* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Back in London the evening was getting dark -a damp cold fog was settling in, and the rooftop chimneys wafted smoke into the atmospheric pea-soup. The lights across the Thames slowly sank into the fog, the view dissolving in a grey mist. Such meteorological misery made one so much more appreciative of one’s cosy nook, a cheery fireplace and a solid English working-class dinner, to be had in due course.
The professor was at ease, reading comfortably in a winged armchair. He sucked softly on his meerschaum pipe, blowing blue rings into the air. His eyes fell on the bust of his hero, Sherlock Holmes, staring at him from the mantelpiece. He gave Sherlock a wink, as if to acknowledge him as the source of his inspired detective work. He made a mental note to get himself a deer-stalker hat, just like Sherlock’s, as those hanging flaps would keep his ears warm in foul weather.
He reached over to a side-table and plucked a pinch of snuff from his snuff-box and snorted it up his nose. (Well Sherlock used to indulge, why not?). In a few minutes, his fireplace radiated rainbows and he gazed inwards, at the floral wall paper someone had glued inside the walls of his skull. About half an hour later, he gradually floated off the ceiling and found himself settled back in his armchair.
No real Dr Watson was ever going to knock on his door and sit with him by the fireplace, buttering Pipistrello with obsequious platitudes in honour of his great powers of deduction, just as his hero, Sherlock, was well and truly lacquered by his Watson. But a hamster, by the name of Dr Watson, did grace Pipistrello’s study, and although hamster Watson never criticised, he didn’t lend much to the argument either. At times, the poor creature busied himself with astonishing revolutions of his hamster wheel to try and buy his freedom with a heart attack. But alas, the rodent found himself born tough.
“Well, then,” Matto exclaimed to Sherlock’s bust, “time to feed the hungries, is it not ?”
He walked to his little fridge and pulled out a microwave dinner. He had a choice between “Bangers and Mash”, “Tripe and Onions” or “Chicken Feet Soup.” He wanted a treat tonight – and “Tripe and Onions” won the selection. His mother raised him as a true Scot, stoic, unfussed and something of a myopic gourmet. There, a tantalising meal lay before him. Did the French ever discover instant gravy mix or tomato sauce? Well, their loss not his.
As he watched his treat going round and round in the microwave oven, his 1920’s phone jangled him out of his complacency and he went to answer it.
“Al-lo....” he said. “Pipistrello speaking.”
“Professor, my name’s Noodles. I’m ringing from New York. Ah, we have an emergency. For a handsome commission we need you to decipher a code for us. I’ll get to the point. Four Zurich Gnomes of the American Capitalist Church have been kidnapped, one already murdered, and we must save the other three. They hold the codes for Swiss money vaults, which hold trillions of gold and if the bullion is lost, it could bankrupt the world into World War III.”
“I think I’ve heard of you,” mused Pipistrello, “Didn’t you stitch up NASA by selling them your multi-million dollar toilet?”
“That’s history well and truly flushed down the pipe, what do you say to 250,000 Washers?”
“Washers? Dear Lord! What should I do with that many washers? Not a lot, quite useless without nuts and bolts - I’d say.”
“No, I mean President Washington’s face on the American dollar. I’m talking about 250,000 US dollars.”
“Ding!” went the microwave.
“Hang on!” Pipistrello rushed over to his dinner and with a quick swish of the tomato sauce bottle, squirted bright red stripes over the plate, transforming the sickly white concoction into an appetising creation. He thrust a napkin into his shirt collar, picked up the utensils, and switched his phone to room speaker.
“250,000 dollars are acceptable, pray, what is your riddle?”
Noodles slowly read out the lyrics. He advised Pipistrello that all they had to start with was not that helpful, just a few senseless clues.
“Of Angels eight one marks the gates,
P, zero, zero are its co-ordinates.”
Pipistrello sat in his wing chair, legs firm together to better brace himself. He placed the plate on his lap and mounted an attack on his tripe and onions. But was his knife blunt or was this tripe unusually plucky, putting up a good fight? – No matter, he would earn his meal. With wistful thoughts of his romantic suppers in Africa, under a soft moonlight, he had remained unfazed whilst hacking into a dehydrated hyena.
Then he said to Noodles, “You’re wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have more clues than you think.” He went on to explain. “See, you have to pair the first line with the second and notice the riddle talks in groups of four.”
“So?”
“Four gnomes, four tastes, four senses. The clue to find these princes of finance is to match the tastes with the senses.”
Pipistrello paired the clues together.
“To Touch and See, To Smell and Hear
One so Sweet the other Bitter, one so Sour the other Salty”
“The words “See! or Look! have something to do with Bitter. Smell goes with Sour. Something sweet goes with the need to touch. Something salty has to do with hearing, or sound. Tell me, did the first monsignor to be murdered have extremely poor eyesight?”
Noodles was impressed. “Well, yes, he was almost blind, but how on earth did you know that?”
