The Sprouts of Wrath

31

In a white room with white curtains there was a chair, a table and a bed, none of which merit any further mention. Upon a white wall, however, there was a great chart and before this stood Inspectre Sherringford Hovis.

The chart was a complicated affair resembling, at first glance, an underground railway map designed by an infant. At second glance it didn’t look a lot better either. The overall design was that of an uncapped pyramid, the base line crowded with newspaper cuttings, photographs, mysterious “samples” in plastic bags, numbers listed upon shop receipts, odds and bods. Red lines running variously from odd to bod traced intricate networks which occasionally converged. The pyramid was two-thirds covered by such plottings; the apex was bare but for a few pencil lines and a large black question mark which crowned the whole.

Inspectre Hovis cupped his left elbow in his right palm and dug his left forefinger into his right nostril. He sucked air through his teeth, withdrew his rooting digit and tapped at the enigmatic wall decoration. The object of his particular attention was a single charred photograph into which a great number of red lines converged, giving it the appearance of a terminus in the manic metro-system. Hovis leant forward and stared, eye to bleary eye, with the photographic image of James Arbuthnot Pooley. “I will have you, laddy,” he said, giving the red face a summary tap upon the cheek. So saying, he turned his attention towards a branch line and traced the route to a single stop. Here were what viewers of the now legendary Untouchables lovingly refer to as “mug shots”. These displayed front-face and profiles of two twins with braided hair and folded brows. Beneath were the names Paul and Barry Geronimo. Inspectre Hovis hooked a finger into his watch-chain and drew out his “Regal Chimer”, the very chiming pocket-watch featured in Pooley’s favourite Western. But shoot-outs with Mad Indio were not in the forefront of the great detective’s mind, as he perused the dial and said the single word, “Late.” As if in answer there came a rhythmic knocking at his chamber door. Hovis draped a bed sheet over his chart. “Enter,” said he.

The two braves entered. “We bring greetings from the tribes of the North,” said Paul. “We travel with speed of prairie wind to answer call of great white brother.”

“Hot moccasin,” Barry agreed, “we kid you not.”

“Quite so, gentlemen. Kindly be seated.” Espying the only chair, which was now occupied by Hovis, Paul and Barry lowered themselves cross-legged to the lino.

“We smoke many pipes, tell many tales,” said Paul hopefully. “Got plenty firewater in medicine bag.” He patted his designer briefcase with the buckskin fringes.

Inspectre Hovis shook his head firmly. “Smoke many pipes later, but for now, what news?”

“Much news.” Paul made expansive gestures. “Many wonders in Heavens and upon lands of the white-eyes. In Chiswick, they say, squaw give birth to papoose in shape of fish. Stars fall on Alabama, blue moon seen over Kentucky, famous TV personality named in ‘gay sex for sale’ scandal. Only last night, brother Barry see many strange things at sister’s ‘Ann Summers’ party. All portents show times of great tribulation ahead. Old Sandell predict …”

“Yes,” said Hovis, “such news troubles the heart of great white brother.” He tapped at his chest. “But is it not written that brave who beat about cactus and try pull buffalo hide over policeman’s eyes get banged up in the cells with much time to muse upon error of ways?”

“Point taken,” said Paul.

“So what news?”

“Much news,” Paul continued, “lorries you enquire about held up for an hour by traffic jam. Traffic jam caused by road-works in High Street. Road-works fracture gas main, all vehicles have to be abandoned while gas mains fixed for fear of explosion.”

“Yes,” said Hovis, “I know as much.”

“Ah,” said Paul, “but not know that it not Gas Board van that come out to fix leak.”

Hovis nodded thoughtfully. “Tell me more.”

“Look like Gas Board van,” Paul continued, “ID of driver seem genuine, driver spend much time chatting with policeman on duty at site while work done. But Gas Board deny all knowledge of either gas leak or call-out.”

Hovis nodded once more. “Very clever,” said he, “very clever, indeed.”

“Criminals cunning as desert dingo, but not too cunning for braves.”

“Go on then.”

“And how,” said Paul. “Now come clever bit that earn braves big kudos. We follow great white brother’s method and have pow-wow with constable who on duty at roadworks. Tell him perhaps he make a big mistake and you wear his wedding tackle on watch-chain when you find out. Him eager to oblige and tell us all he know.”

“Very good indeed, go on.”

Paul grinned. “Constable tell us that he actually escort Gas Board van through traffic jam from High Street on his bike. See van enter grounds of great gasometer, driver even bung him price of drink for his trouble.”

The Inspectre’s face fell. “Then it was a real Gas Board van after all!” he cried.

Paul shook his head, smirking mightily. “Nothing of sort,” said he. “Braves think things not add up so check with Gas Board again. Gas Board tells us they not own gasometer in Brentford, deny all knowledge. In fact, they tell us they never own gasometer in Brentford. There is no gasometer in Brentford.”

“What?” Inspectre Hovis scratched at his snowy pelt of hair. “But it’s there for all the world to see!”

“All world may see it, but it not bloody gasometer, that for certain.”

“Then what?”

“Braves suggest it headquarters of international crime syndicate.”

Inspectre Hovis wiped away the goodly amount of perspiration that now clung to his noble brow. “We get stuck into firewater now,” he said.