by Bob Burke
‘Are you sure about this?’ Mrs C didn’t seem to share my conviction.
‘Positive. It’s him all right. Let’s get back to town. I need to find out as much as I can about these guys. I’m not sure how they fit into all this but I’m going to find out.’
14
Another Chapter in Which Nothing Unpleasant Happens to Harry
Stiltskin’s Diner was the kind of place that gave good food a bad name and then got sued for slander. That was why I only ever drank the coffee there, but it was really good coffee. Mug clenched in trotter I slid into his usual booth and stared at Boy Blue, failed shepherd, dodgy musician and officially the world’s worst informant. At least today he acknowledged me – if you consider a grunt to be a sign of recognition.
‘Blue, you’re looking good this morning.’ It was a lie; he never looked good but I had to start somewhere.
Another grunt.
‘Have you come across Olé “King” Kohl in your travels around the Grimmtown music circuit?’
‘Kohl? Met ‘im once or twice. Arrogant. Plays jazz.’
‘Isn’t everyone who plays jazz arrogant? Seeing as it sounds like musical vomiting I think they try to appear superior so they don’t have to explain it.’
Blue nodded. ‘Maybe, maybe.’
‘So what do you know about Kohl?’
‘Used to be known as Oliver Cole back in the day. Small-time thief who ‘ad ambitions to be something bigger until he got caught. Spent some time in prison and when he came out changed his name to Olé Kohl, formed that band with his fiddling buddies and went on the circuit.’
‘That’s it?’ ‘That’s it.’
‘Turned away from a life of crime?’
‘I didn’t say that, did I?’
‘Well, what are you saying?’
‘All I’m sayin’ is that if you checked for burglaries in the towns he’s been tourin’ you might just see a connection.’
So Cole/Kohl was still keeping his hand in – and his group wore tuxedos. I couldn’t see a direct correlation, but I thought I’d ask anyway. ‘Any chance he could be involved in that spate of robberies around town the other night?’
Blue looked at me. ‘Possible, yes, but it’s a bit out of his league unless he had some serious connections – and I don’t think he’s that well connected.’
Maybe, maybe not, but it was certainly worth following up. ‘OK, Blue, thanks for your time.’
I drove back to the office and met up with Mrs C, Basili and Jack.
‘Here’s where we’re at – or not at might be more accurate,’ I said to them. ‘Santa was kidnapped and the only lead we had was the jet-powered sleigh that attacked us on the way to the North Pole.’
Nods all around.
‘Following up on the sleigh lead has brought us to Olé “King” Kohl and his band of merry men who, based on their track record, I like better for Ali Baba’s robberies even if I still can’t see how they did it or if they’re actually involved at all.’ I pushed myself away from the table and stood up. ‘It’s all so confusing. My senses say the two cases are connected in some way, I just can’t see how or why.’ More – slightly more confused – nods and Mrs C shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Was it my imagination or did she look just a little bit guilty? Again I had the feeling she knew more than she was telling and now, in front of the others, wasn’t the time to confront her – but very soon it would be. I was hitting a solid wall in this investigation and I was getting fed up with being blocked every time I thought I had a break.
I also had Ali Baba to consider. He’d already been on the phone once today, demanding progress and issuing his usual brand of exotic threats. I knew he was keeping a close eye on me too and I needed something for him as well or face another exciting magic carpet ride.
‘So where do we go from here?’ asked Jack.
‘Good question,’ I said. ‘I think a trip to Mr Kohl and his boys is in order. They might let something slip.’
‘But they might know you’re on to them. It could be dangerous.’
I was tempted to respond with ‘Danger is my middle name,’ but I refused to resort to cliché at a time like this.
Well, nothing ventured nothing gained. ‘It’s the only option we have at the moment. Anyway,’ I said with as much confidence as I could muster, ‘I can take care of myself.’
From the sceptical glances I got, I could tell they remembered the sleigh incident, the jet ski and the recent pursuit at Grimmtown Airport shambles and, perhaps, weren’t as convinced as I was.
