The Third Pig Detective Agency is a Webnovel created by Bob Burke.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
The Third Pig Detective Agency.
Bob Burke.
To Gem, for believing.
1.
A New Client.
It was another slow day in the office. Actually, it had been a slow week in the office. No, if the truth be known, it had been a lousy month for the Third Pig Detective Agency. That’s me by the way: Harry Pigg, the Third Pig.
Where did the name come from? Well, I was the pig that built the house out of bricks while my idiot brothers took the easy route and went for cowboy builders and cheap materials. Let me tell you, wood and straw ain’t much use when Mr Wolf comes calling. Those guys were pork-chops as soon as he drew in his first breath and filled those giant lungs of his. Blow your house down, indeed.
And while we’re on the subject, don’t believe what you read in those heavily edited stories you find in children’s books of fairy tales saying how the wolf fell down the chimney into the pot, scalded his tail, ran out of the house and was never seen again. When that wolf came down my chimney and into that boiling saucepan, I screwed the lid on and made sure it stayed on by weighing it down with a few spare bricks (never throw anything away, you never know when it could come in useful). He didn’t do too much huffing and puffing then.
‘Little pig, little pig, let me come out,’ he’d begged in a scared whimper.
‘Not by the hair on my…’ I began, but then gave up. I just couldn’t come up with something clever to rhyme with ‘I won’t let you out’ so I just left it. Hey, I can’t come up with a witty reply every time.
By the time the pot went quiet and I opened it again all that was left was some sc.u.mmy hair floating on the surface and boneslots of bones. The little dog sure laughed a lot that day. He hadn’t seen that many broken bones since the cow’s first attempt to jump over the moon, and they’d kept him in three square meals a day for over a week.
After that I was kind of a cult hero. Apart from that Red Riding Hood dame, no one else had ever come out on top in a skirmish with the Wolf family sol became a local celebrity. After the usual civic receptions and TV appearances, I decided to capitalise on my new-found fame and become a detective. Well, why not? Someone needs to do it and there’s always an opening for a good one.
At first business was booming. I was the one who not only found those two missing kids, Hansel and Gretel, but I also fingered them for the murder of that sweet old woman in the gingerbread house. Their story was too pat: wicked old lady plans to eat the kids, only way out was to kill her; you know the drill. In my book their story stank. Two kids, a house made of gingerbread and an old dear whose only crime was to get in the way. It was always going to end in tearsprimarily hers.
As I said, I was on the pig’s back (excuse the pun) for a while but then things kind of dried up. No one seemed to want the services of a good detective agency and, with the exception of the kids in Hamelin (which wasn’t even one of my cases), there didn’t even seem to be too many missing persons any more. The bills were mounting up. Gloria, my bovine receptionist, hadn’t been paid in a month. Even her legendary patience was wearing thin. And no, before all you politically correct fairy tale readers get on my case, I’m not casting any aspersions on her looks; she really is a cow and the meanest typist in Grimmtown (even with the hoofs). Unless I got a big caseand soonI was going be neck-deep in apple sauce and Gloria would be back to cheerleading for the Lunar Leapers Bovine Acrobatics Team. Things were most definitely not looking good.
But I digress (a little). On this particular slow day I was sitting in my office (cheap furniture, lousy decor, creaky wooden flooryou know the type) with my rear trotters on my desk, trying to work out 5 down. ‘Sounds like fierce brothers in the fairy tale world. Five letters ending in ‘m’. Hmmm.’ I mulled this over while nibbling the end of my pen. Crosswords really weren’t my strong suit.
As my creative juices attempted to flow I became aware of voices in the outer office. Voices meant more than one person, so Gloria either had a debt-collector or a potential customer on her handsand there was no one in town more adept at evading debt-collectors than me. Once I heard her say, ‘Mr Pigg is quite busy at present, but I’ll see if he can squeeze you in’, it meant an obviously discerning client wished to utilise my services. I swung my trotters off the desk, smoothed down my jacket as best I could and tried to look busy while squashing the newspaper into the wastebasket with my left trotter.
The intercom buzzed.
