The Ho Ho Ho Mystery (9 page)

Behind me, Mrs C was roaring, ‘Go on, Harry, you nearly have him.’ It was an exaggeration of sorts and I was also aware that she wasn’t doing too much to help by way of joining in the chase either; I was still on my own. Typical.

I ploughed on, weaving through maintenance tables and bits of sleigh, hoping against hope that I could catch this guy. I really needed a break in the case and this was the only one that I was likely to get between now and a deadline I had no control over – Christmas Eve would fall on Christmas Eve regardless of what I did and it needed a Santa if it was going to work properly.

And the only link I had to getting Santa back was haring out of the hangar. If I didn’t catch him Christmas was a bust.

I reached the hangar doors seconds after Mr Tuxedo. Racing out into the cold winter air I looked around but couldn’t see any sign of him. Stretching away on both sides of me were other hangars, none close enough to have been reached before I got out. In front of me a short taxiing route led to the main airport runway. He wasn’t running down that either, so where the hell was he? I was pretty sure he hadn’t vanished into thin air – although that was always a possibility in my cases – so he had to be here somewhere. I looked around again, more carefully this time. Hangars, runway and no obvious place to hide. Or maybe I was wrong. A heap of wooden crates was stacked between Sleigh Belles’ hangar and the one to the left of it. It was the kind of thing that a man on the run might use as cover.

‘I have you now,’ I whispered, as I approached the crates.

If he wasn’t there I’d be gobsmacked, so I was gobsmacked when I threw myself around the boxes and leaped on to … well, nothing actually. There wasn’t a sign of him. There was, however, a ladder leading to the hangar roof and when I looked up I caught a glimpse of his heels as they disappeared from view above me. This was just so unfair: now I had to climb as well. I grabbed a rung and began to ascend. About halfway up I had a horrible thought, what if he’s waiting at the top for me to stick my head up? I’d be a sitting pig. Then I’d be a falling pig, followed by a pizza pig on the asphalt
below. Before I could think about it I was interrupted by a shout from below.

‘He’s running along the roof. If you don’t get your finger out he’ll escape.’ Mrs C. was watching out for me once more.

Well at least I knew I wasn’t going to be ambushed.

I clambered up the remaining rungs as fast as I could and scrambled on to the roof – just in time to see the well-dressed man leap on to the next hangar beyond and continue running. No matter how optimistic I was, I knew I had no chance of catching him this way.

‘Bring the car around and try to get to the last hangar before him,’ I roared at my fan club below. ‘We might be able to head him off before he gets back to ground.’

Seconds later, as I ran across the roof, I heard a screech of tyre rubber as Mrs C accelerated around the hangar and shadowed me from the ground. I waved her on, urging her to speed up and not follow me, but she just waved back, grinning broadly. It’s possible she may have misunderstood my intentions. ‘Go faster,’ I roared at her. ‘Don’t wait for me otherwise he’ll get away.’

I could see the ‘Oh, right’ expression as the penny finally teetered on the edge for a few seconds before falling into the vast chasm of her mind. Almost immediately, she gunned the accelerator and the car sped forward, racing parallel to the hangars.

Mr Tuxedo reached the edge of the roof. Did he stop and turn around with his hands in the air, acknowledging that he
had no way of escaping and that I finally had him? Did he hell. He didn’t even break stride as he jumped across the gap and on to the next building.

I followed and, as the gap didn’t look too wide, I leaped without fully contemplating the consequences. I barely made it across to the adjoining roof, teetering on the edge, arms flailing before I managed to regain my balance.

And so we continued our not-so-merry chase across the maintenance hangars of Grimmtown Airport. He managed the gaps with a degree of flair and athleticism; I managed them by gritting my teeth, closing my eyes and jumping – all the while hoping for the best.

Now my quarry had run out of hangars to run across. He’d reached the edge of the last one and, unless he had a well-concealed jetpack under his jacket, the only way was down. Mr Tuxedo took a quick look over his shoulder to see where I was and didn’t even slow down before throwing himself off the edge and disappearing from view. I ran to where he’d jumped, fully expecting to see him soar gracefully into the sky, give me a rude gesture and disappear over the horizon. I was wrong on all three counts. When I looked down I saw that his jump had taken him into the back of a truck filled with packing crates. How lucky can you get!

