I’d been lent a book a whodunit, but there was something about it. It was different to most whodunits the sleuth wasn’t confident, wasn’t sure of herself. She was younger than usual, had the looks and of course a companion and sessions without pants interspaced the probings and the delvings.
But there was still something, couldn’t put my finger on it.
The endings were alright, no nerve wracking finish, the villains still at large and the final page looming.
And yet there was still something.
I thought of John then I thought why hadn’t I thought of John sooner.
He was a specialist, whodunits were his field. He knew every blade of grass, yes John knew his daisies.
No plot was too obscure, no novelist’s artifice too clever. The blind alley, the maze, he’d catch the reek, his nose would guide him.
He’d untie the skein, brush and card the details, the tangles, the invisible bunches he’d undo the lot.
But John’s things were the endings who had done it, whose wrists would wear the handcuffs.
Then who would solve it?
Invariably not the police.
This lack of confidence in the police was of concern to John.
Was the trusted Bobby on the beat an idiot in blue?
And detectives – was there a test? Were large holes dug and blindfolds tied? Did falling in imply an ability to probe and dig and think?
But John had few possessions, a well worn dictionary and some cherished books. But they had no value. There’d be no quick sale and back down to the pub.
His only artifact of worth was his reading lamp. It’d been a prize. Its shape was the outline of a policeman’s shadow. It would have alarmed the common thief. It was safer than treasure in a guarded vault.
John mused at the purpose of locks. Were they a device to keep him in or an attempt to keep others out?
There was crime. There was the wrong side of the grave and those who got there in a rush.
John even went to symposiums on public safety. They were hosted by the police. But white wash flowed and drenched and drove John out.
But I digress and I return to John’s thing – the endings.
A few chapters read and he’d have his quarry.
But John was a champion.
Long before the end he’d know the outcome. He’d have the villain stitched, wound and sewn up in a bag.
There were ancillary interests, the motives the sinister side of his fellow man.
They were never noble, always base, hatred, a jealous lover, revenge.
John noticed too, they came in spates.
Was there collusion? Did novelists meet? Did they gather like witches? Was there a democratic forum? Was a motion carried by a vote? Did a majority decide how and even the best way to hate?
John wasn’t sure, but self interest ruled it out.
A fresh approach might bring the break. What drilled the serried ranks?
John sought events, correlations, was there an invisible knot?
Did weather patterns sway the minds? Perhaps it was the seasons. Did the chill of winter have a say? Or was it the buzzing sounds of summer? Then there were other sounds. John ruled out the droning of our leaders.
Could a sporting fixture be a clue? Did the outcome matter?
He assembled information, drew graphs, but the lines fizzled out. There were gaps, empty spaces and vast amounts of nothing.
John had been too ambitious. He’d strayed he was beyond the boundary of his limits.
From now on he’d stick to the solution of whodunits.
Then there was how they did it. But here John baulked, he trembled, he was driven from the threshold. Poisoning, drowning in a bath. It was ghastly, too horrible, he retreated from the path.
But I had to see John I had to see him now.
I hesitated. What if he’d reached a critical point, a vital chapter in a book? He had no phone, the scourge was banished. The prospect of it ringing would pry upon his mind.
I’d chance it. I’d see him.
I made my way along a catwalk, then up a winding path. His home was an inaccessible eyrie, deliberately picked.
There was an uninterrupted view across the harbour the lights were a fantasy in the dark.
I reached the door, John was waiting. My heavy breathing and footsteps had been heard.
“At last you’ve come, I’ve waited.” Was his greeting and he gripped and shook my hand.
Was I a life raft or a hope in clothes that spoke?
I entered.
“See – look.” And he pointed to a scattered pile of books.
He continued.
“They’d give the bulldozer hiccoughs if I took them to the tip, landfill.”
He wanted to talk. I was his confident, his silent interlocutor.
The dismal diet of reading was on the forefront of his mind.
Then followed the dissection of the cause of his despond.
First there were the plots. They passed they stood up, a tick mark for them.
Then the villains, John kept ticking. A nasty lot, they made him shudder.
And the endings, they took the tick. They were soothing and serene. A necessary lotion. Odd noises in the night would not cause John alarm.