Unbelievers!
I rubbed my trotters together. ‘Right, let’s get cracking.’
Mrs C stood up. ‘It’s about time,’ she said.
‘Well, I’m sorry things aren’t moving as fast as you’d like,’ I snapped, indignation rising.
‘No, you don’t understand; it’s really about time,’ and she gave me a significant look.
Was she trying to tell me something?
About time? Time is of the essence here? What was it with these people and their insistence that time was so important?
Suddenly, synapses that had previously been on an extended holiday began to arrive back at work. Time is of the essence here.
It’s about time. No, what she meant was, it’s about Time.
How could one man single-handedly deliver presents to every child in the world over the course of a single night? Time.
How could one (or perhaps four) men dressed in tuxedos carry out robberies in forty different places at the same time? Time, that’s how.
It was indeed all about Time – or, more accurately, the ability to manipulate time.
Satisfied that their work was done, the synapses in my brain headed off for a well-deserved rest.
I turned to Mrs C. ‘It is about Time after all, isn’t it? Your husband can do something with time and that’s how he does what he does. More to the point, that’s probably why he was kidnapped. Kohl and his boys are using that same ability to pull off all those robberies and frame Ali Baba at the same time.’
Mrs C nodded and gave me a half-smile. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about it. Each generation of Santas is born with the ability to freeze time. It’s been kept a secret for thousands of years and the family have sworn a blood oath never to reveal it to outsiders – whatever the cost. If the secret was revealed, there could be terrible consequences. Think what someone could do if they found out.’
I think I knew exactly what would happen – actually, had happened – if someone found out.
‘Rudolph and I probably bent the rules a little by dropping those cryptic hints, but we can safely say that we didn’t tell you outright. That way we adhere to the spirit of our vow, but I can’t tell you how much it hurt me not to be able to reveal the secret – even at the expense of my husband’s life.’ Tears began to trickle down her face; tears that could at any second become a raging torrent.
I seized the box of tissues once more and thrust it at Mrs C. She grabbed a bunch and dabbed her eyes. I tried to reassure her, if only to try to stop the impending deluge. Then I homed in on something she’d said.
Rudolph and I? When had that arrogant herbivore ever tried to help me? Then it hit me: he’d been my mysterious midnight caller – the human microphone. It hadn’t been a turban or an afro; it had been a poor attempt to disguise himself by covering his antlers. At least now things were beginning to make a bit more sense.
‘Look, we’ve had a few big breaks this morning,’ I said, trying to console Mrs C. ‘All we need to do now is confront Kohl like we planned, and hopefully we’ll be able to wrap everything up by this evening.’ I wished I was as confident as I was making out, but it seemed like the only course of action open to us.
‘I hope so,’ she sobbed. ‘If my husband’s not in the air by midnight, there won’t be a Christmas.’
I looked at her in horror; I’d forgotten it was Christmas Eve. We didn’t have much time left. There’s always something.
&nb
sp; ‘We’d better get a move on then,’ I said, trying to sound confident. ‘Next stop “King” Kohl’s. Everyone ready?’
More noncommittal grunts, nervous nods and general I-don’t-think-this-is-such-a-good-idea type facial expressions.
‘OK then, let’s go.’
Jack Horner raised a tentative hand. ‘Um, aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘What’s that, Jack?’
‘Well, we’re about to go after a bunch of thieves and track them to their lair, right?’
I nodded. ‘More or less, yes.’
‘Well, I don’t want to sound like a scaredy cat, but they’re probably big tough guys and we’re, well, we’re not.’
‘Now, Jack, did you honestly think that I was going to face these guys unprepared?’ In fact, until he mentioned it, I was, but I wasn’t going to let my veneer of invincibility get tarnished so easily in front of my team. I wasn’t sure exactly how dangerous facing Kohl would be but it probably made good sense to have some degree of insurance before going in there. But who could I call on on such short notice? My usual able assistants in situations like this, Mr Lewis and Mr Carroll, had told me they’d be unavailable until after Christmas.
