully into the sky, give me a rude gesture and disappear over the horizon. I was wrong on all three counts. When I looked down I saw that his jump had taken him into the back of a truck filled with packing crates. How lucky can you get!
He didn’t even waste time checking for injuries. No sooner had he landed than he was up and out of the truck and racing across the asphalt. At the same time, Mrs C roared around the corner, her eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead.
Well, if he could do it … I took a deep breath, tried not to think about what I was about to attempt and threw myself off the roof. As I fell, the truck driver took it upon himself to drive away and I watched in horror as my nice soft landing suddenly became something altogether more concrete.
I screamed, closed my eyes, covered my head with my trotters and prepared for the impact I didn’t even think I’d feel. To my surprise and relief, instead of splattering across the ground I bounced off something and was catapulted into the air once again. I opened my eyes once more and looked down at the soft-top roof of my car which Mrs C had driven right into my path and I had oh-so-conveniently landed on. At first I was mentally congratulating her on her ingenuity and lateral thinking in coming up with such a stunning rescue plan but quickly scrubbed that train of thought when, oblivious to both my presence and her part in my rescue, she kept driving. With a horrible sense of déjà vu I spun in the air and dropped towards the ground again – luckily from not quite the same height as my first descent. This time my fall was broken by the asphalt, but at least, when I finally managed to sit up and check for injuries, it seemed like that was all that had been broken.
There was a screaming of brakes from up ahead, followed almost immediately by the sound of a car reversing. Seconds later Mrs C pulled up beside me. ‘How did you get down so fast?’
I didn’t bother to fill her in; I dived into the passenger seat and roared at her to drive. The car sprang forward and we raced along the asphalt, trying to spot where our quarry had got to.
‘I can’t see him any more,’ said Mrs C. ‘I think we’ve lost him.’
I scanned the area ahead of us and caught a glimpse of our quarry nimbly scaling a wire fence on the far side of the runway and disappearing into a maze of buildings beyond. I punched the dashboard in frustration. ‘Dammit.’
Mrs C put a sympathetic arm around my shoulders. ‘Don’t worry about it; we’re getting closer to breaking this case all the time.’
‘Really? The only thing we were close to breaking this time was my spine when I bounced off the car – and he still got away, whoever he was.’ As I said it, the feeling that I’d seen him somewhere very recently sat in the shadows of my mind and taunted me.
‘You’ll catch him, I know you will.’
I appreciated her support but didn’t share her confidence. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’
I sulked all the way back into town. In fact I was seething so much I almost missed it as we drove by.
‘Stop, stop the car!’ I ordered.
‘We’re on the freeway, Harry. I can’t stop.’
‘Well, pull in; do something. Just stop the car.’
‘Why? Are you not feeling well?’
‘Pull over now.’
Mrs C drove on to the hard shoulder and stopped the car. ‘What’s going on, Harry? You’re behaving very strangely.’
I pointed up at the huge hoarding we’d stopped under; the same hoarding I’d noticed on the way out earlier. ‘It’s him, look. Up there.’
‘It’s who? Where? What are you talking about?’
I grabbed her head and pointed it at the huge poster of Olé ‘King’ Kohl and His Fiddlers Three. ‘There? See the grinning idiot second from the left? The guy that looks like his family tree has no forks? That’s him; that’s the guy we were following at the airport. He’s part of Kohl’s band.’