‘Mr Pigg,’ crackled Gloria’s deep, husky voice. ‘There is a gentleman here to see you. Should I get him to make an appointment?’
As my diary was conspicuously blank for the foreseeable future I figured that my need for hard cash far outweighed any need to impress a potential punter. I pressed the intercom b.u.t.ton.
‘I can see the gentleman now, Gloria,’ I said. ‘Please send him in.’ I stood up to meet my potential cash cow.
Through the opaque gla.s.s in the connecting door, I could see a large shape making its way through reception and towards my office. The door slowly opened and an oriental gentleman the size and shape of a zeppelin entered. He was wearing a silk suit, the amount of cloth of which would have made easily the most expensive marquee tent in history, and he was weighed down with enough gold to pay off all of my debts for the next twenty years. His shiny black hair was pulled back from his forehead and tied in a long plait that stretched all the way down his back to a voluminous rear end. The guy exuded wealthand I hadn’t failed to notice it. If this were a cartoon, dollar signs would be going ‘ka-ching’ in my eyes.
It was time to be ultra-smooth, ultra-polite and ultra-I’m-the-best-detective-you’re-ever-likely-to-meet-and-you-will-be-eternally-grateful-for-employing-me.
I extended my trotter, ‘Mr?’
‘Aladdin,’ he replied, grasping my trotter in a grip like a clam’s. ‘Just call me Mr Aladdin.’
Although I didn’t recognise him, of course I had heard of Aladdin. Everyone in Grimmtown had. He was probably the most famous and most reclusive of our many eccentric citizensand quite possibly the richest. Rumour had it he owned half of the town but very few people had seen him in recent years, as he preferred to live behind closed doors in a huge mansion in the hills.
His story was the stuff dreams (at least other people’s dreams) were made of. He had started off working in a local laundry. After a few years he bought out the owner although no one knew, despite much speculation and rumour, where the money had come from. Over the years his business had expanded (as had he) and he had begun to diversify. Apart from the chain of laundries he had built up, he owned bars, restaurants, department stores, gas stations and most local politicians. The key word in the above description is, of course, ‘richest’. If Mr ‘Just call me’ Aladdin wanted to employ my services, it would be most churlish of me to turn him downespecially if he was prepared to throw large wads of cash in my direction.
Ka-ching! Ka-ching!
I took a deep breath and prepared to tell my new best friend how wonderful I was and how he had showed exceptional judgement in availing himself of my services.
‘Mr Aladdin, how may I be of service?’
That’s me: cool and straight to the point. Inside, my mind was screaming, ‘Show me the money’, and I was trying not to dance on the table with joy.
Mr Aladdin looked carefully at me, raised his left hand and snapped his fingers.
‘Gruff,’ he said. ‘My bag, please.’
Someone, hidden up to now by his employer’s large ma.s.s, walked out from behind him carrying a large leather, and undoubtedly very expensive, briefcase. My heart sank. Things had just started taking a turn for the worse. It always happens to me. Just when I think things can’t get any better, they inevitably don’t and take another downward slide into even more unpleasantness. Aladdin’s employee was a st.u.r.dy white goat. Not just any goat however, this was a Gruff. And, unless I was very much mistaken, he was the eldest Gruff.
The Gruffs were three brothers who had come to town a few years ago. After sorting out a little (well big, actually) troll problem we were having at a local bridge (a trollbridge, if you will), they had decided to stay and give the town the benefit of their ‘unique’ skill setwhich usually involved threats, intimidation and the carrying of blunt instruments. Starting out as bouncers at ‘Cinders’, one of Grimmtown’s least reputable clubs, they had subsequently branched out into more profitable (and much less legal) operations. Whether it was smuggling live gingerbread men across the border or evicting the old lady in the shoe for not paying the rent, the three billy goats Gruff were usually involved in some capacity.
Eventually the eldest brother had distanced himself from the day-to-day operations of the family business. I’d heard he’d gone into consultancy of a sort usually described as ‘security’, but not much had been seen of him recently. Now I knew why. If he was employed by this particular client, I suspected he worked for him to the exclusion of any others. Mr Aladdin was that kind of employer; apart from total commitment, it was rumoured he also demanded total secrecy from his staff. If Gruff was involved, it stood to reason that there were some less than legal factors of which I was yet to be made aware.