He didn’t even waste time checking for injuries. No sooner had he landed than he was up and out of the truck and racing across the asphalt. At the same time, Mrs C
roared around the corner, her eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead.

Well, if he could do it … I took a deep breath, tried not to think about what I was about to attempt and threw myself off the roof. As I fell, the truck driver took it upon himself to drive away and I watched in horror as my nice soft landing suddenly became something altogether more concrete.

I screamed, closed my eyes, covered my head with my trotters and prepared for the impact I didn’t even think I’d feel. To my surprise and relief, instead of splattering across the ground I bounced off something and was catapulted into the air once again. I opened my eyes once more and looked down at the soft-top roof of my car which Mrs C had driven right into my path and I had oh-so-conveniently landed on. At first I was mentally congratulating her on her ingenuity and lateral thinking in coming up with such a stunning rescue plan but quickly scrubbed that train of thought when, oblivious to both my presence and her part in my rescue, she kept driving. With a horrible sense of déjà vu I spun in the air and dropped towards the ground again – luckily from not quite the same height as my first descent. This time my fall was broken by the asphalt, but at least, when I finally managed to sit up and check for injuries, it seemed like that was all that had been broken.

There was a screaming of brakes from up ahead, followed almost immediately by the sound of a car reversing. Seconds
later Mrs C pulled up beside me. ‘How did you get down so fast?’

I didn’t bother to fill her in; I dived into the passenger seat and roared at her to drive. The car sprang forward and we raced along the asphalt, trying to spot where our quarry had got to.

‘I can’t see him any more,’ said Mrs C. ‘I think we’ve lost him.’

I scanned the area ahead of us and caught a glimpse of our quarry nimbly scaling a wire fence on the far side of the runway and disappearing into a maze of buildings beyond. I punched the dashboard in frustration. ‘Dammit.’

Mrs C put a sympathetic arm around my shoulders. ‘Don’t worry about it; we’re getting closer to breaking this case all the time.’

‘Really? The only thing we were close to breaking this time was my spine when I bounced off the car – and he still got away, whoever he was.’ As I said it, the feeling that I’d seen him somewhere very recently sat in the shadows of my mind and taunted me.

‘You’ll catch him, I know you will.’

I appreciated her support but didn’t share her confidence. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

I sulked all the way back into town. In fact I was seething so much I almost missed it as we drove by.

‘Stop, stop the car!’ I ordered.

‘We’re on the freeway, Harry. I can’t stop.’

‘Well, pull in; do something. Just stop the car.’

‘Why? Are you not feeling well?’

‘Pull over now.’

Mrs C drove on to the hard shoulder and stopped the car. ‘What’s going on, Harry? You’re behaving very strangely.’

I pointed up at the huge hoarding we’d stopped under; the same hoarding I’d noticed on the way out earlier. ‘It’s him, look. Up there.’

‘It’s who? Where? What are you talking about?’

I grabbed her head and pointed it at the huge poster of Olé ‘King’ Kohl and His Fiddlers Three. ‘There? See the grinning idiot second from the left? The guy that looks like his family tree has no forks? That’s him; that’s the guy we were following at the airport. He’s part of Kohl’s band.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ Mrs C didn’t seem to share my conviction.

‘Positive. It’s him all right. Let’s get back to town. I need to find out as much as I can about these guys. I’m not sure how they fit into all this but I’m going to find out.’

S
tiltskin’s Diner was the kind of place that gave good food a bad name and then got sued for slander. That was why I only ever drank the coffee there, but it was really good coffee. Mug clenched in trotter I slid into his usual booth and stared at Boy Blue, failed shepherd, dodgy musician and officially the world’s worst informant. At least today he acknowledged me – if you consider a grunt to be a sign of recognition.

‘Blue, you’re looking good this morning.’ It was a lie; he never looked good but I had to start somewhere.

Another grunt.

‘Have you come across Olé “King” Kohl in your travels around the Grimmtown music circuit?’

‘Kohl? Met ‘im once or twice. Arrogant. Plays jazz.’

