The Toyminator

3

“It’s a monkey,” said Eddie.

“It’s a dead monkey,” said Jack.

“It might only be sleeping,” said Eddie.

“It is dead,” said Jack.

“Or run down,” said Eddie, approaching the monkey on the floor. “Its clockwork might just have run down – and run down is a small death, you know, amongst clockwork folk.”

“Look at its eyes,” Jack approached Eddie, who was approaching the monkey. “Those eyes are dead and staring.”

“They’re glass eyes,” Eddie said. “They always stare like that.”

The monkey lay upon the carpet that dared not speak its name. It was one of those monkeys that clap little brass cymbals whilst bouncing up and down. That is all they do, really, but children, and indeed adults, seem to find them very, very entertaining. Indeed, they can never get enough of those monkeys that clap their cymbals together and bounce up and down. Very popular, those monkeys are.

Although this one, it appeared, was dead.

Eddie looked sadly upon the monkey. It lay there, on its side, frozen in mid-clap. This was clearly a monkey that would clap and bounce no more.

“Wakey-wakey, Mister Monkey,” said Eddie. “You can’t sleep here, you know.”

“It’s dead, Eddie – look at it.”

“Perhaps if I were to give its key a little turn?”

“Good idea, Eddie,” said Jack. “You give its key a little turn.”

“You think I should?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Stay put, Jack,” said Eddie, and he plodded slowly about the fallen monkey. Eddie leaned over the monkey and sniffed, then stepped back from the monkey and viewed it, his chin upon his paw. He dropped to his knees and examined the non-speaking carpet, then glanced at the ceiling and grunted.

Jack looked on and watched him. He’d seen Eddie go through this performance before and he’d seen Eddie draw conclusions from such a performance. Significant conclusions.

Eddie climbed to his paw-footed feet and looked up at Jack. “There’s been dirty business here,” he said. “This monkey is certainly as dead as.”

“Murdered?” Jack asked.

“Something more than that.”

“Something more?”

“This monkey is something more than just as dead as.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jack said.

“Nor do I,” said Eddie. “Stand back a little further, Jack, if you will.” And Jack stood back accordingly.

Eddie reached out a paw and lightly touched the monkey.

There was a sound, as of a gentle sigh. And with it the monkey crumbled. Crumbled away to the accompaniment of the whispery sigh. Crumbled away to dust.

Jack looked at Eddie.

And Eddie looked at Jack.

“Now that isn’t right,” said Eddie.

They swept up the dust of the monkey. Well, not so much they as Jack. Well, Jack had hands with opposable thumbs after all. Eddie did hold the dustpan.

“Pour what you can of him into this beer bottle,” said Eddie, fishing one with difficulty from the filing cabinet. “There might be something significant to be learned from the dust.”

“Did you know this monkey?” Jack asked as he tried to do what Eddie wanted.

“Hard to say,” said the bear. “Your cymbal-playing monkey is a classic toy, of course, an all-time favourite, but telling one from the other … I don’t know. There was one called Monkey who was with the circus. He used to drink in Tinto’s, but Tinto threw him out because he was too noisy. I knew another one called Monkey, who was also with the circus, did this act where he played the cymbals and bounced up and down. And –”

“So they all look the same, do the same thing, are all with the circus and are all called Monkey?”

“That’s about the strength of it.” Eddie struggled to cork the beer bottle, then set it down on Bill’s desk.

“I’ve got a lot of Monkey left over,” said Jack.

“Put it in the bin,” said Eddie.

“Shouldn’t we cast it to the four winds, or something?”

Eddie grinned at Jack. “See what a nice fellow you are,” said he. “How caring. What was it you said about toys only being toys?”

“That wasn’t what I said. Or I hope it wasn’t.”

“There’s been dirty work here,” said Eddie. “Strange, dirty work. It would seem that we are already on a case.”

“Oh no.” Jack shook his head. “That’s not how it works and you know it. Someone has to offer us a case. And pay us to take it on. Pay us, Eddie, you know what I’m saying?”

