The Ho Ho Ho Mystery (8 page)

‘Do you know anything about Sleigh Belles?’ I asked.

‘Not really, we’ve never done business with them. We tend to be a bit more traditional. From what I’ve heard they’re very professional and capable. Anything more than that I suppose we’ll find out when we get there.’

It didn’t take long to reach the airport. After making a few enquiries we were directed to a large hangar on the outskirts of the cargo area. Inside, I could see a handful of jet-powered sleighs undergoing maintenance.

‘Looks like the right place,’ I said as we headed to a door with a sign which read ‘Sleigh Belles – Office. Please ring to enter.’

I rang, the door opened and we entered. Inside the office was warm, comfortable and empty. ‘Hello, anyone at home?’ I shouted as I walked over to what I assumed was the reception area.

‘Just a moment, we’ll be with you shortly,’ came a voice through a partially open door in the back wall, which I assumed led to the hangar proper. Moments later two dishevelled ladies in oil-stained overalls came in, one carrying a large wrench, the other a welder. As soon as they saw us, they smiled broadly.

‘Hi,’ said one, a short brown-haired girl extending her hand. ‘I’m Holly.’

‘And I’m Ivy,’ said her tall blonde companion.

‘And we’re the Sleigh Belles,’ they chimed in unison, dazzling us both with gleaming smiles.

‘Whether it’s a commercial cargo sleigh,’ said Holly.

‘Or a small, private sleigh,’ said Ivy.

‘Then Sleigh Belles have just the sleigh for you,’ again in unison. ‘When it comes to choosing a sleigh, the Belles will show you the way.’

I didn’t know about anyone else, but I was threatening to overdose on the saccharine diatribe of the Sleigh Belle girls. As I listened to them I could feel my blood-sugar level rising. I wondered who their PR people were so I could find them and beat them to a pulp for coming up with that jingle. It was the least I could do.

‘OK, ladies, enough with the sales pitch; we’re not here to buy.’

Their faces dropped but only for a moment. Within seconds their innate (and annoying) perkiness was once more to the fore.

‘Well, how else can we help? That’s what we’re here for,’ twittered Holly.

‘We’re interested in your sleighs, or rather in who’s been buying them,’ I said.

Ivy’s face dropped and she shook her head. ‘Oh no, I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly give you that information, it’s confidential.’

I tried the guilt trip once more. After I’d delivered yet another passionate speech about how Christmas would be ruined for all the children of the world and the poor woman beside me was suffering because her husband was missing (I was quite good at it by now), I was greeted by more firm shakes of the head from both girls and another definitive ‘no’. Wow, they were a tough audience.

It was time for Plan B. I turned to Mrs C. ‘Perhaps your powers of persuasion might be a tad more effective.’

Within seconds both Holly and Ivy were resting their chins on Mrs C’s forearms while she pinned them against the wall, their legs kicking frantically. Well, I’d found it an effective means of persuasion so I was sure Holly and Ivy would too. And as things turned out I was right. Within a few seconds of Mrs C doing her stuff, we were going through
Sleigh Belles records – or should that be record, as they’d only sold one jet-powered sleigh since opening for business.

‘It’s a very exclusive market, you know,’ trilled Ivy by way of excuse. ‘Not many people can afford one.’

‘You don’t say.’ I reached for the Sleigh Belles ledger and scanned the first page. It didn’t take long as the number of entries could be counted on the fingers of one finger. The only sale they’d made was to a company with a suitably generic and meaningless name, Sleigh Aviation. From the sound of it, I was sure the name was a fake and a quick call to Sol Grundy confirmed my suspicions. Sleigh Aviation didn’t exist. I hadn’t expected anything else, but I asked him to dig a bit deeper to see what he could find out about them. After thanking him, I hung up and updated Mrs C on what he’d found (or hadn’t found if I was to be accurate). Her disappointment was plain.

‘All is not yet lost, Mrs C.’ I turned to Holly and Ivy. ‘If someone was looking to repair one of your sleighs, where would they go?’

‘Oh, it depends on the damage,’ Holly said. ‘What kind of repairs are you talking about?’

‘A jet engine clogged up with dozens of … what were they called again, Manolos?’

Mrs C nodded a mournful confirmation as she recalled her shoes’ fate.

The Sleigh Belles didn’t bat a fake eyelash. ‘Goodness, then they’d almost certainly have to come to us. We’re
the only ones that could do that kind of repair. It’s very specialised, you know.’

