And now for something significantly other...

This is actually another story idea that I thought might be a good one for the notorious Campbell Brothers Winery christmas wine epics, but it got sort of, well, out of hand. It grew to alarming proportions and I now sort of think of it as a set piece on it's own. I wasn't intending to add it here on the blog but, again, my friend Sid was prompting (what a nice word that is, and vague too) me to include work in progress. Well, this is where progress has gotten me to as of this time and so I offer for your amusement (hopefully) and your comments (if you wish, but be nice) another tale of Campbell misadventure. I hope the reader does not find the content too offensive.



The Case of the Speckled Tongue

In all the years that I have spent as chronicler of the strange events and improbable mysteries surrounding the career of Ralpholmes Campbell, the great insulting detective, the one that comes most readily to mind and which captures, in a nutshell as it were, the true genius of the man is the Case of the Speckled Tongue. My name is Dr. Colin Datsun, a doctor of sexual malpractice in the great city of London. This is that story.

As I recall it all started one rainy and dull evening, as we were about to play strip Scrabble at our lodgings at number 69 Bleaker Street. Ralpholmes was pacing the room waiting for his opportunity to choose his tiles so that we could begin our game. He walked to the window, glanced out, then returned and threw himself into a chair (missing the first time).

“Datsun,” he said, “we are about to be visited by a tall, red haired, left handed young man. He has about him a malodourous air. His shoes are badly scuffed and the third button down on his jacket is missing. He also sleeps in the nude and is circumcised.”

“That's remarkable Ralpholmes.” I said. “How do you know all this?”

“Is it remarkable? Well I suppose it is at that. Very remarkable indeed.”

At that very moment our landlady and mistress of domination Mrs. Dudson rapped on the door, opened it up a crack and said, “Sorry to knock you up this way,” she said, “but there's a Constable at the door who wishes to speak with you.”

“Send him right up, will you?”

“Yes, Datsun we are about to have a visit from young Constable Nitwitty. I saw him getting off from his bicycle outside. I know him because we play darts together every Tuesday and he always appears like that. Remarkable is it not?”

Constable Nitwitty entered our rooms. He was just as Ralpholmes had described him, right down to the scuffed shoes, missing button and offensive odour. “Ah, Constable Nitwitty. This is not a social call I believe because you are socially inept. Have you been sent to me on some chore, as it were?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Ralpholmes, the Chief Inspector has sent me to ask you to come to headquarters.”

“And why did he not just telephone?”

“Your phone's not workin', sir. I already asked your mistress that and she said that you hadn't paid the bill for months and the phone has been disconnected, sir.”

“Who'se this Bill, and why has he been disconnected?”

“No, the telephone.”

“Haven't got time to phone anybody. We must see the Inspector. Datsun, call a cab.”

“Right.”

One of the great detective's ploys was that when he was confronted by something he didn't want to acknowledge, like owing anybody money, he sought to confuse the issue. It often worked too, as in this instance.

“But first Datsun, are any of those damn imps, the Bleaker Street Incontinents, hanging about outside.”

“Why yes Ralpholmes. There's two of them. Itchy and Scratchy.”

“Tell the cleanest one.... you thought you saw me sneaking down the street disguised as a fishmonger, will you? That should keep those delinquent putzes from bothering me today, don't you think Datsun?”

“Why don't you just pay them what you owe?” I asked.

“Pay? Owe? Who the frick do you think I am, Fort Knox?” replied the great insulting detective.

So I did his bidding and send the two 'Incontinents' on their way. Meanwhile Ralpholmes disguised himself as a bumbling detective (a roll he was particularly suited for) and sleuthed from the room. He hurried into the waiting cab.

When we arrived at police headquarters Ralpholmes turned and said as he exited the coach, “Pay the man Datsun, there's a good subservient oaf.”

I must say that that's another thing he's particularly good at, besides all the insulting I mean, deducting, usually from the cash in my wallet.

“And send out for some fish and chips.”

“Ah, yeah.”

He scampered up the steps of Scotland 18” (half a yard, they don't have room for a full one) and entered the building. Soon we were in the presence of Chief Inspector LaStrange. After exchanging insults with Ralpholmes he got down to business.

“A case has come up that I thought you might be interested in consulting in on it ,” he said, “It's right up your alley, so to speak.”

“An alley. Good place to start.” replied Ralpholmes.

“No, no.” says LaStrange. “Not in an alley. It's really more of an inside job. It appears that Lord Dinkly has passed.”

“You mean he's dead?”

“That too.”

“Under unusual circumstances?”

“The unusualest. And the suspiciousest as well.”

“My, my.” replied the detective.

“And the reason that we are calling on you to assist us is that we found a note clutched tightly in his hand. So tightly that we couldn't pry open the fingers to get at it– all we could see was your name written on it, Mr. Ralpholmes Campbell.”

“My name? Go away. Are you serious?”

“Yes,” replied LaStrange, “ the seriousest. So we thought that the note might have been intended for you. Maybe he was under some dire threat from person or persons unknown, you know, and wanted detectoring assistance from you in order to unmask the bounders.”

“Really. Hire me, eh? That would include pay then would it? And you want to hire me to consult on this too. Well, well, double time then.”

LaStrange, seeing the financial strings attached to this case as if for the first time started to make hesitant noises, ‘but’s’, ‘er’s’, ‘ah’s’ and ‘well now’s’ accompanied by waiving hand motions in Ralpholmes’ face, as if attempting to stop traffic. Ralpholmes, having caught the scent of money, was not about to acknowledge it.

“LaStrange, I'm on the case as of now. I'm sure Dinkly will still be good for expenses too, the old fart, even if he is dead. Where's the stiff at?” asked Ralpholmes sympathetically.

“The deceased is at Dinkly Manor in the, um, commode.”

“Well then,” said the detective, “lets all get a start then. Gather you men Inspector.”

“Um, I'm afraid it's only going to be you Mr. Ralpholmes, oh and Dr. Datsun too.”

“Why is that? Aren't you or any of your men coming Inspector?” I ask.

“ No. Can't send around any of the lads right now. Something's come up. We're having a yard sale you see. Well, half a yard sale really. Can't disappoint the neighbours, can we? There'd be no-one to sell the cakes, blow up the balloons, or see to the raffle I'm afraid if we all just dropped everything and ran off to investigate a mysterious death with you.” he said. “Besides, you're supposed to be such a whiz that you'll probably have this whole thing solved by tea time anyway, so there's no real need for us to be there, is there?”

“No, I suppose not.” Ralpholmes answered. “No point in it at all. I suppose it'll be all over, except for some bits of shouting perhaps, before you can say 'Get your hand off my bum, mister.' He continued, “And you said you were having a raffle were you. Here I'll take a ticket. Make that two. Thank you. Datsun, pay the man.”

As we prepare to leave, Ralpholmes disguised himself as a dancehall girl (a roll he was particularly suited for) and sashayed from the room trailing the scent of lilacs. From the hallway I heard “Datsun, call a cab.”

“Right.”