Pipistrello stoked his pipe, a smile appearing at the first success of his enormous powers of deduction. He winked at Dr Watson who busied himself in shelling a peanut, unaware of the intelligence of his guardian.
After a pause Pipistrello went on to explain. “Touch has been paired with sweet. Gnome #1 was murdered with sweetness, his stomach stuffed with chocolate. He would have been very much dependent on touch because he was near-blind, see the connection?”
“Eh ? Couldn’t Grunter’s blindness be connected with “see” which is connected with “bitter?”
“It could but we already know the circumstances of the first murder. –Sweetness, that is chocolate, was connected with the Gnome’s disability of blindness forcing him to touch everything. Therefore touch is the right clue. With the first pair of clues eliminated, that leaves us to fit the remaining 6 clues clearly into matched pairs, does it not?”
Noodles sat down. This logic was getting too deep. He resigned himself to Pipistrello’s mental manipulations and sighed “Well, what next?”
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Twelve (12)
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Again a silent pause as Pipistrello leaned back in his armchair staring intently at the ceiling, allowing his neurons to fire sporadically. He imagined himself out-of-his-body, standing behind his own head and sifting through his cranium at the dozens of possibilities on offer. His landlord better fix that ceiling leak soon, he thought. Eventually he broke the silence.
“It’s a long shot, but we don’t have much to go on. You’re in New York right?”
“Yes, Manhattan actually, 77th floor of the Capitalist Church Basilica.”
“Look out the window, do you see any angels?”
“In Wall St New York? You must be kidding!” Noodles gazed down the skyscraper canyons to the streets below, noting the abundance of stretched shiny black limousines, fighting for room among yellow taxis.
Lots of devils, maybe, he muttered.
Pipistrello was quick. “That’s it! Irony! It’s not really angels we’re looking for it’s the exact opposite, look for devils or symbols associated with devils! Now look again, what do you see?”
Noodles looked up at the sky, some cloud, some jets high and low, a helicopter, people scurrying like ants on the streets. Nothing diabolical to-day. His eyes swept slowly over the skyline checking th
e wedding cake heaps of the older, taller buildings. His eyes were attracted by the shiny arches of the Chrysler Building roof pinnacle. There on the 60th floor was a wide parapet where each of the four corners was guarded by giant heads of stainless steel eagles, two on each corner.
Noodles quacked like a duck with excitement. “Eagles are the Angels of the sky! And Gargoyles represent monsters and evil spirits! The Irony! All made of steel! And there’s eight of them and set at 90 degree intervals or angles! And....and...some years ago a Ghostbuster Team actually exorcised terrible evil from inside the shell of these eagles. It’s them, the eight gargoyles of the Chrysler Building!”
Pipistrello frowned with Noodles’ theory. Was he trying to upstage him with fuzzy logic – a domain of which he was the undisputed king? He hesitated briefly, trying to follow Noodles’ wild pin-ball conclusions. Deciding to be generous, Pipistrello conceded “-Splendid! Good man! We have found the pointers, the clues to direct our search.”
Noodles’ excitement dissolved into frustration. “But they point to all four corners, which one should we follow?”
Pipistrello purred with delight at his next revelation. “One of them is a line of sight pointing to a location for the second crime. In the rhyming clues, sight was paired with bitter. You need to look along the axis of the chosen eagle to locate ‘The gate’ meaning at a place where all things bitter can happen.”
This rewarding score in the progress of deduction deserved a pinch of snuff and a re-packing of his favourite pipe, surely, and such did Pipistrello.
Noodles almost began to howl with impatience and deep frustration. “But which eagle?”
Botzi, being more logical, could see little connection in what he was hearing, but patiently pulled up a chair and sat down.
Pipistrello was not to be hurried, lest Noodles outguess him again. He carefully loaded his meerschaum with another plug of tobacco and eventually got it alight after wasting six or seven matches. He sucked and puffed, blowing smoke to the sloping rafters an arm’s length above him.
Years ago, there was a noticeable sag in two of the rafters as a colony of white ants threatened to chew them clean in half. But a week after moving into his new lodgings, Pipistrello’s pipe killed their eggs and fumigated the whole ceiling. The surviving termites packed their bags and moved next door.
Mice likewise considered his pipe disgusting beyond forgiveness and disappeared, although a tough street rat occasionally desecrated the premises, as well as chewing the detective’s tobacco and spitting it back into his pipe. Pipistrello puzzled over why sometimes he couldn’t remember filling his pipe and at those times the tobacco tasted like rat’s breath.
At last Pipistrello, quite snuffed and hanging on to his armchair so he wouldn’t float again, spoke “Which eagle, you ask? Why, the one associated with the next clue, P, zero, zero!”
“P, zero, zero!” Noodles scoffed “What sort of co-ordinates are they? They give no degrees, no direction and in fact they don’t even make sense!”
