22. THE CHOPPER

THE CASE OF THE DIAMOND DENTURES 22

“I must warn you,” proclaimed Inspector Gadgett, “this is a serious matter, an upstanding and very charitable man like Nobby here being found dead in your bin, and you unable to explain how it came about! I warn you, I’m taking the matter very gravely indeed and won’t stand for any lies.”

“Are you stupid?” asked Angelina in the voice she reserved for nincompoops and the insane, “we showed you his dead body only, when was it, last night? In the cellar at his pub, floating in a bath of stale and rather smelly beer? He was dead back then so is it any surprise that he’s still dead now?”

Inspector Gadgett took one and a half steps towards her and leaned forwards so that their noses were actually touching and screeched with fetid breath accompanying his words “but it’s your wheelie bin and it’s got him in it. I must warn you, I’m close to charging the three of you!”

“What with? Going about government business and risking our lives in the name of the nation?” she asked, and she bit his nose. “And that happens when someone plants his proboscis onto mine where it’s not welcome!” she added, “tell me, have you lost your mouthwash or does your breath always smell like that?”

For once it seemed that Gadgett was at a loss for words, but then, there were tooth-shaped indentations in his nose and one of them was showing signs of bleeding.

“Just a minute!” urged Royston, changing the subject, “what’s that noise? Can you hear it?”

And there was an increasing throbbing mechanical noise that seemed to surround them, throb, throb, throb. It seemed to come from everywhere and it crossed Blinky’s mind that it could even emanate from an alien spaceship.

“Aliens?” he suggested without thinking it through.

“It sounds important,” murmured Angelina, spitting a sliver of skin from her mouth.

“I don’t like the sound of it,” mumbled Royston, it’s sort of familiar...”

“It sounds like a chopper!” exclaimed Blinky, dismissing his own personal alien theory in a moment of comprehension, “I used to pilot one of those soon after I joined the police force, but you can’t arrest anyone in the clouds and I very much liked arresting people back then.”

“So do I...” mumbled Inspector Gadgett.

“It’s a helicopter,” confirmed Royston, “look: over there!”

He pointed and as many eyes as were there, including the white suited scene of crime officers delving into ditches for evidence, turned to the skies. All except Blinky, that is, whose eyes had gone on strike again at the memories of past glories behind the joystick of the police helicopter.

“It’s going to land!” exclaimed Angelina as her hair was blown hither and thither by the draft from the helicopter’s blades. And so it seemed to be. Number 221c Butchers Close was, despite its number, the only building for some considerable distance and an area of nothing, suitable for a helicopter to land on with ease, lay all around. It was why Blinky had chosen the place in the first place.

Back then he had been blind all the time rather than in brief periods of sightlessness as he was now, and he was afraid that if he lived in a highly populated area he might find himself inadvertently wandering into someone else’s bathroom while they were taking a bath and being arrested as a pervert. He was plagued by such fears and for a year or so they had dominated his life. After all, he reasoned to himself in some of his darker moments, if you’re going to be present when there’s a filly in the bath you ought to be able to enjoy the sight.

“It’s a government job,” shouted Inspector Gadgett, “the sort of chopper that carries important people around. I saw it once before when some American president was visiting, I forget which one, and I had to hold my salute for so long I feared my arm would fall off.”

The helicopter lowered itself with close to gentle nobility to the nothing that surrounded 221c and settled on its haunches like a proud bird of prey. The rotating blades rotated to a standstill, and the bird was quiet.

Then the door opened, some steps appeared and a blonde, tousled figure in a creased grey suit appeared, stood with his back to them and he waved at nobody because, from where he was standing, there was nobody to wave at in that direction. Then he descended the steps, an amiable smile on a face that seemed to have been made for amiable smiles.

“The Prime Minister!” gasped Inspector Gadgett, “what’s he doing here?”

“I couldn’t possibly suggest,” growled Blinky, irked that he couldn’t see for the moment.

“I had a puppet like him when I was a small girl,” sighed Angelina, “a glove puppet it was, and I felt awfully rude putting my hand up it’s skirt and twiddling my fingers about to make it talk.”

“It sounds … disgusting,” whispered Blinky.

“Can I pretend that I’m a glove puppet and you want to make me squirm?” asked Royston quietly to Angelina.

“You’re sex-mad!” hissed Angelina, ”look, he’s going to say something! Be quiet!”

The blond figure, slightly stooping, had turned and was now looking in their general direction, still smiling amiably. Then he started descending from the steps and when he stood on the ground he gave a general wave and walked almost purposefully in their direction.

“I’m looking for Mildred Kampinella-Plonker,” he said, “a lovely lady, I believe, most refined and one of the best.”

Blinky frowned, but Angelina remembered the posh lady who had introduced the Curmudgeon team to the case of the diamond dentures in the first place. Her hat stuck in her mind, memorable as it was as a strange mixture of bouquet and fruit salad and being worn on what could only be described as a tropical day.

“She doesn’t seem to be here,” she said without being asked, and the Prime Minister looked at her, saw how pretty she was, and smiled.

“Well, never mind,” he chortled, “I suppose you’ll do. You’re a pretty young thing, aren’t you? I’ve got a soft spot for pretty young things, at least sometimes it’s a soft spot...”

“Prime Minister!” hissed a figure who had descended from the helicopter just behind him.

“Begging your pardon, miss,” crooned the Prime Minister, and “I meant no harm,” he lied.

“Look who it isn’t!” hissed Royston, indicating the second figure with a nod of his head, “would you believe it...”

“Is it…?” asked Angelina.

“It must be! He’s trimmed his hair and had a bit of a shave, but I’d recognise those boxer shorts anywhere!”

“My, my,” grinned the Prime Minister, “I seem to be a little over-dressed for the occasion. Is this a boxer-shorts convention? I wasn’t informed. Why wasn’t I informed?” he added, turning to the man immediately behind him.

And it did look as if male underwear was dominating some of the proceedings. Both Royston and Blinky were still in their underwear, of course, as was the almost shaved Igor who stood close enough to the Prime Minister for it to seem they might have been Siamese twins at their birth and still had a certain affection for each other.

And then, so as not to look different and be mocked by the press for it, with slow majesty and clumsy fingers the Prime Minister removed his own trousers.

© Peter Rogerson 02.02.20