Casper Candlewacks in the Claws of Crime!

by Ivan Brett

  An army of names invaded Casper’s ears as the crowd all introduced themselves at the same time. The chap with the loudest voice was called Terry.

  “And… um… what do you want?”

  Casper’s doorstep descended into a cacophony as each stranger described the purpose of his or her visit using poetry, puppets or interpretive dance. Someone near the front had brought a flipchart.

  “Please stop.”

  The crowd fell silent.

  “CAN WE COME IN, THEN?” shouted Terry.

  “No. Listen, can one of you just tell me why you’re here?”

  “We’re amateur detectives.” A rubber-faced lady with red hair and an extra eye stepped forward and poked a voice recorder towards the letterbox. “We’re investigating,” she said.

  The pit of Casper’s stomach dropped. “Investi-gating what?”

  “The robbery,” shouted Terry.

  “Why are you looking here, then?” Casper held his voice as steady as he could.

  The crowd shrugged and looked at one another.

  “I don’t know,” said an old man in shorts, “I just followed him.” He pointed at Terry.

  “ME?” Terry looked shocked. “BUT I WAS FOLLOWING HER.”

  All eyes turned to a tiny woman at the back. “C-c-crumbs,” she stammered. “I’m just doing my shopping.” She uttered a nervous titter and waddled away down the road.

  Some of the crowd followed her, but most stayed behind.

  “So…” Casper frowned through the letterbox.

  “CAN WE COME IN NOW?” whispered Terry.

  “No.” Casper let the letterbox flap down.

  There was yet another knock at the door.

  “I’m not in,” called Casper.

  “OH,” shouted Terry. “SORRY. WE’LL TRY SOMEWHERE ELSE.”

  The crowd seemed to disperse, so Casper made his way to the kitchen for some breakfast. With all those detectives around it was going to be way harder to look for Cuddles without raising any suspicion, but there was no choice, he had to try.

  “Hello, sonny Jim.”

  Casper yelped.

  “Take a seat.”

  He did as he was told. The men in his kitchen didn’t look like they knew what a joke was, let alone how to make one.

  A gaunt, sunken-eyed gentleman sat on the opposite chair, horribly overdressed for the weather in a sharp black tail suit, navy-blue cravat, brown overcoat and matching deerstalker hat, all topped off with a mahogany pipe resting in the corner of his mouth. The stouter man standing behind him was equally suited, but he sported a bristling moustache, quizzical eyebrows, a bowler hat and a black bow tie.

  “I could call my dad.” Casper’s hands shook.

  “Better not,” snarled the stouter man. He stomped round the table and blocked the doorway with his bulky frame.

  Casper swallowed. “How did you get in here?”

  “Wasn’t hard,” said the stouter man, pulling a crowbar from his back pocket and pointing it at an empty frame where the kitchen window used to be.

  “Why do people keep breaking windows?” Casper asked. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but you’d better leave.”

  “Oh, how rude of me.” The gaunter man chuckled silently. “I didn’t introduce myself. Headlock Bones, at your service.” He proffered a gloved white hand across the table, but Casper didn’t shake it. “And this is Wartson.”

  The man called Wartson grunted and put away his crowbar.

  “We’re doing a bit of investigation.” Headlock Bones curled his upper lip and leant backwards on his chair, resting his leather boots on the table.

  “I don’t know anything.” Casper’s tongue had gone dry.

  “Oh, but you do.” Headlock Bones sat forward again, leaning right over the table until Casper could smell his minty breath. “Where’s your sister?”

  Casper stood up with a jerk, sending his chair clattering over behind him.

  “Sit down, for goodness’ sake. I just want a little chat.”

  He stood still, heart pounding in his chest. “What do you know?”

  “I ask the questions, sonny Jim, and anger’ll get you nowhere. Now sit down.”

  Wartson picked up Casper’s chair and shoved him back on to it with a rough palm.

  “Isn’t that better?” said Headlock Bones. “We don’t want to hurt you, we just want our twenty thousand – understand?”

  Casper nodded.

  “We’re not like those fools outside. We know how to get things done.”

  Wartson cracked his knuckles.

  “And all we want to know is this… Where’s your sister?”

