Читать книгу Mr Humperdinck's Wonderful Whatsit (2017 ed) - Wynand Louw - Страница 7

The Long Arm of the Law

The next day was Saturday. Pete woke as somebody banged on the door. It was Freddy.

“Seen this morning’s paper?” he asked.

Pete was still half asleep.

“Wash your face and have a look at this!”

Pete splashed some cold water from the sink on his face, while Freddy spread the newspaper on the table. Squeak jumped onto it and ran from side to side. He seemed to be reading the paper.

“Look here, on the front page!” said Freddy.

Pete couldn’t believe what he read: Alcoholic ex-lawyer wanted for bicycle shop murder. Below the heading was a photograph of his father, the same one Mrs Burton had given him, but with his mother cut away.

Yesterday evening, Inspector Grimsby announced in an exclusive interview with the City Times that the main suspect for the bicycle shop murder was Mr Peter Smith, Pete read.

Forensic experts have confirmed that a blood-stained bicycle spanner discovered in Smith’s flat on the day of the murder was indeed the murder weapon. His fingerprints were also lifted from a whisky bottle that was found in the shop after the murder.

Inspector Grimsby said that although Smith hadn’t yet been arrested, he would be apprehended in the next twenty-four hours.

“This is nonsense! That Grimsby’s a liar. He never found a spanner in our flat!”

“Sure he’s a liar, but tell that to the court. It’s your word against that of two police officers. I think we have a slight problem here, my friend. Your dad’s going to be locked away for a very long time.”

When Pete had read the whole article, Freddy turned to page three.

“Here’s another little article that might interest you.” Again, Squeak seemed very interested.

“Homeless people get doughnuts from fairies,” Freddy read. “Yesterday Mr Samson, a homeless person who lives under a bridge on 22nd Avenue and apparently has no last name, caused a commotion when he claimed to have received doughnuts ‘from the fairies’. An emotional Mr Samson told our correspondent that a butterfly sat on his knee while he lay in the gutter. A moment later it turned into the ‘best doughnut I’ve ever tasted, with caramel and jelly bears’. After this first ‘gift from the fairies’, he saw a similar butterfly and chased it into the busy street where he caught it by jumping on the bonnet of a passing Mercedes. This butterfly also turned into a doughnut. Very soon, there was a free-for-all as other homeless people started chasing butterflies in the street, causing the worst traffic congestion in this street in years. Mr Thabo Radebe, the unhappy owner of the Mercedes, believes the people were all high on some substance. He said that butterflies cannot possibly change into doughnuts and that he plans to sue the socks off Mr Samson, the Traffic Department and the City Council for the extensive damage to his car.

“Now, is this a coincidence, or what?” asked Freddy. He frowned, and then seemed to make up his mind. “Coincidence. Someone sure has an overactive imagination.”

Pete had seen so many strange things in the last few days that he wasn’t surprised. In any case, he was too worried about his father to give this incident much thought.

“We have to find my dad before the cops do, Freddy.”

“When last did you see him?”

“Well, he didn’t come home last night. Maybe he slept in the park. He often goes there ‘to think’.”

Squeak ran up Pete’s jacket and into his pocket.

“So let’s go,” said Freddy.

At the park they separated to have a greater chance of finding Pete’s father. Pete had an advantage over Freddy, since he had his skateboard with him. After about five minutes, he found his father sitting on a bench.

He was obviously not in a good mood. “I have a headache. Go away,” he said.

“Dad, remember I told you Mr Humperdinck was murdered? Well, they say you did it, and the police are looking for you!”

Peter Smith stared at his son with blank eyes. “What?”

“Maybe you should begin by telling your son where you were between eight and two o’clock on Wednesday night, Peter old buddy.”

Inspector Grimsby’s voice made Pete jump.

“You followed me, you …PIG!” cried Pete.

“Of course! That’s what the police do. And watch your tongue, sonny. Now come on, Peter, tell me where you were on Wednesday night.”

Smith held his head in his hands. “I was drunk. I can’t remember.”

“Then I have no choice but to arrest you for the murder of one Humperdinck. You know your rights. Gripe, cuff the man.”

“Warren, do you really think I did it?” pleaded Smith.

Grimsby just smirked.

Pete felt a movement in his jacket’s top pocket. It was Squeak, trying to get his attention. The little mouse made frantic movements with his front paws. Run! The mouse was signalling him to run! Pete leaped over the park bench and was about to jump on his skateboard when Gripe’s cudgel hit him in the small of his back. He fell forward, skinning the palms of his hands on the gravel path. The constable was on him, grinding his knee into Pete’s back.

Gripe laughed. “This one’s a sport, hey, Boss? Good thing I played a bit of rugger in my day!”