Dinkly Manor


We arrive at the Dinkly Manor House. We are met at the door by a manservant and are butlered inside and then to the upstairs. There we meet a pretty young maid, the one who had discovered his lordship's body earlier while cleaning the upstairs. We accompany her into the washroom and into the presence of the late Lord Dinkly.

“You're a French maid, are you not?” asks Ralpholmes, ignoring the regal corpse.

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Ah, good, then let me see your tongue. Say ahh, and mean it.”

“Aahh.”

RH takes out his rather large magnifying glass and uses it to look at the proffered tongue.

I interrupt this little exchange, “That's not the tongue you should be examining. Look at his. It's huge, it's grotesque. It's got thingmy's on it.”

Ignoring me RH continues with the maid. “Have you touched anything?” Ralpholmes asks.

“No, monsieur.” she says.

“Well then, would you like to touch this?” Ralpholmes starts to say.

(Giggle.)

“Excuse me Ralpholmes, but shouldn't we be concentrating on the body?

“I am Datsun, believe me I am.”

“I mean the dead one.”

Sigh “Oh that one. Well I suppose, if we must. But you, young woman, write your name and address down on this piece of paper. I may need to interrogate you (he winks) later.”

(Giggle.)

I turned away from the romantic negotiations and regarded the body of Lord Dinkly as it still sat upon the toilet. “I guess that this is about as close as he'll come to ruling England now.”

“Say what, Datsun?” Ralpholmes replied still regarding the maid.

“I said, with him sitting on the porcelain throne and all, so to speak, that this is about as close as he'll come to ruling England.”

“Did you now. Very droll, Datsun.” he said.

I came closer to the ex-lord and had a more detailed look at the exposed tongue. It had swollen to the size of a turnip with about the same colour as well. It also appeared to have lodged on it or in it odd bits of whitish thingmy. As for other details, there were dark stains on the lips and a royal mess on the front of the nightshirt. One claw of a hand held a piece of paper, a small edge just visible with a familiar name squiggled on it, the other hand held a small bottle with an image on it, like one of those eastern genie’s or something, a figure wearing a turbin.

Ralpholmes still didn’t seem to be paying attention. He's spent the whole interval microscopically examining the maid's bosom.

“Say RH, do you notice anything peculiar?” I say.

“Hmmm?”

“I say, what do you make of all this?”

Briefly looking around at the body he said, “I would say only that his lordship was a right handed, cigarette smoking, wine drinking, card playing reprobate. He had a penchant for loose women and loose bowels. His favourite colour was chartreuse, he was a Libra, and enjoyed pinching young ladies bottoms. Didn't he my lovely?”

(Giggle and nod.)

“That's truly amazing. How can you tell all that from one glance?”

“Glance schmance. I was out with his lordship drinking last evening at the pub the Newt and Neoprene.”

“You were?”

“Yes indeed. I was.”

“And you found out all that Libra and chartreuse stuff?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so. I couldn't shut the man up for the life of me.”

“Or of him it would seem. So why didn't you tell this to LaStrange?”

“It has nothing to do with the case, Datsun. That should be obvious.”

“But you may have been one of the last persons to have seen his lordship alive. Isn't that important?”

“What's important Datsun, you twit, is that you do your doctor thing with his lordship over there and leave me to see to this grieving young woman who has been shocked and horrified this day by having to come into contact with his magnitude there in this state of undress and unlife.”

“As you say, RH.”

“Now, let's look for the chicken, shall we? And you,” he says turning and looking into the maid's eyes, “I'll be knocking you up later.”

I would like to interject just a few words of explanation at this point.

Now you may have heard of what is referred to as Occam's Razor. This logical principle states that the explanation of any phenomenon should make as few assumptions as possible, eliminating those that make no difference in the observable predictions of the explanatory hypothesis or theory. Got all that? Ralpholmes never could.

The other term I have heard that is often used to describe something similar to Occam's Razor is known as the KISS principle. Keep It Simple, Stupid. Ralpholmes thought it was too straightforward an explanation for a man of his talents.

A person named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle proposed another interesting theorem. He suggested that when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains – however improbable –must be the truth. Ralpholmes wouldn't have anything to do with this concept either.

To be quite honest he didn't like logic much, or puppies, or grilled cheese sandwiches, tulips, hedgehogs, nuns, children, or any number of other things for that matter. Anyway that's all beside the point (although there was this gentleman in Vienna by the name of Freud who wanted RH to come by for a long talk about his mother). The great detective was a proponent of something called Hakim's Tweezer, which basically put forth the proposition that everything you know is wrong, everything you can learn is wrong as well, and you might just as well pull the answer out of a fly's butt with a pair of ... you see the point.

Ralpholmes corollary to Hakim's Tweezer was that you might as well look for the chicken.

Here's a concrete example of this philosophy in action. When RH happened to get lost, which actually happened quite often when I wouldn't or couldn't supply a cab for him, he wouldn't ask for directions. Oh no. He would look around and then surreptitiously attempt to follow some individual who looked like they knew where they were going (often disguised as a trash bin or horse turd) until they led him to someplace that he was familiar with, or until they disappeared into a building or house or whatever. At that point, running around like the proverbial chicken without it's head cut off, he would attempt to espy some other unsuspecting person in their purposeful travels and begin to follow them instead (often back in his original direction of travel). On a few occasions this meant that he was gone from the lodgings for days.

“Ah yes, the chicken.” I say. “So you suspect fowl play, do you?”

“I always suspect it, Datsun. Now we have to look for its spoor”

“Chicken spoor? So what do we do first?”

“We examine, dear Datsun, the sullied waters, that place of perpetually mooned light, that bowl of bodily release and relief. I refer, dearest dunderhead to the contents of the commode. One can never be sure where the chicken of insight might be located. Here, help me tilt his lordship forward a bit.”

So Ralpholmes and I unceremoniously ease the Lord Dinkly forward off the throne and onto his knees and, sure enough, there is a whopper still floating in the water. RH says, “There, just as the inspector indicated. He's passed.”. Then he added, “Datsun, feel it.”

“What? Feel what?”

“I said touch it, dunderhead. The poo. Does it indeed feel like crap?”

“Why yes it does. Still sort of soft and squishy.”

“Ah, now smell it.”

“What? You must be joking?”

“Never more serious. Smell it, you fetid intellect. Does it indeed smell like crap?”

After a moment's reluctance I acceded to his request. “Yes Ralpholmes. It does indeed smell like proverbial crap.”

“Excellent. And now finally taste it.”

“What?”

“You heard me, dickless one. Taste the damn log. Go ahead, do it.” Sounds of vomiting soon filled the little room. “And when you're done throwing up into that sink perhaps you can tell me if it tastes like crap.”

Ulp. “It does.”

“Then it is. Good thing then that you didn’t step in it, isn’t it?”

“I don't think that that exercise has proved anything other than that I'm a dolt for listening to you.”

“But you are, as you say, a dolt, and the exercise has offered us a clue, that the clue isn't in there. The chicken is elsewhere.”

It is sad to say but Ralpholmes hated to be clueless, but often was, so pretended to discover them in the places they were not, and I was far too often gullible I'm afraid.

