The Third Pig Detective Agency: The Complete Casebook. Bob Burke
had to have one redeeming feature.
I entered the diner and headed for the counter.
‘Blue here?’ I asked, trying to ignore the smell.
Rumpelstiltskin was cleaning a glass but from the state of the cloth he was using I suspected all he was doing was adding more dirt to an already filthy inside. He grunted in reply and nodded towards a booth at the back of the diner.
‘You are as gracious as you are informative,’ I said. ‘Any chance of a coffee, preferably in a clean mug?’ I looked pointedly at what he had in his hands.
Another grunt, which I assumed was an affirmative, but it was hard to tell.
I made my way to the back of the diner. It was a little early for the evening rush but some tables were already occupied. A few construction trolls were sharing a newspaper, or at least looking at the pictures. They also seemed to be the only ones eating what might have been loosely described as a hot meal. That was the thing about trolls: they were a chef’s delight. They ate anything thrown up in front of them (and my choice of phrase is deliberate), never complained and always came back for seconds. They single-handedly kept Stiltskin’s in business – and they had very big hands.
My contact was sitting in a darkened booth and barely acknowledged me as I sat down. He was still wearing that ridiculous bright blue smock and leggings that all our shepherds wore. The only sop to his status as a musician was a pair of sunglasses.
‘Blue,’ I greeted him. ‘How’re tricks?’
He grunted once and continued to nurse his coffee. It was obviously a day for grunts. Conversation wasn’t his strong point either. It seemed to be a feature of the people who frequented Stiltskin’s.
‘I’m looking for information,’ I said.
‘Ain’t you always,’ came the reply. He still hadn’t bothered to look up.
I pressed on regardless. ‘Rumour has it that one of our more upstanding citizens has lost something valuable. He seems to think I might be able to help him locate it. I figured if anyone had heard anything on the grapevine, it’d be you.’
‘Anyone I know?’
‘That stalwart of Grimmtown high society, our very own Mr Aladdin,’ I replied.
At the mention of Aladdin’s name he suddenly became less disinterested. He sat upright so fast it was like someone had pumped 5,000 volts through him. Now I had his complete and undivided attention.
‘Well, well. So he’s come to you, eh? Must be scraping the bottom of a very deep and very wide barrel.’
I ignored the insult. ‘He obviously appreciates the skills that I provide … and I appreciate the skills that you provide,’ I said, slipping a twenty-dollar note across the table to him. There was a blur of movement and the note disappeared off the table and into his pocket. I’d have sworn his hands never moved.
He leaned forward so much our heads were almost touching. ‘Word on the street is he’s missin’ his lamp,’ he whispered. ‘Not good from his point of view.’
‘Yeah? Why’s that? What’s so special about it?’
Boy Blue leaned even closer, pushed his shades up onto his forehead and, for the first time since I had arrived, looked directly at me. His eyes were an intense blue – just like his ridiculous outfit.
‘Rumour has it that it’s a magic lamp and he somehow used it when he was younger to make himself very rich.
‘There he was, didn’t have two coins to rub together, working for peanuts in a laundry. Suddenly he was the talk of the town, appearing at all the best parties, escorting dames like Rapunzel; quite the overnight sensation.’
I groaned inwardly. Magic! I hated magic. As a working detective it’s bad enough running the risk of being beaten up or thrown into a river with concrete boots on, without having to live with the possibility of being changed into a dung beetle or having a plague of boils inflicted on you. If you think humans were disgusting covered with boils, imagine how I might look. No! Magic was to be avoided where possible and if it had to feature in a case, I wanted the Glenda the Good type – the type that had lots of slushy music and sparkly red slippers. With my luck, however, this was probably going to be the other type. I was already having premonitions of waking up with the head of a hippo and the body of a duck, going through the rest of my life only being able to grunt and quack.
‘Any idea if this magic lamp actually worked?’ I asked.
‘Nah. I don’t even know if it’s true. You know how these things are – he probably arrived in town in a stretch limo and with a pocketful of dough. Twenty years later, the rumour becomes the truth because it’s just so much more romantic.’ He laughed quietly. ‘One thing’s for sure though, he’s certainly not a man to be messed with. He has some interesting hired help.’
‘I know. I think I got off on the wrong trotter with one of them this morning.’
‘Big guy, scruffy white beard, perpetually angry and smells of cheese?’
‘Yeah, that’s the fellow; the inimitable Mr Gruff. We’ve had run-ins before.’
Boy Blue swallowed the dregs of his coffee and pushed the cup away. He belched loudly and with great satisfaction. ‘Amazin’ thing about this place: lousy food, great coffee. Didn’t think it was possible.’
‘Well think about it,’ I replied. ‘Stiltskin’s got to have something going for him – apart, of course, from his scintillating personality. But let’s get back to Aladdin.’ I tried to gather my thoughts. ‘Thing is, why would anyone want to steal this lamp, if the story about it is, in fact, just that – a story? Can’t see this particular gentleman being overly upset at the thought of having a family heirloom stolen – certainly not upset enough to hire me. It certainly didn’t look valuable from the photo he showed. Then again, what do I know? I’m no antiques expert.’
Boy Blue’s eyes didn’t so much as flicker. ‘What if the story’s true? Think about it, what could someone do with a magic lamp?’
I thought about it. More to the point, I thought about what I could do with a magic lamp – and I didn’t have too fertile an imagination: big house, big car, gold-plated – maybe even pure gold – feeding trough. One rub and all my troubles would be over and, before you ask, it’s a convention in this town: you always rub any brassware you might find on the street, just like you always wave any ornate stick when you pick it up and always click your heels together when wearing any kind of sparkly red jewelled shoes. I may not like magic but that’s not to say there isn’t a lot of it about and people certainly know how to check for it.
It also hadn’t escaped my notice that if the wrong people got their hands on this particular source of untold wealth and power then it could create quite a lot of problems – assuming it was the genuine article. There were too many stories of people in Grimmtown who bought pulse vegetables from total strangers with the promise of great things happening to them. With the exception of a guy called Jack (another client whose story I must tell you someday), these great things didn’t ever amount to much more than a hill of beans, unless you happened really to like eating vegetables.
My chat with Boy Blue, however, gave me the distinct impression that we were dealing with the bona fide article and a client who wanted it back urgently – presumably before someone else could do what he did all those years ago. Even worse, maybe they had stolen it to use against him. Even worse again, he had hired me to get it back. Ah yes, things were definitely on the expected downward spiral. This was turning out to be a typical Harry Pigg case: much more trouble than it was worth, the potential for great harm being inflicted upon me, and probably impossible to get out of unless I actually found the artifact. I seem to attract these cases like a cowpat attracts flies.
I turned my attention back to Blue, who had now started on my coffee. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve any idea who might have taken this lamp?’
‘Take