The Third Pig Detective Agency: The Complete Casebook. Bob Burke

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СКАЧАТЬ together, and examined the tunnel. It looked like a very professional job: perfectly circular, level floor and smooth walls with supports to prevent accidental collapse. From its size, the diggers were also apparently quite small. I would have had problems had I been obliged to navigate it.

      As I looked at the area around the tunnel entrance, something hanging off one of the branches caught my eye. Closer inspection revealed a bright green thread blowing gently in the wind. One of the thieves must have snagged an exceedingly loud item of clothing on the tree as he made his escape.

      At this stage my brain, which, for obvious reasons, had understandably been functioning below par for most of the day, began to power itself up and began asking key questions (although not aloud). More to the point it also began to answer them. Perhaps my assailant wasn’t quite as mysterious as I had thought. Putting the information about the tunnel together with the thread and my strange encounter of the previous night, a pattern began to emerge. I needed to get an expert opinion about tunnels and the creatures that dug them. It was time for a trip to the enchanted forest.

      I turned to my client.

      ‘Mr Aladdin,’ I said, ‘I believe, based on what we’ve just seen, that I am beginning to make some progress in the matter of your missing lamp. I need to make some calls and meet some people. I should have an update for you by tonight. May I contact you then?’

      He whipped a card out of his inside pocket.

      ‘My direct number; I am always available. Is there anything you’d care to share now?’

      Of course there wasn’t. All I had were a few ideas and a bizarre theory that was slowly taking shape but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

      ‘Not at this time. I will provide a full update later.’

      He grunted, which I assumed was an acknowledgement, and we walked back to the house.

      ‘Until later, then,’ he said as Jack and I got into my car.

      ‘Later,’ I agreed and drove away. As the huge walls disappeared from view behind us, I told Jack where we were going.

      ‘Are we really going into the enchanted forest?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never been.’

      It should be pointed out right here that no self-respecting fairy tale town like ours would be without an enchanted forest. It was the location of choice for any laboratory, workshop or secret lair for magicians, wizards, warlocks, witches, alchemists, thaumaturges, vampires and the obligatory mad scientist. There is usually at least one mountain smack in the middle guarded by a horrible monster (usually a dragon) and reputed to be the location of a hoard of treasure.

      If truth be known, however, most of the mountains were now just tourist attractions, the treasure having been plundered centuries before and the dragon killed in the process (and replaced by a very realistic animatronic duplicate to keep the punters happy). If you were looking for magic trees (of wood as opposed to those car air freshners that smell nice), cottages made of confectionery, any sword embedded in a stone, unofficial spell-casters, illegal potion sellers or two-headed birds, the enchanted forest was the place to go. Grimmtown’s forest had an additional attraction for me, however, one that might go a long way towards solving this case.

      We made our way back down from the lofty plateau of Frog Prince Heights, drove across town and into the forest. Fortunately, our destination wasn’t too far in. There were far too many unpleasant things lying in wait deep in the forest for unsuspecting adventurers or unaccompanied tour parties and I had no urge to encounter any of them again (yes, I’ve been there before). After a short drive along a dark, tree-lined road, I pulled up to yet another large gate with yet another anonymous security system.

      ‘The Heigh Ho Diamond Mining Company,’ said Jack, reading the ornate sign over the gate. ‘Why are we coming here?’

      ‘Because if anyone can tell me anything about who built that tunnel,’ I said, leaning out of the car to activate the speaker beside the gate, ‘it’s the chaps who run this place.’

      ‘Name?’ crackled a voice from the speaker. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was the same voice as the one at Aladdin’s.

      ‘Just tell the lads it’s Harry and I’d appreciate a moment of their time.’

      Almost as soon as I’d finished speaking, the gates swung open – a lot slower and with a lot more gravitas than those at Aladdin’s. There was no drive up to the building though; the offices were right beside the gate. There were seven parking spaces marked ‘Director’, all occupied by very fast, very sleek and very expensive cars. I was almost embarrassed to park my heap of junk beside them. Almost, but not quite – I’m unusually thick-skinned for a pig. We got out of the car and entered the office. As I opened the door, I turned to Jack.

      ‘Not a word, kid,’ I warned. ‘Just let me do the talking. Some of these guys can be a bit difficult to deal with so stay shtum.’

      ‘Yes sir,’ said Jack, giving me a very official-looking salute that I hoped was tongue in cheek.

      The reception area consisted of a few garish plastic chairs grouped around a battered coffee table, which was stacked with the inevitable dog-eared three-year-old magazines. Behind a desk and facing the entrance a sour-looking receptionist glowered at me, as if my arrival was a personal affront to him and had somehow ruined his day. Behind him, running the length of the wall, were seven portraits – one for each of the company’s directors.

      ‘Take a seat,’ he snapped. ‘One of the Seven will meet you shortly.’

      ‘Who are “the Seven”?’ whispered Jack, as we sat down. ‘Are they some kind of secret society with blood oaths, strange passwords and funny handshakes?’

      ‘Nah,’ I replied nonchalantly, picking up a well-thumbed copy of Miner’s Monthly. ‘Nothing so mysterious. They’re seven dwarves, all brothers, who set up a diamond mining company here years ago. It’s been very profitable. They’ve cornered the diamond market locally. If anyone knows about digging tunnels, these guys do; they’re experts in their chosen field – or under their chosen field even.’

      Fortunately we weren’t kept waiting too long. A door in the wall facing us opened and a large, red, bulbous nose appeared followed – it seemed like hours later – by the rest of the dwarf. Unfortunately it was Grumpy, my least favourite.

      ‘Well Pigg, whaddya want?’ he growled. His interpersonal skills tended to leave a lot to be desired – most noticeably anything remotely resembling good manners. As a rule his brothers tended not to let him do press conferences when they announced their yearly results.

      I, of course, knew exactly which buttons to press.

      ‘I’m looking for some assistance please, Mr … ah … it’s Dopey, isn’t it?’ I replied, knowing full well how much it would aggravate him.

      His nose turned even redder and the flush spread to the rest of his face. He glowered at me. ‘It’s Grumpy,’ he said. ‘G-R-U-M-P-Y!’

      ‘By name and by nature,’ I said under my breath to Jack. He looked down and I could see his cheeks bulge as he tried not to laugh. It’s tough being a detective’s assistant; you must maintain a calm demeanour at all times, especially when confronted with stressful situations.

      He took up the magazine I’d been reading and developed an intense interest СКАЧАТЬ