“And what about the note and the bottle? Do you think he could have been poisoned?”

“I would conjecture that he was indeed poisoned. By the contents of that flask and by his own hand.”

“Suicide then. Did his lordship seem depressed while you were with him last evening?”

“Not as such. Actually he seemed most convivial, singing and laughing, dancing on the tables, but that could have been all just for show, you know. On the inside he could have been dark and bleak and bitter. Much like you Datsun.”

“Why thanks. Does that happen to have anything to do with why you had me fondle his feces?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Don't you know?”

“I won't know till later, Datsun. So now, in order to completely rule out that specter of murder most fowl we must examine the note. Ah. Here it is. Still clutched in his death grip. Now how shall we extricate the salient papyrus, hmmm?”

Pausing only momentarily he looked over his shoulder to see if he was being observed (by anyone other than me) and then trod heavily on the hand. There was the immediate popping sound of several small bones breaking. He bent over and extricated the note.

Standing up again he turned away from me, unfolded the note and began to read. I manage to see, just briefly, over his shoulder the contents. It read something about I Owe You, a fairly substantial number, and then his, Ralpholmes', signature.

RH quickly pocketed the note, turned around and said, “Nothing of interest there, really. Just a laundry list. Now lets get down to some good old detecting, shall we?” And to himself he added, “Where has that chicken gone?”

“So not a suicide note then.” I commented. “We're back with the chicken again.”

“It would appear so.”

He took from his pocket the huge magnifying glass again and a pair of tweezers and began to experimentally poke at the protruding lingua. He examined the tongue, picked off some of the whitish lumps and curved hard bits and then placed them into a little glass jar that he had also taken from one of the many pockets in his vest. He then picked his nose, examined that too, then put it into another little glass jar that was then secreted about his person.

Abruptly he turned and started to head for the stairs. “Come Datsun, the game is a foot.”

“What, like soccer? Or are you talking lengthwise?”

Now calling from downstairs I heard his voice, “Come Datsun, I need you. The chicken has flown the coop. We must get back to my lab to examine this evidence.”

“And you want me to call a cab, right?”

“Indubibibuduibitedly. Ah, got it in one. Let's go.”

Sometimes Ralpholmes had problems with words. They would start out fine; it was just that he couldn't find the proper place to end them.

Before departing the lavatory I retrieved the bottle from the lord's other (unbroken) hand and then descend the stairs to the first floor. I saw that Ralpholmes had by this time disguised himself as a chimney cleaner (a roll... oh, never mind) and was preparing to sweep from the scene.

Back at our digs Ralpholmes took the bits of stuff into his laboratory to examine them. He had me go to the Oriental take-out on the corner to pick-up dinner. The food, upon my return, was placed on a tray and set before his door, which opened only briefly while the tray was brought inside. The tray disappeared inside and then the door was again shut firmly closed.

Some hour or so later, accompanied by belches, the door to Ralpholmes' room creaked open and he called for me, “Datsun, come here. Look at this, will you?”

I entered the dark interior of the room and carefully sidled past the banks of bubbling liquids in beakers to where RH had the bits taken from his lordship's tongue on display under a bright lamp. I took his magnifying glass, wiped off the excess grease on the handle left over from the meal, and peered at the bits.

“Looks like pieces of skin. Hard knobby pieces of skin. And what are the curvy bits. Skin too? No, a bit wrong for that. But similar in a way.”

“Yes Datsun, it's a mystery wrapped in a enigma, sealed with ear wax.”

Again a few words of explanation.

I have attempted to explain some of the intricacies of RH's mode of detection to you, particularly as it applies to the process of inquiry called 'Hakim's Tweezer’. The truth of the matter is that Ralpholmes has not only bought into the 'Hakim's Tweezer’ line of philosophy, but has also bought into the whole Hakim® system or product line. This included the Hakim® patented microscope, the Hakim® bubbling glass containers, tubes, retorts and stands (for that real lab look), Hakim® magnifying glass, eyelash curler, disguise kit, medicated lip balm, hemorrhoid cream, pipe, hat, overcoat, even the Hakim® patented penis enlarger that was guaranteed to....

“Datsun, these bits of skin have to represent at least seven percent of the solution to the crime, at least. But what has happened to the chicken? That's what we have to discover. Leave me now. I have to think about this.”

Now when Ralpholmes needed to mull and mentally go over all the bits of puzzle concerning some mystery or other he often played his Hakim® patented bagpipes as he was thinking, terribly, the playing that is. Who knows, maybe the thinking too. Anyway it must be admitted that it helped keep down the rats. So I departed the room once more, returned to the study, placed small wads of cotton in my ears and took up my needlepoint (of nubile young women prancing around a pole set in the ground) at the place where I had left it. Besides the sounds, blessedly remote now, of a tortured banshee coming from his rooms I could just make out his muted voice, “It's a confounded mystery, that's what it is. Hard pieces of skin. Hmmm.” Squonk (the sound of a bagpipe being wrestled into submission), a mumbled something about 'chicken'.

I shout, “Say, Ralpholmes, if Lord Dinkly was out at the pub last night, maybe we should visit the Newt and...”

“Stop right there. I'm the one who does the detectoring here.” Pause and squonk. “You know Datsun, maybe we should visit the pub. Call a cab.”

“But Ralpholmes, couldn't we walk. It's just across the street.”

“It's the appearance of the thing, you knobbish gnome.”

He re-entered the sitting room, disguised now as a Doberman Pincer and prepared to disem-bark.

“But you're in disguise anyway.” I wheedled.

“Yes, but its then the non-appearance of the thing that's important. Idiot. And stop whining.”

Totally flummoxed by his remarks I could only relent, “Ah, yes. Right you are. Forgive me.”


The Newt and Neoprene


As we entered the establishment, The Newt and Neoprene, we could see the owner and proprietor of the bar, a Mr. Stick E. Wickett, wiping the bar down with what had to be the world's most disgusting cloth. After seeing us enter he then started buffing up a couple of mugs with the self same cloth.

“Ah, Dr. Datsun. Good to see you sir. Haven't been in for a while, have you?”

“No, not for a while. How have you been Mr. Wickett?”

“Well enough sir, and thanks for askin'. What'll it be?”

“I guess a pint.”

“Right you are then.”

As he turned away to attend to the order another voice came from beside me and added, “And another in a bowl for the dog.”

Without a pause or hesitation in his step the bartender answered, “Coming right up.”

As Wickett was looking after the drinks I turned to Ralpholmes and said to him, “That really is a remarkable costume, you know.”

Ralpholmes replied, although the words were just a bit garbled by the shape of the mouth,” Yes, isn't it. And remarkably flexible too. Look here, I can even lick my own nu..”

“Here are the drinks, sir.” Mr. Wickett said, putting down our order on the counter, “A pint for yourself and a bowl for the dog.”

“Very good. Thank you.” I say, after having swallowed a large mouthful of cool, delicious beer, “I must say that you took the dog coming in here quite well.”