  Casper’s eyes flicked from the men in his kitchen to the empty window leading to his back garden. An escape route, but could he do it? There was no choice. He took a deep breath, grinned at his pipe-smoking assailant and then leapt from his chair and vaulted through the empty window, out into the scorching summer morning.

  “Get him!” roared Headlock Bones.

  But Casper was already round the corner, sprinting towards the garden gate. He flung it open and careered past the bewildered detectives milling about near his porch and away down the road. Twice he checked over his shoulder for pursuers, but nobody had followed him.

  How had they known about Cuddles? Was it possible that they’d seen what happened last night? Casper forced the worry to the back of his mind and strode off towards Lamp’s garage.

  Lamp sat cross-legged on the ground surrounded by nuts, bolts and his Bluff Boiler, yapping away eagerly to a bearded detective with a notebook and an ear trumpet fastened on to the side of his head with a fat leather buckle.

  “Don’t tell him anything!” Casper sprinted over, almost colliding with Mavis and Bessie who had been politely preening themselves on the lawn. They clucked off inside, shaking their beaks and wondering what the world had come to when a pair of hens couldn’t preen in peace any more.

  “And where were you last night?” The detective craned his ear trumpet towards Lamp.

  Lamp stuck his face into the trumpet and shouted, “I was in bed,” before turning to grin at Casper.

  The detective licked his red crayon and scrawled the word ‘Bread’ in his notebook.

  “Dreaming of dolphins,” Lamp added.

  “I see.” He nodded, turned the page and wrote ‘Golfing’. “And what about you?” The detective pointed his beard at Casper. “Anything to confess?”

  “Nope, nothing.”

  “Aha.” He added ‘Muffin’ to his notes. “Well, that’s all I needed to know.” He got up, tucked the crayon behind his ear trumpet and trotted off down the street.

  “Oh, thank goodness for that,” said Casper, clutching his chest.

  “I lied, like you said.” Lamp picked up the egg from the Bluff Boiler using an old rag and lopped the top off with a chisel. “Got a spoon?”

  Casper’s mouth fell open. “Lamp,” he said, stunned, “your egg’s boiled.”

  Lamp dunked his oily finger in the yolk and slurped it off. “Ow… hot! Tasty though.”

  “It works brilliantly! It picked up all those lies we told.”

  “Good for breakfast, anyway.”

  “Lamp, it’s perfect.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” Blushing, Lamp grinned and took another fingerful of egg. “Ow! Actually I prefer them hard-boiled. Where’s my spanner?”

  “Come on, we’ve got work to do.” Casper chuckled. “And bring that with you. We might need it.”

  The sun beat down on Corne-on-the-Kobb. In the park, more detectives pranced around, overturning bins and investigating their own feet through magnifying glasses. The deaf detective sat on a bench, scratching his ear trumpet, musing on the nonsense he’d scrawled in the notebook. Meanwhile five or six opportunistic others stood behind him copying his notes. But when they saw Casper and Lamp they galloped over, squawking, “Who’s the murderer?” or “Where did you bury the necklace?” or “Is there a nic
e place nearby where we can get some lunch?” The boys put their heads down and raced towards the village square, batting off their advances like a fly swatter to dozens of oddly shaped flies. But if Casper had expected to find a similar scene in the centre of town, he was very, very disappointed. It was far worse. No less than two hundred amateur sleuths of every colour and shape imaginable (yes, even a purple octagon) had squeezed themselves into the square and swarmed about dementedly, accusing a collection of surrounded and bewildered villagers of embezzlement, gross negligence or high treason. Some were interviewing the pigeons; others were digging up the flowerbeds; one poor soul had somehow handcuffed himself to the minute hand of the town clock and was dangling fifteen metres above the ground, wailing soppily. Then the clock struck half past and he slid free, dropping into the crowd like a forgetful skydiver.

  Lamp gulped. “Look, Casper. It’s Lemony,” he said, nodding his head to a shady corner nearby. There slouched Anemonie Blight, staring right back at the boys with a sour sneer on her pointy face.

  Normally Casper would be terrified of Anemonie. But then again, normally Anemonie would have him in a half nelson by now. Something was different about her, and Casper suddenly realised that the change in her behaviour had all started after Le Chat struck the village.