‘Isn’t everyone who plays jazz arrogant? Seeing as it sounds like musical vomiting I think they try to appear superior so they don’t have to explain it.’

Blue nodded. ‘Maybe, maybe.’

‘So what do you know about Kohl?’

‘Used to be known as Oliver Cole back in the day. Small-time thief who ‘ad ambitions to be something bigger until he got caught. Spent some time in prison and when he came out changed his name to Olé Kohl, formed that band with his fiddling buddies and went on the circuit.’

‘That’s it?’ ‘That’s it.’

‘Turned away from a life of crime?’

‘I didn’t say that, did I?’

‘Well, what are you saying?’

‘All I’m sayin’ is that if you checked for burglaries in the towns he’s been tourin’ you might just see a connection.’

So Cole/Kohl was still keeping his hand in – and his group wore tuxedos. I couldn’t see a direct correlation, but I thought I’d ask anyway. ‘Any chance he could be involved in that spate of robberies around town the other night?’

Blue looked at me. ‘Possible, yes, but it’s a bit out of his league unless he had some serious connections – and I don’t think he’s that well connected.’

Maybe, maybe not, but it was certainly worth following up. ‘OK, Blue, thanks for your time.’

I drove back to the office and met up with Mrs C, Basili and Jack.

‘Here’s where we’re at – or not at might be more accurate,’ I said to them. ‘Santa was kidnapped and the only lead we
had was the jet-powered sleigh that attacked us on the way to the North Pole.’

Nods all around.

‘Following up on the sleigh lead has brought us to Olé “King” Kohl and his band of merry men who, based on their track record, I like better for Ali Baba’s robberies even if I still can’t see how they did it or if they’re actually involved at all.’ I pushed myself away from the table and stood up. ‘It’s all so confusing. My senses say the two cases are connected in some way, I just can’t see how or why.’ More – slightly more confused – nods and Mrs C shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Was it my imagination or did she look just a little bit guilty? Again I had the feeling she knew more than she was telling and now, in front of the others, wasn’t the time to confront her – but very soon it would be. I was hitting a solid wall in this investigation and I was getting fed up with being blocked every time I thought I had a break.

I also had Ali Baba to consider. He’d already been on the phone once today, demanding progress and issuing his usual brand of exotic threats. I knew he was keeping a close eye on me too and I needed something for him as well or face another exciting magic carpet ride.

‘So where do we go from here?’ asked Jack.

‘Good question,’ I said. ‘I think a trip to Mr Kohl and his boys is in order. They might let something slip.’

‘But they might know you’re on to them. It could be dangerous.’

I was tempted to respond with ‘Danger is my middle name,’ but I refused to resort to cliché at a time like this.

Well, nothing ventured nothing gained. ‘It’s the only option we have at the moment. Anyway,’ I said with as much confidence as I could muster, ‘I can take care of myself.’

From the sceptical glances I got, I could tell they remembered the sleigh incident, the jet ski and the recent pursuit at Grimmtown Airport shambles and, perhaps, weren’t as convinced as I was.

Unbelievers!

I rubbed my trotters together. ‘Right, let’s get cracking.’

Mrs C stood up. ‘It’s about time,’ she said.

‘Well, I’m sorry things aren’t moving as fast as you’d like,’ I snapped, indignation rising.

‘No, you don’t understand; it’s really about time,’ and she gave me a significant look.

Was she trying to tell me something?

About time? Time is of the essence here? What was it with these people and their insistence that time was so important?

Suddenly, synapses that had previously been on an extended holiday began to arrive back at work. Time is of the essence here.

It’s about time. No, what she meant was, it’s about Time.

How could one man single-handedly deliver presents to every child in the world over the course of a single night? Time.

How could one (or perhaps four) men dressed in tuxedos carry out robberies in forty different places at the same time? Time, that’s how.

It was indeed all about Time – or, more accurately, the ability to manipulate time.

Satisfied that their work was done, the synapses in my brain headed off for a well-deserved rest.

I turned to Mrs C. ‘It is about Time after all, isn’t it? Your husband can do something with time and that’s how he does what he does. More to the point, that’s probably why he was kidnapped. Kohl and his boys are using that same ability to pull off all those robberies and frame Ali Baba at the same time.’

