Читать книгу Mr Humperdinck's Wonderful Whatsit (2017 ed) - Wynand Louw - Страница 6

Murder

The wail of police sirens and the high-pitched screech of tyres on asphalt woke Pete rudely at about nine the next morning. Earlier, he had switched off the alarm of his clock, turned over, and gone back to sleep. Freddy had promised to have his letter delivered to Schiz by registered mail, so he didn’t need to go to school.

The morning was dark, the sky low and grey, and a soft drizzle sifted down on the city. His father hadn’t come home the previous night; his bed hadn’t been slept in.

Something was going on outside. Pete opened the window to get a better view of the pavement below. The flashing blue lights of a squad of police cars reflected in the wet shop windows. A crowd of people stood around an ambulance that was parked right in front of the bicycle shop, its back door open. Two men emerged from the shop. They carried a stretcher with a long, white bag on it and eased it into the ambulance.

It was as if a rope had been wound around Pete’s neck, strangling him. Someone had died in the bicycle shop.

It had to be Mr Humperdinck.

Pete ran down the stairs and out into the rain. The feeling of the rope around his neck became worse. He was choking and could hardly breathe.

After the ambulance and the police had left, Pete spent the rest of the day wandering the streets, his brain disconnected from his body and senses. His ears heard the noise of the city traffic around him, his eyes saw the crowds of faceless people on the pavements, his skin was cold and wet from the rain, but these impulses didn’t pass on to his mind.

He was only aware of the immense grief burning in his chest.

Mr Humperdinck was dead.

When Pete came home late that afternoon, there were two men in grey coats waiting at his door. One pulled a police badge from his pocket and flashed it in front of Pete’s nose.

“Peter Smith?”

He nodded.

“Inspector Grimsby and Constable Gripe. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I don’t know anything.” Pete unlocked the door, but Grimsby put his arm across the doorway. He pushed his ugly nose into Pete’s face. “Ah, but we think you do,” the inspector said.

“I don’t!” Pete ducked under Grimsby’s arm and tried to slam the door behind him, but the inspector had his foot in the doorway.

He smiled an ugly smile. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”

“I said, I don’t know anything!” said Pete.

“Look here, you snot-nosed brat, if you don’t let us in this instant, I’ll arrest you for obstructing a police investigation.” Grimsby forced his big body through the door. Gripe followed and closed the door behind them. Pete moved to the other side of the table.

The inspector looked under the bed. “So, where’s Daddy?” he asked.

Pete kept quiet, and kept the table between him and the two policemen. Gripe opened the fridge. It was empty. He banged it shut.

Grimsby smirked. “Your daddy and I, we go back a long way.” He lit a cigarette, went into the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet. “We were buddies in high school.” He peered into the toilet bowl.

Gripe looked into the dustbin. “Hey, Boss, we’ve got some evidence here,” he announced. He took his handkerchief and used it to lift something out of the bin.

“Good. Put it in a plastic bag.” Grimsby grinned. “Funny how two buddies can grow apart. Here I am, a successful police inspector, and your daddy’s nothing but a drunk.”

“My dad’s a famous lawyer!”

Grimsby laughed. “A famous failure!” He opened the closet and started pulling out the drawers, spilling their contents all over the floor. When he pulled out Pete’s drawer, the secret compartment got dislodged, and the scrapbook with the newspaper clipping fell out. The inspector stooped and picked it up.

“Leave that alone!” shouted Pete. He tried to grab it from Grimsby who gave him a shove, making him fall backwards onto the bed.

“What have we here?” The inspector examined the newspaper clipping. “A photograph of the suspect. Peter and his lovely bride. Pity he couldn’t make her happy.” Grimsby put the clipping in his pocket. “I always said she was too good for him.” He turned to the door. “Come on, Gripe, let’s go!”

A wild rage possessed Pete. He rushed after them, leaped onto Grimsby’s back and pelted the man’s head with his fist. The inspector turned. With all his strength he crushed Pete between his back and the wall and knocked the wind out of his chest. Pete lost his grip and fell, stunned. Gripe laughed as he stepped over him and followed Grimsby outside. He slammed the door behind him.

Peter Smith came home much later, when Pete was already in bed. He was a mess. His hair and beard were caked with mud. His clothes were wet and torn. He cursed when he saw the fridge was empty, banged the door and then fell, unconscious, on the big bed. As soon as he started snoring Pete got up, took his dad’s shoes and clothes off, and pulled the blankets over him. He hated the smell of tobacco smoke and stale liquor that surrounded his father. Pete lay in bed looking at his gargoyle, which seemed angry and red in the flickering neon light from the bar across the street. It felt like ages before he finally fell asleep.

