Mr Gum in 'The Hound of Lamonic Bibber'

by Andy Stanton

  And it was true. A tongue, rough and wet, was licking her knee. The Hound was licking her knee!

  ‘YOIF–’ she began. But then the fog cleared some more and she saw that it was none other than –

  ‘Jake!’ exclaimed Polly. ‘But if you’re out here in the middle of the night . . . I dunno what to think. Is it you what’s the Hound after all? Say it isn’t true, even though you can’t do no words!’

  The now familiar howl came again – but from the other side of town! It was followed by a distant cry –

  ‘SQUEEK. SQUEEK. SQUEEK. THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’

  ‘So hang on,’ said Polly slowly. ‘Friday’s still out there right now, chasin’ the real Hound. An’ that means you CAN’T be the Hound, Jakey! You’re innocent! Oh, I knowed it!’

  ‘BARK BARK BARK,’ said Jake, licking Polly’s eyebrows happily and making her laugh despite it all.

  And Polly buried her face in the big dog’s side and cried tears of relief and misery and happiness all rolled up into a brand new super-emotion called ‘remippiness’. And there she stayed, safe and warm until morning, stroking Jake’s soft golden fur and feeling him breathe in and out like the good dog he truly was.

  Chapter 11

  The Singing Detective

  ‘What do we do now, Frides?’ said Polly as they wandered the streets of the town, Jake at their side. ‘We knows Jakey’s innocent as a newborn baby peanut. But how we gonna proof it?’

  Friday’s imaginary moustache drooped sadly. He had been up all night chasing the Hound and he was cold and hungry and tired. And not only that, but his toy mouse had been eaten by a toy cat when he wasn’t looking.

  ‘Let’s get some breakfast,’ he said, ‘that ought to cheer us up.’

  But every café on the high street had the same sign in the window:

  NO DOGS ALLOWED

  APART FROM ONES THAT AREN’T JAKE

  And every face they passed on the rainy streets that morning told the same story of fear, resentment and not liking Jake very much.

  ‘That dog’s a menace,’ trembled Old Granny, who had been drinking sherry all morning to calm her nerves. ‘I’ll be glad when he’s gone!’

  ‘Your big wet pet makes me very upset,’ rhymed Beany McLeany.

  ‘I don’t like him either, even though I don’t really know what’s going on,’ said a passing American tourist.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ said Polly as they approached the launderette, where a large crowd had gathered. ‘This looks like troubles.’

  And it was troubles. An enormous washing machine stood upon the pavement and standing on the washing machine, jiggling crazily up and down as it spun, was Martin Launderette.

  ‘LOOK!’ he yelled when he saw Jake approaching. ‘There he is! He’s not a dog! He’s a devil in disguise! As a dog!’

  ‘WOOF!’ said Jake, rolling over on to his back, hoping for a friendly tickle.

  ‘Have you ever seen such a terrifying beast?’ spat Martin Launderette. ‘But never fear, townsfolk. The boat to Australia leaves at nine o’clock tomorrow morning! And I’ll personally ensure that dog’s on it!’

  ‘Hooray for Martin Launderette!’ shouted the crowd. ‘Hooray for Martin L!’

  ‘Oh, Frides,’ said Polly as they walked away, the cheers of the crowd still ringing in their ears. ‘We gots one more night to proof Jake’s innocences, or it’s off to ’Stralia for him an’ that’s the last we’ll ever see of his lovely paws. What we gonna do?’

  ‘Um, I could sing “I’m A Detective” again,’ suggested Friday.

  ‘I don’t supposes it will help much, Frides,’ said Polly sadly. ‘But go on, I knows how you loves your sing-songery.’

  ‘OK,’ said Friday, slipping into his tap-dancing shoes. ‘Here goes!

  I’M A DETECTIVE

  You know I’m not a florist

  or a cowboy on the farm

  I’m not a lizard keeper at the zoo

  I am no baby with a dummy

  Always crying for his mummy

  So if you ever –

  – why, Polly, what on earth’s the matter?’

  But Polly barely heard him. She was frozen to the spot, her hand paused in mid-stroke through Jake’s spongy tongue.

