Tristram Mump and the Ginger Tom

The succession of insanely screaming young women which had been chasing a well-known Aberdonian author up and down the aisle for the previous four hours passed once again in a kakocoprolalophilokryptographobillkirtonomanic iteration.  As the noise faded, an elderly American hove into view, pushing a laden trolley.  “Lunch is sunny side up!” exclaimed this gentleman, his glossy bald head gleaming in the gloaming.  “Hey puss!” he added, addressing the ginger tom, who was attempting to look inconspicuous but failing in the same way as an iceberg might not quite succeed in being un-noticed if it were to attempt a surreptitious beaching next to a naked red-head on the beach at Cannes, especially if it were so poorly advised as to try the line, “Mmm, nice Cannes!”

Tristram Mump seized the unfortunate feline by its penile appendage, explaining as he did so to the classically untrained that penis is Latin for tail, and  “a nice piece of tail” is what butchers in South London call, well never mind, said Coco, isn’t that a sufficiently long animadversory dysvarification?, and clapped the goddamned cat right back on his stupid looking head, muttering as he did so, “Why should I pay vast sums for a fucking stupid looking rug when a fucking stupid ginger tom will do just as well?”

The ginger tom demurred.  It would be inaccurate to say he depurred, but there we are.

“Where the gastrojuicical hell have you been, Mump?” expostulated the starving Clooney who by this time was on the brink – the very cusp - of chewing lumps out of the carriage’s aged upholstery.

“Offly sorry, old chap,” said Mump, slyly winking at Flugelpik in a faux-anglais accent.

Things were looking black.  Not only had the trans-Siberian Orient Express been hijacked by a set of venal town councillors, but a soie-disant krillionaire was currently building three or four dozen golf courses on the train, without so much as a buy-your-grannie.  None of this prevented Clooney from tucking into his cold ptarmigan, the brace of pheasants sang-froid, the several loaves hand-made and beautifully crusty, the sweet little tarts imported frais from Bakewell that very morning, the dansak, the Hyderabad Utterly Unbeatable Biryani, prepared in front of the guests in a copper vessel with the rice steamed wonderfully over the meat, the chocolate cake with ground almond brought by the best patissiers of fin de siecle Straight Paris to a peak of mouth-watering perfection as warm and moist as… well, never mind, said Coco, we really must get on.

Dejeuner sur le Train

Suddenly an ear-splitting vibration was heard.  Flugelpik turned a deathly shade of pale and immediately made a frenzied dive for his pocket.  Here in rapid succession he discovered a hand, not his own, some car keys which didn’t seem familiar either, and finally his mobile telephone.  “Damned iPneumatic Drill App!”  he shouted, clapping the telephone to an ear with one hand and massaging his injured groin with the other.

By this time an exhausted George Clooney had finally desisted from his combative efforts to fracture Flugelpik’s skull, to the considerable relief of the catatonic ginger tom, whose wellbeing was further enhanced when a veterinarian staff-member of Danish Chemins de Fer took the opportunity to administer his belated depot injection of the antipusschotic drug, chlorpurrmazine.

“Oh Jesus, spare us these grizzly puns………What’s for lunch, Flugelpik?” demanded Clooney, reverting to his usual rough tones of a down-at-heel-ex-flick-artist.

“I’m just ordering it.  That was the automated menu being downloaded automatically by text message to my iPhone.”

“Fine.  I’m thinking the stuffed bear en croute, grizzly naturally, vole-au-vent de Coco, Won-Ton Number 256 for 6 people, cold pheasant, cold grouse, cold ptarmigan, hot Thai quick-fried veg (no red peppers), then we’ll see the menu again.”  “I could go a sweet little tart any time at all,”  he added, fingering his moustache absent-mindedly.


“Excusez-moi!” expostulated Parrot, “Zat vas my moustache, not yours, eef you don’t mind.”

Ginger Tom

Just a few seats down the carriage, a peevish voice was protesting:  “’Astings, please not to tell me any more stories about ze ladies, I do not weesh to know how often you are what you call ‘aving eet orff.  ‘Astings, you do nat ave ze clue, and wot we need is ze clues, n’est-ce pas?”

