Leaning forward, I kissed Basili on the forehead. ‘You’re a genius,’ I said to the puzzled ex-genie. ‘I think we may finally have a breakthrough.’
‘I am? We do?’ Basili didn’t know whether to preen or be confused. ‘Perhaps you are explaining it to me.’
‘Well, remember Frogg Prince’s description of the orc that came into the store?’
Basili’s face was a study in concentration. ‘He was saying that it was a most unpleasant creature: very smelly, very green and with a wart.’
‘Yes, but he also described him as being small, remember? And how many small guests are staying here at the moment?’
I could see Basili counting them out one by one. ‘Two?’ he ventured.
‘Exactly. Jack Spratt and Willie Winkie. Everyone else is just too tall.’
‘But Mr Spratt is being such a jolly person.’
‘Indeed, but that’s why you should never let emotion get in the way of good detecting. Everyone is a suspect until proven otherwise.’ I was still finding it hard to believe Jack Spratt could be involved in this. Basili was right in that respect: he just didn’t seem the type. But now that he was a likely suspect I’d have to pay more attention to him – and possibly even his wife. The ‘perfect 10’ would now be under my unwavering gaze from here on in as well. So many suspects, so few eyes. It was very possible that I’d have to enlist Basili in taking a more active role in the day-to-day operations of the Agency, though I shuddered to think of him trying to shadow a suspect. It wouldn’t be shadowing so much as a total eclipse. The only way he’d manage to stay unseen would be if someone managed to cast an invisibility spell on him – and even then he’d probably end up barging people out of the way like a mini-hurricane as he followed his target down the street. He certainly wouldn’t be unobtrusive.
‘You know, it’s a bit stuffy in here.’ I headed towards the window and pushed it open. Considering two of us had slept in the room (or tried to sleep, in my case), one of whom suffered from flatulence, fresh air was very much the order of the morning. A cool breeze wafted through the window, blowing the cobwebs that were evidence of the spiders’ attempt to reconquer the room. Some of the strands floated across the room and settled against the wall on the far side.
As they drifted to the floor, my brain, already fully charged having sorted out the disguised orc issue, decided to go for broke and head for a touchdown. Why did the webs moving suggest something to me?
Wafting webs.
Webs in a draught.
Just like those I’d seen in the dining room at breakfast – which were nowhere near any draught from the door. Something else had made them move. Maybe air escaping from something like a hidden door or secret passage.
My brain hit the end-zone and the crowd went crazy. ‘Basili.’ I grabbed the ex-genie and hauled him to his feet. ‘Get ready to act like you’ve never acted before. I think I know where Sinbad’s fortune is hidden, but I need you to get everyone out of the dining room.’
To his credit, Basili didn’t ask any stupid questions – for a change. He finished dressing in his Acme Director’s Outfit™, flicked some imaginary dust off his shoulders, straightened his back and got back in character.
‘Mr Schmidt-Heye will be looking most very hard for some actors for his most magnificent movie. Perhaps I am holding auditions in the lounge.’
And by extension, no one would be in the dining room while I investigated the wafting webs.
‘Basili, you’re excelling yourself today – and it’s still only morning,’ I said, thumping him on the back. ‘We might make a detective of you yet.’
‘I am learning much from such an excellent tutor as yourself,’ he said proudly. I didn’t doubt it; with someone like me to learn from, even Basili could pick up a tip or two.
Now it was time to see if all his learning could be put to some practical field use – and, more importantly, would he be able to carry it off on his own. I needed him to keep the guests distracted while he remained in character. It was a big ask and, to tell the truth, I was more than a bit apprehensive. He wouldn’t have me to interfere for him, or be there to prompt him if he ran into difficulty. He needed to be Alain Schmidt-Heye and to do so he’d have to ignore all my advice of the previous day; he’d be talking for an extended period of time and I suspected there would be a certain amount of physical contact. Well, it couldn’t be helped; he was on his own and there was nothing I could do about it.
After passing on a few last minute tips I headed downstairs into the dining room, took up what I hoped was a casual pose at the mantelpiece and waited, casually ignoring everybody and trying to look superior. Fortunately, Basili swung into action immediately, so no sooner had I adopted Superior Look No. 7 – I’m in the Movie Industry and You’re Not, Insignificant Worm – than there was a loud thumping as he tested the stairs’ tolerance limits with his feet as he descended and headed into the lounge.