Finally the sleuths and with them came the worries and instead of ticks a big black cross.
John made his analysis.
There were two types.
The first was a replication of a cadet fresh from the police training college.
The second a disguised, but titillated version of the first.
Usually female, still young enough to be attractive and the searching and the digging would be interrupted by some up and down in bed.
Then John put this new brand of sleuth in their compartment.
“They certainly didn’t inspire the exciting, racy posters down at police recruitment.”
“Have you signed the petition?” He asked.
I hadn’t.
Then John explained.
The lurch in literary standards had caused dismay at the bookshop.
The fading of the sleuths and the increasing use of the police and their methods had convinced many that the police training manual had become a source of ideas for creative thinking. The petitioners sought excitement and drama and relief from the impact of the bureaucratic mind.
John had signed the petition and gone back several days later and crossed his name out.
“It’s plausible enough. why did you do that?” I asked.
“At first I was as convinced as you are. Then I thought of the happy ending and the training manual.”
John was right. Happy endings are not part of the literature for the guidance of the police.
This area of enquiry was now closed.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
John pointed to the books.
“Dare I ask you –can you face it –can you surmount the challenge?”
I shrank I might go backwards I could be eternally in reverse.
“You might fall, perhaps trip on some unexpected clue.” He said.
It was a desperate hope. Whodunits were a puzzle. For me it was a long weary trudge to the final revelations.
I took a few books. It was burdensome reading. But John came round, the relief, rescue.
“Do you have the Great Zoo Robbery? It’s by Rohort. It’s the last thing he wrote that left your eyeballs in their sockets.” He said.
He must have realized my plight. Perhaps I’d fled, taken flight. He was welcome like the rain after a long searing drought.
“At last some light.” He said and pointed to the date of publication.
Till the Great Zoo Robbery Rohort wrote only best sellers, since then his efforts filled recycling bins.
And so it was with all the other writers.
A cut off point, a date, something had happened, simultaneously and to all of them.<
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John asked if I had any suggestions.
I had none.
I could add nothing.
My mind was like a wall that had been scrubbed free of graffiti, it lacked even the most incoherent of ideas.
But John was not disconsolate.
He recommended the Great Zoo Robbery.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“Carry on as before. Slog through the pages, we may blunder from the fog.” Was his exhortation.
I took the Great Zoo Robbery. It preceded the cataclysm. It belonged in the realms of that which could be read.
I was surprised.
I tried to put it down, I couldn’t. It held me, I was gripped.
The police were pilloried completely and the sleuth, an illiterate old timer glided to an effortless solution.
Some burglars broke into the Featherston Zoo in a Snow Storm and stole the elephants.
The burglars were caught immediately, the elephants vanished without trace. Extensive searches revealed nothing.
The sleuth, the old timer was shown some aerial photos, he pinpointed the elephants exactly.
“Them’s here.” He said and pointed to a barn behind the police station.
He was handed some police forms to complete, he couldn’t do so and his advice went unheeded.
The thaw came the elephants appeared, they were right outside the police station.
A snow drift had blocked the entrance to the barn. There had been ample forage.
It was a scathing testimony. Could the police be so incompetent?
Did Rohort hate the police? Was there an inner loathing? I’d write it down, I might forget, I must mention it to John.
Then there was his later work, practically unreadable. The police training manual would have been an entertaining contrast.
What had wrought the change?
What had torn down his stature?
The sharp division John believed confirmed the correctness of his theory.
There had been a happening, a roughing of the smoothness. Something had intruded into Rohort’s and the other writers lives.
John held firm conviction.
“Have you discussed this with the committee at the bookshop?” I asked.
He hadn’t. He was unwilling to discuss his ideas. I was his confident, the repository for his thoughts.
John suggested we visit Featherston.
It had inspired Rohort and might lead us to the trail.
We were surprised at what we found in Featherston.
First was the size. It was small. Second it never snowed and third considering its size, not surprising, there was no zoo.
There was an interesting museum and we whiled away many hours amongst its historic objects.
We read the visitor’s book and of course the comments and came upon the name Rohort.
“Look look!” Said John. 'The date.”
