Robert Rankin - The Toyminator

Tinto nodded.

“That all of these monkeys combusted last night – is that what you’re saying?”

“I think it was you who just said that,” said Tinto, “but correct me if I’m wrong.”

“But what happened?”

“It’s what the papers say. Or rather what they don’t.”

“This is a case,” said Eddie to Jack. “This is a serious case.”

“ All the cymbal-playing monkeys?” said Jack to Tinto.

“Thirty-three. Or was it eighty-seven?”

“You said about half a dozen.”

“Well, I’ll say anything, me,” said Tinto, “as long as it makes me popular.”

“Show me this paper,” said Eddie Bear.

And Tinto showed him the paper.

It was the Toy City Mercury and the spontaneously combusting monkeys had not made the front-page headlines. Eddie located a small article on page thirteen, sandwiched between advertisements for kapok stuffing and dolly hair-styling.

Eddie read the article. “Eleven monkeys,” he whispered.

“Twelve counting the one in the beer bottle,” said Jack.

“The one in the beer bottle?” said Tinto.

“Nothing,” said Eddie. “But this is all rot. Who is this Professor Potty who has come up with the S.T.C. theory, anyway?”

“Eminent scientist.” Tinto gathered up further empties and took to the polishing of them. “He does that thing where he pours one flask of liquid into another flask and then back again.”

“And?” said Eddie.

“That’s about as far as it goes, I think,” said Tinto. “Not much of an act. But better than playing the cymbals and bouncing up and down. Each to his own, I say. It takes all sorts to make a world.”

“At least he didn’t blame it on me,” said Eddie.

“Yes he did,” said Tinto, “on the next page.”

Eddie had Jack turn the page.

Eddie read, aloud this time: “‘Although there is no direct evidence to link the monkeys’ demise to the ex-mayor,’ Professor Potty said, ‘I can see no reason not to.’”

Jack did foolish titterings.

“This is so not funny,” said Eddie.

“Will you be giving yourself up, then?” Tinto asked. “I wonder if there’s a reward. If there is, would you mind if I turned you in?”

“Stop it,” said Eddie. “It isn’t funny.”

“No, it’s not,” said Jack, struggling to regain sobriety. “But it’s all very odd, Eddie. Do you have any thoughts?”

“I think I’d like to meet this Professor Potty and –”

“Other than those kinds of thoughts.”

“No,” said Eddie. “Not as yet. I wonder whether Chief Inspector Wellington Bellis and his jolly red-faced laughing policemen will be investigating?”

“What’s to investigate?” Tinto asked. “The monkeys were taken up to the great toy box in the sky. What could be simpler than that?”

“Maybe so,” said Eddie, “but I suspect that there’s a great deal more to their manner of departure than meets the eye. Bring the rest of the drinks to the corner table over there, Jack. We shall speak of these things in private.”

“What?” went Tinto. “The cheek of you! If you and Jack are on a case, then I should be part of it. I seem to recall helping you out considerably the last time.”

“You certainly did, Tinto,” Eddie said. “But see, you have more customers,” and Eddie indicated same who were entering the bar. “We will not presume upon your time, but we’ll let you know how we’re getting on and ask your advice when we need it.”

Tinto made disgruntled sounds, but trundled off to serve his new clientele. Jack loaded what drinks remained onto a convenient tray and joined Eddie at a secluded corner table.

“Why all the secrecy?” he asked, when he had comfortably seated himself.

“I don’t want to alarm Tinto,” whispered Eddie. “These monkeys were murdered, I’m sure of it.”

“You can’t be sure of it,” said Jack.

“From the evidence left behind in Bill’s office, I can,” Eddie said. “The padlock had been torn from the door – our cymbal-clapping corpse-to-be couldn’t have done that. Whoever killed the monkey removed the padlock and waited in Bill’s office, knowing that the monkey would come there, is my guess. He sat in Bill’s chair and smoked a cigar – this cigar .” Eddie produced a cigar butt from the pocket of his trenchcoat with a dramatic flourish and displayed it to Jack. “There was evidence of a struggle and a round burned patch on the ceiling. The monkey was murdered, but as I said, he was more than just murdered. The worst of it is that I think the monkey must have known that someone was trying to kill him and he came to Bill’s office for help, probably thinking that some new detective had taken up residence there. And had I been able to get into that office earlier, perhaps I could have helped him.”

“Or perhaps you would have been murdered, too?”

“Perhaps,” said Eddie, taking up another beer.

“So where do we go from here?”

“We have several options. We might visit Professor Potty and see whether he has anything useful to impart. We might visit Chief Inspector Bellis, perhaps get his blessing, as it were, to work the case.”

“And perhaps get yourself arrested?”

“Perhaps,” said Eddie once again. “But I have another idea. What we have to consider here, Jack, is motive. Why would someone want to murder every cymbal-playing monkey in Toy City?”

Jack looked at Eddie.

“Apart from the fact that they are a damned nuisance,” said Eddie. “This seems to have been a very well-planned mass-murder. All in a single night? All the work of a single killer? I wonder.”

“So what do you have in mind?”

“This,” said Eddie, and he pushed the cigar butt in Jack’s direction, “this is the only piece of solid evidence we have. It’s an expensive cigar. I wonder how many cigar stores in Toy City stock them? I wonder if they might recall a recent client?”

“Seems logical,” said Jack. “So how many cigar stores are there in Toy City?”

“Just the one,” said Eddie.

It had to be said that Jack was very pleased to be back behind the wheel of the late Bill Winkie’s splendid automobile. It was an Anders Faircloud, made from pressed tin the metallic blue of a butterfly’s wing. It was long and low and highly finned at the tail. It had pressed-tin wheels with breezy wide hubs and big rubber tyres.

Jack, who hadn’t driven for a while and who could in all honesty never have been described as a competent driver, nevertheless felt confident behind the wheel. Perhaps just a little overconfident. And as it happens, Jack was also now a little drunk. He and Eddie left Tinto’s Bar and Jack followed Eddie’s directions to Toy City’s only cigar store.

“Slow down!” shrieked Eddie, cowering back in his seat.

“I am slowed down,” said Jack. “Don’t make such a fuss.”

“Slow down, it’s right here. No, I didn’t say turn left!”

The car, now turned left upon two of its wheels, bumped up onto the pavement. Shoppers scattered and those with fists shook them. Jack did backings up.

“We’ll walk in future,” Eddie cowered. “I’d quite forgotten all this.”

“I know what I’m doing,” said Jack, reversing further into oncoming traffic.

“We’re all gonna die,” said Eddie.

Toy City’s only cigar store, Smokey Joe’s Cigar Bar, was a suitably swank affair, with lots of polished wood and a window full of smoking ephemera – all those things that look so interesting that they really make you want to take up smoking.

Jack ground the polished wheel-hubs of Bill’s splendid automobile along the kerb before Smokey Joe’s Cigar Bar and came to a juddering halt.