Wickett resumed wiping the dirt around in the mugs, “Sir, it's nothing really. There's been all sorts of strange things in here lately. Let me see, we've had a giant rabbit, a panda, a raja, a pork-chop...”

“Pork chop?” I say.

“Yes indeed, and it appeared to be fresh with the ladies. We've also had a stature that was here for hours.”

“A statue too, my word.” I stole a glance at RH who was muzzle deep in his bowl and ignoring me as far as I could tell.

“Yes a nude one. Of a man with his hand to his chin, sort of thinking. Very realistic that one.”

“It was, was it?”

“Yes, but it kept nicking the drinks off the tables around it. For a statue it could move pretty fast. I was going to get a few of the lads together and toss it out when suddenly it seemed to change before our eyes into a thundercloud and stormed out of here.”

“That must have been remarkable.”

“So you see that your dog, handsome as it may be, is just an ordinary sort of thing, not like the odd things that we've been having come in here of late. And just yesterday there was some kind of tree that came in. At least that's what I took it to be. A tall shag barked, well hickory I think it was, if you catch my meaning.”

“A hickory.” I turned on my stool and regarded Ralpholmes, now licking foam from his lips. “Remarkable.”

Wickett continued, “And it went over to the corner and joined Lord D, who was on a bit of a bender that night I don't mind sayin.”

“Say... speaking of Lord Dinkly, you've heard that he's dead, haven't you?”

“Yes, we've just got word. Something about expiring on the can or suchlike. Imagine that. And they say it was under unusual circumstances. I also heard that foul play might be suspected. Poor Lord D., never harmed a flea but killed a lot of drinks in his time.”

“So he was here last night?” I prompted.

“Well, yes, and as I was saying this tree joined his lordship.”

“Do you remember what this hickory tree was drinking?”

“Well sir, these sweet sticky drinks he was drinkin’. Had me mix them up special. Called them dakinis or something.”

“Daiquiri” said the dog.

“That’s it, what a good dog you are.” he said patting Ralpholmes on the head. “Yes daiquiri. It was a hickory daiquiri, doc.”

“Hickory daiquiri dock. My word.”

“But it was strange sir because after a couple of rounds it, I mean the tree, seemed to change and I swear that it became some sort of giant sponge. Like a huge 'loofah', sir.”

I turned to the dog and dropped my voice to say, “So... sponging drinks off his lordship, eh?”

Wickett paused, “Say what?”

“I was talking to the dog.”

Without a blink or a pause the bartender joined in on the new conversational thread, “Yes, sir. It does seem that they often can understand what you're saying to them,” He patted Ralpholmes on the head again, “I mean the way they look at you and all.”

Again, sotto voice, I added, “Yes, ashamed, mortified, chagrinned.”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“Oh, nothing.”

I am often astounded at the human mind's capacity for changing gears at an instant's notice. Or of being duped.

“Well, anyway, a few hours later the two of them left, together. I think the sponge was in a bit of a hurry to be honest. I believe it must of had some difficulty fitting in the loo because it was so tall or something because it started dancing all around, you know doing the gotta pee two step, and then it leaked all over my nice clean floor. I had to wipe it up myself.”

“With that rag you’re holding now I bet.”

“Why yes sir, how did you guess? Anyway, that's when the two left, in rather a hurry. Lord Dinkly was laughing his head off. Oh, my, should I have said that. His lordship passing and all?”

“I'm sure it's fine. So, the puddle ran?”

“You might say that governor. Anyway the unusual has become the usual around here. Ready for another round.” he asked.

“Yes, please. But just the one.” I responded.

The voice from beside me barked an order, “And don't forget the dog.”

Again I regarded my companion and offered, “Well RH, and where did you go after here, or let me guess. You went back to our flat, didn't you?”

“And how do you know that, Datsun?” growled Ralpholmes.

“Oh nothing special. It's just that when I returned to the lodging late that evening I tripped over this huge urine stinking sponge on the way up the stairs.” I said.

“Oh, I see. That.”

Pause

Avoiding my eye the Doberman spoke, “Um, Datsun, about last night.”

“Yes, Ralpholmes, what is it?”

“It would appear that you owe the cabbie Mick four pounds for the taxi fare last evening.”

Somewhat taken aback I say, “Four pounds. Why so much? And why me? Sometimes you go to far.”

“Well you know me, I don't carry much cash.” he replied.

“You carry none.” I allow a note of outrage to enter into the tone of my voice, “You always stick me with the bill.”

Somewhat chagrined RH continued, “And, well he said that's what it would cost.”

“For what?” I enquired.

“For cleaning out his cab. Disinfecting I believe he called it. With carbolic acid.”

“So, let me guess, there ended up being a little more than just doggie widdle in it then?”

“Ah, yes.”

“You or Dinkly or both?”

“Both I'm afraid.”

(sigh)

The new round arrived and we drank a while in un-companionable silence.

Eventually Ralpholmes piped up, “Well Datsun, it's obvious that there's no chicken here.”

“At least at the moment.” I add.

Ralpholmes continued, “Well, yes. So we'll finish the round and then head back to the rooms, all right. Could you call...?”

“...a cab. Right. But later on you're going to tell me just why it is that you never have any money, agreed?”

There came a long pause, after which I heard a grudging, “Agreed.”

After finishing our beers Ralpholmes disguised himself as a Persian carpet and we both beat it from there.


69 Bleaker Street


We retired ourselves back to the rooms at 69 Bleaker. Ralpholmes had to circle around the block and enter the building by way of the trash bins at the rear in order to avoid meeting up with the Bleaker Street Incontinents who had stationed themselves outside. Once inside we sat in the parlor in front of a freshly lit fire enjoying Sherry (until her time was up and she had to leave).

When we were alone once again we started up the conversation at the place where we had left it. I began by saying, “So let me get this right Ralpholmes. Last evening...you and Lord D got right and honorably wasted. Is that true?”

Still trying to avoid the issue RH said, “In what sense of true do you mean true?”

“Like it happened? Don't try to confuse the issue. I know that ploy.”

Finally he admitted, “Ah, yes, it would appear that it did, so in that sense it's true.”

And now, playing a bit of a trump card, I prompted, “And you also borrowed money from the gentleman once he was wasted.” It was a statement, not a question, and it startled Ralpholmes that I knew it.

“How could you possibly know... Datsun I resent the presentation of a seeming possibility of which you could nowhere be apprised...” he started to sputter.

I calmly continued, “I saw the note Ralpholmes. Just answer yes or no.”

“Just the one or the other?”

“Afraid so.”

Once more he had to concede the point to me, “Then I suppose that it's a yes, but only barely. He practically forced the money into my hands.”

“And you forced an IOU into his.” I offered.

“Indubitibiditidedley.”

“And then what happened?”

Ralpholmes scratched his scalp and a small snowstorm of dandruff filled the air. “Dinkly, if I recall correctly, was getting ready to leave. I remember that he wanted to take with him something more to drink, a constitutional nightcap he said. For him being a monarchist that caught me as rather funny. Ha, ha.”

“And you said my little throne joke was droll.” I reminded him, “ Alright, and what were you doing at that moment?”