Wonderful!
Gruff handed the briefcase to his boss and looked me up and down.
‘I don’t like you,’ he sneered.
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘You don’t like most people.’
‘But I especially don’t like pigs.’
‘Well then, perhaps you’d be more comfortable somewhere elsean empty shoe, a prison cell, maybe propping up abridge somewhere?’
Snarling, he made to move towards me but his employer restrained him with a large and heavily bejewelled hand. With that amount of rings on his fingers it was a wonder he actually had the strength to lift it.
‘Gentlemen, please. Enough of this petty squabbling! Gruff, keep an eye on the door, will you? There’s a good goat.’
Reluctantly the goat backed towards the door, never taking his eyes off me. I met his gaze all the way. No goat was going to outstare me.
Happy that his employee was a safe (or at least a less-threatening) distance away, Aladdin turned towards me.
‘Might we continue?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ I replied, returning to my chair while, at the same time, ensuring that a large and heavy desk was strategically placed between a highly unstable goat and me. Picking up a letter opener in as non-intimidating a fashion as possible, I began to clean my front trotters and looked expectantly at Aladdin.
‘Mr Pigg,’ he began. ‘You have a reputation as a manI apologise, of course I mean pigwho not only gets results but knows when to be discreet.’
I nodded politely at the compliment.
‘In my experience, an indiscreet detective doesn’t stay in business too long,’ I pointed out.
‘Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘in this particular instance, discretion is of paramount importance. I must insist that you do not discuss what I am about to reveal with anyone other than my a.s.sociate Mr Gruff, and me.’
I nodded, wondering what was going to come next.
Opening the briefcase, Aladdin took out a large sheet of paper. ‘I have recently mislaid an item of immense personal value and I wish you to locate it for me.’
He handed the sheet of paper to me. I looked at it with interest. It was a photograph of a very old and very battered lamp.
‘It’s a lamp,’ I said, stating the blindingly obvious.
‘Not just any lamp,’ said Aladdin. ‘This is a family heirloom and one which I am most anxious to have located as soon as possible.’
‘Where was it mislaid?’ I asked.
‘It was last seen in a display cabinet in my study. Last night it was most definitely there; this morning it was gone.’
‘Lost? Stolen? Melted down and sold for sc.r.a.p? Can you be a little more specific?’ I looked at the picture again. The lamp didn’t look up to much. It was about the size of a gravy boat, coloured an off-shade of gold and had more dents than the Tin Man. I clearly needed more information.
‘I…ah…suspect it may have been stolen but I am unable to prove this at present.’
‘Have you spoken to the police?’
Again, rumour had it that local law enforcement was more akin to Aladdin’s private security force than public servants. If anyone could locate an artifact of this nature quickly and with a minimum of fuss, it was them. In all likelihood, their jobs would depend on it.
Aladdin looked at me carefully. ‘The police have been more than helpful but, at this time, they have neither a suspect nor a specific line of inquiry. It is my firm belief that someone of your talents might be of more use in this particular instance.’
‘Because?’ I enquired.
‘Because, as I have already mentioned, you can be discreet. I think that perhaps you can exploit particular avenues of inquiry that may be outside the scope of the law and you have your snout in all the right information troughsforgive the a.n.a.logy, I mean no offence.’
‘None taken,’ I replied. Offended or not, I wasn’t going to abandon this client just yet, certainly not on the basis of a less than politically correct a.n.a.logy. ‘However, I don’t normally take on cases that are still under investigation by the police.’
‘Trust me,’ came the very smooth reply. ‘The police have exhausted all avenues and will not bother you during the course of your investigation.’
In other words they’d come up with nothingor at least n.o.body they could pin the theft on. Either that or this lamp was something that Aladdin would prefer not having the police involved with. This case stank higher than an abattoir in a heatwaveand I should know, my office looks out on one and it wasn’t a nice place to be in the summer.