I didn’t doubt it. ‘If anyone makes enquiries about fixing a jet engine then you’re to give me a call right away,’ I said. ‘Otherwise you know what will happen?’ I nodded in Mrs C’s direction. ‘And we wouldn’t want a repeat of that now, would we?’

‘No,’ chimed both girls, clearly unimpressed at the prospect.

‘Good, I’ll be waiting for your call. Bye now.’ I turned and headed for the door, Mrs C close behind.

For some reason the girls seemed relieved that we were leaving. Now why ever could that be, I wondered?

O
n our way back into town I filled Mrs C in on Dr Crane’s call. She was just as confused as I was. ‘Horsehair and resin? That’s a strange combination.’ Again, the sense of familiarity taunted me but when I tried to focus on it, it slithered away once more. I knew that it should mean something, but what just wouldn’t come to me. I’d have a look on the Internet when I got to the office and see if that would suggest anything. As I drove, I told Mrs C about my mysterious nocturnal visitor.

‘He said “Time is of the essence.” Any idea what that means?’ I asked her.

She shook her head, but yet again I got the feeling she was holding something back. What was it with this case and people being evasive? I was used to criminals not telling the truth, but when it was your client or those supposedly
helping you … Still, I couldn’t really accuse her on the basis of my feeling, could I?

I caught a glimpse of something in my rear-view mirror that vanished almost as quickly. Was I being followed? I couldn’t see any sinister types in any of the cars behind, nor did any of the vehicles give the impression they were tailing me. Just as I relaxed, thinking I’d imagined whatever it was, it happened again. This time I got a better look: it wasn’t a car, it was a carpet. I was being tailed from above.

Ali Baba! I’d forgotten about him – and he wasn’t someone you could easily forget. If I didn’t show him I was doing something, I could well be falling from that selfsame carpet sometime later in the day. In desperation, I reached for the phone once more. It was a long shot but maybe Detective Inspector Jill might have some info that hadn’t been released to the press; something I might be able to use.

‘Hey, Jill, it’s me, Harry.’

‘Harry Pigg, twice in two days. This is quite an honour.’ ‘Look, Jill, I need another favour, I’m in a bit of a bind.’ I could almost hear her eyes roll upwards. ‘What is it now?’

‘I’ve taken on another client since we last spoke and he’s very interested in me solving his particular dilemma as soon as possible.’

‘Well, let me be the first to congratulate you.’ Jill’s voice dripped sarcasm – and I can spot sarcasm at a hundred paces. ‘But how does that involve me?’

‘Because you suspect him of forty robberies; crimes, I might add, he claims he’s innocent of.’

There was a sharp (and, I think, impressed) intake of breath. ‘Ali Baba, wow, as clients go that one’s a doozy.’

That’s not how I would have described him but I wasn’t in a position to discuss semantics with Jill. ‘Look, he says he didn’t do it and he wants me to prove it. I have evidence to show that he is innocent but I’m not in a position to share it just at the moment.’ Primarily because the evidence suggested he was busy committing another crime altogether – but I wasn’t going to tell her that. ‘I just need you to give me something to work with, anything. Please.’

The silence from the other end of the phone suggested that not only did Jill have something, but she was considering whether or not to share it with me. I tried to help her make up her mind. ‘Please, Jill. If he’s innocent then I need to help him. I know he’s a crook, but just not on this particular occasion.’ Just ask Danny Emperor!

‘OK, Harry, but bear in mind that I’m putting my ass on the line here. Make sure it doesn’t get back that your source was me.’

‘My snout is sealed.’

‘All right. Here’s the weird thing about this case: CCTV footage didn’t capture too much, but what it did capture seemed to suggest that the thieves were identical to each other, all dressed in tuxedos.’

I was confused. ‘You mean they looked similar?’

‘No, I mean identical; same height, same clothes, same shoes, same everything. It was like the robberies were committed by clones or something – but that’s ridiculous.’

I had to agree with her. Whoever had committed the crime, it probably wasn’t the result of a bizarre scientific experiment. ‘Just so as I’m clear, you’re saying that the perpetrators were exactly the same in every respect.’

‘Yep, but bear in mind we only caught glimpses of the thieves on camera but what we did see suggested they were.’ Now I was even more confused, but I could also see why the police liked Ali Baba for the crimes. Forty apparently identical thieves committing burglaries at exactly the same time at forty different locations: how bizarre was that? Then again it couldn’t be any more bizarre than a missing Santa, a reindeer with an attitude problem and jet-powered sleighs, could it?