It preceded the publication of Rohort’s final achievement by eighteen months.
Some event in Featherston had inspired Rohort’s imagination.
But what followed was totally unexpected.
We were now known to the curator and mentioned that a well known writer had passed through the portals of his charge.
The curator talked of Rohort and an involvement in Featherston with a lady of much charm and beauty.
Rohort had been surprised. How could so dull and obscure a place contain so striking a lady?
He had lingered.
But the young lady remained unpersuaded by the male gender of her species. It was elephants that had captured her attention. She had books and books and pictures of them. It was her longing to see them in the wild.
But Rohort had travelled far, he had been on safari. He’d seen elephants, he could describe their surroundings.
The young lady was fascinated, she listened to his tales they saw more of each other she grew serious.
But Rohort had status, the importance of a prince his expectations did not match those of a mortal.
The young lady tried, every effort was made to please, but Rohort’s requirements were impossible.
The people of the town despaired, they saw a gem defiled, but the young lady finally said what they were thinking.
“All I am to you is just somewhere to park the prick.”
And she flounced from the room and Rohort was stunned, he was silent.
The sun shone and the clouds withdrew and there was gladness in that town and it’s only horse frolicked and was frisky.
John thanked the curator, but there was yet more to come, the saga of Rohort was still running.
Elephants did not become the young lady’s consolation. Her fancy became a policeman.
This was a serious indictment and a threat to Rohort’s image, but the worse damage had not been reached.
The young lady glowed, she wore a halo of contentment she oozed happiness.
Rohort fled. He’d been swapped for a policeman, an exciting crime writer replaced by a stooge in blue.
Then came something like an advertisement break, only it was much longer Rohort was for the moment on hold.
A bus pulled up. A school party had arrived.
The curator sat down, typed, handed us a slip of paper. We made a donation and departed.
We had been referred to the Featherston Clarion a range of dates was included.
I was keen to press on, but John was reluctant. The unexpected news had excited.
Time and calm were needed for the turbulence to subside.
We sought retreat in the nearby hills. We had come prepared for residence anywhere.
We climbed to the highest point. Featherston was in miniature and remote.
“No spires or minarets but intrigue nevertheless.” Mused John, as we gazed at that lovely view.
He began to discuss his findings.
My friend was now in control. The organization inside his head was as it usually was.
First there was Rohort’s loathing of the police. The affair in Featherston, its unexpected finish and then the denouement, a crime writer swapped for a policeman.
Next there were the elephants, but they were straightforward, powers of detection were not needed. It was clear how they found their way into Rohort’s mind.
Then there was the masterpiece, The Great Zoo Robbery, Rohort’s final triumph.
John was silent. He looked endlessly downwards. The microcosm of Featherston was his focus.
Finally he spoke.
“He must have detested that place he must have been filled with an evil hatred.”
Base motives had stirred the inspiration for the book. It was in effect Rohort’s revenge upon the town.
The views were compelling. They subsumed, shrank and shrivelled our thoughts of Rohort.
The declining sun warned of the impending night. We tore ourselves away with enough time before the dark and descended.
The next morning we struck camp and returned to Featherston. The library was our destination.
A large painting hung on the wall. It was a reproduction of McSroggin’s masterpiece ‘Safari’. It had been a recent donation.
It was a vast unending savannah, it stretched and stretched.
It was filled with elephants.
The foreground was held by a few of immense stature. There was a gradual inversion of their size and number, and, in the background they became a microscopic myriad. There was a simultaneous impression of nearness and remoteness. And the whole, the sky, the sparse vegetation and the land had been contrived to form the vague outline of an elephant.
“More of Rohort’s mischief.” Mused John.
It was an unsettling influence, it distracted. And was a definite subtraction from our ability to think.
We churned amongst the back numbers of the Clarion.
“Look!” Said John excitedly and he pointed to a headline.
‘Crime writers receive some practical educ
ation.’
We found a secluded alcove.
John wanted to be away from the elephants. Their glare was impossible to ignore.
But first there was an unwritten preamble. It came at a subsequent debriefing with the curator.
Rohort had aroused enmity. He had few friends in Featherston.
