Mr Humperdinck's Wonderful Whatsit (2017 ed). Wynand Louw
The alley was dark and muddy, with an overwhelming smell of rotten garbage. He found the window of the bicycle shop’s back room, lifted the latch with a piece of wire he found on the ground close by, and climbed in. He had brought a candle stub along. Its small light cast dark, dancing shadows on the walls. It looked as if a tornado had swept through the place.
Suddenly Pete heard a crash in the shop.
He put the candle out and crept to the door. Four red eyes glowed in the dark behind the counter. They belonged to two rats. The rats had pulled Squeak’s cage onto the floor. The poor little mouse looked terrified, and clung to the topmost wires of his cage.
Pete grabbed a piece of bicycle tube and hit out at the rats. They scurried off and disappeared in the shadows.
Pete lifted the cage, opened the door and carefully removed the trembling mouse. It ran up his arm and hid in the pocket of his windbreaker. The policeman on the pavement outside shone his torch through the window. Pete ducked behind the counter. The light of the torch pierced the dark shadows under a shelf, exposing one of the rats. It shrieked, and ran across the room to disappear into a crate.
“Damn rats,” the policeman mumbled, switching off the torch.
As fast as he could, Pete moved in the dark to the window of the back room, and out into the alley. He closed the window carefully behind him. As he walked back to the door, he saw a pair of luminous red eyes glaring at him from the blackness behind a dumpster. He ran up the stairs, slammed the door of their flat behind him, and breathlessly locked it.
4
The Long Arm of the Law
The next day was Saturday. Pete woke as somebody banged on the door. It was Freddy.
“Seen this morning’s paper?” he asked.
Pete was still half asleep.
“Wash your face and have a look at this!”
Pete splashed some cold water from the sink on his face, while Freddy spread the newspaper on the table. Squeak jumped onto it and ran from side to side. He seemed to be reading the paper.
“Look here, on the front page!” said Freddy.
Pete couldn’t believe what he read: Alcoholic ex-lawyer wanted for bicycle shop murder. Below the heading was a photograph of his father, the same one Mrs Burton had given him, but with his mother cut away.
Yesterday evening, Inspector Grimsby announced in an exclusive interview with the City Times that the main suspect for the bicycle shop murder was Mr Peter Smith, Pete read.
Forensic experts have confirmed that a blood-stained bicycle spanner discovered in Smith’s flat on the day of the murder was indeed the murder weapon. His fingerprints were also lifted from a whisky bottle that was found in the shop after the murder.
Inspector Grimsby said that although Smith hadn’t yet been arrested, he would be apprehended in the next twenty-four hours.
“This is nonsense! That Grimsby’s a liar. He never found a spanner in our flat!”
“Sure he’s a liar, but tell that to the court. It’s your word against that of two police officers. I think we have a slight problem here, my friend. Your dad’s going to be locked away for a very long time.”
When Pete had read the whole article, Freddy turned to page three.
“Here’s another little article that might interest you.” Again, Squeak seemed very interested.
“Homeless people get doughnuts from fairies,” Freddy read. “Yesterday Mr Samson, a homeless person who lives under a bridge on 22nd Avenue and apparently has no last name, caused a commotion when he claimed to have received doughnuts ‘from the fairies’. An emotional Mr Samson told our correspondent that a butterfly sat on his knee while he lay in the gutter. A moment later it turned into the ‘best doughnut I’ve ever tasted, with caramel and jelly bears’. After this first ‘gift from the fairies’, he saw a similar butterfly and chased it into the busy street where he caught it by jumping on the bonnet of a passing Mercedes. This butterfly also turned into a doughnut. Very soon, there was a free-for-all as other homeless people started chasing butterflies in the street, causing the worst traffic congestion in this street in years. Mr Thabo Radebe, the unhappy owner of the Mercedes, believes the people were all high on some substance. He said that butterflies cannot possibly change into doughnuts and that he plans to sue the socks off Mr Samson, the Traffic Department and the City Council for the extensive damage to his car.
“Now, is this a coincidence, or what?” asked Freddy. He frowned, and then seemed to make up his mind. “Coincidence. Someone sure has an overactive imagination.”
Pete had seen so many strange things in the last few days that he wasn’t surprised. In any case, he was too worried about his father to give this incident much thought.
“We have to find my dad before the cops do, Freddy.”
“When last did you see him?”
“Well, he didn’t come home last night. Maybe he slept in the park. He often goes there ‘to think’.”
Squeak ran up Pete’s jacket and into his pocket.
“So let’s go,” said Freddy.
At the park they separated to have a greater chance of finding Pete’s father. Pete had an advantage over Freddy, since he had his skateboard with him. After about five minutes, he found his father sitting on a bench.
He was obviously not in a good mood. “I have a headache. Go away,” he said.
“Dad, remember I told you Mr Humperdinck was murdered? Well, they say you did it, and the police are looking for you!”
Peter Smith stared at his son with blank eyes. “What?”
“Maybe you should begin by telling your son where you were between eight and two o’clock on Wednesday night, Peter old buddy.”
Inspector Grimsby’s voice made Pete jump.
“You followed me, you …PIG!” cried Pete.
“Of course! That’s what the police do. And watch your tongue, sonny. Now come on, Peter, tell me where you were on Wednesday night.”
Smith held his head in his hands. “I was drunk. I can’t remember.”
“Then I have no choice but to arrest you for the murder of one Humperdinck. You know your rights. Gripe, cuff the man.”
“Warren, do you really think I did it?” pleaded Smith.
Grimsby just smirked.
Pete felt a movement in his jacket’s top pocket. It was Squeak, trying to get his attention. The little mouse made frantic movements with his front paws. Run! The mouse was signalling him to run! Pete leaped over the park bench and was about to jump on his skateboard when Gripe’s cudgel hit him in the small of his back. He fell forward, skinning the palms of his hands on the gravel path. The constable was on him, grinding his knee into Pete’s back.
Gripe laughed. “This one’s a sport, hey, Boss? Good thing I played a bit of rugger in my day!”
Pete glanced at his father, but Smith was almost in a stupor, and hadn’t even noticed what had just happened.
“You’ll be coming with us, young man. I understand there’s no-one at home to look after you,” said Grimsby and pulled him up by his collar. Pete had no chance of escaping now: The man had a grip of steel. They were marched to the waiting police van, Pete loaded into the front and his father in the back. Pete could only hope that Freddy had seen what had happened.
When they arrived at the police station, Grimsby disappeared into an office with his father, while Pete was taken to the charge office. The officer on duty was bent on treating him like a baby.
“Hello, Peetie. A sweetie?” She pinched