6. THE MARTYR MARGIE

THE CASE OF THE DIAMOND DENTURES, 6

Angelina gave a little titter of disbelief, but when she noticed that Igor apparently believed the fish theory she thought again.

“You’ve got a brain the size of a dozen Universes,” she said to him, quietly, “and yet you believe that your dentures were stolen by some kind of flying fish?”

He looked at her, and nodded. “There can be no other explanation,” he agreed. “I know about my brain, it’s a magnificent organ capable of all kindsh of inventionsh. like my diamond denturesh and dozensh of other useful thingsh. Did I tell you about my whishtling kettle idea? A kettle that actually whishtles to let you know that the water inshide it has reached boiling point? Brilliant, don’t you think?”

Royston shook his head sadly. “My granny had one of those in the fifties,” he said, “she showed it me. Before she died. It was rusty by then. Her whistling kettle.”

“And I’ve got one now,” confirmed Blinky, “at home at 221c Butcher Close in Badgerbrook. I use it every day! It wakes me up if I doze off.”

“You can’t have!” almost exploded Igor, “I haven’t patented it yet!”

“They’ve been around since before I was born,” sighed Angelina, “but let’s get back to your dentures. Tell me exactly what you did with them.”

Igor looked at her, and gulped. “Okay, ma’am,” he mumbled, “it wash like this. I wash down by the fishy stream hoping to get a bite...”

“You mean, catch a fish or two?” asked Royston.

“It’s what us deep shea guys call it. Getting a bite. We offer a morshel to the fish and they grab hold of it with their teeth, or bite it. We all do it when we eat! Anyway, I wash getting fed up with the fish giving me dirty looks as they swam pasht my worm...”

“Worm?” asked Blinky.

“Yesh, worm, I dangled a worm in the water and when they shaw it they were shupposed to grab it and gobble it all up because, to fishes, wormsh are delicious. That’s why I always make sure I put my boxer shorts on. It would be easy for the fishes to go for the wrong worm if they shaw two of ‘em.”

“That’s disgusting,” muttered Royston, “not the sort of thing to be said in the prrsence of a lady.”

“I’d go for the wrong one if I was a fish,” sighed Angelina thoughtfully, ans she added, “come to think of it I’m not a fish and I’d still go for the wrong one.”

“Then it’s just as well you can’t swim,” grated Blinky, “carry on, Igor. You weren’t getting a bite?”

“Who told you that!” barked Igor, “but I washn’t. So I took my falshe teeth, my denturesh, out and lay them on a rock hoping the fish would be dazzled by the shunlight refracted by the diamonds into their little fishy eyes and grab hold of my worm before they shkedaddled.”

“Makes sense,” nodded Blinky.

“Only to a mad man,” whispered Angelina

“I heard that!” barked Igor, “anyway when I decided that my shtomach was feeling all empty I went to pick up my denturesh from the rock where I’d put them, and they were gone! My teeth had vanished, into the blue, and I don’t have a shpare shet. Well, I do, obvioushly, but not a shpare shet with diamond gnashers in which I’ve stored the wishdom of the ages according to Wikipedia. I’ve got plenty of pot teeth, so I can manage my chipsh, but no diamond onesh. I could weep, I really could.”

“And you blame the fish?” asked Angelina. “Couldn’t it have been something, or somebody, else? I mean, flying fish are a rarity even in the deep blue oceans, but that stream of yours… it’s not likely, is it?”

“Now don’t you diss my new dishcovery!” almost snapped Igor, “I’ve got copiesh of my notesh on my dishcovery doing the rounds of all the scientific publications as we shpeak! I’ve even named the fish. I call it Ernie of the genus Denturopodush. That shounds shuitably Latin to me. I’ll be famous and have half the anglersh under the shun down here trying to catch a denturopodush and somehow my Ernie will be trapped, caught, de-dentured and conshumed with chips.”

“But what happens if it wasn’t a fish that picked up your rotten teeth?” asked Royston, frowning, “unlikely as it might seem to you, I think it’s improbable that a flying fish has evolved in that titchy stream we passed on our way here and more likely that there was a different agency at work.”

“A different agency?” asked Igor, scowling, “what on Earth can you mean by that!”

“Could there be some organisation that both knows about your dentures as well as the information stored on it, information that is waiting to be retrieved by the skilful?””asked Royston, doing his best not to upset the hairy man and his fluorescent underpants.

“Ah, maybe,” admitted Igor, “but my wheraboutsh are shecret! None of the rapshcallions that have nestled up to my multi-univershe sized brain have the least idea where I am!”

“What about a troupe of boy scouts?” asked Angelina, “and come to think of it they weren’t exactly boys anyway, not as I understand the word boys. I liked them in their little shorts, though, manly creatures that they were!”

“I hid from them,” admitted Igor, “not one of them had the least idea I was watching them. I wash in the shcoutsh when I was a nipper and picked up a few tricksh like how to not be sheen.””

“Look, man, we know where you are, there are Angelina’s scouts who probably know where you are, as far as I can tell there might be a woman in your life who knows where you are!” snapped Royston, annoyed.

“Who told you about Margie?” almost wept the near-naked man, “who told you about little bosomekins, the keeper of my heart, the holder of my whatshit?”

“Your whatsit?” asked Angelina, doing her best not to blush.

“Yes, The holder of my dingle-dongle on long dark nightsh in the sholitary loneliness of our cosy cave,” sighed Igor, “but she’s gone now, the rhododendron of my dreamsh! She took hershelf off in purshuit of the departed denturesh! And she shaid she’d be back when she found ‘em. Until then, she shaid, I musht wait in chashtity for her to return.”

“And who, exactly, is your Margie?” asked Blinky, for once asking the most important question that was any of their minds.

“I’ve got a sister called Margie,” breathed Angelina, “in Bangkok.”

“My Margiesh a foreign lover from an antique land,” he almost wept, then he perked up and examined his bubbling pan “and she even liked my chipsh! But lo, they’re cooked and will make a shplendid meal for the four of ush!”

“She’s foreign, you say?” asked Royston.

“Everyone’sh foreign to shomebody,” intoned Igor, “and she was foreign to me! Shuch a wonderful accent, so sweet her shyllables! But she’ll be back with my denturesh and all will be well with the world. Now how about a dish of chipsh?”

Blinky stood up. “Not now, Igor,” he said uncharacteristically sharply, “we’ve a job to be done! A set of dentures to find and a government cabinet meeting to be saved, possibly, from the ridicule of the press! We’ll be off, and if the love of your life returns, say farewell to her from us!”

And like a majestic trio from nineteen thirties spy fiction the three Curmudgeons swept out of his cave without any misgivings concerning uneaten chips.

© Peter Rogerson, 17.01.20