Its belle had been tarnished there was contempt for his scamperings. And the book, The Zoo Robbery etc had shaken the morale of its police.
What then followed was not so much revenge, but atonement.
The article had been contributed by the wife of a local policeman.
There had been some well publicized burglaries in an area where Rohort and the other crime writers lived.
Rohort and his Cohorts believed because they wrote successfully about crime, they could solve it.
Rohort was disdainful of the police, but his especial scorn was for police stations. They were filled with forms and missing documents, a barracks that would not release its brightest.
The slow footed were the messengers from that kingdom ruled by paper. Broken spades to do the digging, probe and hope inspiration would guide the questioning. Worn garden implements were less blunt than their minds.
The intelligent were needed they matched evidence with cases information had to be marshalled to make it possible.
And so orthodoxy was not attempted. A meeting was called. A retired doctor lived in the district. He’d had many years of prison experience. He was present, he counselled caution. But his words were as chaff, not even the breeze would listen.
The police were bypassed, a vigilante group was formed.
But they saw the burglar as barely a bother, there’d be no flicker of the pulse.
But nothing came of their endeavours, they were trawling in empty oceans, the depletion of their wine cellars continued.
But a hapless individual was seen. Rohort called him Soap. Not that he was a star in a soap opera, he wasn’t, but unlike them he didn’t wash and shower.
He was not the original owner of the clothing that he wore, their provenance had been charity
But the experience was a lesson for Rohort. It was cold on the streets and the moments passed slowly. The hours stretched, they lengthened they slowed the ticking of the clock.
It would be unlikely his sleuths would ever be the same. They’d be brilliant as always, but something would be missing, an ingredient he could not recapture.
Rohort could not forget the tedium of the patrols. It tarnished his sleuths, took the gloss from their sheen, there was greyness.
Already there were changes in Rohort’s priorities, his ideas were being refashioned. Attire was no longer part of an armory of attraction, but functional, an attempt to keep the wearer warm.
And so the endeavours had not achieved their hoped for outcome.
A further meeting was called. The doctor was present, he spoke.
“Our problems are coming from Dish Washing Liquid.”
He was drowned out by uproar he’d used the wrong label. Soap was the title. He was in the right aisle, but he’d got the wrong slot.
Uproar yes, laughter ditto, notice taken niliphant the noliphant(nil).
The hapless man was seen as a fellow passenger, a voyager in the night, a poor harmless wretch.
And the writers still believed in their capabilities.
But Rohort was less sure. There was even a creeping in of respect for the police.
And so the endeavours continued, but this time with assistance. The support was ancient and modern.
The tried was man’s best friend the dog, on trial the product of invention.
But all that came were lessened waistlines, Rohort’s shrinkage was spectacular.
And so the burglar remained the conqueror and the Cohorts the vanquished and a very humbled procession went down to Central Police Station.
An almost retired sergeant interviewed them.
Rohort was surprised. No forms were brandished.
But what followed was more perplexing.
The sergeant’s mind was fixed on the weather. His attention never turned to the burglaries.
It had been a memorable summer, blue skies and hush. The sound of the lawn mower had been quelled, no rain no grass.
“Can’t remember a summer like it.” He said.
Rohort grew angry.
Their purpose was not to be the target of a meteorological dissertation.
But the sergeant ignored him.
The imminence of rain came under the microscope, blocked drains and possible flooding.
This was too much for Rohort.
First the seasons, then municipal incompetence.
He banged the desk with his fist.
The sergeant sighed, he groped in a drawer he fished and found some paper.
Rohort smiled. This is what he had expected.
But it was standard, unoiled, it was creaking routine.
It was da da di da.
Scribble, scribble, write, write. Get it down as fast as you can.
What went missing? How much and when? Were there any suspicions?
The answers came, they were transposed on paper.
The sergeant could be writing in his sleep. Crime was like a ceaseless clock, completely predictable.
The only surprises in the sergeant’s life came in the random happenings of dreams.
His hand was well drilled, his pen stayed within the confines of the form. It never strayed. The compartment marked for office use only remained unscathed.
But this time there was a need for thought, there was pressure on the sergeant’s concentration.
A storm was imminent, warning cones were flying.