The next morning Pete went to look for Maggie. It was she who had discovered the body. Her shop was locked, so he went to her flat on 21st Avenue. He found her at her kitchen table. Her face was as white as her doughnut dough, with black mascara rings under her baggy eyes.

“I’ve found something to eat at last,” she said. “Vegetables. It’s the only food that doesn’t turn into butterflies when I come near it.” She sniffed at a Brussels sprout as if it had been fished out of a drain, put it in her mouth and started to chew.

“That’s great, Maggie. At least now you won’t starve to death.”

She didn’t think it was funny. “This Brussels sprout is the first thing I’ve eaten in thirty-six hours, Pete. Yesterday, I couldn’t eat because those idiotic police officers kept me busy the whole afternoon.” Maggie sighed the mother of all sighs, and started chewing on a piece of broccoli.

“What did you tell them?”

“Well, I went to Humperdinck’s just after eight in the morning. I figured that he might know something about this thing with the butterflies. The lock on the front door was broken. I found him lying face down in a pool of blood. Dead.” She shivered. “So I called the police.”

“What did the shop look like?”

“It was a mess, especially the back room. Everything was pulled from the shelves. The desk was smashed to bits.”

“Why did you think Mr Humperdinck would know about the butterflies?” Although he hadn’t thought of it before, Pete suspected what her answer would be.

“I think someone’s put some kind of magical curse on me. And the only person I know who may be involved in something like that is, well, was Mr Humperdinck. You know that doorbell of his? The other day it stuck its tongue out at me. And he kept talking to my cat as if it could understand every single word he said. And this blasted curse started right after he shouted at me. The old geezer puts a curse on me, and then he goes off and dies! How am I supposed to get rid of the curse now?” she sobbed and picked up a piece of spinach. “I HATE VEGETABLES!”

Pete left as soon as he could. Maggie wasn’t good company when she was in a bad mood, and it was evident that she didn’t know anything more about the murder. But she had a point: In some way or other, Mr Humperdinck had something to do with her problem. Two days ago, Pete didn’t believe in magic. Now he had seen it with his own eyes and suddenly all those odd little things about Mr Humperdinck started to make sense. His doorbell, for instance. Pete had never noticed that the doorbell had a face, but when Maggie said that it had stuck its tongue out at her, he knew he had seen its face before. He just didn’t notice it. And then there was the back room. Pete went in there once to call Mr Humperdinck. It was dark and dusty, with shelves filled with books and assorted pieces of junk all around. A kind of electricity in the air made his hair stand on end, like the generator in the science lab at school. Mr Humperdinck was busy at his desk, heating something that glowed with an eerie green light in a little glass cup over a gas burner. A thick, leather-bound book lay open on his desk.

Pete cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr Humperdinck, there’s a customer in the shop.”

“Tell him to come back tomorrow. And please don’t come in here again. It’s private,” the old man mumbled and turned to concentrate on what he was doing. At that moment, Pete thought he saw something disappear behind a book. It looked like a doll, only about three inches high. And it was alive. It had to be the darkness and the shadows of the gas burner playing tricks on his eyes. But now he thought otherwise. There had been something there that day.

Suddenly he could think of many other instances that confirmed his growing belief that Mr Humperdinck was in some way involved in magical things. But even if he were the prime suspect for jinxing Maggie, why would he have done it? What had she done to deserve it? And why had he been murdered?

That evening at about half past seven there was a knock on Pete’s door. It was Mrs Burton.

“There’s a man at my place who wants to see you.”

Pete followed her across the landing to her flat. Nathaniel the Artist and Mr Jones, who lived on the second floor, were already seated when they entered. Mr Jones held Mangler, his little Chihuahua, on his lap. A strange, bald man stood by the stove.

“Pete, this is Mr Vulture,” said Mrs Burton.

The man stared at Pete with beady black eyes down an enormous beak of a nose. “Voltaire, Madame. Like the famous French philosopher.”

Mangler growled. Mrs Burton’s cheeks glowed a bit.

“Pete, this is Mr Voltaire,” she said. “He was Mr Humperdinck’s attorney.”

“Not his attorney exactly, Madame. I’m a bit of a … ahem, specialist. I take care of deceased estates, and as such I was assigned by Mr Schwarz, who was his attorney, to see to this … ahem, matter.” His head bobbed backwards and forwards on his slender neck as he walked over to the table, sat down and opened his briefcase. “As everybody is present, we will now proceed to read the … ahem, will.”

The will! There was a shocked silence. It was obvious that no one had ever imagined being in someone’s will.