“Ah but they do, dear boy,” Pipistrello drove the thrust of his logical lance straight at Noodles, with some satisfaction. “P, zero, zero, are not degrees, they make a word and what word is that my dear Noodles?” They could hear Pipistrello was beaming with pride at his brilliance.
Noodles could think of only one. At risk of being ridiculed he took the plunge “POO?”
Botzi leaned over, still listening and eagerly balanced on the edge of his seat. He thought this line of conversation was bordering either on the occult or the effects of a severe lobotomy, and had no idea as to the final conclusion.
“Yes, Poo! Pigeon poo! The eagles must have accumulated a fair amount of bird droppings over the years.”
“But they might all have dropped the same amount of crap on each eagle!” replied Noodles.
“Not exactly, the eagle pointing towards the most evil, in this case the kidnapping of the Gnome, would generate the greater force-field of evil thus scaring more pigeons as they flew over, and thus triggering more frequent bowel motions.”
“And how do you measure which eagle has the most pigeon poo?” asked Noodles.
“Go now to the 60th floor of the Chrysler Building, scrape every flake of bird poo into eight marked bags and weigh them on a scientific beam balance. The heaviest bag belongs to the eagle pointing to where the second Gnome is held captive.”
This last show of computational genius from Pipistrello completely floored Botzi, in that he slipped off his chair crashing his bum on the floor and sat staring wide-eye at Noodles. His sides ached with pressure as he fought desperately to stop himself exploding into a roar of laughter. His face showed the strain as he gritted his teeth and stared at Noodles.
Noodles guessed what Botzi was thinking. He was in no mood to take criticism.
“Look, this guy Pipistrello sold millions of books, and his detective prowess won the unquestioning loyalty of a world of passive readers. The fact that he wasted a monastery of monks diffusing a booby-trapped bible did not deter Hollywood from correctly assessing he was a good return on funds. The bottom line is – Faith, -Faith that Pipistrello eventually hits the mark, -he produces the goods.”
Botzi was in no mood to argue. He picked himself up and wearily followed Noodles outside. He would wait until he was alone to bang a wall with his fists and relieve himself of the humorous pressure built up by the insanity of what just transpired. They visited a laboratory to pick up some scientific equipment and headed for the Chrysler Building. After entering the lobby, they took a lift to the 60th floor and walked to the door leading outside to the roof garden. Soon they found themselves outside, looking at an awesome view.
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Thirteen (13)
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The stainless steel eagles on the Chrysler Building were bigger than they thought. But what immediately cast a pall of gloom on the intrepid duo was that during their journey up the building, a snow storm had materialised out of nowhere, and snow was falling heavily.
“How can that happen?” asked Botzi, “We entered the building on a warm summer’s day and walk out at the top into a blizzard. No wonder the Ghost Busters had a hard time with these eagles. This place is evil.”
“Nothing we can do, lets get started, before the sun sets,” suggested Noodles
“Get started? The eagles are already covered in snow, how can we measure accurately? If ‘The Poo’ is under those mounds of snow building up on their backs, we’re stuffed.
Noodles quietly put down his instruments case. Botzi was right. “And in any case, what about the effects of past weather in erasing vital poo clues? We would not know for certain if we had the right eagle.”
That was the end of the road. There was nothing they could do. At the least, they decided to take a walk around the roof looking at each eagle, now that they had come so far. Shuffling through the snow, they walked past the seventh eagle and were approaching the eight, when Botzi suddenly turned back.
“Let’s take another look at number seven. I thought I saw something.” Botzi scraped some snow flakes of the eagle’s sculptured contours and there it was, faintly scratched into the steel shell. “P.O.O.”
“There it is!” exclaimed Botzi. “Poo was not Pigeon Poo after all. They are possibly someone’s initials. Pipistrello goofed on this one.”
“He has been known to suffer from tangential references,” apologised Noodles
“What’d you mean? Some of his conclusions are just farts? I can believe that.” Botzi was sarcastic and in no mood for apologies.
“Hang on, Pipistrello got us here, didn’t he ? Ok, lets get the line of sight before we freeze to a stand-still.” hurried Noodles.
Cleaning off the snow, they set up a theodolite firmly along the middle axis of the eagle’s back and while Noodles peered through its telescope, Botzi
unfurled a map of the surrounding area and lined it up with the surveying instrument.
“What do you see?” he asked Noodles.
“Rooftops and more rooftops, industrial buildings, or, in the far distance, hills and houses.”
“I think you’ve projected too far, concentrate on nearer buildings, -see anything bitter?”
“This is a telescope, not a Giraffe’s tongue, how can I see something bitter?” Noodles squinted harder to make out more details. “Wait! I see industrial chimneys –there’s advertising on them. I can just read.... ‘Buttkirzer Beer’ right in the centre of my crosshairs.”
“That’s it! The brewery –that’s where something bitter is made. I bet we find the second Gnome in the Buttkirzer Brewery!”