Opposite Achilles Parrot, lounging negligently on one elbow, although fortunately it wasn’t one of his own, somewhat red-faced, and slurping from time to time from a bottle of 12-year old malt whisky, was the elegant figure of Foyles Hastings, well-known bon-viveur, connoisseur, entrepreneur and part-time veterinary chirurgien.

“And then her father opened the door to see what all the noise was, and…”

But Foyles’ voice tailed off at this point, for the altercation taking place a few seats in front had reached a Fujian peak of volcanic vituperation.

“Listen, you pomaded yankee cross-dresser!” Flugelpik was screaming.  “I need that haggis, and I need it now!!”  His speech was considerably impeded by the savage blows being rained on his head by a raddled-looking old harridan, wielding what appeared on first examination to be an up-market version of a Davy Crockett hat, although it might equally have been a catatonic ginger tom.

The crone’s next whispered communication confirmed that this was indeed Clooney. The cool, slightly sardonic tones coloured even the barely audible hiss of his words.

‘Still taking the tablets, Doctor?’

Flugelpik tried to ease away from the stench, surprised that Clooney was still heeding the outmoded advice of Henry Cooper to ‘splash it all over’.

‘You know I have to,’ he replied. ‘Without a regular intake of … Well, you know very well what might happen.’

Clooney smiled.

‘Good,’ he whispered. ‘Because I have the Engine. Anna-Frid emailed me. She’s ready to trade. The Young Pretender is on the boat waiting, the proclamation has been signed and rolled in cling film.’

‘Cling film? What the hell for?’ asked Flugelpik.

‘To get it through customs. We had to hide it in a haggis.’

‘Shit,’ muttered Flugelpik. ‘You know the effect of oatmeal on contractual refinements.’

‘Of course,’ smiled Clooney. ‘That’s why Anna-Frid needs the Engine.’

The FlOOGLE Mystery: Journey to Helmislaben

“Hello, dearie,” croaked an ancient crone, whose kyphoscoliosis was so pronounced she had to look sideways to make eye-contact, while she scrabbled at his arm with taloned fingers.  Repelled yet fascinated, Flugelpik marvelled at the skill of the make-up people, for the old woman had uttered these words in precisely the tone which indicated that she was, despite all appearances to the contrary, George Clooney.  His old adversary, one time Maxixe world champion, and possessor, it was rumoured, of the secret Sardinian Engine.

Flugelpik blinked.  Surely it couldn’t be he?  But the old woman was already making space for him on the threadbare tapestry seat, a relic of the Imperial Dynasty which had been swept out of existence so long ago.  Her ragged silk petticoats rustled as he sat down, and her perfume – Old Spice – hit him like a wall of genteel parsnips collapsing on a drunken vicar at a country fair.

The FLOOGLE Mystery

Smoke, dense and gritty, hung like a pall over the narrow confines of the make-shift passenger section. A converted cattle car, called into service after the euphemistic Time of Troubles, doubled as dining/sleeping/lounge area.

The man moved awkwardly, shifting his valise from one hand to the other, avoiding a paunch here, a generous bosom there, an obstacle course of legs, muddy boots and coarse wool.

"Sorry. So sorry," he muttered, unsure which language he should use -- the gutteral peasant-speak he'd so laboriously trained himself to near-fluency, or his native tongue, near forgotten in a wash of time and circumstance. Buried, lest it give him away.

He inhaled, shallow breaths only. The stench of unwashed bodies intermingled with an acrid sting, a throat-numbing, noxious blend of dental decay and fragrant weed.

The FLOOGLE Mystery

The tall dark stranger paused irresolutely in front of the ticket office.

"A ticket, please,  er, yes, absolutely.  A ticket."

The lady behind the grille looked up sharply.  "Yes, sir, we do sell tickets.  Would you like to go anywhere in particular, sir?"

"Umm, yes, a ticket to..... Helmislaben."

Eva was so astonished she fell off her stool, which the traveller couldn't help noticing was fashioned in the local ornate rustic style, and probably from Alder wood.

"Why... " she quavered, "are you by any chance...?"

But the traveller had grabbed the ticket from her palsied hand, and was even now boarding the train.

Eva was immediately on the telephone.

"Anni-Frid", she gasped, "He's back.  Dr. Flugelpik is back.  He was right here!"