  “Lamp, stick an egg on the Bluff Boiler,” he whispered.

  Lamp drew a large brown egg from his boiler-suit pocket and dusted it off, then placed it on the central dish.

  “Hey, Anemonie.”

  “What.” She pursed her lips and frowned, cowering further into the shadow.

  “Where are you keeping Cuddles?”

  “Dunno what you’re talking about. Buzz off.”

  A podgy lady detective in sunglasses set up an easel and started sketching the three of them.

  “Where’s the sword?” Casper demanded.

  Lamp nudged him with an elbow. “What’s that on her arms?”

  He was right, there were red scratches all over her skin.

  “Nothing,” she snapped, pulling her pink cardigan all the way to her wrists. “Leave me alone or I’ll kick you.”

  “Casper, Lamp…” It was Daisy, wearing a dark green Blossom’s Bloomers apron, trotting towards them and smiling radiantly.

  Lamp went a bit melty, so Casper propped him up with a steady arm. “Hi, Daisy.” She smelt of summer and happiness.

  “I saw you go past. You all right?” Daisy asked.

  “Fine, thanks.” He wasn’t fine – he was frightened and exhausted, and some butterflies had set up a holiday camp in his belly.

  Daisy waved at Anemonie. “Cheer up.”

  Anemonie snorted.

  Casper looked between the girls. “You know each other?”

  “I was warned about her, that’s all.” Daisy turned back towards Casper and spotted the worry in his expression. “Oh, don’t worry about Cuddles. You’ll find her soon.”

  “What?” Casper froze. “How did you know?”

  “Haven’t you seen the note?” She lifted her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “What note?”

  “Come with me.”

  “But what about… OK.” Casper turned back to Anemonie. “I’m not finished with you. I know you’re not telling me something.”

  “Big deal, Cassie,” sneered Anemonie. “Too bad I got nothing to tell you.”

  “Come on.” Daisy took hold of Casper’s hand and led him through the jungle of detectives. She felt calm and comforting, smoothing away Casper’s worries just for a moment. Lamp, still weighed down by the Bluff Boiler, scurried to catch up and took her other hand.

  Daisy looked into Casper’s eyes. “You sure you’re fine?” she asked. “What about Cuddles?”

  “Just a bit scared.”

  “Me too,” piped Lamp. “I’m more scared, Daisy.”

  Daisy smiled sympathetically.

  “You still haven’t told me how you know,” started Casper.

  “Here.”

  The crowd was most dense and volatile by the vault door, where useless sleuths and village idiots clambered over each other to get a good view. But as soon as they spotted Casper, silence fell and the masses parted to let him through like a less wet and more idiotic Red Sea. He trod towards the door, flanked by Lamp and Daisy, past the ranks of whispering villagers on either side.

  “That’s him, the blonde one,” said tiny Mitch McMassive, pointing his baby-sized finger up at Casper.

  “Where?” warbled Mrs Trimble, the cat lady, fumbling in her bag of cats for a pair of spectacles.

  “Ooh, he’s not going to like this,” hissed Audrey Snugglepuss.

  On the door was nailed an elegantly scribed note on thick white card. Hundreds of unblinking eyes watched Casper as he unhooked it and read the inscription. What it said made the colour drain from his face like cheap fake tan in the rain.

  Mes amis

  I have the biting baby.

  I’ll give it back,

  But only for free passage out

  of Corne-on-the-Kobb.

  And I keep the sword.

  A bientôt

  Casper felt sick. He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. “Well,” he said, “we’d better let the sword go.”

  The villagers gasped and Clemmie Answorth burst into tears.

  “No chance,” scoffed Sandy Landscape, adjusting his grubby hat. “I need my twenny-thousand smackers.”

  “But what about Cuddles?”

  “It’s only a baby,” squeaked Mitch McMassive. “You can buy another one.”

  “And a nightmare of a baby, at that.” Audrey Snugglepuss brandished the stump of what was once her left thumb but had recently been Cuddles’ afternoon snack. A dozen other villagers murmured their agreement, pointing at their own plasters and bandages for proof.

  “You can’t do this!” shouted Casper, voice filled with desperation.