Aha!
I called Jack over. ‘I have a little job for you; here’s what I want you to do.’ I bent down and whispered in his ear.
His eyes widened. ‘You sure he’ll be OK with it?’
‘Yep, especially when you tell him why we’re doing it. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’
Jack scurried out of the door. ‘Where’s he off to?’ asked Mrs C.
‘Plan B,’ I said.
‘Ah, so you actually have a Plan A then?’
‘I always have a plan,’ I replied, although I could have added: the plan may be flimsy, improvised, not fully thought out at the time and subject to change depending on events. It might not have been the most inspiring thing to say, especially right now.
‘While Jack’s busy, you guys are with me. Basili, when we get there, act the tough guy once more.’
Basili looked unhappy. ‘Where is this there that we are going to, Mr Harry? And why must I be acting the gentleman of toughness once more?’ This was followed by an extended and unpleasant bout of flatulence.
‘We are going to the Grimmtown Cauldron and you are pretending to be the tough guy because you did such a fine job at the North Pole,’ I said, and because I don’t have time to get anyone else at such short notice – but I left that part unspoken; his ego was fragile enough as it was.
‘Right, everyone, now that that’s been sorted, let’s get to the car and start making tracks.’
15
A Night at the Jazz
We left the office, tramped down the stairs (somewhat reluctantly, it has to be said) and got into the car. As we drove to the Cauldron, I could sense the unease in the other two. It was hard to blame them; I wasn’t really sure what I was going to do myself. I didn’t really expect them to have Santa trussed up in the front row of the auditorium, but if the guy we’d chased at the airport saw me he might panic and do something stupid. Then again, he might just beat the living daylights out of me – and I didn’t think my ‘minder’ would do much by way of minding. I suspect his concept of minding in that instance would be running for the door as fast as he could. Ho hum.
The Cauldron itself was an auditorium that looked like a giant cauldron turned on its side. It stood on a hill overlooking the city and was the venue du jour for Grimmtown’s musical set. It had recently seen concerts by Hubbard’s Cubbard, Peter Piper and the Magic Harp Rock Ensemble. Tonight, as we were advised by every billboard on the way, it was hosting ‘An Evening of Classical and Jazz Fusion by the Experimental Quartet Olé “King” Kohl and his Fiddlers Three’. That sounded nasty. In musical terms the word fusion always suggested a number of musicians all playing completely different tunes at the same time with their eyes shut, nodding their heads knowingly all the while. The audience, baffled by what was going on on stage, would shout phrases like ‘nice’, ‘cool’, ‘look at those hip cats go’ and even an occasional ‘groovy’ (the Grimmtown musical cognoscenti were just as pretentious and anachronistic as their counterparts everywhere else).
It just made my ears bleed.
Already crowds were arriving for the Fiddlers’ Christmas Eve recital. Had they really nothing better to do with their time on this particular night? Either that or Kohl and the boys were more popular than I thought – or expected. As we pulled into the car park, Mrs C asked a very obvious question – and one that I’d completely failed to consider. ‘How are we going to get in? Do you have tickets for this gig?’
‘It won’t be a problem,’ I replied, though it was distinctly possible it might be a very big problem. If the crowds were anything to go by, this was a sell-out so getting in might be a tad on the difficult side.
We pushed our way through the crowds, trying to get closer to the door. Two huge figures were checking all the tickets. There would be no way past them – or would there? If I wasn’t mistaken, the ticket collectors were my two friends, Lewis and Carroll. They’d certainly deter anyone from trying to get in with a forged ticket or without any ticket at all – unless of course that person was me.
‘Stick close,’ I whispered. ‘We might have a way in after all.’ I pushed my way through the throng towards the ticket check, with Mrs C and Basili close behind. They were much better pushers than I was so I skilfully fell behind them and let them do the dirty work. It was like the parting of a human Red Sea; people just disappeared in front of them as they man-(or woman-) handled their way through, clearing out bodies like a flamethrower through a field of snowmen. Getting to the front of the line was easy after that.