“How far is it?” asked Noodles, hastily packing up the gear.
“Not more than 28 miles. We could taxi there in about 1 hour excluding traffic jams. Let’s go!”
But it was rush hour, both in using the lift and getting a taxi. Botzi wondered whether crashing down the stairwell would have been faster as the lift stopped every few floors. By the time they reached ground, numerous lift-music repeats of ‘The Girl from Ipanema’ etched deep into his brain, and took three days to fade out.
Taxi capture was hardly more rewarding. Nothing stopped or came their way. In desperation, Noodles shoved a fistful of money into a passing cab driver’s face. The cabbie screeched to a halt, tossed outside the old lady riding in the back of his cab, lifted her up out of the gutter into her walking frame, and plonked her pet Chihuahua under her hat. He then placed himself in the servitude of Messrs Noodles and Botzi.
“Where to?”
“Buttkirzer Brewery and step on it!” ordered Noodle, “we are on a life and death mission, here!”
The traffic jam was not as serious as it could be, rating about 7 out of 10. Still, it did take 2 hours to reach the factory gates of Buttkirzer Brewery. The taxi finally careered to a halt, Noodles paid the cabbie and Botzi was already in the guard-house explaining the urgency of the situation. The guard requested one of the factory supervisors to come and show them around. This all happened so quick that they were inside the giant factory among the processing pipes and stainless steel tanks in less than five minutes.
They weren’t sure what they were looking for, so they walked slowly, swivelling their heads to glance all over the place, negotiating every steel ladder and walkway, peering into every open vat. As they climbed higher up the four storey beer-processing plant, they began to think that this time they got it wrong.
Arriving at possibly the second last open vat, they took a weary look. Why was there a rope hanging from a steel beam into the vat? The supervisor said that it shouldn’t be, as ropes dangling in vats where unhygienic and would spoil the beer.
The trio climbed a further level to peer down into the vat. It was lit by a floodlight and near full of beer. In the clear amber liquid they could see the body of Gnome Gopher. His boots were uppermost, tied with rope, while his head was thrust into the depths, also roped to some kind of steel weight.
The supervisor was aghast. He quickly went into emergency mode, called for help and activated all life –saving procedures, but it was too late. Rescue teams could only retrieve the body.
“Mongrel scum!” swore the supervisor, in tears. “His mouth was gagged with tape so he couldn’t swallow. They dipped him in world-best beer and denied him a few farewell drinks! Who are these sadists!?”
Botzi sighed and Noodles looked down, wondering if ever they were going to save the remaining two victims.
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Fourteen (14)
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Noodles wasted no time in asking for a Buttkirzer office and trying to telephone Pipistrello.
A scratchy answering machine informed him “You have dialled the number of Professor Pipistrello, here in London. Unfortunately the Professor is unavailable. Please understand that due to heavy telephonic traffic trying to consult the professor, you have been allowed fifteen seconds, after the beep, to state your business and if reasonable, the Professor will try to contact you. Due to your short allowance, may we suggest you state your name and your phone number first, followed by choosing a numeral to indicate precisely the nature of your business. These numerical indicators are:
Press 1 - Murder, successful, pre-meditated.
Press 2 - Murder, unfortunate circumstances.
Press 3 - Murder, wrong victim.
Press 4 -Theft, embezzlement, forgery, burglary, pick-pocketing, share trading.
Press 5 -Espionage, Treason, Political Assassinations, Casual shooting sprees.
Press 6 -Divorce, Cheating, Lying, Inheritance, Maintenance, Mistress Disposal.
Press 7 -Sorry, I dialled the wrong Number.
The professor reserves the right to refuse any, or all criminal or domestic cases offered to him, the professor denies all liability as to outcome and no further correspondence will be entered into. Are you ready? Please speak now, - BEEP!” The answering machine ran out of time and cut out.
Noodles’ memory chips started to heat up with frustration. “Professor please ring me as soon as possible. This is Noodles. We lost Monsignors Grunter and Gopher, but there is still a chance to save the others. What can you advice professor? Here are the next set of clues.”
Noodles fumbled for the slip of paper containing the clues. Before he could take a breath to speak he was rewarded with a BEEP! and a disconnection tone.
“Stuff me with nails!! That wasn’t even 15 seconds Pipistrello, you stupid pontificating, pretentious, pain-in-the-ass, ponce!!” Noodles howled with anger.
Time was running out. He had no choice but to ring again as he forgot to leave his new phone number on the professor’s recorder. Botzi looked quizzically at him wondering what had happened.
Noodles listened “....You have dialled the number of Professor Pipistrello, here in London....”
He faced Botzi as the message rolled on. “Bloody Pipistrello waffles for five minutes then pretends to give you 15 seconds to talk. He can be a brainless turd.”
After some time, the expected Beep did arrive and Noodles burst like a machine gun into a torrent of information trying to pack it into his 15 seconds. On the last second he was given a reprieve as Pipistrello himself came on the line.