Mrs C nodded and gave me a half-smile. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about it. Each generation of Santas is born with the ability to freeze time. It’s been kept a secret for thousands of years and the family have sworn a blood oath never to reveal it to outsiders – whatever the cost. If the secret was revealed, there could be terrible consequences. Think what someone could do if they found out.’

I think I knew exactly what would happen – actually, had happened – if someone found out.

‘Rudolph and I probably bent the rules a little by dropping those cryptic hints, but we can safely say that we didn’t tell you outright. That way we adhere to the spirit of our vow, but I can’t tell you how much it hurt me not to be able to reveal the secret – even at the expense of my husband’s life.’
Tears began to trickle down her face; tears that could at any second become a raging torrent.

I seized the box of tissues once more and thrust it at Mrs C. She grabbed a bunch and dabbed her eyes. I tried to reassure her, if only to try to stop the impending deluge. Then I homed in on something she’d said.

Rudolph and I? When had that arrogant herbivore ever tried to help me? Then it hit me: he’d been my mysterious midnight caller – the human microphone. It hadn’t been a turban or an afro; it had been a poor attempt to disguise himself by covering his antlers. At least now things were beginning to make a bit more sense.

‘Look, we’ve had a few big breaks this morning,’ I said, trying to console Mrs C. ‘All we need to do now is confront Kohl like we planned, and hopefully we’ll be able to wrap everything up by this evening.’ I wished I was as confident as I was making out, but it seemed like the only course of action open to us.

‘I hope so,’ she sobbed. ‘If my husband’s not in the air by midnight, there won’t be a Christmas.’

I looked at her in horror; I’d forgotten it was Christmas Eve. We didn’t have much time left. There’s always something.

‘We’d better get a move on then,’ I said, trying to sound confident. ‘Next stop “King” Kohl’s. Everyone ready?’

More noncommittal grunts, nervous nods and general I-don’t-think-this-is-such-a-good-idea type facial expressions.

‘OK then, let’s go.’

Jack Horner raised a tentative hand. ‘Um, aren’t you forgetting something?’

‘What’s that, Jack?’

‘Well, we’re about to go after a bunch of thieves and track them to their lair, right?’

I nodded. ‘More or less, yes.’

‘Well, I don’t want to sound like a scaredy cat, but they’re probably big tough guys and we’re, well, we’re not.’

‘Now, Jack, did you honestly think that I was going to face these guys unprepared?’ In fact, until he mentioned it, I was, but I wasn’t going to let my veneer of invincibility get tarnished so easily in front of my team. I wasn’t sure exactly how dangerous facing Kohl would be but it probably made good sense to have some degree of insurance before going in there. But who could I call on on such short notice? My usual able assistants in situations like this, Mr Lewis and Mr Carroll, had told me they’d be unavailable until after Christmas.

Aha!

I called Jack over. ‘I have a little job for you; here’s what I want you to do.’ I bent down and whispered in his ear.

His eyes widened. ‘You sure he’ll be OK with it?’

‘Yep, especially when you tell him why we’re doing it. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’

Jack scurried out of the door. ‘Where’s he off to?’ asked Mrs C.

‘Plan B,’ I said.

‘Ah, so you actually have a Plan A then?’

‘I always have a plan,’ I replied, although I could have added:
the plan may be flimsy, improvised, not fully thought out at the time and subject to change depending on events.
It might not have been the most inspiring thing to say, especially right now.

‘While Jack’s busy, you guys are with me. Basili, when we get there, act the tough guy once more.’

Basili looked unhappy. ‘Where is this there that we are going to, Mr Harry? And why must I be acting the gentleman of toughness once more?’ This was followed by an extended and unpleasant bout of flatulence.

‘We are going to the Grimmtown Cauldron and you are pretending to be the tough guy because you did such a fine job at the North Pole,’ I said, and because I don’t have time to get anyone else at such short notice – but I left that part unspoken; his ego was fragile enough as it was.

‘Right, everyone, now that that’s been sorted, let’s get to the car and start making tracks.’