Eddie nodded thoughtfully. “So what you’re saying,” he said, “is that we should ignore the fact that a dead monkey crumbled into dust on the carpet of this office and wait until we get some meathead client to offer us money for finding their lost dog or something?”

“Well, I’m not saying that, exactly.”

“So what are you saying, then?”

Jack gave some thought to an appropriate answer. “I’m saying,” said Jack, “that perhaps we should give this some thought. Perhaps over a drink.”

“At Tinto’s?” said Eddie.

“At Tinto’s,” said Jack.

Eddie took a shower, because Bill’s office owned to a bathroom. And Jack squeezed Eddie dry, which Eddie didn’t enjoy too much, although it made Jack laugh. And Eddie unearthed his old trenchcoat and fedora, and so too did Jack, and so they both now looked like private detectives. And they took themselves down to the garage and, much to their joy, found Bill’s splendid automobile just waiting to take them away.

And so they took themselves away in it, with Jack driving.

As ever, too fast.

It was early yet at Tinto’s, so trade was still slack. Some construction-worker figures with detachable yellow hardhats and gripping hands gripped beer glasses and engaged in theoretical discussions on the good-looks/intelligence dialectic. Eddie had no trouble getting served. “Howdy doody,” said Tinto. “Eddie Bear, come to pay off his tab, by Golliwog. Joy and gladness are mine, to be sure, all praise The Great Engineer.”

“The beers are on Jack,” said Eddie.

“And howdy doody, Jack,” said Tinto.

“Nine beers, please,” said Jack, lowering himself onto a barstool and speaking from between his now raised knees.

“Nine, eh?” said Eddie. “This should be good.”

Tinto poured a number of beers. Eddie disputed this number and Tinto poured more. Then Jack and Eddie got into the thirteen beers.

“Just like the good old days,” said Jack, raising his glass and emptying it down his throat.

“What days were those?” asked Tinto. “I must have missed them.”

“Eddie and I have temporarily renewed our partnership,” said Jack. “And there were great days and will be again.”

“Bravo,” said Eddie, raising his glass carefully between his paws and emptying a fair percentage of the beer into his mouth.

“Enjoy your great days while you can,” said Tinto, taking up Jack’s empty glass and giving it a polish. “The End Times are upon us and they won’t prove to be so great.”

“End Times?” said Jack.

“Don’t get him going on that,” said Eddie.

“Doubter,” said Tinto to Eddie. “If you were of the faith you’d understand.”

“I have my own faith,” said Eddie, struggling with another glass. “I am a member of The Exclusive Brotherhood of the Midnight Growlers.”

“A most exclusive brotherhood,” said Tinto, “as you are the only member.”

“We don’t proselytise,” said Eddie. “You’re either a Growler, or you aren’t.”

“You should join The Church of Mechanology before it’s too late.” Tinto made the sign of the sacred spanner. “Already the prophecies are being fulfilled. Did you see today’s paper?”

Eddie shook his head.

“The faithful are being carried off to glory.” Tinto’s voice rose slightly. “They are being taken up by the big horseshoe magnet in the sky.”

“And that’s in the paper?” Eddie asked. “S.T.C.” said Tinto.

“Ecstasy?” said Eddie.

“S.T.C.” said Tinto. “Spontaneous Toy Combustion.”

Eddie looked at Jack.

And Jack looked at Eddie.

“Go on,” said Eddie.

“The monkeys,” said Tinto. “The clockwork monkeys. All over the city. Last night. They Combusted.”

“All of them?” Eddie looked aghast. He was aghast.

“Puff of smoke,” said Tinto. “All of them gone. All of them. Not that there were that many of them, only about half a dozen. The papers says it was S.T.C., but that’s not the truth of it. Carried off to glory, they were. Transcended their physical bodies.”

Eddie and Jack did mutual lookings at each other once more.

