The Third Pig Detective Agency: The Complete Casebook. Bob Burke
couldn’t get his hands on it, then chances were it didn’t exist or you never really needed it in the first place. He had been an exceedingly poor shoemaker (from both a finance and quality perspective) some years back. Business had, consequently, been pretty bad but, on the brink of total ruin, he had allegedly made some deal with elves that rescued his career. Apparently, whatever raw material he left in the shop at close of business each day would have been transformed into high-quality footwear by the next morning. Suddenly his shoes and, by extension, his services were in popular demand and in Grimmtown being in popular demand made you a very wealthy person indeed.
Not one to miss an opportunity, he experimented with leaving other materials out for the elves each night. No matter what he left out, the next morning he’d be presented with a finished product of some description. Put out some clay – get high-class porcelain. Leave some wood: an antique chair. From such small beginnings are large warehouses of equipment – and a thriving distribution company – made.
I dialled and waited. I didn’t have to wait long.
‘Yes?’ came a very cultured voice from the other end of the phone.
‘Zeke, it’s Harry. I need something from your elves.’
‘Of course you do. Big or small?’
‘Not too big this time; I only need a lock pick, a wetsuit and an Orc costume.’
Considering the last time I had contacted him, I had looked for infrared glasses, four kangaroos, a machete and a rocket launcher (remind me to tell you sometime), a lock pick wasn’t too excessive a demand.
‘An Orc costume?’ I imagined his eyes opening wide in surprise. ‘There isn’t really any such thing. It’s more of a collection of smelly furs and skins held together by dirt and an occasional chain. You don’t so much acquire one as have bits of one stick to you after rolling around in a rubbish tip.’
Considering what happened during my initial encounter with Benny, I knew what he meant.
‘And what kind of lock will you be picking? And, no, I don’t want to know the personal details – just the technical ones,’ said Zeke.
‘Well, there’s the problem,’ I replied. ‘You see, I’m not really sure. I suspect that the door I have to open will more than likely be locked, but I have no idea how sophisticated this lock may be.’
‘Hmmm, without knowing the details, I suspect that you’ll need the Masterblaster. It’s so good, a man, or indeed a pig, with no fingers could open any lock with it. It’s a “Choice of the Month” in Lock Pickers Illustrated and it doesn’t come more highly recommended than that, let me tell you.’
I rolled my eyes upwards. He did so like his little sales pitches.
‘Fine, fine. How soon can I have them?’
‘Give me an hour. I need to make sure it’s in my next run so I’ll organise to have them dropped off to you as soon as I get them.’
‘Thanks, Zeke. I owe you.’
‘Yes, you do. And I’ll collect.’ Zeke hung up, leaving me with the dial tone for company.
While I waited for the equipment, I studied the plans some more. Edna’s outlet (if you’ll forgive the phrase) connected to a main sewer that serviced the entire block where her headquarters was located. Access to this larger sewer could be gained via a number of manholes; I just needed to find one that wasn’t too public and just far enough away to avoid being seen by whatever surveillance systems she had in operation. Mind you, that was the easy part. After that I had to make my way up a very narrow tunnel and hope that the exit at the other end was a little larger than a U-bend.
In the short term, personal hygiene would be a thing of the past and a shower very much an aspirational goal until I had what I came for – assuming I managed to get that far in the first place.
I can’t say I was particularly looking forward to the next few hours.
Of course, no matter how well I plan these jobs, there’s always something. Well, have you ever tried to open a manhole using trotters? Let me tell you, it’s not easy. For one thing, it’s hard to get a grip on the rim. For another, manhole covers are heavy and, thirdly, I was on my own. Lastly, I was wearing a bright blue wetsuit (although it was so worn and full of holes it could be more accurately described as a dampsuit) under a foul-smelling collection of rags that could probably have represented the height of fashion from an Orc’s perspective. All this, and I had to try not to appear too conspicuous as well. As a result, by the time I finally got the drain open (with the help of a tyre iron), my wetsuit had even more holes, my back hurt, and my skin was a darker shade of pink than usual from my exertions.
As I levered the manhole cover off, I lost my grip on it but, thanks to my quick reflexes and uncanny sense of self-preservation, I didn’t lose any body parts as it fell heavily (and with a very loud clang) to the ground. Fortunately, as Edna’s stronghold was in an area where the occasional loud noise wasn’t an undue cause for concern, it didn’t appear to have attracted any attention.
I shone my torch down the manhole and looked in carefully. At first glance, the sewers didn’t look (or smell) too unpleasant. In actual fact they smelled better than me. This, I suspected, was largely because of the recent heavy rains, which had run off via storm drains and into the sewage system, effectively washing most of the unpleasant stuff away.
Now that was something to be thankful for.
Grabbing the top rung of a metal ladder that led from the street down into the sewers, I slowly and carefully made my descent. Arriving safely at the bottom I took my bearings with the help of the plans.
I was in a large tunnel that stretched off into the darkness in both directions. Smaller tunnels opened out from the walls as far as I could see but none, I was glad to note, seemed to be active. The only evidence of any discharge other than rainwater from these tunnels was a trail of green scum that dripped downwards towards the floor of the main sewer. Although I was ankle deep in liquid, it appeared to be mostly water. Then again, I had no intention of examining it too closely. What I didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt me.
I had a quick look at the plans, figured I had to go right and slowly made my way up the tunnel trying to keep the sloshing to a minimum – just in case. Although I wasn’t entirely sure which of the smaller outlets led into Edna’s HQ, it didn’t take me long to figure it out. Not surprisingly, it was the one with the large securely-padlocked grille that covered the entire tunnel entrance. After a few pulls it was evident that this grille wasn’t going to come away from the wall that easily.
‘OK Harry,’ I said to myself as I reached for the lock pick. ‘Let’s see how good the Masterblaster is.’
In fairness, I haven’t had much cause to pick locks in the past. Any time I’ve had to ‘enter’ a residence without legally coming in via the front door, I’ve found that the old credit card trick so beloved of TV detectives actually worked. It was, therefore, no surprise that jiggling little iron pins in a keyhole wasn’t quite as simple as it first appeared. No matter how I tweaked, twisted and pulled at the lock, it stubbornly refused to open. Even reverting to Plan B – swearing at the grille – didn’t appear to have any effect either.
In total frustration I hit out at the lock with my torch. To my surprise the lock broke and fell to the ground in pieces. Years of rust and an application of brute strength had succeeded where subtlety and bad language had failed.
Of course, it wouldn’t be a Harry Pigg case without something bad happening as well. In this instance, the breaking of the lock had also resulted in the unfortunate breaking of the torch. I now had to navigate my way through a sewage outlet and into Edna’s lair in total darkness,