Pete glanced at his father, but Smith was almost in a stupor, and hadn’t even noticed what had just happened.

“You’ll be coming with us, young man. I understand there’s no-one at home to look after you,” said Grimsby and pulled him up by his collar. Pete had no chance of escaping now: The man had a grip of steel. They were marched to the waiting police van, Pete loaded into the front and his father in the back. Pete could only hope that Freddy had seen what had happened.

When they arrived at the police station, Grimsby disappeared into an office with his father, while Pete was taken to the charge office. The officer on duty was bent on treating him like a baby.

“Hello, Peetie. A sweetie?” She pinched his cheek.

If looks could kill, Pete would have turned her into a whole graveyard. He was looking for some sort of escape route, but the gate in the doorway was kept locked by the policeman on guard.

“It’s chocolate! Sure you don’t want some?”

Pete didn’t bother to answer.

She popped some chocolate in her mouth and started to chew. “Poor thing, they say you’re going to The Home.”

Pete would rather die than go to any kind of “Home”. He had heard many stories about what happened to kids once they were put in one.

“So what are we waiting for, then?” he asked.

“Hurrah, he has a tongue! We’re waiting for the auntie from the Welfare.”

The wait proved to be a rather long one. When the “auntie from the Welfare” finally arrived, it was already late.

“I thought Mrs Murfin was coming,” said the policewoman.

“She doesn’t feel well, so they sent me.” The Welfare lady turned to Pete. “Hello.” Her smile brought sunshine into the cold charge office.

The policewoman scowled. “He’s a grumpy one. Don’t expect much conversation from him.”

“Hi,” said Pete, just to prove her wrong.

“My name is Sandra. I work for the Department of Welfare. I’m taking you to a place of safety. I’m sorry you had to wait for me, but it was a bit of a rush with Mrs Murfin ill and all.”

Pete could smell peaches in her blonde hair. He didn’t want to like her. “I want to go home,” he said, and then he added, “please?”

“But there’s no-one to look after you. Your father has just been arrested.”

Pete played with the wheel of his skateboard. “I’ve been looking after myself for as long as I can remember.”

She seemed sad as she looked into his eyes. “It’s high time you had someone to take care of you. Come on, let’s go; the car’s waiting outside.”

The lady took him by the left hand and they walked towards the gate. Pete had his skateboard ready in his right hand. He became aware of Squeak moving in his pocket. When he looked down, the mouse was repeating the running charade. Pete counted under his breath.

One. They were at the gate.

Two. The gate opened.

Three. Pete pulled his hand from Sandra’s, but the next moment the policeman at the gate grabbed him by the shoulder. Pete reacted with an instinct that came from years of surviving on his own. He swung his skateboard low and hit the constable on his kneecap. The man doubled up in pain, and Pete was in the corridor that led to the street.

“Catch him!” bellowed the policeman. Constable Gripe and two other men were coming in from the outside: ready to stop Pete from getting out of the door. Pete turned and ran the other way. Two paces and he was on his skateboard. Grimsby appeared around the corner in front of him. He positioned himself in the middle of the corridor, ready to catch the fugitive. Pete went straight towards him and the moment before impact he went down on his knees and passed right between Grimsby’s legs. He felt his head hitting something as he passed through. Pete looked back. Grimsby was lying on the floor, writhing in pain.

Pete took the second corridor to the left. The third door on the right stood open at a crack. He went in. It was some kind of conference room, with a long table and chairs. Pete crawled under the table and lay on the seats of three chairs, so that the tablecloth hid him from the side.

He was just in time, for he could hear footsteps coming down the corridor. The door opened and somebody came in. Just then Pete saw his skateboard lying on the floor under the table. He slipped off the chairs, grabbed it, and scrambled back to his hiding place. The man bent down to look under the table. Pete held his breath. It seemed like ages before the man got up and left the room.

For more than an hour Pete was too scared to move. Squeak got out of his pocket and ran all over the room, looking for who knows what. Eventually Pete fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion.

He woke when Squeak tickled his nose with his tail. He gave such a sneeze that the poor little mouse rolled head over heels off the chair. The room was dark and everything was quiet. Pete put Squeak in his top pocket, went to the window, and peeked through the blinds. The window opened onto the police station’s parking lot, and Pete climbed out.

The parking lot was inside a high-security fence, and there was a guard at the gate. Pete stayed in the shadows next to the building, and crept towards the gate. He couldn’t think of a way to get out without being caught, so he sat down with his back against the wall. A police van stopped at the gate to be let out. Its back door was slightly open. Pete ran to the van and jumped in just as it pulled away.

The driver of the van switched on the siren and drove like a madman. Pete had to hold on for all he was worth. Evidently they were on their way to a crime scene or some other emergency. They didn’t even slow down at the traffic lights. When they finally stopped, it was with a most impressive skid and tyres screeching on asphalt. Pete jumped from the back of the van. He found himself in front of a restaurant. There were some people standing around on the pavement.