Mr Lewis took one look at me and rolled his eyes upwards and gave me an ‘I didn’t peg you as a jazz buff’ look (Mr Lewis was a man of few words).
‘I’m not,’ I replied. ‘But I’m on a case and need to see Kohl as soon as possible.’
Mr Lewis raised an eyebrow in an ‘I suppose tickets are out of the question in this instance’ expression.
‘You know me too well and I really need to get inside.’
Seconds later we were running through the Cauldron’s huge lobby, searching for a way backstage. If Kohl was anywhere, he’d be back there getting ready. Everywhere I looked all I could see were doors leading to the auditorium proper; upper stalls, lower stalls, balcony, dress circle. There was no way I’d ever wear a dress just to get a good seat.
I spotted a nervous-looking usher and made a beeline for him. ‘How do I get backstage?’
‘Um, Mr Kohl doesn’t like to be disturbed before he goes on stage. He’s very particular about that,’ stammered the usher, clearly intimidated by my friends.
‘Well, I need to disturb him now and if I don’t find a way backstage quickly my associates may very well set about disturbing you.’
The usher pointed to a passageway, partially hidden by a velvet curtain. ‘D … d … down that way.’
‘You are most helpful,’ I said as we brushed him aside and headed down the passageway. ‘Please don’t let me find out you warned him we were coming.’
‘N … n … never crossed m … my mind,’ the usher replied.
‘In that case don’t ask your face to be a corroborating witness,’ I said. ‘It mightn’t hold up under questioning.’
The passageway led to a dimly lit corridor running the length of the backstage area. On one side were a series of doors, each with a large star in the centre. The first few were blank, but the fourth had ‘Mr Kohl and Band’ scrawled across it.
‘We’re here,’ I whispered to the others.
‘Great,’ Mrs C whispered back. ‘Now what do we do?’
‘Well, let me listen for a moment, see if I can make out who’s inside.’ Carefully I put my ear to the door and tried to hear what was going on inside. It wasn’t difficult; Kohl had a very loud voice.
‘We wait until everyone’s settled, play a few of t
he standards and when they’re getting into it Santa can do his stuff. Once everything stops we make our way through the audience, relieve them of their valuables and get back on the stage. It’s the perfect crime and we’ll have the perfect alibi. It’s foolproof, I tell you.’
‘And what about Santa?’ asked another voice. ‘He wasn’t too easy to persuade last time. What makes you think he’ll cooperate again?’
‘As long as he thinks we’ll let him free in time for Christmas, he’ll reluctantly play ball. By the time he finds out I intend to hold on to him, it will be far too late. After that we’ll have to find more effective means to ensure his help.’
It was the perfect crime. Looked like we were just in time. If what they were saying was to be believed, Santa was just beyond the door.
I turned to the others and repeated what I’d just heard. ‘Just give me a few minutes to come up with a plan.’
Mrs C pushed me aside. ‘Plan be damned, I’m going in there,’ and before I could stop her she’d flung the door open and barged into the room shouting, ‘Santa, where are you? It’s me, Clarissa.’ Whatever that woman had in terms of devotion to her husband was more than compensated for by her lack of subtlety – and this lack of subtlety had put paid to any chance of a surprise. No sooner had she burst into the room than two of Kohl’s Fiddlers Three had grabbed her and flung her back at us. As we fell in a heap like a bunch of oversized skittles, the third grabbed a large red shape that had been lying in the corner, threw it over his shoulder and made for the door with the rest of the band in close pursuit.
‘Stop them, they’re getting away,’ shouted Mrs C at me.
‘I’d love to,’ I groaned, ‘but I should point out that it’s difficult just at the moment as you’re lying on top of me.’
‘Oops, sorry.’ She rolled to one side and I sprang (well, struggled) to my feet, dusted myself down and raced down the corridor after them. Considering they had to carry a large body, they were certainly making good progress as there was no sign of them ahead of me.