“I was in the process of detecting the location of my Hakim® patented bedtime plush toy. It's in the shape of a purple dinosaur you know. Now, and this is mere guesswork mind you, I just may have sort of absentmindedly kind of handed him a bottle of something or other so that he would just leave and I could get on with the search.”

“Absentmindedly? Well that does sound a bit like you. Could this bottle have been sitting on the sideboard, the one near the lavatory?”

Seeing another possible baited hook he attempted to avoid the trap, “Possibly. Maybe.”

Not letting him wriggle free I continued to pursue, “And what was this a bottle of?”

Still wary he responded, “How would I know?”

I set the hook, “Let's try this another way. Did the bottle happen to look anything like this? ” I asked, holding the bottle I had retrieved from the manor up for evaluation.

RH looks at it briefly and then away somewhat guiltily. “Maybe. ”

“Ralpholmes, did it? ”

“Well, yes. A bit. ”

“You do recognize this bottle, do you not? I know that I do. I even know where it was sitting because I saw it there myself yesterday, just before I went out to do some errands.”

You could tell that RH was really struggling to avoid admitting to knowing anything here. He hummed and he hawed, he picked lint off his pants, he scratched himself. Finally, realizing that I was willing to wait him out on this point, he looked over at me and offered, “Like on the sideboard near the bath?”

“Finally. Just so. And it contained...?”

Looking around the room, at anything but me, he responded, “Well, now, uh, just possibly, and it's only now that I'm thinking this mind you, it was probably my 'Hakim's® Patented Snake Oil Formula for Removal of Rust, Mildew, Paint, Foot Corns and Dead Skin’.”

Groan.

Ralpholmes continued, “And then Dinkly left. But he was fine. He was singing some song about a 'Wizards Staff has a Knob on the End', or something about a Virgin Sturgeon, you know, something like that. He was sloshed and he was a bit unsteady but he was fine I assure you.”

“But not for long.” I added. I let the moment stretch and the portent sink in. The pause filled the room with a potent velvety silence.

I will admit to you, dear readers, that there are often few rewards I receive for the costs I accrue in sharing accommodations with Ralpholmes; the way he uses me, my monies, the way he berates me, steals my socks, but there are also those times that offer just the tiniest iota of recompense, and these are mainly those times when his innate ineptitude shines through like a new mint penny.

Having waited long enough I lowered the net into the water to capture the chicken, so to speak. “You might as well tell me the rest of it then. I know most of it now already. Tell me about that bottle.”

Again the velvet pause. Then a sigh escaped from him. “Well, if you must know Datsun, I happened to be taking my annual bath, sort of playing with my Hakim® Rubberized Duckie for a while. Then I reached over and got that bottle from where I had placed it by the tub. I put some of the stuff on my corns and calluses using the Hakim® patented applicator, and let it sit. I piloted Admiral Ducky around the tub for a time again while it did it's thingy. Anyway, after a while I reached for my patented Hakim® cuticle scissors and cut the dead skin stuff off...”

“And did what with it?”

“Um. You know, in the tub there's really no place to put stuff like that except, well, in the tub itself and I certainly didn't want to be sitting in my own dead skin clippings, and so I kind of put the bits I sheared off back into the bottle again.”

“So is that all?” I ask.

“Ah, well, I finished off by clipping my fingernails and toenails.”

“And threw those pieces into the bottle as well.”, I offered.

“Ah, right.”

The end now in sight I proceed to dot the i's, “Then you got out of the tub, toweled off, and did what? Can you remember?”

“Well, I seem to recall that I had gathered up all my stuff and was preparing to carry it back to my rooms when I suddenly realized that I had forgotten to retrieve Admiral Ducky. So I put the bottle I was carrying in my right hand down on the sideboard, for just a minute I thought, while I reentered the bathroom and saved Admiral Ducky from the certain doom caused by the dreaded brown water whirlpool,” his voice started to slow down and then to falter, “ you know, as the water was draining out.”

I completed the sequence, “So now, stuff like clippers and applicators in left hand, rubberized ducky in right, you vanish into your rooms and prepare yourself to go out to the Newt and Neoprene.”

“That's it. You have it all now.”

“Well, Ralpholmes, there is good news and bad news. Which do you want to hear first?”

“I suppose we should get the worst of it out of the way. What's the bad news?”

“The bad news is that you have, admittedly inadvertently, caused the death of the Lord Dinkly.”

“And the good news?” I could hear the element of pleading in his voice.

“There is no good news. I lied about that. You're the one ultimately responsible for the untimely death of Lord Dinkly. What else can I say? He choked on your foot calluses and toenail clippings while the contents of the bottle caused his tongue to bloat like a diseased puffer fish. What a horrible way to go.”

Still refusing to admit what was so evidently true he flailed, “No, couldn't be. Naw, not me. Ah, well, um, possibly. But you make it sound so, well final or something.”

Another priceless moment of embarrasesed silence ensued.

Finally Ralpholmes shook himself out of his stupor and said, “And are you sure there was no chicken involved? Or maybe a duck?”

“No. No fowl at all. Just the one in your bath.”

Meekly, mildly he offered, “Case closed then?”

“Not quite, I'm afraid. We still have to deal with what was in the note. You pocketed the thing at the manor. Let's have another look at it.”

“Um, can't.”, he said.

“Why can't?”

The look of the trapped squirrel appeared on his face, ”Because it's not here.”

My voice began to raise again, “Not here? Then where is it?”

“It's not anywhere anymore. Maybe you can think of it like it's gone to the place where good notes do once they aren't here anymore. Like a note heaven.”

“So you burned the thing or something.”, I say.

“Well actually I submerged it in acid. Bubbly, bubbly, nothing left.”

I sighed, a thing I've been doing far too much recently. I looked up at the ceiling and the pattern on the tin tiles looking for inspiration. “Well, so far we've got to come up with one explanation about the body, right, how it became deceased, and now another explanation about the note, the one that was seen to have had your name on it, also right? And in addition we now have to also explain about the disappearance of the self same note. Nice conundrum RH. What the hell are we going to tell LaStrange?”

Even in his humiliation RH bristled, “The Inspector, that dolt. Tell him about what?”

”Weren't you paying attention. Okay, here's the list. Firstly, and really most importantly, we have to tell the police how a member of the royalty died. Not just some shmoe on the street, but real, certified, royalty. Got that? Do we mention your bathing ritual? Hmm, Ralpholmes? Do we give you the credit for snuffing Dinkly?”

“Um, no. Do we have to?”

“Secondly, the note. Not only might LaStrange want to know what else was written on it besides your name, but now there are sure to be questions about where the damned note got to anyway?

“I see,” he said.

“So what do we tell LaStrange? How do we account for all those minor and annoying little tidbits of fact.”

After about a minute, which Ralpholmes had spent pacing around the parlor in a circle while thoughtfully rubbing his chin, he came to a stop in front of my chair and said, “Um, Datsun?” There was a new calculating glint in his eyes.

Oh, oh. I recognized the tone and the look. Here is where things were about to go a bit sideways, “Yes, Ralpholmes, what is it?”

