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!"