“Slow down dear boy, I can’t understand you. I’m just back from a violent argument between my stomach and a load of tripe and onions. Just let me open the windows.”
Noodles waited patiently then repeated his message “Professor. -Their eminence Grunter and Gopher have been murdered. We’ve got to go all out to save the others. What do we do now? Here is the third clue.”
Noodles read from the crumpled slip of paper.
“Third Clue:
“Civil wars make famous presidents
One knows where his orchard grows”
There was silence on the other end, except for rumbling, bubbling sounds, remnants of a feral volcano in Pipistrello’s bowels, born of his gastronomic experience.
Noodles turned on his mobile speaker so Botzi could hear. At last Pipistrello spoke.
“This is tough. What civil war? Spanish, American? Irish? Mexican? The words ‘famous presidents’ seem to indicate President Lincoln.” More silence as Pipistrello racked his brain. He thought to re-light his pipe but was quickly overruled by an extra loud protest from his alimentary canal, ending in an explosive expression of flammable flatulence. “Gawd,” he sniffed, “that’s one for the record books.”
More silence, then a cry of excitement. “I got it! By Jove, I got it!” Pipistrello felt smug once again, patronising Noodles with his ability. “Dear, dear boy, it’s now obvious.”
Noodles humoured him and played the fool “What’s obvious, professor?”
“This is another puzzle of geogr
aphical directions.”
Noodles gave Botzi a look “Watch out for tangential references” he whispered.
“I can hear them,” was Botzi’s poker-faced reply. “he’s not ripping curtains, is he?”
Pipistrello continued, “Let’s go back a little. We have four Gnomes, four senses – touch, sight, smell, hearing, and four tastes, sweet, bitter, sour, and salty. Align them up in pairs and what do you get? We have already used up touch and sweet, sight and bitter. We are coming to smell and sour.”
Noodles looked blank and wide eyed at Botzi. Botzi made a circular finger motion pointing to his own temple and doing cross-eyes. Noodles, not sure once again whether Pipistrello was genius or merely insane gritted his teeth. Still, they wanted to know what the professor had to say.
“Try this,” bubbled Pipistrello, “President Lincoln knows where his orchard grows. President Lincoln ‘knows’ and its also his ‘nose’ that knows where his orchard is or was. Here the ‘smell’ clue confirms that his nose plays a part in determining the direction of our quarry.”
Both his listeners were still half an earth rotation behind his reasoning. He continued undaunted. “President Lincoln must have at one time owned an orchard, what sort? Why a lemon orchard of course, that’s the sour clue.”
Noodles tried to get back into the logic wagon which by now he thought was careering out of control into a deep canyon. “Ok, so far,” Noodles lied, “but what has Lincoln’s nose got to do with it.?”
“Dear boy, remember September 17, 1937?”
“No, should I?” Noodles’ frustration levels were rising. Botzi on the other hand, was fascinated by these bats of wisdom fluttering out of Pipistrello’s cavernous consciousness.
“That’s when Lincoln’s face was dedicated. President Lincoln, one of the four heads on the Mt Rushmore Memorial. His nose points to where the lemon orchard is. There you will find the third Gnome.”
By now Botzi’s brain was doing cartwheels, but Noodles begrudgingly trusted the professor and he asked one further question. “What do we do next?”
“You are in New York. Take a night flight to South Dakota to the Mount Rushmore memorial. Camp overnight and in the morning get the satellite co-ordinates to where Lincoln’s nose is pointing. Fly straight in that direction till you find the lemon orchard. God help us that we find the Gnome alive.” Just then a great rupturing sound came across the speaker, like sails of a pirate ship tearing in a typhoon, except it was Pipistrello, in a final agony of gas release.
“Thanks professor!” yelled Noodles, “We are on our way.” He rushed over to see the Buttkirzer supervisor. “We have to leave this tragedy in your hands. We have another potential crisis to attend to. Where can we get a long distance helicopter around here, this time of night?”
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Fifteen (15)
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The Buttkirzer supervisor contacted his boss. The chain re-action was swift. The news went straight to the chief executive officer. The supervisor went back to Noodles.
“If you sign this agreement not to publicise this event, Buttkirzer will provide you with a long-range copter to take you to your destination, free-of-charge.”
Noodles didn’t hesitate. “Deal!”
The supervisor led them to the roof top helipad on the brewery complex. “It should be here in fifteen minutes.”
Noodles thanked him and sure enough, they heard the “Wop! Wop! Wop! of an approaching helicopter. They watched as it descended on the helipad, and wasting no time, they ran across and climbed in.
“South Dakota, Mt Rushmore memorial – can you make that?” Noodles said in a half-commanding tone.
“It’s a stretch, but this baby was designed for long distance.” asserted the pilot.
“Better hurry please, we have an emergency.”