“You realize that if the facts of this ah 'case' get out then I shall no longer have a means of support, don't you?”

“You don't support yourself now as it is.” I reply.

“Besides all that. What I mean is that I shan't be taken seriously as a detective anymore. It would mean the end of my career.”

“Yes, I'm afraid so. That is the most likely outcome. And don't leave out the possibility of gaol time either.”

“You think? Oh. Yes, I see. We’ll take that into consideration. But what I was going to say is that as it stands we will not be getting paid for our efforts, and you are out of pocket for all the recent expenses.”

“All this is true.”, I say. “Where are you going with all this?”

“Well, what if we just sort of, you know, exaggerate? Just a bit.”

“What? Make something up?”

“Um, no, not really, ah more like, well, yes.”


The Ultimate Solution


We took a break at this point to consider our alternatives and to dull our social consciousnesses. I poured two large glasses of Scotch Whiskey while Ralpholmes retrieved his Hakim® hookah. We did a couple of tumblers, a couple of bowls, and then started to plot.

I opened this new phase of the conversation. “So Ralpholmes, just so that we have an understanding before we go on.”

His back to me he replied, “Yes, what Datsun?”

“The reason we're going to do whatever it is we're deciding to do here is so we can save your reputation, right, and to make a bit of money.”

He now threw a stick into the spokes of the bicycle. He turned around, faced me and said, “How much money would you like to make, Datsun?”

“What do you mean, 'How much'?”

“I thought it was a fairly straightforward question, even for you to understand. Let me repeat, how much money would you, and I mean we, like to make?”

“Like? We'd like to make a lot if we could.”

“Good, good. That's right. Now listen up, Datsun, if we are going to play this game we should at least attempt to escalate the financial remuneration.”

“Make more money.”

“On the nose, Datsun, on the nose. There's hope for you yet. The real question is are we willing to risk our necks for the paltry sum that Scotland Half-yard and Inspector LaStrange will offer to pay us for the consultation? I, for one, don't think so. That won't even cover carriage expenses.”

“I know. Or carriage cleaning, or bar tabs, take out food...”

“Yes, yes, all that kind of thing. I know that as well. Now consider Dinkly. LaStrange supposed that there was something the Lord wanted from me and it was written on that paper. He never suggested a debt, did he.”

“No, he didn't. And, in your favour, I would like to add that you were never actually seen in the presence of the Lord last evening.”

“Was it only last evening, amazing. It seems like days and days ago now.”

“That's the drugs starting to take effect.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, that's why the floor is softly undulating.”

“Anyway, the only things seen last night in the presence of Lord Dinkly were some sort of hickory tree...”

“Yes, the tree.”

“…and a sponge.”

“Loofah.”

“Loofah then. I'm the only one aware of the fact that both of them were you.”

“Ah yes, back to the note then. Well lets go through the options again. Could it be a suicide note, hmm? We could still say that.”

I jumped in, “But we've sort of established that it won't pay us, at least not very much, and there still would be questions concerning its whereabouts and the content. Also a number of people saw your name on it? I don't think we should go in that direction.”

“I agree. So what else might it be? Well, how about what the Inspector himself suggested? What if I was being asked to protect Lord Dinkly? You know, I sort of like the idea of feeding LaStrange's own idea back on him, he'd already half believe it because he originally came up with it.”

I thought about this for a moment and then said, “Suggesting that Dinkly feared he was about to be killed by, what did LaStrange say, 'person or person's unknown'. Really, that does sound like copper talk to me. The problem I see with this scenario is that in order to be thorough we'd probably have to pin this 'murder' on a particular somebody and then we'd also have to make sure that this somebody was also dead. That would be the only way that we could be absolutely sure that they wouldn't talk and couldn't convince anybody that the whole story was all a load of monkey bollocks. No RH, that's the slippery path to our own destruction. I'll go along with a devious plot for money but I will not be responsible for murder.”

“No? Doesn't seem right, does it?”

“Uh uh.”

More pacing, more scratching until Ralpholmes said, “Or how about the possibility that what his lordship wanted was for me to be the executor of his estate or something like that, hmmm, because I'm such a good chap and upstanding and well known, so farewell this veil of tears, I bid this mortal coil farewell, let this fine chap arrange my affairs and disburse my loot, end of story. What do you think?”

“And if they ask to see this note thingy? ”

“Stolen, by a chicken?”

”No. I was afraid that you were going to say something like that. Forget the chicken. I'm just not sure about the executor thingy. It's too convenient to the time of death and, if you don't mind my saying so, it would just become a feeding frenzy for lawyers and judges and not for us, mainly because we'd be the ones likely rotting behind bars. No, the contents of the letter should reveal something else. Something crafty, something noble, something up our alley.”

“Double drat. Okay, Datsun, let's start at the other end and see if we can pin the tail on the chicken.”

“Meaning what?”

“You agree then, and I do now, that the disappearance of the note has become, shall we say, a sticking point.”

“Like pinning a tail on the proverbial chicken.”

“Exactededly. So why don't we start from there and deal with the missing thing first. Then we might see an answer emerging for the content conundrum as well.”

“Alright. So what...?”

”Just a second.... um, I took the paper with me back here to be read, documented and authenticated.”

“Good start.”

“Don't interrupt, I'm detectoring. ...but after I started to read the document I was so stunned by the enormity of the contents of that note that before I could finish reading I momentarily swooned, tripped, and fell against a faulty bunsen burner. The fragile parchment, catching the flame issuing from the unshielded fire, burst into flames and was reduced to ash, singing my fingers in the process.”

“Wow. Not bad, not bad at all. That takes care of the note, but what of its contents?”

“I said don't interrupt. I'm not done yet. Hmmm, now I just sort of said that before I could finish reading it went sort of poof. Right?”

“If I'm allowed to answer now, then right.”

Ralpholmes spent a moment mulling this over and muttering to himself. “So how do we read the parchment when it went poof? Hmmm. Nasty little problem that. Let me think...” His voice raised a notch, “So I took the ashes and...let's see...I sprayed them with parafin, how's that for a start? And then I examined them under extreme magnification using different colours of light. Mmmmm, yes. And that allowed me to read the entire message.”

“You can do all that?” I said, awestruck.

“Of course not, you idiot. What do you think I am, a bloody C.S.I.?” he said.

“C.S.I.?”

“A Common Stage Illusionist, you pimple.”

This was Ralpholmes, back in his element again. “Sometimes, you know, you're really impressive. Not always, not often, but sometimes.”

“And...?”

“I'm beginning to like what you've come up with, I mean about the note. That was incredible.”

“And...?”

“It really is amazing what you can do sometimes.” I added.

“And will you shut up? Please. I can't concentrate when you're blithering. Ah, wait a second. I almost have something. Hold on. It's there in the background. The note. I see. Hey, I have it, what about if we say that the Lord Dinkly was granting us a commission?”

“Now that's a new thought. A commission. For what?” I asked.

“Oh, I don't know. What would you need world class detecting in order to find? Hmmm. What about the search for a lost heir?”

“Maybe, but Lord D wasn't married... he didn't even like women, you know.”

