Читать книгу The Ho Ho Ho Mystery - Bob Burke - Страница 5

The woman claiming to be Mrs Claus glowered at me, her face turning as red as her very Christmassy jacket. ‘Well,’ she demanded, ‘is there a problem?’ I considered the question carefully. There were a number of problems actually, but I wasn’t about to list them out – at least not to a very angry woman who seemed capable of doing me serious physical harm. I’d received enough punishment during my last case and I wanted this one – if, in fact, it turned out to be a case at all – to be as pain-free as possible. Diplomacy was clearly the order of the day.

‘Mrs Claus, please make yourself at home.’ She squeezed herself into the offered chair, which protested loudly at the intrusion. It looked like someone had tried to stuff a red pillow into a flowerpot. When she was comfortable (or at least not too uncomfortable), I asked her to tell me the story from the beginning; if nothing else, it would give me a chance to get my thoughts together – and these thoughts were currently so far apart they couldn’t even be seen with the help of the Hubble telescope.

‘It’s my husband, you see,’ she said, fidgeting with her cuffs. ‘He’s disappeared.’

‘And your husband would be …?’ I knew what she was going to say; I just wanted to hear her say it. This was obviously a very poor attempt at a practical joke and I needed to stay sharp to find out who the culprit was, although the finger of suspicion was pointing firmly at Red Riding Hood. This was just the kind of stunt she’d pull. More importantly, once I knew who it was, I could figure out a way to get back at them. No one got the better of Harry Pigg in the practical jokes department.

‘He’s Santa Claus, of course.’ Her face got redder with indignation. ‘Who did you think I was married to dressed like this?’

I had to admit she did look the part. If I had to buy an outfit for Santa’s wife, it was exactly what I’d have picked: fashionable red trouser suit with white fur lining and a very trendy pair of black high-heeled boots. Well, I’d have picked something red anyway.

‘OK, let me get this clear,’ I said, trying hard not to snigger. ‘You are married to Santa?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘As in the jolly fellow with the white beard who says, “Ho ho ho” a lot and flies around dropping off presents to children all over the world on Christmas Eve?’

‘Is there another?’ she demanded.

‘Not that I’m aware of.’ I was now biting the inside of my cheek so as not to laugh hysterically in her face. ‘And he’s missing?’

‘Yes, as I’ve already pointed out to you.’

‘You’re sure he’s missing and not just away on a boys’ weekend with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy?’ I couldn’t contain myself any longer and burst into howls of laughter.

Seconds later I was pinned to the wall behind my desk with Mrs Claus’s forearm rammed firmly up against my neck. I felt my eyes bulge from the pressure on my throat and I was distinctly short of breath.

‘Do you think this is funny?’ she demanded. ‘My husband has disappeared; children all over the world are facing huge disappointment when they wake up on Christmas Day and find nothing under their trees except bare carpet and some pine needles, and you see fit to sit there making jokes at my expense?’ She pulled her arm away and I dropped to the floor gasping for air. I noticed that my two new ‘partners’, Jack Horner and the genie, had beaten a hasty retreat into the main reception area outside. Cowards! I might have to revisit this new working arrangement if this was going to be their attitude at the slightest hint of trouble.

‘Clearly I’m wasting both my time and yours, Mr Pigg,’ she said, with what I must admit was a certain degree of righteous indignation. ‘I shall take my business to someone who is prepared to take my problem somewhat more seriously. Good day to you.’

As she stomped to the door and made to leave, it occurred to me that she might actually be telling the truth; she was pushing it a bit for someone playing a joke. More to the point, if she was being truthful, taking her business elsewhere meant Red Riding Hood would get the case and the only way she was getting any case at my expense was over my cold and lifeless body. Then again, with my luck, that mightn’t be beyond the bounds of possibility either – I’d come close a few times on my last case, why would this be any different?

It was time for eating some pie of the humbly flavoured sort.