“I may be next,” said Tinto, “so you’d better pay up for these drinks. I want my cash register to balance if I’m going.”

“Now, just hold on, Tinto,” said Eddie. “Are you telling me that all the monkeys – and I am assuming that you mean the cymbal-playing monkeys that bounce up and down?”

Tinto nodded.

“That all of these monkeys combusted last night – is that what you’re saying?”

“I think it was you who just said that,” said Tinto, “but correct me if I’m wrong.”

“But what happened?”

“It’s what the papers say. Or rather what they don’t.”

“This is a case,” said Eddie to Jack. “This is a serious case.”

“All the cymbal-playing monkeys?” said Jack to Tinto.

“Thirty-three. Or was it eighty-seven?”

“You said about half a dozen.”

“Well, I’ll say anything, me,” said Tinto, “as long as it makes me popular.”

“Show me this paper,” said Eddie Bear.

And Tinto showed him the paper.

It was the Toy City Mercury and the spontaneously combusting monkeys had not made the front-page headlines. Eddie located a small article on page thirteen, sandwiched between advertisements for kapok stuffing and dolly hair-styling.

Eddie read the article. “Eleven monkeys,” he whispered.

“Twelve counting the one in the beer bottle,” said Jack.

“The one in the beer bottle?” said Tinto.

“Nothing,” said Eddie. “But this is all rot. Who is this Professor Potty who has come up with the S.T.C. theory, anyway?”

“Eminent scientist.” Tinto gathered up further empties and took to the polishing of them. “He does that thing where he pours one flask of liquid into another flask and then back again.”

“And?” said Eddie.

“That’s about as far as it goes, I think,” said Tinto. “Not much of an act. But better than playing the cymbals and bouncing up and down. Each to his own, I say. It takes all sorts to make a world.”

“At least he didn’t blame it on me,” said Eddie.

“Yes he did,” said Tinto, “on the next page.”

Eddie had Jack turn the page.

Eddie read, aloud this time: “‘Although there is no direct evidence to link the monkeys’ demise to the ex-mayor,’ Professor Potty said, ‘I can see no reason not to.’”

Jack did foolish titterings.

“This is so not funny,” said Eddie.

“Will you be giving yourself up, then?” Tinto asked. “I wonder if there’s a reward. If there is, would you mind if I turned you in?”

“Stop it,” said Eddie. “It isn’t funny.”

“No, it’s not,” said Jack, struggling to regain sobriety. “But it’s all very odd, Eddie. Do you have any thoughts?”

“I think I’d like to meet this Professor Potty and –”

“Other than those kinds of thoughts.”

“No,” said Eddie. “Not as yet. I wonder whether Chief Inspector Wellington Bellis and his jolly red-faced laughing policemen will be investigating?”

“What’s to investigate?” Tinto asked. “The monkeys were taken up to the great toy box in the sky. What could be simpler than that?”

“Maybe so,” said Eddie, “but I suspect that there’s a great deal more to their manner of departure than meets the eye. Bring the rest of the drinks to the corner table over there, Jack. We shall speak of these things in private.”

“What?” went Tinto. “The cheek of you! If you and Jack are on a case, then I should be part of it. I seem to recall helping you out considerably the last time.”

“You certainly did, Tinto,” Eddie said. “But see, you have more customers,” and Eddie indicated same who were entering the bar. “We will not presume upon your time, but we’ll let you know how we’re getting on and ask your advice when we need it.”

Tinto made disgruntled sounds, but trundled off to serve his new clientele. Jack loaded what drinks remained onto a convenient tray and joined Eddie at a secluded corner table.

“Why all the secrecy?” he asked, when he had comfortably seated himself.

“I don’t want to alarm Tinto,” whispered Eddie. “These monkeys were murdered, I’m sure of it.”

“You can’t be sure of it,” said Jack.

