The Third Pig Detective Agency: The Complete Casebook. Bob Burke
was it mislaid?’ I asked.
‘It was last seen in a display cabinet in my study. Last night it was most definitely there; this morning it was gone.’
‘Lost? Stolen? Melted down and sold for scrap? Can you be a little more specific?’ I looked at the picture again. The lamp didn’t look up to much. It was about the size of a gravy boat, coloured an off-shade of gold and had more dents than the Tin Man. I clearly needed more information.
‘I … ah … suspect it may have been stolen but I am unable to prove this at present.’
‘Have you spoken to the police?’
Again, rumour had it that local law enforcement was more akin to Aladdin’s private security force than public servants. If anyone could locate an artifact of this nature quickly and with a minimum of fuss, it was them. In all likelihood, their jobs would depend on it.
Aladdin looked at me carefully. ‘The police have been more than helpful but, at this time, they have neither a suspect nor a specific line of inquiry. It is my firm belief that someone of your talents might be of more use in this particular instance.’
‘Because?’ I enquired.
‘Because, as I have already mentioned, you can be discreet. I think that perhaps you can exploit particular avenues of inquiry that may be outside the scope of the law and you have your snout in all the right information troughs – forgive the analogy, I mean no offence.’
‘None taken,’ I replied. Offended or not, I wasn’t going to abandon this client just yet, certainly not on the basis of a less than politically correct analogy. ‘However, I don’t normally take on cases that are still under investigation by the police.’
‘Trust me,’ came the very smooth reply. ‘The police have exhausted all avenues and will not bother you during the course of your investigation.’
In other words they’d come up with nothing – or at least nobody they could pin the theft on. Either that or this lamp was something that Aladdin would prefer not having the police involved with. This case stank higher than an abattoir in a heatwave – and I should know, my office looks out on one and it wasn’t a nice place to be in the summer.
My only question now was should I take this particular case on? If the lamp had been stolen, chances were that someone with more than a passing grudge towards Aladdin had taken it. By extension, they were probably not nice people. Not nice people didn’t normally worry me – in my line of work I come across quite a few – but I suspected this particular category of not nice people probably wouldn’t have too many qualms about serving me up for breakfast along with some scrambled eggs. I decided cowardice was the better part of valour in this instance.
‘Mr Aladdin, I’m flattered that you saw fit to choose the Third Pig Detective Agency but I don’t think I’m in a position to take you on at the moment. My caseload is somewhat heavy.’
He looked at me extremely carefully. ‘I think, perhaps, you might reconsider,’ he said, very quietly but very ominously.
‘No, really. It’s just not possible right now. I am sorry.’
Aladdin turned to his henchgoat. ‘Mr Gruff?’
Gruff opened the briefcase again and took out a large folder which he handed to his employer. He was smiling at me as he did so.
Aladdin opened the folder and began to flick through the pages. ‘Mr Pigg, what I have here, among other things, are your last six bank statements, a number of bills from certain of your suppliers – most of which are, apparently, very overdue – and a number of demands for rent, which seems considerably in arrears. Your former landlord seems particularly unhappy with you.’
I was about to launch into a robust defence of my financial situation, which would include claims of invasion of privacy, how unjust certain of my suppliers were in their demands and how things weren’t actually as bad as they looked, when the last part of his statement suddenly sunk in.
‘Former landlord?’ I said.
‘Oh yes, didn’t I mention? As of …’ he glanced at his watch, ‘forty-five or so minutes ago, I now own this building. You appear to owe me quite an amount of rent.’ He handed the folder back to Gruff. ‘Shall I have Mr Gruff here organise for collection? I do believe he is a most effective debt-collector. I certainly haven’t had any complaints about his methods.’
That sealed it for me. I could have lived with owing half of Grimmtown money and having Aladdin as my new landlord, but I wasn’t going to give the goat the satisfaction of coming around with a large baseball bat to collect any outstanding rent.
With as much dignity as I could muster, I caved in.
‘Mr Aladdin, you are a most persuasive client. I assume you would like me to start immediately?’
Aladdin smiled at me. It was the kind of smile that suggested one of his grandparents was a shark.
‘Delighted to hear it. If you need anything, Mr Gruff will be more than happy to accommodate you.’
I decided to make Gruff suffer a bit. ‘I’d like to see where you kept the lamp. Can your goat make himself available to show me around?’
The expression on Gruff’s face at this comment suggested that he’d sooner play catch with dynamite. Hey, it was a small victory but I had to take ’em where I got ’em.
Aladdin was heading for the door. Barely looking over his shoulder he asked – no, told – me to call at the house at twelve the next day and Gruff would show me around.
As the door closed behind him I sank back down into my chair and exhaled loudly. My client was now my landlord. He was missing something that he wanted to get back badly. He wanted little or no involvement with the law and, for reasons known only to himself, he had chosen me rather than any of the other detectives operating in town to do the recovery. Sometimes I just got all the breaks.
‘Oh Harry, Harry, Harry,’ I breathed. ‘What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into now?’
If television is to be believed, we detectives have contacts everywhere. All it takes is a quick phone call to Izzy or Sammy or Buddy and, hey presto, there it is – information at your fingertips. Barmen, bouncers, paperboys, waitresses; you name them, your average detective has them in his little black book. They have their ears to the ground and are always willing to give exactly the information you’re looking for exactly when you need it, in return for a small fee.
Wrong!
Forget what you see on TV. Most detectives I know, myself included, can muster up one informant if we’re really lucky; usually unreliable, rarely cheap and never around when you want them. My particular source of ‘useful’ information was a lazy former shepherd. He had got himself into a spot of bother when – after falling asleep on the job one day – his flock had disappeared. Blacklisted and unable to hold down any other kind of agricultural employment, he eked out a living playing the trumpet in some of the town’s cheaper bars. He usually then spent the money drinking in the same bars. When people talked of someone with his ear to the ground they meant literally in his case. He did get around, however, and if something was going on in town, there was always the remote possibility he might have heard about it. More than likely, however, he hadn’t.
When not performing, he was usually found in Stiltskin’s Diner nursing a cup of espresso and a hangover. Stiltskin’s was that kind of diner – great coffee, but the sort of food that was described in books about poor children in orphanages as ‘gruel’. Regardless of what you asked for it was inevitably served up as a grey lumpy mass – quite like the diner’s owner, in fact.