But hey, this is Woodbine.
The man. The detective.
The guy who makes his own wind and doesn’t shoot the breeze.
“OK, Barry,” I said. “We’re gonna make a move.”
“Are you going to change your clothes, chief? You look a right palooka in that charred hat and mash-up trenchcoat.”
“I’ll wear my old tweed jacket,” I said. “It’s always good for a bit of disguise.”
“And just why would you want a bit of disguise?”
“Because we’re going under cover, Barry. We are going to return to the crime scene in search of clues. I shall adopt one of my many alternative personas and probe this case with a penetrating eye. You just stick with me, little guy, and you’ll see why I’m the best.”
“Perhaps I’ll grow to like the compost heap.”
“What did you say, Barry?”
“Nothing, chief.”
The alleyway was rather crowded now. There were policemen coming and going and wandering around and stepping on evidence and getting in each other’s way and generally carrying on in the manner that all policemen do. They’d set up some lights and stretched a lot of that yellow tape about. And they’d parked their police cars up real close and left the beacons flashing on the tops to give that extra bit of atmosphere.
I shouldered my way tweedily into the blue serge throng. “Make way,” I said. “Member of the press.”
A guy turned to face me. And I knew this guy. It was none other than Police Chief Sam Maggot of the L.A.P.D. He and I had run up against each other on more than one occasion and he and I did not see eye to eye.
Possibly due to the difference in height, as he is something of a shorty.
Police Chief Sam Maggot had not been having a good day. He rarely, if ever, had a good day. It was not in his remit to have good days. Police chiefs always have bad days. Every day is another bad day, that’s the way they do business.
“Who are you?” asked Police Chief Sam.
“Molloy,” said I. “Scoop Molloy of the Brentford Mercury.”
Police Chief Sam looked me up and up. “Molloy?” said he. “Molloy?”
“That’s me,” said I. “What happened here?”
“It’s not you,” said Sam. “It’s Woodpecker. Lazlo Woodpecker, private eye.”
“The name’s …” Well, he nearly had me there. “The name’s Molloy,” I said. “Scoop Molloy. Some call me Scoop.”
“Well, I’ll be,” said Sam. “But you do bear an uncanny resemblance to Woodpecker. Although he wears the snap-brimmed fedora and the trenchcoat and you’re wearing—”
“An old tweed jacket,” I said. “So I must be a news reporter, mustn’t I?”
“Well I guess you must. And naturally, as the police always want to help out members of the press, I’ll be glad to tell you anything you want to know.”
“That’s fine. So what happened here?”
“Murder,” said Sam. “Murder most foul. Two Greek businessmen. A Mr Georgious Bubble and a Mr Mikanos Squeak. Gunned down in cold blood.”
“And the other guy?”
“What other guy?”
“I thought there were three bodies.”
“No,” said Sam. “Just the two. Just two innocent men viciously murdered. Brutally slain. Cruelly done to death by some pathetic psychopathic scumbag. Some piece of human filth. Some vile loathsome degraded specimen of sub-humanity. Some—”
“Just the two bodies?” I said. “Just the two?”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, chief?”
“Not now, Barry.”
“What did you say?” said Sam.
“Nothing,” said I. “But you’re absolutely sure that there’s only two bodies?”
“Absolutely sure. And I’ll tell you more. The murderer barged open that rear door to the Crimson Teacup, then ducked back into shelter. Then he leapt from cover and shot both men dead. Two clean shots. The work of a professional.”
“You’re right there,” said I.
“Forty-four calibre ammunition,” said Sam. “I would say from a trusty Smith and West Indian steel band.”
“Hm,” said I.
“The killer then walked along the alleyway and kicked the corpses. One mean son of a bitch, eh? One heartless evil murdering slimebag. One—”
“I suppose you can tell me next what he was wearing?” I said.
“Absolutely,” said Sam. “He was wearing a trenchcoat and a fedora. And he was talking to himself. They do that, you know. The real loons. Voices in the head. God tells them to do it. That kind of caper.”
“I’m impressed,” said I. And I was. “And you worked all this out from scene of crime evidence?”
“No,” said Sam. “From that.” And he pointed.
I turned my head and I looked in the direction of his pointing. High on the wall above the rear door of the Crimson Teacup was mounted one of those sneaky closed-circuit TV cameras. The type you see, if you look real hard, overlooking nearly every street in the big city nowadays. The type that are linked up to VCRs and record everything they see.
Everything.
“Ah,” I said. “That was handy.”
I smiled back at Sam.
But Sam wasn’t smiling.
Sam held a gun in his hand and that gun was pointing at me.
“You’re under arrest, Woodpecker,” said he. “Loons like you always return to the scene of the crime. They like to have a gloat, don’t they? Get off on what they’ve done.”
“Now just you see here.” I reached for my piece.
“Don’t touch that gun,” said Sam. “That’s the murder weapon or my name isn’t Sam Maggot and yours ain’t Lazlo Woodpecker, private eye.”
“The name’s Woodbine.” I had to say it. “Lazlo Woodbine”, and “Some call me Laz.”
“Raise your hands and turn around,” said Sam.
“Now listen, please. You’re making a big mistake.”
“Just raise your hands and turn around.”
“Aw come on now, Sam.”
“Don’t Sam me, you psycho. Raise your hands and turn around.”
“OK. But you’re really making a …” I raised my hands and turned around “… big …”
And then he hit me hard on the back of the head.
“… mistake. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!” I went.
“I’ll join you in that one,” said Barry.
And I was falling once more into that deep dark whirling pit of oblivion that all great genre detectives fall into.
But not at this point in the case.
11
When the hurricane hit, Icarus was in a long dark automobile, sitting next to a creature of Hell and being driven to an unknown destination.
“Where are you taking us?” Icarus asked, when he could find his voice to do so.
The creature that was Cormerant flickered its quills and moved its terrible mouthparts. “To the Ministry,” it said. “Where you will be interviewed.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“But you will. You will tell us everything we need to know.”
The car took a sudden lurch to the left.
“Drive carefully, damn you!” shouted Cormerant.
“I’m trying.” The chauffeur glanced back across his shoulder. “The weather’s gone mad. A storm’s come out of nowhere.”
“Always the weather,” said Cormerant. “Gets blamed for everything, the weather does. Have you ever thought about that, young man? The way the weather affects everything that people do? The wrong kind of leaves blown onto the track and the trains can’t run. The trains can’t run, so some man is late for an important meeting. The meeting is cancelled, a business goes bust. Its shares are wiped out on the stock exchange. A shareholder loses everything, goes mad, hangs himself. Leaving a wife who might have given birth to a child who would have one day become the President of the United States and saved the world from terrible war that would wipe out half of mankind. All because of some leaves blown onto the track by weather. Is it fate, or is there a purpose behind it? What do you think, young man?”