“From the evidence left behind in Bill’s office, I can,” Eddie said. “The padlock had been torn from the door – our cymbal-clapping corpse-to-be couldn’t have done that. Whoever killed the monkey removed the padlock and waited in Bill’s office, knowing that the monkey would come there, is my guess. He sat in Bill’s chair and smoked a cigar – this cigar.” Eddie produced a cigar butt from the pocket of his trenchcoat with a dramatic flourish and displayed it to Jack. “There was evidence of a struggle and a round burned patch on the ceiling. The monkey was murdered, but as I said, he was more than just murdered. The worst of it is that I think the monkey must have known that someone was trying to kill him and he came to Bill’s office for help, probably thinking that some new detective had taken up residence there. And had I been able to get into that office earlier, perhaps I could have helped him.”

“Or perhaps you would have been murdered, too?”

“Perhaps,” said Eddie, taking up another beer.

“So where do we go from here?”

“We have several options. We might visit Professor Potty and see whether he has anything useful to impart. We might visit Chief Inspector Bellis, perhaps get his blessing, as it were, to work the case.”

“And perhaps get yourself arrested?”

“Perhaps,” said Eddie once again. “But I have another idea. What we have to consider here, Jack, is motive. Why would someone want to murder every cymbal-playing monkey in Toy City?”

Jack looked at Eddie.

“Apart from the fact that they are a damned nuisance,” said Eddie. “This seems to have been a very well-planned mass-murder. All in a single night? All the work of a single killer? I wonder.”

“So what do you have in mind?”

“This,” said Eddie, and he pushed the cigar butt in Jack’s direction, “this is the only piece of solid evidence we have. It’s an expensive cigar. I wonder how many cigar stores in Toy City stock them? I wonder if they might recall a recent client?”

“Seems logical,” said Jack. “So how many cigar stores are there in Toy City?”

“Just the one,” said Eddie.

It had to be said that Jack was very pleased to be back behind the wheel of the late Bill Winkie’s splendid automobile. It was an Anders Faircloud, made from pressed tin the metallic blue of a butterfly’s wing. It was long and low and highly finned at the tail. It had pressed-tin wheels with breezy wide hubs and big rubber tyres.

Jack, who hadn’t driven for a while and who could in all honesty never have been described as a competent driver, nevertheless felt confident behind the wheel. Perhaps just a little overconfident. And as it happens, Jack was also now a little drunk. He and Eddie left Tinto’s Bar and Jack followed Eddie’s directions to Toy City’s only cigar store.

“Slow down!” shrieked Eddie, cowering back in his seat.

“I am slowed down,” said Jack. “Don’t make such a fuss.”

“Slow down, it’s right here. No, I didn’t say turn left!”

The car, now turned left upon two of its wheels, bumped up onto the pavement. Shoppers scattered and those with fists shook them. Jack did backings up.

“We’ll walk in future,” Eddie cowered. “I’d quite forgotten all this.”

“I know what I’m doing,” said Jack, reversing further into oncoming traffic.

“We’re all gonna die,” said Eddie.

Toy City’s only cigar store, Smokey Joe’s Cigar Bar, was a suitably swank affair, with lots of polished wood and a window full of smoking ephemera – all those things that look so interesting that they really make you want to take up smoking.

Jack ground the polished wheel-hubs of Bill’s splendid automobile along the kerb before Smokey Joe’s Cigar Bar and came to a juddering halt.

Eddie, who had seriously been considering converting to Mechanology and preparing to make his personal apologies to whom it might concern for not joining earlier, climbed down from the car, waddled around to Jack’s side and, as Jack climbed out, head-butted him in the nuts.

Jack doubled up in considerable pain.

“When I say ‘slower’, I mean it, you gormster!” said Eddie. “Now act like a professional.”

Jack crossed his legs and wiped tears from his eyes. “If you ever do that to me again,” he said, “I will tear off your head and empty you out.”

“Jack, you wouldn’t!”

“Right now I feel that I would.”

“Then I’m sorry,” said Eddie. “So if you are up to it, do you think that you could see your way to limping into Smokey Joe’s Cigar Bar, doing your toff act and finding out who bought the cigar?”

