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

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СКАЧАТЬ chair and exhaled loudly. My client was now my landlord. He was missing something that he wanted to get back badly. He wanted little or no involvement with the law and, for reasons known only to himself, he had chosen me rather than any of the other detectives operating in town to do the recovery. Sometimes I just got all the breaks.

      ‘Oh Harry, Harry, Harry,’ I breathed. ‘What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into now?’

       2

       Come Blow Your Horn

      If television is to be believed, we detectives have contacts everywhere. All it takes is a quick phone call to Izzy or Sammy or Buddy and, hey presto, there it is – information at your fingertips. Barmen, bouncers, paperboys, waitresses; you name them, your average detective has them in his little black book. They have their ears to the ground and are always willing to give exactly the information you’re looking for exactly when you need it, in return for a small fee.

      Wrong!

      Forget what you see on TV. Most detectives I know, myself included, can muster up one informant if we’re really lucky; usually unreliable, rarely cheap and never around when you want them. My particular source of ‘useful’ information was a lazy former shepherd. He had got himself into a spot of bother when – after falling asleep on the job one day – his flock had disappeared. Blacklisted and unable to hold down any other kind of agricultural employment, he eked out a living playing the trumpet in some of the town’s cheaper bars. He usually then spent the money drinking in the same bars. When people talked of someone with his ear to the ground they meant literally in his case. He did get around, however, and if something was going on in town, there was always the remote possibility he might have heard about it. More than likely, however, he hadn’t.

      When not performing, he was usually found in Stiltskin’s Diner nursing a cup of espresso and a hangover. Stiltskin’s was that kind of diner – great coffee, but the sort of food that was described in books about poor children in orphanages as ‘gruel’. Regardless of what you asked for it was inevitably served up as a grey lumpy mass – quite like the diner’s owner, in fact. Rumpelstiltskin was surly, rarely washed and had all the customer service skills of a constipated dragon. In his defence, however, he did serve the best coffee in Grimmtown.

      Well, he had to have one redeeming feature.

      I entered the diner and headed for the counter.

      ‘Blue here?’ I asked, trying to ignore the smell.

      Rumpelstiltskin was cleaning a glass but from the state of the cloth he was using I suspected all he was doing was adding more dirt to an already filthy inside. He grunted in reply and nodded towards a booth at the back of the diner.

      ‘You are as gracious as you are informative,’ I said. ‘Any chance of a coffee, preferably in a clean mug?’ I looked pointedly at what he had in his hands.

      Another grunt, which I assumed was an affirmative, but it was hard to tell.

      I made my way to the back of the diner. It was a little early for the evening rush but some tables were already occupied. A few construction trolls were sharing a newspaper, or at least looking at the pictures. They also seemed to be the only ones eating what might have been loosely described as a hot meal. That was the thing about trolls: they were a chef’s delight. They ate anything thrown up in front of them (and my choice of phrase is deliberate), never complained and always came back for seconds. They single-handedly kept Stiltskin’s in business – and they had very big hands.

      My contact was sitting in a darkened booth and barely acknowledged me as I sat down. He was still wearing that ridiculous bright blue smock and leggings that all our shepherds wore. The only sop to his status as a musician was a pair of sunglasses.

      ‘Blue,’ I greeted him. ‘How’re tricks?’

      He grunted once and continued to nurse his coffee. It was obviously a day for grunts. Conversation wasn’t his strong point either. It seemed to be a feature of the people who frequented Stiltskin’s.

      ‘I’m looking for information,’ I said.

      ‘Ain’t you always,’ came the reply. He still hadn’t bothered to look up.

      I pressed on regardless. ‘Rumour has it that one of our more upstanding citizens has lost something valuable. He seems to think I might be able to help him locate it. I figured if anyone had heard anything on the grapevine, it’d be you.’

      ‘Anyone I know?’

      ‘That stalwart of Grimmtown high society, our very own Mr Aladdin,’ I replied.

      At the mention of Aladdin’s name he suddenly became less disinterested. He sat upright so fast it was like someone had pumped 5,000 volts through him. Now I had his complete and undivided attention.

      ‘Well, well. So he’s come to you, eh? Must be scraping the bottom of a very deep and very wide barrel.’

      I ignored the insult. ‘He obviously appreciates the skills that I provide … and I appreciate the skills that you provide,’ I said, slipping a twenty-dollar note across the table to him. There was a blur of movement and the note disappeared off the table and into his pocket. I’d have sworn his hands never moved.

      He leaned forward so much our heads were almost touching. ‘Word on the street is he’s missin’ his lamp,’ he whispered. ‘Not good from his point of view.’

      ‘Yeah? Why’s that? What’s so special about it?’

      Boy Blue leaned even closer, pushed his shades up onto his forehead and, for the first time since I had arrived, looked directly at me. His eyes were an intense blue – just like his ridiculous outfit.

      ‘Rumour has it that it’s a magic lamp and he somehow used it when he was younger to make himself very rich.

      ‘There he was, didn’t have two coins to rub together, working for peanuts in a laundry. Suddenly he was the talk of the town, appearing at all the best parties, escorting dames like Rapunzel; quite the overnight sensation.’

      I groaned inwardly. Magic! I hated magic. As a working detective it’s bad enough running the risk of being beaten up or thrown into a river with concrete boots on, without having to live with the possibility of being changed into a dung beetle or having a plague of boils inflicted on you. If you think humans were disgusting covered with boils, imagine how I might look. No! Magic was to be avoided where possible and if it had to feature in a case, I wanted the Glenda the Good type – the type that had lots of slushy music and sparkly red slippers. With my luck, however, this was probably going to be the other type. I was already having premonitions of waking up with the head of a hippo and the body of a duck, going through the rest of my life only being able to grunt and quack.

      ‘Any idea if this magic lamp actually worked?’ I asked.

      ‘Nah. I don’t even know if it’s true. You know how these things are – he probably arrived in town in a stretch limo and with a pocketful of dough. Twenty years later, the rumour becomes the truth because it’s just so much more romantic.’ He laughed quietly. ‘One thing’s for sure though, he’s certainly not a man to be messed with. He has some interesting hired help.’

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