“No, that was just talk he used to keep off the vultures. Oh he liked them well enough, even knew some, mainly young anonymous women of negotiable affection. He just didn't like women of 'his station' as he called it.”

“Oh. I didn't know that.”

“You didn't have to spend the night with him at the pub listening to all his crap.”

“Or end up causing his death.”

Anger touched the surface. “Okay, sorry for that, alright? You done? Can we move on please?”

“Well, what about the letter?

“Let's say it said, and I can remember all this because of my next to perfect eidetic recall after all those scientific things I did to prepare the paper but it wouldn't remain readable long because it was so unstable and then the dog ate it or the chicken ran away with it, something.”

“Don't butter it too thick, RH, I get the point. Just needs some tweezing.”

“How about that I dictated the contents of the note to you. That would be good, wouldn't it? That would collaborate the story, wouldn't it?”

“Alright, you dictated to me, and what did it say?”

“Anyway it said, ahem, 'The only woman I ever loved, in whose image all others pale, blah, blah, blah. She that gave me an heir, the physical manifestation of our true love, who then disappeared, or ran off or something, to raise our child alone, umm... because she was a commoner and knew she would never be accepted at court.”

“Good, keep going. Needs some work but the idea is there.”

“But now, at the end of my life, I wish to acknowledge and to contribute to the life and welfare of that child born of love but out of wedlock.”

“Nicely done RH. And now how do we, as the commissioned ones, locate, or attempt to, this missing issue, this babe in the world, eh?”

“What about the olde 'babe had a birthmark on its bottom' thing?” he offered.

“OK, and what are we supposed to do? Locate the official cheek, right?”

“Right. So we have this birthmark in the shape of, lets say a crown.”

“No Ralpholmes, never a crown. We'd be up to your eyeballs in crown birth marked babies. Oh, hang on, hang on. New thought. We haven't established a time frame yet. How long ago was this supposed to happen?”

“Say 25 years, how's that?”

“Male or female. We should know at least that.”

“Which one is less likely to want to undress in front of us?” Ralpholmes asked.

I answered, “For loot, neither really. But maybe a female might have a bit more shyness or inhibitions about defrocking. Might have a family, a huge dolt of a husband, and so on.”

“So it was a girl.” he said.

“And the birthmark?” I asked.

“Hmm, how about a map of, say, Scotland? Wasn't Dinkly from up north?”

“Not bad, vague enough and yet detailed. We can change it we come up with anything better.”

“Wait a minute. Why do we have to disclose, so to speak, what the blemish looks like?” Ralpholmes expostulated.

“You're absolutely right. We shall keep the secret of the shape of the royal butt's blemish to ourselves.”

“Alright Datsun, now, and this is for the money, what then was the cause of his Lordship's death?”

“Sure, now you're asking me? Nice one, Ralpholmes. Dump the poor stiff on me. Alright, alright, we've now established that it has to be a natural death or we don't get a chance at the big money. It could be a heart attack or anything but we have to account for the damn tongue?”

“You're the doctor in the house. You come up with something.”

Pause. The sound of brain cells sizzling.

Finally, as if emerging from a trance I said, “I know, an extremely rare form of elephantiasis, of the tongue.”

“Elephantialaisis? What?”

“Don't interrupt while I'm doctoring. Yes, marked or distinguished by hard bits of skin and crescent shaped bits of what appears to be horn. Exacerbated by drinking large quantities of alcohol the previous evening.”

Ralpholmes asked, “Is that for real, I mean the elephant thing of the tongue? Is it a real condition?”

“Are you kidding? No! But it will be when I publish the journal article.” I state.

“For a bumbling malpracticioner you have your moments too, Datsun.”

“Thank you Ralpholmes. Coming from you that is high praise.”

“Idiot.”

“Dolt.”

I stood in order to relieve the cramps in my legs and wandered over to the fireplace. I picked up the poker and started re-arranging the remnants of the fire and bringing it back to life.

“Say, Ralpholmes?”

Not really there, still tweezing out story elements, he responded, “Hmmm?”

I turned around and offered him the heated end of the poker. “Could you hold this for me a moment?”

RH, not looking, reached out and took the heated iron. Immediately the air was filled with the odour of scorched flesh and he screamed, “Aaaahhhhhhh! Owwie, owwie, owwie. Damn. Datsun, you fool. Why have you done that? You’ve burned my hand, you ass.”

“It's just so that you can corroborate the story of having singed your hand on the flaming note.”

“Ouch. Oh just that. You numbskull, that hurts. But, ow, now I won't be able to play my Hakim® bagpipes for weeks.”

“I'll just have to get some rat poison then.” I muttered.

“Say what?”

“I say you can let go of the poker now, you know?”

Clang.


The Finer Points


After cleaning the wound, smearing it with Hakim® Hot Poker Burn Cream, and dressing it we returned to the parlor. Mrs. Dudson had brought in a tray holding a fresh pot of tea, cups, saucers, milk, sugar, and several nibbly type bits to eat. Ralpholmes had also by this time consumed about a quarter of the contents of my medical bag and was feeling quite dreamy.

“Datsun, did I ever tell you about my childhood?”

“No, Ralpholmes, never.”

“Well, I was born and raised near the docks, you know. Well, under the docks would still be considered near, wouldn't it? My dear mother was a failed seamstress. It seemed that all she could do was sew. She actually made me my first costume, from fishing nets. It was 'a net'. It's funny what you remember now, isn't it?”

He sipped his tea.

“We had no money, of course, and so when I was old enough to attend school she enrolled me at Hakim® Elementary School. I had to go around selling Hakim® products on the street and door-to-door in order to afford the classes. It was hard but it certainly was an education I can tell you. But I studied, and I learned, and I sold...

His tone became hardened, he continued more slowly, “But soon I found out that I had become an addict. Yes, in every sense of that word. I found that I was addicted to the products offered within the pages of the Hakim® Catalogue. I wanted everything. I still do, really. I spent every penny I could get on the things from that Catalog. In fact I would bring the catalog into our privy, not for the ablutive purposes of which you might normally think, but in order to have a private place where I could be alone, apart from the flies, look at the illustrations and, really, dream.”

“And this is why it is that you never have any money?” I asked.

“Pretty much. But it all changed about a year ago, you remember, around the time that I was matching wits with that criminal genius Moroniarity and his underground criminal organization.”

“Genius, right. A sewerworker and some trained rats.” I said beneath my breath.

“Well Datsun, I received the new spring edition of the catalog, as usual. In it were all the usual items, all the illustrations: the women winching themselves into corsets, the stockings, the sewing machines, stoves, little liver pills, shoes, hats, gloves, dolls, parasols, guns, patent medicines, and all manner of different types of tools and machinery. The bewildering range of products sears the imagination.”

I had never seen Ralpholmes let down his guard like this before or since. His willingness to share with me his precious memories made me feel somewhat awed and singularly blessed. I am reluctant to mention that I also had him hopped to the tits with opiates. The rooms returned to quiet for a pair of heartbeats before he took up his tale.