  ‘What’s wrong, little miss?’ asked Friday again.

  ‘I . . . It’s . . . It’s all . . . makin’ senses,’ whispered Polly. ‘It’s all comin’ together.’ Every single hair on her head was standing on end. Her arms were covered in goosebumps. Her geese were covered in armbumps. It felt like someone had poured special Detective Sauce™ into her head and was cooking her brains in a Microwave of Knowledge™.

  ‘Frides,’ said Polly slowly, ‘can you sing that last bit again?’

  ‘I am no baby with a dummy, always crying for his mummy,’ sang Friday – and that was it. The final piece of the puzzle slotted into place and Polly’s brain went ‘DING!’ so loudly even Friday heard it.

  ‘HOFFLESTICKS!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now I knows how them villains was able to get ’way with it, the sneakies! Come on, Frides,’ said Polly. ‘You’re gonna need loads more coffee to keeps you awake. An’ I’m a-gonna needs to look at a photo of the strongest cup of coffee what’s ever been brewed. We gotta do another stake-out – an’ we gotta do it tonights!’

  Chapter 12

  The Hound of Lamonic Bibber

  Swirl.

  The final night – and the fog had returned. Polly and Friday crouched outside the butcher’s shop, hardly daring to breathe in case somebody heard them, but hardly daring not to breathe in case they died from not breathing. It was a difficult one.

  Swirl. Swirl. Swirl.

  Thicker than ever, the fog crept secretively through the town, wrapping itself around lampposts and dustbins like a ghost, turning everything it touched into a mystery.

  ‘’Tis the worst fog this town has ever seen,’ whispered Old Granny. ‘’Tis the worst –’

  ‘Go back home, Old Granny,’ whispered Friday kindly. ‘You’re not meant to be in this bit of the story.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Old Granny, who was a bit drunk. And taking a sip of sherry from the bottle she always kept hidden in the fog she toddled off home, leaving Polly and Friday to get on with their stake-out.

  It was all down to them now. If they’d guessed right, Jake’s name would be cleared forever and he’d be welcomed back to run and romp and roll through the streets of the town like always.

  But if they’d guessed wrong? Well, then. That was the end for old Jakey boy. He’d be carted off to Australia like a sack of wizards, and Polly would never see him again, except in her tears. Perhaps, she thought, other children would one day play with him and ride upon his back for their fun. Other children who were unaware that he’d once been called Jake. They’d probably name him ‘Stuart’ or ‘Bouncyface’ or ‘Sydney Opera Dog’. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘Not much longer now,’ whispered Polly, her teeth chattering against the cold. And even as she spoke, a candle was lit inside the butcher’s shop. Polly risked a glance through the window and saw the two men in their usual positions, hunched over their game of chess.

  ‘OK,’ said Friday. ‘They’re ready. Let’s go.’

  The detectives crept around the side of the butcher’s shop and tiptoed up the fire escape. Bodies flat against the tarmac roof, they peered down upon the stinking bins and rubbish that littered the alleyway below.

  For a few minutes more they lay there in silence. It seemed like nothing was going to happen.

  Swirl, swirl, swirl.

  The fog enshrouded them, tugging at their sleeves, whispering like a dead man into their ears.

  Then . . .

  Creeeeaaaaaaak . . .

  The back door to the shop creaked softly open.

  Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.

  A large bulky shape padded out into the misty alleyway.

  It was the beast that had terrorised the town for over ten chapters!

  It was the monster
that haunted everyone’s darkest dreams!

  It was the Hound of Lamonic Bibber!

  Even though Polly knew better, a shiver ran up her spine. What if she was wrong? What if she was messing with forces she didn’t understand? The fog swirled all around, striking fear into her heart and fog into her nostrils, and for just one moment Polly was tempted to drive to South America, become a priest and forget about the whole thing.

  ‘But no,’ she whispered to herself through clenched teeth. ‘I’ve come too far to give up like a pathetic cornflake! Come on, Friday! RELEASE THE NET!’

  And that was the secret signal for Friday to release the net.

  The Hound looked up.

  The net came down.

  The Hound’s bloodshot eyes flashed furiously.

  But it was no good howling at the net. The net wasn’t scared. It was a net.