I thanked Jill and hung up. Where did I go from here? Neither case seemed to be on the verge of a breakthrough and both had anxious clients – although they were anxious in very different ways, it had to be said. As I mulled things over, I caught a glimpse of a huge advertising hoarding on the side of the road. It was an ad for Olé ‘King’ Kohl and his Fiddlers Three. They were giving a Christmas recital at the Grimmtown Cauldron later today. The hoarding showed Olé and his boys mugging for the camera and waving their violins around. My brain began to make connections. Musicians; horsehair and resin, critical components in violin
bows; did I finally have a useful clue? Once more I reached for the phone. It rang twice and was followed by a ‘yes’ and a meaningful pause.

‘Lieutenant Crane, it’s Harry Pigg again.’ This time I wasn’t counting.

‘Yes, Mr Pigg, and what can I do for you now.’

‘Your horsehair and resin, I think they come from a violin bow.’

The pause this time was definitely sarcastic (remember, I can sense it).

‘Violin bow? Mr Pigg, that,’ pause, ‘is something we’re already aware of.’

‘Already aware of? Well, why didn’t you tell me.’

‘Because, my friend, you’re a detective. What kind of scientist would I be if I didn’t allow you to do some detecting – and you appear to have done a fine job. It took you less than a day to discover something I knew at the crash site. My congratulations.’

I didn’t give him time for any more meaningful or sarcastic pauses, I just cut him off. Smartass.

If I wasn’t confused before, I certainly was now. Had Santa been kidnapped by a mad, jet-sleigh-flying, Christmas-hating musician? If so – and it did sound unlikely – then why? And more to the point, how was I going to get him back? On top of that I had to find forty identical, monkey-suit-wearing cat burglars or be at the receiving end of Ali Baba’s displeasure. Some days it’s just great being me.

As if someone up there was reading my mind and felt I needed some more incentive, my phone rang once more. When I answered it, I couldn’t hear anything. Great, one of those calls. ‘Hello, whoever you are, I’m not that kind of pig.’ I expected to hear heavy breathing but instead I got what sounded like someone whispering.

‘Mr Pigg, is that you?’

‘Yes, who is this? Speak up, I can’t hear you.’

‘It’s me, Ivy from Sleigh Belles, and I can’t talk because … well, remember you asked us to phone you if anyone enquired about getting their sleigh repaired?’

I was all businesslike now. ‘Yes, are they there now?’

‘Yes, that’s why I’m whispering; I don’t want him to hear me. Holly is trying to keep him occupied for as long as possible. Can you get here as quickly as you can?’

‘I’m on my way.’ I turned the car and did a very unsubtle and highly illegal U-turn in the middle of the freeway and headed back towards the airport.

As I accelerated, Mrs C grabbed the door and held on tightly. ‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.

I quickly filled her in as we raced in and out through the traffic, flirting with several traffic offences but not committing to any. We made it back to the airport in half the time and I parked the car where it couldn’t be seen by anyone in Sleigh Belles. As I got out, I turned to Mrs C. ‘Stay here, things might get a bit hairy.’

She snorted indignantly. ‘No chance. If there’s any possibility that this might lead us to my husband, then I’m going with you.’ She flexed her arms, which I took as both a threat and signal of her intent. I also knew when I was beaten so I nodded and told her to stay close. ‘And under no circumstances are you to go wandering off on your own, regardless of what happens.’ I wasn’t too concerned for her safety, I wanted to make sure that we were able to keep whoever was in Sleigh Belles conscious long enough to get information out of them. If Mrs C got her hands on them, there was a distinct possibility they wouldn’t last the day.

We skirted round a large warehouse and ran towards the Sleigh Belles main entrance, crouching low to avoid detection. When we got to the door, I stuck my head up and peered through the window. A very nervous Ivy was behind the counter casting anxious glances back into the maintenance area. I tapped on the glass gently and when she saw me she waved me inside. I opened the door a fraction and sneaked in, followed by Mrs C.

‘Who’s in the maintenance hangar?’ I whispered.

‘Holly and one of the guys who originally bought the sleigh. He wants the engine fixed and she’s trying to keep him talking.’