  “She’s a human being! She’s my sister!”

  Sandy Landscape tutted and shook his head. “Whatever she are, she ain’t worth twenny grand.”

  There was a rousing round of applause and cries of “Well done” in support of Sandy’s argument.

  “So it’s sorted,” announced Mayor Rattsbulge, hopping from leg to leg, anxious to get home for brunchfast (the meal between breakfast and brunch). “We leave the baby and find the sword.”

  The villagers cheered.

  Casper gasped.

  Lamp sneezed.

  It was done. Casper stood there numbly, utterly defeated. The idiots gradually shuffled away, warbling cheerily about biscuits or cricket, or snooping in other people’s handbags for the stolen sword.

  Audrey Snugglepuss trotted over and waggled her bandaged thumb in Casper’s face. “Good riddance.”

  A hot fog of anger bubbled up within Casper. He clenched his fists, furious at the mutton-headed villagers.

  Daisy placed a hand on Casper’s shoulder. “Don’t let them get to you,” she said coolly. “They’re idiots.”

  “Is not French.” A blackened finger prodded the card in Casper’s hand.

  Casper jumped from his skin and spun round. The blackened finger belonged to that odd little Frenchman from the day before, standing with his legs apart, sucking on a matchstick cigarette behind his faded beret.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Le Chat – ’e is not French.” A strong Gallic accent curled lazily from his phlegm-encrusted throat. “Zis –” he pointed to the ‘A’ of A Bientôt – “it should be ‘À’, not ‘A’.” He drew a downward dash over the ‘A’ with the ash from his cigarette. “You see? À Bientôt. ‘À’. Not ‘A’, ‘À’.”

  “Ah,” said Casper.

  “Is not French,” he repeated, then he stubbed out his cigarette and trudged away.

  “Casper,” said Lamp.

  “Not now.”

  “No, Casper. It’s important.”

  “What?” said Casper roughly, turning to face Lamp.

  “The egg,” he s
aid. “It’s hard-boiled. Someone’s been lying.”

  The detectives had accidentally handcuffed themselves together into a big idiotic jumble at the other end of the village square, finally giving Casper, Lamp and Daisy some space to think.

  “What do you make of that, then?” said Casper.

  Lamp licked his lips. “Egg mayonnaise?”

  “It must be Anemonie. She said she didn’t know anything, but she’s acting so shifty. And those scratches on her arm…”

  “What about them?”

  “I’ve seen them before.” Casper held out his arms, covered in exactly the same sorts of marks. There were bites and scratches of every size. He had a bruise on his upper left arm that was so purple and so round Casper’s mum thought he’d got a tattoo of a plum. “Look!” he said, his face lighting up with excitement.

  “At what?” said Lamp.

  “I look after Cuddles, and this is the result. If Anemonie’s all covered in bite marks, then she must have the baby.”

  Lamp wiggled and clapped his hands. “Let’s get her.”

  “Hang on,” said Daisy, “that doesn’t prove anything. Watch. Yoo hoo, Mrs Trimble!” She waved at the old woman doddering across the square dragging a pack of cats on leads behind her.

  “Oh, hello, love,” warbled Mrs Trimble. (She called everyone ‘love’, not because they were lovely, but because she was as blind as a bat.) “I didn’t notice you there. Have you seen my Tiddles?”

  “They’re behind you,” said Daisy, suppressing a giggle.

  Mrs Trimble tugged on the leads, heard a chorus of strangled meows and smiled. “Oh, no, not them. Look.” She held up one lead that wasn’t attached to a cat. “Now, unless I’m seeing things,” – she wasn’t; she never saw things – “this one hasn’t got a Tiddles on it.”

  Daisy frowned. “No, you’re right. But I’m afraid I haven’t seen him.”

  “Ah well, he always turns up.”

  “Could you possibly show us your arms, please, Mrs Trimble?”

  “What? Oh, all right,” She rolled up one sleeve of her woolly jumper. Immediately one of the cats leapt on to her arm and started sharpening its claws on her rubbery skin. Mrs Trimble smiled vacantly at Daisy and patted the cat’s head. “There’s a good boy, Tiddles,” she sang, and off she wandered, dragging the cats after her.