‘Can I have everyone’s attention please,’ I ordered – as opposed to asking (PAs don’t ask). ‘Mr Schmidt-Heye is not only extremely excited about the ambience of these premises, but he also feels that, as sometime residents, having you in the movie might add to the overall sense of realism that he is striving for. Accordingly, he will be holding auditions for the role of guests, starting,’ I glanced at my watch, ‘well, now actually.’
There was a stunned silence followed almost immediately by a mass exodus. Ah, the lure of the movies, I thought. It gets ’em every time. Even Mr and Mrs Spratt had gone out for a look.
I scanned the room once more, just to be sure it was empty, and turned to where I’d seen the webs move. As I studied them, they once more fluttered gently in a breeze of some description. My initial hunch was correct: it wasn’t a draught from the door. Something else was definitely blowing the webs. I ran my trotters along the wooden panels beside the fireplace. At first I thought I’d been mistaken, but I felt it on my second pass: a gentle gust emanating from what seemed to be a slender vertical crack in one of the panels. It didn’t look like natural wear and tear, which suggested only one thing to my rapier-like mind: a secret passage of some description. All I had to do now was figure out the mechanism to open it.
Of course, I’d come across secret doors, passages and tunnels before and had built up quite an expertise in figuring out how to open them – which was just as well as Basic Techniques 1–3 (pushing, pressing and pulling) failed miserably. Conscious that someone was eventually going to come back into the room, I moved onto Techniques 4–7 (finding a trigger, cracking a combination, solving a mysterious message and my own addition to the pantheon: hitting everything and hoping for the best). To my surprise (and the bruising of my ego) none of the classic steps worked. I was figuring that maybe there wasn’t a secret passage there at all when, as I stepped back for a better look, I stumbled over the fire irons. Grabbing at anything that might keep me upright, my trotters gripped onto a circular carving cut into the stonework of the fireplace itself. Instead of offering support, it twisted under the pressure and, as I hit the ground, I was rewarded with the sound of wood scraping on wood as the panel slid aside to reveal a dark space behind. Forgetting about my injured dignity, I stood up and peered cautiously into the opening. It did occur to me as I did so that Sinbad’s fortune, if that was indeed what was hidden behind the panel, wasn’t going to amount to much as the secret passage was barely bigger than a cereal carton and not really large enough to store more than a gold bar or two.
In fact, now that I could see into it, there wasn’t any gold inside either. A small wooden box nestled snugly in the hole. It didn’t look like much; no runes, mysterious carvings or strange inscriptions. By the same token, it didn’t look booby-trapped either.
It wouldn’t be long before I wouldn’t be on my own any more. Throwing any hint of caution aside, I grabbed the box and pulled it out waiting for the explosion, release of gas, or some strategically placed spring-loaded metal spike to assail me. When none of the above occurred, I cracked the lid on the box and pushed it ever-so-carefully open. Inside there wasn’t a treasure map, nor a letter from Sinbad, and there certainly wasn’t any treasure. Nestling snugly on a velvet cushion was a small blue bean. More importantly, it wasn’t a runner bean, green bean, baked bean or kidney bean. I recognised the sparkly aura that surrounded it; it was the type of aura that screamed ‘I’m a magic bean. Look at me and observe my magnificence and my suggestion of things occult.’ Any time I came across any kind of magic object, I much preferred to observe its suggestion of things occult from a safe distance – preferably another continent – and this particular magic artifact was no exception. I’ve made no secret in the past of my hatred of all things magic as, when they got involved in my cases, things generally didn’t turn out well. Looking at the particular magic bean posing proudly in its case, I figured this would be no exception.
I’d like to say that I wasn’t surprised then, when I heard a voice behind me whisper, ‘Thank you so very much, kind lady. I knew there was more to you than met the eye.’ Before I could react, there was a sharp smack to the back of my head and I stumbled forward, striking the front of it against the mantelpiece. Faced with a double-whammy of head trauma, my system decided enough was enough and slowly began to shut itself down as I slid to the floor. The last thing I saw before I blacked out completely was a gloved hand taking the box from my trotter.