‘Mrs Claus, please accept my apologies for my behaviour.’ I walked after her and extended my trotter. ‘My last case has left me the worse for wear and I’m not quite myself at the moment.’ If you’ve been keeping up with my career, you’ll know this wasn’t entirely untrue. ‘Please make yourself comfortable and I will give you my complete and undivided attention and will personally guarantee the quality of service for which this agency is renowned.’

I was piling it on a bit, but, in my defence, I was getting desperate. I needed to keep this client. Apparently mollified, she turned and sat back down in the chair – which once more protested loudly at the strain.

I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘Make sure it doesn’t,’ Mrs Claus replied. ‘I haven’t got time for amateurs and I need to find my husband before it’s too late.’ Her tough veneer finally cracked and she began to cry gently.

‘You mean they might kill him?’

‘No,’ she blubbed. ‘I mean too late for Christmas.’ Obviously the thought of her husband being killed hadn’t crossed her mind and the tears came even more quickly when she realised what I’d said.

Nice one, Harry, I thought. Make the client feel worse.

I handed her a tissue from a box in my drawer and she dabbed her eyes. While she did so, I quickly checked the box to make sure I had enough tissues. I figured she could be crying for quite some time.

‘Mrs Claus, perhaps you could start from the beginning so we can decide on a proper course of action. How long has he been gone?’

‘Since yesterday morning,’ she replied. ‘He left the previous night for our northern base and was due to arrive first thing yesterday. According to the elves, he never showed. We’ve checked with air-traffic control and they’ve had no reports of any accidents. The last thing we heard was when he gave us an update an hour out of Grimmtown. Since then, nothing. It’s as if he just disappeared into thin air. I may never see him again.’ This brought on a fresh deluge of tears. Now I was really concerned; if she didn’t stop soon there was the distinct possibility my office would be flooded and I wasn’t sure that my insurance would cover the cost of the damage.

‘OK, OK.’ I whipped out my notebook and began to scribble down what she was saying. ‘How was he getting to your base? Grimmair?’

‘Oh goodness, no. He always flew himself. He’s quite an accomplished sleigh pilot, you know. He doesn’t like travelling by commercial airlines.’

I didn’t blame him. I didn’t fancy it too much either. I always seemed to end up squashed between the two smelliest, loudest and most unpleasant Orcs on the flight – and they always took my peanuts.

‘So, he left on his sleigh. Was this some sort of motorised craft or …?’

‘Goodness, Mr Pigg, do you know nothing about my husband? It was reindeer powered. All his sleighs are propelled by a team of reindeer. Of course this wasn’t the elite team; they’re saved for the Christmas run. These were just economy reindeer, but certainly capable enough of getting him to the North Pole without incident. But he never arrived.’ More tears.

‘And you’ve received no communication of any sort, either from him or anyone who may have taken him?’

‘Nothing and I’m so worried something might have happened to him. Please, Mr Pigg, I need your help; the children need your help.’

I thought of Jack Horner waiting outside. What would he think of me if I didn’t find Santa Claus – especially if I didn’t do so before December 25th?

‘OK, let’s go through some of the more obvious questions. Does he have any enemies?’

A shake of the head.

‘Have you noticed anyone suspicious hanging around the house over the past few days?’

Another shake.

‘Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kidnap him? Are you rich?’

‘We have some money put aside, but we reinvest most of what we make back into the company. Every year there are new toys added to the children’s lists, so we’re constantly developing new products and this puts quite a drain on our finances. We’re not in it for the money, you know. If whoever did this did it because they think we’re wealthy, they’ll be sorely disappointed.’

That left one obvious question. ‘So if he wasn’t kidnapped for the money, then why was he kidnapped?’

Mrs Claus shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know; I just want you to find him, whatever it takes.’ But as she said it, I thought I detected the faintest hint of evasion in the glance she gave me. She knew more than she was saying. There was obviously something else going on here and, with my luck, it would almost certainly result in something unpleasant happening to me while I tried to work out what it was.

Super!

‘Is there anything else you can tell me that might be important?’ I pressed. ‘Did your husband appear any different before he left? Did he seem tense, out of sorts? Any little detail, anything you might have noticed, no matter how insignificant, might be important.’