  The Hound staggered like a mad thing around the alleyway, overturning bins of rotten meat, clumps of fur flying everywhere.

  But the more it tried to tear itself free, the more it clawed and pawed and roared, the more entangled it became. Until eventually it gave up and collapsed in a filthy heap, breathing in great ragged gasps, huge green flies buzzing all around it like dirty spaceships circling a horrible new planet called STENCHULOS 9.

  Cautiously the detectives climbed down from the roof and approached their hideous catch.

  ‘Look,’ whispered Polly, training her torch-beam upon the humped-up shape. ‘There can’t be no doubt ’bout it. This is the naughty shambler what’s been doin’ all them bads.’

  Yes, it was true. The Hound’s hide was covered with stains and stinks from its night-time adventures. Its fur was streaked with grass and mud, it reeked of Old Granny’s sherry – and the handlebars of little Peter’s bicycle were still stuck to one of its legs.

  ‘So there really was a Hound after all,’ nodded Friday wisely. ‘Just as I thought.’

  ‘But wait, Frides.’ Polly was down on her hands and knees in the filthy alleyway as she pulled away the heavy net. Screwing her face up with bravery and facial muscles, she dug both hands deep into the Hound’s shaggy fur and flung it aside to reveal . . .

  ‘Well,’ yawned Friday O’Leary, rising from his chair. ‘That’s more or less everything that happened. Goodnight, everyone. I’m going to bed.’

  ‘What?!’ protested Alan Taylor, his electric muscles sparking with indignation. ‘You can’t end the story there, that was the most exciting bit!’

  ‘Yeah, come on,’ said Polly. ‘Finish the story, Frides. Else you’ll make Alan Taylor cry, an’ then his face’ll go well soggy an’ then we’ll has to hang him up on the clothesline to dry out an’ then cruel children will come along an’ play a game where they throw melons at him to score points.’

  ‘Very well,’ replied Friday. ‘I will continue the story if you can guess what I’m holding in my hand. You get three guesses.’

  ‘Is it a penny?’ asked Alan Taylor.

  ‘Nope,’ replied Friday.

  ‘Is it a leaf?’ asked Polly.

  ‘Nope,’ replied Friday, drawing the curtains against the snowy night outside. ‘One more wrong guess and that’s it. I’m off to bed.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Alan Taylor. ‘Is it a miniature 1:16 scale model of a very rare “Henrick & Son” five pedal orchestral upright grand piano in exquisite burl walnut, with beautifully carved legs, richly detailed mouldings and elegant rosewood panelled sides, originally called the “Style 34 Concert Grand” according to its original sales catalogues, and possessed of an unmatched tone, lending it a warmth and clarity which places it amongst the best in the world in terms of concert recitals?’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Friday, opening his hand to show them the tiny piano, which was being played by a talented little insect called Ludwig van Beetlehoven. ‘Fair enough, you win. Now, where was I?’

  ‘You were behind the butcher’s shop, you idiot,’ said the tulip from its vase on the mantelpiece. ‘You were just about to find out what you’d caught in that stupid net of yours.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Friday, settling back in his chair. ‘Thank you, rare talking flower. So – Polly was down on her hands and knees in the filthy alleyway . . .’

  Polly was down on her hands and knees in the filthy alleyway as she pulled away the heavy net. Screwing her face up with bravery and facial muscles, she dug both hands deep into the Hound’s shaggy fur and flung it aside to reveal . . .

  ‘Woof,’ scowled Mr Gum, his bloodshot eyes blazing like lanterns.

  ‘Woof, woof,’ said Billy William, his arms wrapped tight around Mr Gum’s waist. A tail made from rope hung limply from the back of his apron. ‘Bark bark bark.’

  ‘It’s no good tryin’ to fool us no more, you bad men,’ said Polly. ‘We seen through your ratty old disguises. An’ it looks like it’s checkmate for you!’

  Chapter 13

  And Everyone Says ‘Hooray!’

  ‘So you see,’ Polly told the crowd outside the butcher’s shop later that morning, ‘it was Mr Gum an’ Billy all along. Every night they done dressed up in their stinky old fur coat an’ terrorised the town.’