“I’ll try,” said Jack. “Sometimes I really hate you.”

“Do you?” said Eddie.

“Not really,” said Jack.

Jack did a bit of trenchcoat adjustment and fedora tilting, pushed open the door and entered Smokey Joe’s Cigar Bar. The door gave a merry ting, ting as he did so.

“You shouldn’t do that,” the bell told the door. “That’s my job.”

Jack stood in the doorway and breathed in Smokey Joe’s Cigar Bar. And for those of you who have never been in a cigar store, that is just what you do: you breathe it in, is what you do.

There is a magic to cigars, a magic never found in cigarettes. Cigars are special; there are complicated procedures involved in the manufacture of them. There is certain paraphernalia necessary for the proper smoking of them, such as special end-cutters, and certain matches for the lighting thereof. And who amongst us does not know that the very best of all cigars are rolled upon the thigh of a dusky maiden? A cigar is more than just a smoke, as champagne is more than just a fizzy drink, or urolagnia is more than just something your girlfriend might not indulge you in, no matter how much money you’ve recently spent buying her that frock she so desperately wanted. And so on and so forth and suchlike.

Jack breathed in Smokey Joe’s Cigar Bar.

“It really smells in here,” he said.

Eddie Bear made growling sounds.

“A fine smell, though,” said Jack.

Mahogany-framed glass cases displayed a multiplicity of wonderful cigars, cigars of all shapes and sizes and colours, too. There were pink cigars and blue ones and some in stripes and checks. And of their shapes, what could be said?

“These ones look like little pigs,” said Jack, and he pointed to them.

Eddie cocked his head on one side. “Do you see what those ones look like?”

“And how might I serve you, sir?”

Jack tipped up the brim of his fedora and sought out the owner of the voice: the proprietor of Smokey Joe’s Cigar Bar, Smokey Joe himself.

“Ah,” said Jack as he viewed Smokey Joe.

The proprietor smiled him a welcome.

Smokey Joe was a sight to behold

A sight to behold was he.

His head was a ball,

And his belly a barrel,

His ears were a thing of beaut-ee.

He was built out of brass,

And if questions were asked

Regarding the cut of his jib,

He’d reply with a laugh

And a free autograph,

Signed by a pen with a nib.

And he chugged a cigar

In his own cigar bar,

For bellows were built in his chest.

And he blew out smoke-rings

And numerous things,

Which had all his clients impressed.

“What exactly was that?” asked Eddie.

Jack shrugged. “Poetry?” he said.

“Odd,” said Eddie. “Now go for it, Jack.”

And so Jack went for it.

“My good fellow,” said Jack, “are you the proprietor of this here establishment?”

“That I am, your lordship,” said the proprietor, sucking upon his cigar and blowing out a puff of smoke in the shape of a sheep. “Smokey Joe’s my name and I am the purveyor of the finest cigars in Toy City.”

“Well, be that as it may,” said Jack.

“It may well be because it is, your lordship.”

“Right,” said Jack. “Well, now we’ve established that, I require your assistance concerning a cigar.”

“Then you have certainly come to the right place, your lordship. If there is anything that needs knowing about cigars and isn’t known to myself, then I’ll be blessed as a nodding spaniel dog and out of the window with me and into the duck pond.”

“Quite so,” said Jack.

“And you can use my head for a tinker’s teapot and boil my boots in lard.”

“Most laudable,” said Jack.

“I’ll go further than that,” said Smokey Joe. “You can take my wedding tackle and –”

“I think you’ve made your point,” said Jack. “You know about cigars.”

“And pipes,” said Smokey Joe. “Although that’s only a hobby of mine. But every man should have a hobby.”

“Well, if they can’t get a girlfriend,” said Jack.

“You are the very personification of wisdom.”

“Well …”

Eddie gave Jack’s left knee a sound head-butting. “Get on with it,” he whispered.