My only question now was should I take this particular case on? If the lamp had been stolen, chances were that someone with more than a pa.s.sing grudge towards Aladdin had taken it. By extension, they were probably not nice people. Not nice people didn’t normally worry mein my line of work I come across quite a fewbut I suspected this particular category of not nice people probably wouldn’t have too many qualms about serving me up for breakfast along with some scrambled eggs. I decided cowardice was the better part of valour in this instance.
‘Mr Aladdin, I’m flattered that you saw fit to choose the Third Pig Detective Agency but I don’t think I’m in a position to take you on at the moment. My caseload is somewhat heavy.’
He looked at me extremely carefully. ‘I think, perhaps, you might reconsider,’ he said, very quietly but very ominously.
‘No, really. It’s just not possible right now. I am sorry.’
Aladdin turned to his henchgoat. ‘Mr Gruff?’
Gruff opened the briefcase again and took out a large folder which he handed to his employer. He was smiling at me as he did so.
Aladdin opened the folder and began to flick through the pages. ‘Mr Pigg, what I have here, among other things, are your last six bank statements, a number of bills from certain of your suppliersmost of which are, apparently, very overdueand a number of demands for rent, which seems considerably in arrears. Your former landlord seems particularly unhappy with you.’
I was about to launch into a robust defence of my financial situation, which would include claims of invasion of privacy, how unjust certain of my suppliers were in their demands and how things weren’t actually as bad as they looked, when the last part of his statement suddenly sunk in.
‘Former landlord?’ I said.
‘Oh yes, didn’t I mention? As of…’ he glanced at his watch, ‘forty-five or so minutes ago, I now own this building. You appear to owe me quite an amount of rent.’ He handed the folder back to Gruff. ‘Shall I have Mr Gruff here organise for collection? I do believe he is a most effective debt-collector. I certainly haven’t had any complaints about his methods.’
That sealed it for me. I could have lived with owing half of Grimmtown money and having Aladdin as my new landlord, but I wasn’t going to give the goat the satisfaction of coming around with a large baseball bat to collect any outstanding rent.
With as much dignity as I could muster, I caved in.
‘Mr Aladdin, you are a most persuasive client. I a.s.sume you would like me to start immediately?’
Aladdin smiled at me. It was the kind of smile that suggested one of his grandparents was a shark.
‘Delighted to hear it. If you need anything, Mr Gruff will be more than happy to accommodate you.’
I decided to make Gruff suffer a bit. ‘I’d like to see where you kept the lamp. Can your goat make himself available to show me around?’
The expression on Gruff’s face at this comment suggested that he’d sooner play catch with dynamite. Hey, it was a small victory but I had to take ’em where I got ’em. Aladdin was heading for the door. Barely looking over his shoulder he askedno, toldme to call at the house at twelve the next day and Gruff would show me around.
As the door closed behind him I sank back down into my chair and exhaled loudly. My client was now my landlord. He was missing something that he wanted to get back badly. He wanted little or no involvement with the law and, for reasons known only to himself, he had chosen me rather than any of the other detectives operating in town to do the recovery. Sometimes I just got all the breaks.
‘Oh Harry, Harry, Harry,’ I breathed. ‘What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into now?’
2.
Come Blow Your Horn.
If television is to be believed, we detectives have contacts everywhere. All it takes is a quick phone call to Izzy or Sammy or Buddy and, hey presto, there it isinformation at your fingertips. Barmen, bouncers, paperboys, waitresses; you name them, your average detective has them in his little black book. They have their ears to the ground and are always willing to give exactly the information you’re looking for exactly when you need it, in return for a small fee.
Wrong!
Forget what you see on TV. Most detectives I know, myself included, can muster up one informant if we’re really lucky; usually unreliable, rarely cheap and never around when you want them. My particular source of ‘useful’ information was a lazy former shepherd. He had got himself into a spot of bother whenafter falling asleep on the job one dayhis flock had disappeared. Blacklisted and unable to hold down any other kind of agricultural employment, he eked out a living playing the trumpet in some of the town’s cheaper bars. He usually then spent the money drinking in the same bars. When people talked of someone with his ear to the ground they meant literally in his case. He did get around, however, and if something was going on in town, there was always the remote possibility he might have heard about it. More than likely, however, he hadn’t.