The pilot gunned the engines and with another powerful Wop! Wop! Wop! the bird disappeared into the night sky. It took about four hours in silence when the pilot announced, “According to my reckoning, Mount Rushmore should be about 20 miles ahead.”
“Can you stick around, please to give us some GPS co-ordinates in daylight?” asked Noodles.
“Didn’t the supervisor tell you? Buttkirzer Brewery have put me at your disposal to assist you with your mission. By the way, my name’s Kurt.”
Noodles introduced himself and Botzi and felt like kissing the pilot but kept a professional control of his emotions.
Some hours later, the helicopter finally found a landing spot close to Mt Rushmore. It was a big machine, used for executive trips to Canada and its storage hold had all the camping equipment for comfortable hunting trips. They set about getting ready for tomorrow’s tasks.
A dark sky emphasised the brilliance of the stars.....
Dawn crept slowly from its hiding place at the horizon, pushing up the dark night and blending it into a blue sky.
Noodles and Botzi were already awake, and wasting no time, they walked to the top of the head of President Lincoln.
Botzi tried to be encouraging. “The axis of this nose is unmistakeable. Kurt won’t have any trouble plotting his co-ordinates.”
Botzi was right. Within an hour, Kurt figured the co-ordinates and they winged their way, just at the right height, to spot any orchard farm that might lie below. They found nothing resembling a lemon tree orchard. After two hours’ flight time, Kurt advised he had to put down at the nearest town with an airport that sold helicopter fuel. Noodles and Botzi walked into town and questioned some of the locals about a lemon tree orchard. They drew plenty of blanks, but one old geezer seemed to remember about a lemon tree orchard.
“It was destroyed long ago.” he said, “they built a tourist lodge on the land, called it ‘The Lemon Tree Resort’ ‘bout 50 miles north of here.”
Noodles and Botzi wasted no time. They ran through the streets to the helicopter just as Kurt was locking the fuel tanks after a full reload.
“Kurt! 50 miles due north,” gasped Noodles “Fly low, looking for the ‘Lemon Tree Resort’”
Again, the muscle helicopter savaged the air and demanded lift from the unsuspecting atmosphere, a lift that was granted without question.
It flew, sweeping the panorama below at 150 knots. Fields, houses, roads, bridges, cows under a shady tree, a sheriff’s posse mating in tall grass, two horses trotting, barns, lakes, rivers, then something that looked like a ranch. Was it a resort? It was. -A luxury resort with a helipad. And the helipad identified itself as the “Lemon Tree Resort.” Kurt put the machine down and Noodles and Botzi rushed to the resort’s reception office.
“Do you have a Gnome Grotti or Ghurkin registered here?” Noodles puffed.
“Who are you? Do you have personal ID?” asked the receptionist.
Noodles showed her his ID cards and a letter from Papa Speculatus III requesting total co-operation on a matter of life threatening proportions.
“We have a Gnome Grotti staying with us.” The receptionist called the house masseuse and asked her the whereabouts of Gnome Grotti.
“I gave him a bells and whistle massage an hour ago. He went off to the sauna,” she replied.
“Quick!” exclaimed Noodles, “where is that?”
“Go out to the pool and turn left. Go through two doors and you will come to the sauna door.”
Noodles and Botzi rushed in the direction of her instructions. Banging through some doors they arrived at the sauna door, confronted by a big padlock. The temperature indicator was set at 200 degrees Celsius.
“Oh, my God,” exclaimed Noodles, rubbing the moisture fogging the observation window in the door. Inside was a short man curled up in a foetal position, his skin as red as a lobster. There was no movement.
“Your eminence! Monsignor Grotti!” Noodles yelled. No movement. He rushed to reception and sounded the alarm. There was not
hing they could do except call the local undertaker.
Gnome Grotti had been slow-cooked such that his body was just still intact, although crispy baked . The undertaker was a religious man and really cared for the bodily remains of the Loved Ones in his charge. But he was in a quandary as to how to remove the body and transport it to his hearse, as he had no assistant and outside, the gymnasium area was too busy with people. One wrong move, and an arm or a leg might fall off his trolley, not exactly a tourist drawcard.
The man also had a catering business. Wishing to avoid the prying eyes of nosy hotel guests, he went and got some materials, returned to the sauna and closed the door. He hid the Gnome completely, trussing him up with aluminium foil in the shape of a succulent pig, put him on a large tray, placed some vegetables around the edges and an apple at one end, and pretended that it was a giant barbecue order.
He stopped a moment to pray forgiveness from the holy moneyman for wrapping him up like a pig, hoping he would understand that presenting him as a giant turkey or even two giant turkeys, would arouse suspicion. With an “Amen,” he wheeled the body outside, back to his waiting black hearse.
One curious hotel guest, an old World War II veteran from Texas, nudged back his Stetson, scratched his head and drawled to his woman, “Shucks Beulah, if they’se usin’ hearses to deliver barbecues in this joint -forget Pearl Harbour, ah’m goin’ sushi.”