  ‘But I saw them playing chess the night the Hound attacked me and Burger Boy,’ frowned Jonathan Ripples. ‘How could they be in two places at once?’

  ‘I wondered ’bout that myself, Mr Ripples, sir,’ said Polly. ‘My suspicions was first ’roused when I saw Billy William a-lyin’ on the butcher’s shop floor. He didn’t look quite right an’ he wasn’t movin’ one tiny bit. An’ then Friday’s brilliant song done gave me the important clue what I needed to work it out.’

  ‘I am no baby with a dummy’, sang Friday, slipping into his tap-dancing shoes once more.

  ‘An’ it was that word – “dummy” – what done it,’ said Polly, leading the amazed crowd into the butcher’s shop where Mr Gum and Billy still sat hunched over their chessboard.

  ‘Splib!’ trembled Old Granny. ‘Watch out, Polly!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Polly, tugging at Mr Gum’s beard only to have it come off in her hand. ‘See? They isn’t nothin’ but plastic shop dummies. Dummies. Jus’ like Friday said in his song. The real culprits are tied up ’gainst the Oak Tree of Shame in the town square.’

  ‘The villains also used this to aid in their ingenious illusion,’ continued Friday, reaching below the counter and producing a battered old tape recorder covered in grease. ‘Observe,’ he said, pressing PLAY.

  ‘Right, I got a brilliant move,’ growled Mr Gum’s voice from the machine. ‘I’m gonna move me Bishop over there –’

  But Friday had pressed STOP. He could stand to hear the villains’ voices no more, and also he just enjoyed pressing buttons.

  ‘So it was just Mr Gum and Billy up to their usual mischief,’ said David Casserole, the town mayor. ‘What a terrible scheme, trying to get rid of Jake the dog like that! But you caught them, Friday. You truly are the greatest detective of them all.’

  ‘Thank you, your majesty,’ said Friday graciously, ‘but I can’t accept your speech. It makes me puke deep down inside where the truth really lies. The fact is, there is one greater even than I.’

  And with that, he took out an imaginary detective’s razor and shaved off his imaginary detective’s moustache.

  ‘Here,’ said Friday, handing the moustache to Polly. ‘This belongs to you now. Put it on, little miss,’ he urged, ‘put it on.’

  And so, with tears in her eyes, Polly donned that legendary invisible facial hair and proudly she stood there twirling it thoughtfully between her thumb and her forefinger for all to not see.

  ‘The passing of an imaginary detective’s moustache from one generation to another is a very important occasion,’ Friday told the assembled townsfolk. ‘And now, would everyone please take out their Little Book of Detective Hymns. You should each have a copy – you see, I secretly broke into all of your houses last night and placed them in your pockets while you were asleep.’

  So the townsfolk rea
ched into their pockets and just as Friday had promised, there they found copies of the Little Book of Detective Hymns, a handsome red volume with a picture of a falcon on the front.

  ‘Falcons are the favourite birds of us detectives,’ explained Friday. ‘We admire them for six reasons, none of which any of you could possibly understand. Now – please turn to page 38. Hymn number 12 – The Moustache Has Been Passed On.’

  And taking out his pipe organ, Friday led the townsfolk –

  The moustache has been passed on!

  The moustache has been passed on!

  To Friday it did once belong

  But now that time is past and gone

  And so we sing our joyful song

  The moustache has been passed on!

  The moustache has been passed on!

  The moustache has been passed on!

  It’s twirly and curly and rather long

  And it once nearly got eaten by a swan

  Called John the Swan who lived in Hong Kong

  The moustache has been passed on!

  The moustache has been passed on!

  The moustache has been passed on!

  There’s not many words that rhyme with ‘on’

  We’ve already used ‘swan’ and ‘John’ and ‘Hong Kong’

  So let us end this dreadful song

  The moustache has been passed on!

  ‘What a nice gesture, Frides,’ said Polly. ‘An’ wearin’ this magnificent moustacher means I done it – I finally become a proper detective.’

  And then she said, ‘I’ve solved the crime!’

  And everyone said ‘hooray!’

  Yes, everyone said ‘hooray!’

  Chapter 14

  Another Case Closed