“At last! He’s arrived,” someone called.

“It’s about time,” someone else said.

Gripe (who was the driver of the van) swaggered towards them.

Pete strolled away as casually as he could. It felt as if everybody was looking at him, and he expected an outcry at any moment. But it didn’t happen. When he turned the corner, he saw a rat disappearing into a drainpipe. He broke into a run.

Two blocks away Pete stopped and leaned against a wall, panting. He was lost. This part of town was unknown territory. Squeak climbed out of his pocket onto his shoulder, surveying their surroundings. It was evening. Nightclubs, chemists and 24-hour supermarkets flashed neon messages into the black sky. Street vendors hawked their wares: flowers, counterfeit designer clothes and smuggled cigarettes. Beggars crouching in doorways advertised their misery with blurbs scratched on pieces of cardboard.

Pete was scared and hungry. He started to look in the dustbins for empty cool drink bottles. After about an hour, and what seemed to be at least a hundred dustbins, he had collected enough bottles to get money for a meat pie. He shared the pie’s crust with Squeak (who didn’t seem to like meat), and they drank water from a tap at a petrol station.

They wandered the streets for hours. By now a dense fog had closed in; it distorted structures and landmarks and hid all kinds of terrors just beyond the sphere of Pete’s senses. The city stalked them in the mists, a monstrous giant with evil eyes blinking at the street corners.

At last they strayed into an alley behind a furniture store where a lot of cardboard boxes lay around. Pete found a nice big one and climbed inside. He positioned another box on top of the one they were in to close it off completely. He lay in the dark listening to the city’s heartbeat, until at last he fell into a troubled sleep.

Pete woke with a start. There was something just outside the box. It wasn’t so much the little scraping sounds he could hear that made his hair stand on end, it was the feeling that someone or something was close by. Something started scratching at one corner of the box. Pete felt Squeak crawling into his shirt.

He held his breath.

Soon a hole appeared in the corner, letting the faint light of the street lamps in. It grew in size, until Pete could see the silhouette of a rat’s head in the opening. The rat stuck its head through, and Pete stepped on to it with his right foot. The rat shrieked and disappeared.

Then something started nibbling at another corner of the box. And at a third. And soon it was as if there were a rat nibbling at every inch of cardboard that separated them from their prey. Pete stepped on the head of another rat that tried to enter through the first hole. Then he tipped the box over with his weight. He could feel it crushing several rats under it as it fell over.

Pete was out of the box in a flash. He ran through a seething sea of rats, kicking at some and stepping on others. They jumped up and clung to his clothes; one got on his back and bit him in the back of his neck. He grabbed the rat and threw it against a wall. Pete ran, jumped and grabbed an iron fire escape that hung with its end about two metres above the ground. He scrambled onto the steel landing at the door to the first floor, kicked away a rat that clung to his left foot and grabbed one that hung on to his right leg. It bit his hand and then fell among the others on the ground.

The rats were already starting to find ways to get up the wall. A few disappeared up a drainpipe at the corner of the building. Others found a way into the building through a cracked window. They started pouring through the window next to him on the first floor.

A wild terror gripped Pete and he ran up the fire escape. The first three floors were easy going, but by the time he reached the fifth floor his chest was burning and the rats were biting at his heels. He turned around desperately, and managed to kick quite a few off the steel staircase. This made the others cautious, and they followed him at a more respectful distance.

The last bit to the roof was a ladder. Pete went up it in a flash, but it slowed the rats down a bit, since they could only climb it in single file.

Pete reached the roof and ran to a water tank that stood at the far end. It was as high as his shoulders. He scrambled onto its wet surface and fell down, gasping for air. His chest was on fire, and his muscles ached.

When he sat up at last, the whole roof was covered with rats. Wisps of fog floated across the roof like spirits from the grave, curling and twisting in little eddies around the edges of the water tank.

Squeak crawled from Pete’s shirt. He stared at the rodent mob for a moment. Then he jumped onto the tank and walked to the edge.

Pete grabbed him just as he was about to leap into the midst of the horde below. “Are you mad?” he shouted. “They’ll kill you in a second!”

“It’s me they want. If they get me they’ll let you go.” The mouse’s voice was small and shrill.

Pete dropped him as if he had suddenly realised that he was holding a snake. He stared at the mouse, gaping. “You can speak?”

Squeak got on his hind legs. “Of course, you moron!”

“But why didn’t you say so?”

“You never asked …”

Pete looked over the edge of the water tank. The rats were starting to form a ladder by climbing on each other’s backs. It was only a matter of seconds before they would get at them.