“Please be seated, Master Smith, and close your mouth.” Voltaire took out a document and read aloud, “Here follows the Last Will and Testament of … ahem, Wilhelm Karl Frederick Hans Jozef von Kirschbaume und Humperdinck.”

He paused for a moment to blow his nose in a huge red handkerchief, and then read the will. Pete didn’t understand much of it, but it seemed that Mr Humperdinck had no family or friends other than his neighbours in Paradise Mansions.

“The property known as Paradise Mansions is bequeathed to Mrs Edwina Burton.”

They all gasped. They hadn’t even known that the building belonged to Mr Humperdinck. They thought he was just the agent collecting the rent.

Mrs Burton put her hand on her mouth. “He did love me after all!” She started to sob uncontrollably.

Mr Voltaire had to wait a few moments for the clamour to die down before he could proceed. Nathaniel the Artist would receive a rare and valuable set of Chinese pig-bristle brushes, which dated from the fourteenth century. Apparently there were also two valuable paintings. And there was some cash in the bank for Mr Jones, whom Mr Humperdinck had called my dear friend in the will.

“And the next clause seems to make no sense whatsoever,” announced Mr Voltaire. “All my books, as well as the bicycle shop business, are bequeathed to my friend Snow White, the cat. We shall simply ignore this, since cats obviously have no need of … ahem, books or businesses.”

And lastly, Mr Humperdinck had asked Pete to take care of his mouse Squeak.

Squeak! Pete could kick himself. He had forgotten all about the white mouse in the wire cage. The poor thing had had no food or water since his master died, which was already more than forty-eight hours ago.

“Do you have a key to the shop?” Pete asked Mr Voltaire. “I must fetch the mouse.”

The man shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. The police have sealed off the shop since it’s a crime scene. It’s illegal to enter without their permission. And then of course, there’s the problem of claims against the … ahem, estate.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mr Jones.

“I mean, Mr Jones, that before you can get to the loot, Mr Humperdinck’s creditors have to be paid. I have here a letter from the city council that states that Mr Humperdinck has failed to pay his levies and taxes on this property for the last twenty years.” He waved a piece of paper in the air. “How on earth he managed to do that is beyond me. But the estate owes the city more than this … ahem, hovel would ever fetch at an auction which, incidentally, will be held on the premises in two months’ time. You have six weeks to vacate the building. A notice to this effect will be sent to all the residents. And then, of course, there’s the question of tax and … ahem, my fee.”

“But if I don’t go fetch Squeak he’ll die!”

“It seems that you have inherited a dead mouse that will be sold on a public auction, young man.” Voltaire pulled his lips to imitate a smile, and then got up. “Now if you will excuse me, I have other important appointments.”

He took his hat and coat and went through the door. Pete ran after him. Mr Voltaire’s coat billowed behind him like a pair of enormous black wings as he went down the stairs. Suddenly he jumped through the window on the second landing. Pete rushed down to the window and was just in time to see him fly away, his black coat flapping in the wind behind him.

The bicycle shop’s door was sealed with a thick chain and a padlock, and there was a police officer on guard. Pete stuck his hands in his pockets and casually strolled back into the foyer of Paradise Mansions. The back door was unlocked, and he went outside.

The alley was dark and muddy, with an overwhelming smell of rotten garbage. He found the window of the bicycle shop’s back room, lifted the latch with a piece of wire he found on the ground close by, and climbed in. He had brought a candle stub along. Its small light cast dark, dancing shadows on the walls. It looked as if a tornado had swept through the place.

Suddenly Pete heard a crash in the shop.

He put the candle out and crept to the door. Four red eyes glowed in the dark behind the counter. They belonged to two rats. The rats had pulled Squeak’s cage onto the floor. The poor little mouse looked terrified, and clung to the topmost wires of his cage.

Pete grabbed a piece of bicycle tube and hit out at the rats. They scurried off and disappeared in the shadows.

Pete lifted the cage, opened the door and carefully removed the trembling mouse. It ran up his arm and hid in the pocket of his windbreaker. The policeman on the pavement outside shone his torch through the window. Pete ducked behind the counter. The light of the torch pierced the dark shadows under a shelf, exposing one of the rats. It shrieked, and ran across the room to disappear into a crate.

“Damn rats,” the policeman mumbled, switching off the torch.

As fast as he could, Pete moved in the dark to the window of the back room, and out into the alley. He closed the window carefully behind him. As he walked back to the door, he saw a pair of luminous red eyes glaring at him from the blackness behind a dumpster. He ran up the stairs, slammed the door of their flat behind him, and breathlessly locked it.