A couple of mongrel dogs followed the undertaker to his hearse and demanded they get a share of whatever it was on the trolley, on account of it smelling sensational and there was so much of it.
A swift boot to their testicles, snarling attempts to bite off undertaker’s leg, a slam of a driver’s door, and the loaded hearse trundled out of sight. in a vortex of dust.
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Sixteen (16)
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“Failure after failure, we’re useless Botzi.” Noodles felt he could do with a battery recharge.
“Don’t take it so hard, Noodles –we’re doing our best, can’t do it any quicker,” reassured Botzi.
Botzi now convinced that the pattern of finding the Gnomes involved long distances, arranged for Kurt and his helicopter to stand by, to which Buttkirzer Brewery agreed on condition their pilot would not be detained any longer than an extra 2 days.
After a half hour of recuperation, Noodles again phoned his friend in London, half expecting a marathon answering message. But Pipistrello was on the line immediately.
“And the outcome?” asked Pipistrello smugly.
“Oh we found him alright, but too late. Three dead stiffs out of three, OK?” sighed Noodles.
“I’m sorry about that, but didn’t my deductions lead you to the scene of the crime?”
“Yes,” conceded Noodles, “-at least we are proving a connection between the murders. ..... Look -we have one Gnome to go. Maybe, just maybe, we can save this last one. What, in your opinion, do you suggest about clue number four.”
“Kindly read said clue at once,” instructed Pipistrello
“Salt will fly, with a mighty roar
The distant mountains have no door.”
Pipistrello tapped his side table with his fingers. He looked at Watson for inspiration, but Watson was again busy racing his hamster wheel, till it hummed like a spinning top. Well, if not suicide, Watson hoped he might hyperventilate into unconsciousness. Such boredom, such misery.
Matto’s stomach had settled down and was less of a distraction. He got up to make a pot of tea, while Noodles was still hanging on the phone waiting patiently.
Noodles could hear Pipistrello walking around, waiting for the kettle to boil and whistle, the chink of a cup and saucer and finally the pouring of a cup of tea. Pipistrello went back to sit in his chair, balancing the cup and saucer on his bony knee and thoughtfully stirred five lumps of sugar.
At last he spoke. “This is difficult,” he complained. “I can visualize two thirds of the clues but not the ending.”
“Well, give us what you’ve got,” exhorted Noodles impatiently.
“These clues describe Bonneville Flats where they race cars. This is done on great open salt spaces, and engines roar with huge power sending sprays of salt behind them. The mountains are in the distant background I believe, but the bit about mountains having no door has got me foxed. Does it mean no doors, no caves? I don’t know. I have no idea. AAARGGH ... SHOOT!!”
“They plan to shoot him?” asked Noodles puzzled.
“No! I’ve sloshed boiling tea on my crutch! Bloody Hell!”
“Well thanks so far. We will be on our way.”
“Go, go, go, -good luck ! Ooooh! -Sweet sufferin’ snowballs --didn't that HURT! Damn, my best trousers, bugger it!”
Noodles nodded to Kurt who was standing by. “Bonneville Flats, do you know the area?”
“-Used to be part of a racing team years ago,” assured Kurt, “I know it well.”
“Well take us to the officials’ site office, we have to hurry.”
The trio said their good-byes to the resort management, and once again, the helicopter began a powerful chatter that finally faded as it lifted into the sky and disappeared into the distance.
After a few hours, the jet-boosted copter was within sight of a white horizon flanked by a ring of mountains, a hazy outline at the edge of the salt desert.
“Almost there,” advised Kurt.
Noodles and Botzi both wondered whether they would be successful in this last chance to at least save one of the Gnomes. Noodles saw his chances of being paid by Papa Speculatus getting less and less but at least they had found three of them even if they were too late. Rescuing one still paid 25% of $10m so the incentive was still there. Nothing was spoken between them for some time.
Eventually they could make out a cluster of dark blocks on the severe white sea of salt, which turned out to be service buildings and garages. Coloured flags came into view and finally people scurrying about among all sorts of fuel drums, racing vehicles, machinery and coloured tents. The speed track was clearly visible, a wide runway stretching as far as the eye could see. Parked on what appeared to be a starting line, was a large, shiny red machine shaped more like a rocket although it straddled four big wheels, suggesting that it was meant to be a land vehicle. Botzi noticed a hint of jet stream shooting out of its huge, twin exhausts as the helicopter swung around. Finally their flying machine found a clear area safe enough to land. Kurt pointed to a building a few hundred metres away.
“That’s the race marshal’s office. Try that first.”
Noodles and Botzi wasted no time in following his advice. They leapt out of the aircraft and raced to the office. Noodles banged open the door, startling a group of officials discussing the racing and speed record arrangements for the day.
“Quick, do you have a contestant by the name of Ghurkin competing here today.” puffed Noodles.
