page 7

The Case Of The Big Bad Wolf — Short Story

Homself looked up from his low-power microscope, put out his pipe and picked up his violin. The pleasant lassitude of the Turkish Bath was rent by the Ride of the Valkyries on three strings.

At what I would judge to be the sixteenth Valkyrie a large and meticulously dressed wolf entered by the side door. He inquired, with a courteous bow:

"Mr Homsel, I believe?"

Homsel put down his violin, lit pipe and scrutinised the visitor through the low-power microscope.

"Correct, my good friend. Draw up a towel and pray be seated." The well-dressed wolf did so. "And how are things in your part of Boggabri?"

The well-dressed wolf threw up his kid-glove hands with a laugh. "There is no getting past you, Mr Homsel! Wonderful! How did you know I am from Boggabri?"

"Elementary, my dear vulpine. You may have noticed that three hairs behind your left ear are sitting bolt upright?"

"Yes."

"Well, it is obvious, but only to one of my sublime intellect, that this circumstance is caused by a species of paspalum seed found only in Boggabri. And then of course there is your accent."

"But I am using an Oxford accent!"

"Which is precisely what any itinerant Boggabridgian would do!" Homsel cried triumphantly.

The wolf gave a short laugh. "Dear me, Mr Homsel, now you put it that way, I find it was not so amazing after all."

Homsel chuckled good-naturedly and spat in his eye'.

"But pray tell me, my good man," Homsel continued, taking a pinch of snuff from his violin, "what is your problem? Disregard Gretson. His foamy-mouthed gibberings amuse me sometimes. That is to say, what is your problem beyond the fact that you are the wolf from Little Red Riding Hood, and the legendary gran'ma has absconded with the goodies?"

"You are a veritable wizard, Mr Homsel!"

"Truly, my good man, truly. I mention it to Gretson frequently. Don't I Gretson?"

I paused in my ritual licking of his feet to nod.

"The position is, Mr Homsel, that Mr Walt Disney, the well-known antique merchant, has offered us the leading roles in his forthcoming film. But there is another man interested in our story—but not for the same pure, uplifting purpose. It is the Baron Stanislaus von Freberg. A positive blackguard, Mr Homsel, though— I am told—quite fascinating to women.

"It is into this fiend's clutches that our hapless Gran'ma has fallen. By insidious means he lured her into his castle in the forest, where he has her imprisoned in his Echo Chamber. She is tortured continually by repeated performances of the Banana Boat song—played on a circular tape. We cannot do without her, Mr Homsel. I appeal to you for help!"

Homsel had throughout been studying his pinch of snuff through the low-power miscroscope. He sprang to his feet. "Great Heavens, Gretson!" he cried. "We must leave at once! Come!"

My friend Homsel is given to the unorthodox; but in stepping out into Piccadilly clad only in a violin-bow he really surpassed himself.

Schloss Freberg, though an architectural nightmare, was imposing in its size and solidity. Its shape was in direct contrast to that of the guard who answered the door. He was small, indelicately constructed and sallow, and betrayed all the silky-voiced repulsion of a tiger snake.

"Like yeah, daddy." He smirked twitching his pointed tail in a most irritating manner. "The Baron is, like, indisposed. Yeah. Crazy dad." he added, raising the drawbridge.

"Ha!" Homsel chuckled from the cool serenity of the castle moat wherein he has fallen. "The fellow has adopted me as a father figure!"

"The Baron will be a formidable foe, Gretson," he went on, climbing on board his violin, which he paddled across the most with his magnifying glass. "Witness his treatment of our old friend Sergeant Joe Friday. It appears the poor fellow subsequently went mad, and took to Ed's mom with a meat chopper. A tragic affair."

Homsel now began ascending the castle wall, by a characteristically ingenious procedure. He placed his pipe bowl against the brickwork, inhaled stiffly and held his breath while he gained a foothold further up. It was a laborious process, as he persisted in whispering, "You know, Gretson—" at the crucial moment and falling into the moat.

At length, however, we gained entrance to the ante-room of torture chamber, where Homsel cleverly took my stethoscope and applied it to the keyhole. Suddenly, however, the door was flung open, revealing the silky-voiced henchman, who promptly seized the other end of the stethoscope, and blew in it. The immediate effect was to cause Homsel to go black in the face. The secondary one was that he drew his violin and smashed it over his assailant's head.

"I regret having had to do that, Gretson," he murmured sorrowfully. "Mr Brynner may have a copyright."

Acting swiftly he donned his victim's habiliments, and in this guise entered the torture chamber. I applied my eye to the keyhole. A terrifying spectacle confronted it. On one side of the chamber was a great roaring oven, on the other side the helpless gran'ma trapped in the echo chamber; and in the centre paced the Baron Freberg, malevolence shining from his bifocals. A satonic drool spread over his visage when he sighted Homsel.

"Stoke the ever-lovin oven, Spike," he cackled. "Grammaw here is goin' On Wax."

For the purposes of disguise Homsel adopted a Cambridge accent. "Like, crazy, father," he said.

The Baron started, His expression was fiendish in its intensity. "Din' I tell youse ta momble?" he snarled. "An' waddya mean usin' dickshnry woids?"

"Er, I afil to—er—dig you, bud. Like, pray elucidate, father."

"E-lucldate? E-lucldate! You nuts or somp'n, boy? I've used grape-shot on joiks for less d'n dis!"

Homsel now employed a brilliant tactic.

"Like, well, my ears, man," he groaned. "Too piercing, father, too piercing."

"Huh? Oh yair. Sorry." The Baron clumped out through the far door, closing it after him. "Bum!" he cried. And re-entered through the window.

"Crazy," Homsel sighed, on cue.

"Orright, grammaw," leered the Baron. "Youse gonna play ball with us? You gonna sing How Much Is That Wolfie In The Nightdress with a Texas accent or nix?"

"No, no!" screamed the poor woman. "Anything but that!"

"Foist mug t' make the ubvious crack gets fed inter the Hi-Fi rig," growled the Baron. "Oright. Open the oven door, bub."

"Like, I do not excavate you, father," said Homsel, stalling. "I do not receive you loud and lucid."

"Huh?"

"Like, in brief, how?"

"Like dis, y' goddam joik!" screamed the demoniac shrilly. He flung the door open and clambered in. "And she gets in like dis!"

Whereupon Homsel, acting with unbelievable presence of mind, slammed the oven door. The Baron gave a piercing scream—a yell that will always ring in my memory—and was for ever still.

And then—it all happened in an instant. Gran'ma drew from her bosom a Nordenfeldt machine-gun, and with a chattering spray of death, shot Homsel down.

"My dear, dear Gran'ma," cried Homsel in dismay. "What provocation resulted in this?"

Thereat the old lady shed her nightie. I hid my eyes. Under this disguise stood the wolf; who, in turn divested himself of his hide. And out of these distressing shambles strode that arch villain, Mr Simon Templar.

"Cheerio, old thing," smiled, the Saint, without a flicker in his steel-blue eyes. The goodies felt cozy in his hip pocket as the Hirondel glided gently away, towards Manhattan.

ge

—"Honi Soit."