It was raincoats and make all secure and policemen ‘Batten down your helmets’.
There was lighting, loud thunder and a menace in the downpour.
“It’s coming down cats and dogs out there.” Said the sergeant.
“You mean elephants and snakes.” The rain reminded Rohort of his travels.
Tame domestic creatures did not match the volume of the deluge. Rohort plucked two from the jungle.
But the designation made no difference, it could not change the outcome, the sergeant’s fears were confirmed, there was flooding.
Rohort’s house was encircled. His reflection was not smiling.
He thought he heard a sea shanty. Speed boats might appear there could be racing.
And when the waters receded what? What lurked? What vile surprise awaited?
Silt, there’d be no shortage, it would be well spread, it would be everywhere.
The beautiful colours and greens would be gone, brown would become the doctrine.
Rohort’s khaki army would be taking the salute, not the admired roses.
The weather cleared, men in overalls appeared and the cause of the visitation was discovered.
A culvert near Rohort’s house was blocked and unusual things were found in it.
A sodden sleeping bag and other clues of human intrusion and many bottles that had once contained liquor.
But the burglaries ceased.
The sergeant paid the writers a visit.
“No more trouble I believe.” He said.
“Not since we called you.” Said one of the writers.
“Amazing what a trip to the police station can do.” Said the sergeant and he smiled.
The writers did not find this too amusing, especially Rohort.
He pulled out some papers.
“Now here’s a list of what you reported missing.”
He pulled out some more papers.
“I went up there when they cleared the drain and I made a list of what was found. It’s a funny thing – identical bottles to the ones you lost turned up in the culvert empty.”
“Empty.” Repeated Rohort.
“You sound surprised - would you expect them to be full?” Said the sergeant.
Rohort said no more after
that.
The doctor was present at this meeting.
Up to now he had listened – laughed at the appropriate places and had said nothing.
But now he and the sergeant explained to the fiction writers what had probably happened.
A homeless unfortunate had taken up residence in the culvert during a dry spell.
He saw the comings and goings. He was the spider at the centre of the web. He knew who was home and who wasn’t. The writer’s homes were his reservoir their contents would quench his thirst.
He’d probably befriended the guard dogs. They may have gone for walks with him at night.
The sergeant had had his suspicions. He knew of the culvert but had been busy.
And thus the article ended.
John’s first reaction was the photo copying machine. The committee at the bookshop would be an avid audience.
“More than one mystery has been solved.” Said John.
He’d been baffled by the sudden appearance of Rohort’s cronies at Central Police Station. They’d filled all the vacant clerical positions.
“They’ve been in exploration mode.” Said John and continued
“It’s been a time of finding out.”
Their impression of criminals and crime did not correspond with their experiences.
And burglars were not colourful but elusive and annoying.
My friend was confident, his analysis flowed.
“They’ve not gone to Central for therapy and rest, but to shore up their deficient learning”.
Then there was Rohort, the decline and the deterioration of his work.
The outcome of the involvement in Featherston had found a chink. But it was Soap who had purged and washed away his armour.
Rohort had been outwitted by a homeless vagrant, out foxed in his own backyard.
His confidence was gone, he was unsure of his ideas and he clutched at his friends’ experiences at Central for inspiration.
We scanned subsequent editions of the Clarion.
We came upon a letter, it had relevance.
The sergeant enjoyed a good whodunit. He was a fan of Rohort.
He found his work entertaining it was amusing, but unconvincing. His criminals were far too intelligent.
We had no further purpose in Featherston. It was the museum, the curator, we wished to say thank you. There’d be a debriefing, then go.
But I was filled with Rohort, I could talk of nothing else. Nothing could slow my torrent, the calm of the museum failed. I unashamedly dominated the conversation, I could not stop.
Rohort’s disregard for others, his treatment of the young lady and his lack of sympathy for the homeless man.
Soap was a slave, a servant of the syrup, anguish filled each bottle.
But finally I ran out, my babble ceased.
The curator gazed at a small picture it hung on the wall above his desk. It was of a creature long since gone, the woolly mammoth.
Then he spoke.
“If the human race wasn’t like it is, it would have been stamped out years ago by the mastodons.”
The Night in the Cemetery