The officials gave him a puzzled look, not knowing whether he was pulling their leg. Over many years, contestants got nicknames of all sorts but this seemed like a joke coming up.
Noodles quickly changed their attitude, demonstrating he was serious.
“Ghurkin, have you a contestant named Ghurkin, I tell you it’s a matter of life or death!”
One of the officials picked up an information board and ran his eyes down a list of names.
“No Ghurkin here, sorry,” he said, and as he watched Noodles’ expression of doubt, he handed the race-board across. “Here, see for yourself.”
Noodles and Botzi both checked the list when Botzi suddenly thumped his finger on a name.
“World Speed Record Attempt –a man by the name of Stewart Pickles. Don’t you get it? Stewart Pickles is an alias for Stewed Pickles, otherwise Ghurkin. This is the man! Where is he now?”
The officials broke into a chuckle, until one of them said, “I believe he’s ready to
attempt the World Speed record. He’s in that hot rocket being prepared on the starting line, as we speak.”
“Noooooooo !” yelled Noodles as he ran outside towards the hissing, shaking monster on the salt track. He ran past a group of officials standing some distance away from the race machine, who were checking cameras and timers. Botzi was not far behind him, and this prompted an official to yell after them.
“Get away – he’s about to start ignition, -get away you are in danger!”
Noodles by now reached the cockpit of the speed monster and could see a red helmet with a letter “G” on the front. Wearing this helmet was an older man, stocky but short. To his horror Noodles could see his mouth was gagged with tape. As well as this, his arms were pinned behind his back, his body also trussed with tape to the frame of his driving seat. There was a terrified pleading look in the man’s eyes.
Noodles tried to crack the locked cockpit cover to rescue him. He had no tools, his robot hands were not designed for smashing things and he was worried that further damage to himself would only reduce his capacity to help. Botzi was designed to similar specifications.
“He’s trussed up, and can’t move” yelled Botzi, “obviously this thing is being guided by remote control. Let’s find the nearest garage and get some wrecking equipment.” They began to run away from the machine.
“Look,” pointed Noodles, “there’s an emblem on the side of the machine, some kind of cartoon bird. And the name on the machine -they called it ‘The Road Runner’. -Uh-Oh....”
“We don’t need to look at cartoons right now, what we need is a little time.” No sooner had Botzi said this, when a brain cracking roar belched out of the rear of the land rocket, the blast knocking them flat into the salt.
“He’s moving off !” yelled Noodles. “Oh NO!”
But there was nothing they could do. The big red machine continued to roar and crackle, moving smoothly with ever increasing speed. By now the jet stream howled into an ear-splitting crescendo and flared many hundreds of metres along the path of acceleration. All they could see was hot gas blasting from the rear of the rocket, a huge orange ball of flame marking the position of the racer.
Everybody, including many officials and participants had come outside to watch the attempt, staring into the distance, watching the disappearing exhaust flame reduce to a dot. Someone suddenly called out in horror. “Holy Crap! That racer has left the ground!”
“No that’s an illusion, the shimmering heat often shows a gap between the car and the salt track,” said another, reassuring the crowd.
Noodles and Botzi feared for the worst. Noodles turned to some officials standing near-by “Please tell us what’s happening at the finish line!” Their attention was captured by another official running out of the main office. “The monitoring team at the finish line have reported it has just passed, ten feet off the ground with no sign of stopping!”
Cries of anguish went through the whole camp. The fiery dot was too far to see in the bright sun of the desert.
“The distant mountains have no door!” exclaimed Botzi. The ground crews turned to stare at him, questions on their faces. “He won’t get past the mountains. He’s going to crash into them!!”
I took only ten seconds to prove Botzi’s intuition. In the blue haze of the mountain range, an orange flash evolved into a gray mushroom cloud that rose into the blue sky. Some seconds later, a rolling crack of distant thunder reached the racing camp and everyone knew the final end of the last Gnome, the reverend Ghurkin, formerly known as one-time racing ace Mr. Stewart Pickles.
The mechanic who worked on Ghurkin’s racer was a devotee of Looney Tunes. He remarked to the Bio-Teks on leaving, “I named the racing car ‘The Road Runner’ because nobody could beat Monsignor Ghurkin. He loved to go ‘Beep!-Beep!’ before take-off. -Pity he didn’t get past that mountain, though, - you don’t think possibly Wylie Coyote had something to do with this?” Botzi and Noodle leered at his attempt to be funny.
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Seventeen (17)
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Botzi felt sorry for Noodles. How were they going to face the Papa with their miserable score? An unbelievable tragedy, four Red Hats rubbed out rudely in a round robin of revenge. Botzi wondered at the horror of it all. Noodles assuaged his grief somewhat by focussing on the ten million dollars. He would have to come up with some other offer to keep the Papa happy.
They made one final request to Kurt, their pilot, to return them to the Golden Sucks Basilica of the Capitalist Church in New York to explain their failure.
The Idiota Code -Poppycock Place Series Page 4