Mrs Claus thought for a second and shook her head. ‘No, nothing. It was just another trip. He was as happy as always. Lots of “Ho, ho, ho’s” and “Merry Christmas, everyone’s”. He did like to get into the spirit of things early. And now he’s gone.’

Just when I thought the waterworks had finished, they started up again. She was a one-woman reservoir. She appeared to be storing enough water inside her to supply an entire town for a year. Where did she keep it all? I was hoping she’d stop soon – I was running out of tissues.

‘Mrs Claus, let me assure you that the Third Pig Detective Agency is on the job. Our skilled operatives will be working on the case to the exclusion of everything else and we will do our utmost to ensure your husband is returned safe and sound.’

I know, I know: ‘skilled operatives’ was stretching it a little, but I was hoping she hadn’t noticed that, apart from me, they consisted of a small boy and a fat ex-genie dressed in bright yellow silk trousers.

She seemed reassured by my charm (in fairness, who wouldn’t be) and got up to leave. As she walked to the door, something struck me – and it wasn’t her forearm this time.

‘Just one last question: have you talked to the police about this?’

‘I reported it as soon as I found out he was missing, but they don’t seem to be taking it too seriously. As there wasn’t a ransom note and he’s only been gone for a day, they’re suggesting he might have just run off with someone else.’ She hauled herself to her full height and bristled with indignation. ‘As if!’

Frankly, if I was him, I’d be breaking all land-speed records to get as far away from this woman as was humanly (or porcinely) possible: she terrified me. ‘Just out of curiosity, how long have you been married?’

She smiled proudly. ‘Two hundred and thirty-seven years of wedded bliss last October.’

That stopped me in my tracks. ‘He must be quite a man.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She nodded. ‘And I, Mr Pigg, am quite a woman. I quickly put the police right on that particular theory of theirs, let me assure you, but I don’t expect them to give it their full and undivided attention just yet – despite my best efforts to persuade them otherwise.’

I didn’t have any doubts as to the effectiveness of her powers of persuasion; she’d already convinced me to take on her case – and against my better judgement too. It looked like I had a new client.

‘OK, Mrs Claus, we’ll probably need to check out your house and wherever your husband left from on the off chance there might be a clue as to what happened. Is there anyone else in the house at the moment – housekeeper, gardener, someone else who might know where your husband has gone?’

‘Goodness no, apart from the local flight-control team and reindeer wranglers, there’s just the two of us. All the rest of our employees are at our headquarters at the North Pole.’

‘How many employees do you have up there?’

‘Apart from the reindeer, we’ve got our admin staff and about one hundred elves. They’re very diligent, you know.’

Elves! I’d probably have to talk to them as well; there was always the possibility that if this did turn out to be a kidnapping, someone there might be involved. Great! A trip to the North Pole in December: ice, snow, freezing temperatures and elves – and you know how much I dislike elves. They’re pompous, arrogant, overbearing and talk in riddles – and that’s just their good points.

‘We’ll need to interview everyone,’ I said to her. ‘Where’s the nearest airport?’

‘Let me take care of that,’ she said. ‘We have our own fleet of reindeer-powered luxury private sleighs that will take you straight to the facility.’

I wasn’t sure how comfortable a private sleigh flight would be, but I imagined there wouldn’t be much chance of an in-flight movie – or in-flight catering either. On a brighter note, I probably wouldn’t be forced to sit between two Orcs and watch them fight over my peanuts. Every cloud, eh?

‘I’ll contact you when we need to go north, then,’ I said to Mrs Claus.

She nodded in reply and turned to me as she went out of the door. ‘Please don’t let me down, Mr Pigg. Time is short and I don’t have much of it to waste.’ Although her tone was abrupt, I couldn’t fail to notice the look of relief that skated quickly across her face before disappearing behind that stern mask once more. Maybe this wasn’t a con job after all.

‘We’re on it,’ I reassured her as she left the office.