“Cigars,” said Jack, to Smokey Joe. “Well, one cigar in particular.”

“Would it be the Golden Sunrise Corona?” asked Smokey Joe. “The veritable king of cigars, made from tobacco watered by unicorn’s wee-wee and rolled upon the thigh scales[6] of golden-haired mermaids?”

“No.” said Jack. “But you sell such cigars?”

“No,” said Smokey Joe, “but a proprietor must have his dreams. And speaking of dreams, last night I dreamed that I was a chicken.”

“A chicken?” said Jack.

“They worry me,” said Smokey Joe.

“They do?” said Jack. Eddie head-butted his left knee once more. “Well, I’m sure that’s very interesting,” said Jack, “but I have urgent business that will not wait. I need a straightforward answer to a simple question. Do you think you could furnish me with same?”

Smokey Joe nodded, puffed out a question-mark-shaped smoke cloud and said, “I’d be prepared to give it a try, but things are rarely as simple as they seem. Take those chickens, for example –”

“I am in a hurry,” said Jack. “I merely wish to know about a cigar.”

Smokey Joe let free a sigh of relief, which billowed considerable smoke. “Not chickens, then?” said he.

“No,” said Jack. “What is your problem with chickens?”

“The scale of them,” said Smokey Joe.

“Chickens don’t have scales,” said Jack. “Chickens have feathers.”

Smokey Joe fixed Jack with a troubling eye. “Beware the chickens,” said he. “If not now, then later. And somewhere else. I am Smokey Joe, the only cigar store proprietor in Toy City. I am one of a kind. I am special.”

Jack sighed somewhat at the word, but Smokey Joe continued.

“I have the special eye and I see trouble lying in wait ahead of you. Trouble that comes in the shape of a chicken.” Smokey Joe blew out a plume of cigar smoke, which momentarily took the shape of a chicken before fading into the air of what had now become a cigar store somewhat overladen with “atmosphere”.

Eddie Bear shuddered. “Just ask him, Jack,” he whispered, and fumbled the cigar butt from his trenchcoat pocket. Jack took the cigar butt and placed it before Smokey Joe on his glass countertop.

“This cigar,” said Jack, “did it come from this establishment?”

Smokey Joe leaned forward, brass cogs whirring, cigar smoke engulfing his head. He viewed the cigar butt and nodded. “One of mine,” he said. “A Turquoise Torpedo.”

“But it’s brown,” said Jack.

“But what’s in a name?” said Smokey Joe. “Or what’s not? It may be brown, but it tastes like turquoise.”

“And it is one of yours?”

“It is.”

“Then my question is this: do you recall selling any of these cigars recently?”

Smokey Joe nodded. “Of course I do. I recall the selling of every cigar, because in truth I don’t sell many.”

“And you sold one of these cigars recently?”

“I sold one hundred of these cigars yesterday evening.”

“One hundred,” said Jack. “That is an incredible number.”

“Really?” said Smokey Joe. “I always thought that the most incredible number must be two, because it is one more than just one, yet one less than any other number, no matter how great that number might be. And there must be an infinite number of numbers, mustn’t there be?”

“I’m sure there must,” said Jack. “But please tell me this: would it be possible for you to describe to me the individual who purchased those one hundred cigars from you yesterday?”

“Your lordship is surely mocking me,” said Smokey Joe, adding more smoke to his words.

“No, I’m not,” said Jack. “I’m well and truly not.”

“But your lordship surely knows who purchased those cigars.”

“No,” said Jack. “I well and truly don’t.”

“Of course you do,” said Smokey Joe.

“Of course I don’t,” said Jack.

“Do,” said Joe.

And, “Don’t,” said Jack.

And, “Do,” said Joe once more.

“Now listen,” said Jack, “I am not asking you a difficult question. Please will you tell me who purchased those cigars?”

“I will,” said Smokey Joe.

“Then do so,” said Jack.

“Then I will,” said Smokey Joe. And he did. “That bear with you,” he said.