‘OK, you stay here while I take a look.’ I crept to the door that separated the office from the hangar and peeped through. At first I couldn’t see anything other than sleighs, bits of sleighs, sleigh engines and tools for fixing sleighs.
Then I heard voices from behind a large sleigh to my left. If I wasn’t mistaken (and I rarely am), it was the same craft that had indulged in the aerial acrobatics with us two nights ago. The dents certainly suggested so. Making sure I didn’t step on anything that might give my presence away, I slunk up against the fuselage and inched my way forward.

Now I could make out the voices. One was clearly a nervous Holly, trying her best to stall and doing a very bad job of it. The other was a man’s voice and, by the sound of it, becoming increasingly frustrated by Sleigh Belles’ actions.

‘Can’t you be more specific?’ demanded the male voice. ‘To me it seems obvious: one of the engines is faulty. We collided with a flock of birds and we need to get it looked at.’

‘Flock of birds,’ a likely story.

‘Well, um, it’s not as simple as that,’ stammered Holly. ‘We don’t have the parts here. I’ll have to order them and that will take … um … a few days.’

‘What do you mean, you don’t have the parts? Surely, parts for a jet engine are standard operating procedure? You sell jet-powered sleighs, don’t you?’

‘Yes but the flange inductor has been totally wrecked and the hyperfilters look like they have what appears to be the heel of a very expensive boot embedded in them. These aren’t the kind of things that happen to engines every day, you know.’

Well, that was true anyway.

‘Flange inductor? Hyperfilters? There are no such things. You’re making this up.’ He did have a point, from where I stood it sounded like Holly was reaching a bit. It was time to do something and fast, otherwise the girl was in big trouble.

Just as I was about to finally get a glimpse of the sleigh owner there was a loud clanging noise from behind me, followed by a sheepish ‘sorry’. I knew I hadn’t made the noise because I was being very careful – and as a detective I was a master at sneaking around – so the noise could only mean one thing.

I looked around at Mrs C. ‘I thought I told you to stay in the office,’ I whispered.

‘You did, but I had to see what was happening out here.’ Mrs C was trying to be indignant but she knew she’d fouled up. ‘Sorry,’ she said once more.

‘Well, you’re about to get your wish,’ I said as the owner of the voice raced around the sleigh to see what had made the noise. ‘Who the hell are you?’ demanded a very tall man in a very dapper tuxedo. ‘And why are you spying on me?’ Tuxedos? What was it with tuxedos and my cases? Now, however, wasn’t the time to contemplate the ins and outs of sartorial elegance as a large, tuxedoed man was heading straight for me, arms outstretched – and I didn’t think he was asking me to dance.

I’d like to say that my next move was planned and superbly executed, but as my attacker lunged at me I slipped on the selfsame pipe Mrs C had knocked to the
ground seconds before. The pipe shot backwards and I shot forwards, slipping under the clutches of Mr Tuxedo and colliding with his stomach. There was a satisfying explosion of breath and he fell backwards on to the ground. Before I could grab him – or at least fall on top of him – he rolled to one side and pushed himself upright once more. I swung an arm at him but he easily avoided it. Rather than risk further entanglements, he turned on his heels and sprinted for the hangar entrance.

‘Stop that man,’ I shouted, but as the only other three people in the hangar were watching him go from a very safe distance, it was a pointless request.

As I stood trying to figure out why he looked so familiar, I received a nudge – no, a jab – in the side. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ said Mrs C. ‘Get after him.’

Rolling my eyes upwards in that world-famous gesture of resignation, I lumbered after my retreating quarry, hoping that the burst of speed he was displaying was just an adrenalin rush and he’d soon slow down.

How wrong was I? He must have been a marathon runner in his spare time as he seemed to go faster. There was no chance of me catching him but I figured I’d better make the effort or face the wrath of Mrs C again – not something I was too keen on. I struggled pigfully after him as he ran around sleigh machinery towards the open doors. If he got outside I’d never catch him, so I figured I’d better come up with something fast. Maybe if I could slow him down somehow
… ah, the old throw something and knock him out trick. That might work. I grabbed a hammer off a table as I ran – well, jogged – past and, pausing to take careful aim, I flung it at the escaping well-dressed gent. It completely missed him and I groaned in exasperation.

But I was too quick with my frustration. The hammer sailed past him but then rebounded off the frame of a stripped-down sleigh, spun up into the air, deflected off the overhead light and plonked down on his head. Did it stop him? Of course not; I’d never be that lucky, but it did slow him down. I suspect having a hammer bounce off your skull will do that. The success (sort of) of my devious plan fuelled me with a fresh burst of energy and I raced after my staggering prey once more, hoping to nab him before he recovered.