“But this time, although it was much the same thing as before, it was completely different. As I sat on the porcelain throne (and that was funny what you said back at Dinkly's place by the way, about the throne and ruling England, and it's also amusing how theme's keep repeating themselves, isn't it Datsun), anyway I was on the toilet, still my preferred roost for contemplating the new catalog's contents, and I remember turning a page and there it was, in glorious black and white, featured in the new products listing, the thing that I had been waiting for for years.

“Ever since that moment I have been saving all my monies for that one special item, or rather collection of items.”

He let me dangle, he made me ask, “And what, pray tell, is that?” I prompted him.

Seeming to avoid directly answering the question he asked me a question, “Are you aware of the relatively new art and process of photography?”

“I've heard at least something about it.” I admitted. “It appears to be all the rage in certain circles.”

Ralpholmes continued, “Well, I have almost enough money now to order the full Hakim® Professional Camera and Darkroom Kit.”

“So that's it.”

“Yes, you use this device called a camera, a variant of the old camera obscura, and with it take images of the real world, imagine that, making a true copy of what sits before you. And then in a darkened room you bring those images literally to light on paper treated with a silver nitrate solution. It's a form of magic, I'm sure.” He paused momentarily in his rhapsodising and took a sip of tea. “And you get to play with all these chemicals and trays and tongs and things. It's something that I've wanted to do for a considerably long time, and, thinking about it, actually it's something that might appeal to you too, Datsun.”

I had to admit, “It does sound intriguing, and yes I might be interested.”

“But, and I mean but with one 't', not two. No actually I might mean that as well, anyway, here's the thing, Datsun, and it applies to what we are doing right now.”

“You mean preparing an elaborate hoax I take it?”

“I do.” he admitted. “See if this works for you?”

He took another sip of tea and then put down the cup. He then picked-up with his bandaged hand one of the nibbly bits from the tray and popped it into his mouth. He made a grimace and spat the morsel back out onto the palm of the bandaged hand where it sat like, well, undigested food.

Ralpholmes transferred the mess to a linen napkin, “Preparing food is not her strong spot, Datsun.” He wiped his chin and then continued, “If you top up my cash we can send away for the kit right now and have all the devices and things here within the week.”

“And by doing so we gain what?” I asked, interested but knowing RH's record with freely spending my monies.

“Now I propose to introduce this process as a proof that we have indeed taken the contrived commission most seriously, and we intend to use it in our quest for the lost buttock. Now let's give this thing a time frame, again a detail that leads to credulity. Let's say that it's a five year mission: to boldly go where no camera has gone before, to seek out strange new birthmarks, and to record those posteriors that we meet, so to speak. What an enterprise, eh? The images are then filed and, here's the thing Datsun, we can now write off all the costs as a business expense.”

I beamed in admiration, “That would work. That bloody well would work.”

“Now upon the flanks of that thought there appeared to me another. What if it was mentioned or hinted in the note that mother and babe, the proposed heiress of our search, had sailed to France? Hmmm? That would be a wonderful excuse to spend some 'paid' time on the continent, don't you think?”

Getting into the spirit of the thing I say, “Ou la la.”

“And, in what has become a veritable cascade of new thought, I was also considering, and offer this thought for your edification, that we, at the same time, jointly embark on another venture, a side line as well.”

My curiosity, having been aroused, made it easy to ask, “Which is?”

“Which is that we produce and sell some of these new photographic images on old carte-de-visite paper stock.”

Momentarily derailed from his train of thought I ask, “You mean those postal cards?” I ask. “Of what?”

A small smile touched his lips as he spoke, “Oh, you know, french maids as an example.”

“Yes.”

The smile arched a bit more, “Actresses.”

“Yes.”

And again, “And other attractive young females.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Artistically unclad.” He positively beamed at me.

“Oudalisque.”

“Precisely.”

“Mmmm. Oui!”

“Yes, we could start a trade in these, what shall we call them, hmmm... French postcards? There could be good money in those for when our commission ends. We must not be too greedy, Datsun, agreed?”

I could only nod, my mouth open. Luckily no fly had taken the opportunity to explore that gaping maw.

Ralpholmes stiffled a big yawn. “You know, for some reason although I'm tired, I hurt (thanks to you), and it has been a long day, well I'm still a bit peckish and I'm afraid the proffered provinder here does not quite do it. I feel like eating chicken, what about you Datsun? Hail a cab, there's a nice moron, and go get us some dinner.”

“Alright, Ralpholmes. Just let me change my jacket.” I rose from my seat and prepared to go out into the world in search of chicken. My god, I'm actually chasing the chicken.

Ralpholmes, still in his chair continued to speak, “Then it's early to bed and early to rise because we have much work ahead of us on the morrow. The first thing we have to do is reconstruct that note, and we can do that in the morning. You, dunderheaded Datsun, will be doing all the writing because you have managed to mangle my paw quite effectively. Now then, once that chore is done then I have to go deal with Inspector LaStrange. I'll go to the half-yard tomorrow and confound him with science.”

“All right then.”

“And as for you, your second writing task will be to get started on that journal entry.”

“And I shall, with a will, Ralpholmes.”

“Will you? Good. So, as I said, it's early to bed tonight, but tomorrow night ...if we've been good little boys and have done all our work, and if all has gone well up to that point then I see no reason why maybe Mrs. Dudson wouldn't tell us one of her 'special' bedtime stories.”

“You think?”

“Oh, I think yes, definitely yes. Undoubtedididley. And I'm thinking about inviting our new little friend over, the little French maid.”

“In full regalia?” I asked. My face suddenly felt warm.

“You know it.” Ralpholmes easily replied.

“With feather duster?” The tension escalated.

“We can only hope.”

I was finding a bit of difficulty steadying my breath as I got up the courage to ask, “Say, RH, do you mind if I borrowed the dog costume.”

“What, for our little 'soiree'?”

“Ah, yes. Quite so.”

“Datsun, you pervert. I think I can see where this is going.”

Attempting to divert his attention a bit I then asked “And when we get the kit, maybe she'll pose for us?”

“Who, the Mrs. D, the lovely maid, or both?”

“Ah,” considering, and then, “why not both?”

“Who can say? We can only ask.”

As I put on my coat in preparation to leave I asked RH, “Does it bother you about us turning into confidence men?”

“Datsun,” he replied, “Have I ever told you the Hakim® Brothel Corollary to Hakim®'s Law?”

“I don't believe so.”

“Fuck them all, Datsun, fuck them all.”

“Lately, Ralpholmes, I've wondered why I bother to stay here and put up with all the abuse you dish out. You know, I finally think that I have an answer. It's the unpredictability.”

I managed to make it as far as the door leading out of the apartment. I opened it and then paused. I looked back to see the great insulting detective, his face lit by the glow of the fire, his eyes closed, softly murdering some melody in a travesty of a hum while he waived the fingers of his good hand in the air, miming pipes.

I put my hat on my head. “Tell me Ralpholmes, just one more thing? What is the last school that you graduated from?”

“Elementary, my dear Datsun, Elementary.”

“ Ah, that would explain a lot.”

An end.