Spontoon Island
home - contact - credits - new - links - history - maps - art - story
  9 October 2007

Valentines Dazed
by E.O. Costello, M. Mitchell Marmel, & Walter D. Reimer
January & February 1937, from some different points of view.

Chapter 10


"Valentines Dazed"
by E.O. Costello,  M. Mitchell Marmel, & Walter D. Reimer
All characters © their respective creators

  Chapter 10

    The next few days were spent in following up various leads as to possible trysting places.  The parks on Casino Island were searched.  A number of false trails were uncovered.  Actually, a lot of what was found by Phlute was uncovered.

    "Ah'm tellin' ya, Mr. Buckhorn, it's simply shockin' what's goin' on here.  They gotta be puttin' somethin' in the water, the way folks are actin' strange around these parts."

    I didn't think that the people Mr. Phlute were encountering were acting so strangely.  It was quite understandable that a chap would chase a fellow with a flash-camera a few hundred yards to retrieve a happy snap souvenir of an eventful night.

    Lodge counseled that it would be better to hide Mr. Phlute during the day in the suite, using the servants' entrance.  Lodge pointed to an article in that day's issue of the Mirror, which suggested that an avian Peeping Tom was causing trouble around Casino Island.  Lodge, as usual, was quite correct.  It thus fell to yours truly to keep Phlute company during the day, with the assistance of the many fine products of Imperial Distillers, Ltd.

    Mark you, there was a time when asking Reginald Buckhorn to promote all sorts of japes and practical jokes, with the liberal assistance of liquid refreshment, would have been met as a challenge to be risen to with vim and vigor.  But something was lacking.

    Oh, yes, to be sure, I was still working on the piece de resistance, in this case, with the assistance of Po'na.  But even Po'na could tell that my heart wasn't in it.

    All of this was traceable to Willow.  La Fawnsworthy, in the middle of ops, was seen by your humble servant to be very pale, with something weighty on her brain.  And with a brain like hers, it had to be something weighty indeed to weigh it down to that level.  It was of sufficient heft that it had crushed her appetite, one night when we had dinner a deux in the suite (Mr. Phlute having been sent off into the night to watch over Eastern Island).

    There was no sparkle in Willow's conversation.  In point of fact, there was no conversation at all from her, as she shifted around the banana blossoms on her plate.  This was too much.  When a doe has no appetite for banana blossoms, that's a signal.

    "Hang it all, Willow, I know what's wrong with you."

    Willow looked up at me, startled, her ears quivering up top.

    "It's this dashed Phlute job.  I've been spending many an evening, of late, getting sozzled, and narrowly escaping the long-armed clutches of the law.  This is not a Reginald Buckhorn that is worthy of La Fawnsworthy.  Blast it, I'm feeling rotten, and it's not just the lack of sleep and assorted poisons coursing through my head in the morning.  You don't like what I'm doing.  So I'm going to stop it.  A plague on Phlutes and such.  The job is herewith chucked."

    Willow sighed, put down her fork, and rubbed at her eyes.  After a minute or so, she spoke.  Very quietly and softly.

    "Reggie, darling.  Believe me when I tell you that it's got nothing to do with you.  And I'm not playing any word games, or manipulating here.  Really.  What's got me down is something entirely else."

    "What?"

    Willow put her head in her paws, and breathed deeply for about a minute, before answering.  "Two different things, neither involving anyone you know.  They're in trouble, and only I can deal with it.  I can't tell anyone about it, not even you, Reggie."

    "But Willow..."

    Willow got up from the table, took me by the paw, and led me out to the balcony, and the wicker sofa therein.  She sat me down, and then sat next to me, putting her head on my chest.

    "Listen, Reggie, and don't interrupt.  I've got a lot of things on my mind, right now, that I've got to get sorted out.  The last thing, the very last thing, I need right now is to have some ghastly idiot foul things up with Les and Inocenta.  It's very, very, very important to me that this Phlute character is kept busy, and out of my headfur.  That's one flank I *don't* want to deal with, right now."

    "But Willow, dash it all, this isn't any fun, getting sozzled and all.  I don't know why, but this sort of thing just doesn't have the fun it used to."

    Willow pondered this for a minute.  "Maybe you're finally growing up, Reggie."  She lifted her head and looked me in the eye.  "Reggie, look me in the eye, and tell me you aren't going to chuck this job with Phlute.  I'm not asking you to continue it, Reggie.  I'm begging you to continue.  Please?  For me?"

    At this point, her eyes got moist, and then she began to cry.  There wasn't much I could do about it, except put my paws about her, and whisper a promise into her ear that I would do what she asked.  There wasn't any more conversation after that, just the sound of Willow crying, and then Willow sleeping against me.

    Blast it all, anyway.

*****

    MINKERTON'S FIELD CIPHER 39-J

    ATTENTION: GERALD MCCARTHY FIELD OFFICE, HONOLULU

    REPORT FROM: BERNARD PHLUTE DATE: 317 JANUARY 2096 TIME: 28764534 BOMBAY TIME

    RE: DE CIERVOS MATTER

    YES INDEEDY OL BERNIE HAS THINGS ALL UNDER CONTROL YOU BET YOUR BOTTOM DOLLAR ON THAT STOP GO STOP GO STOP GO HAVE BEEN RUNNING DOWN ALL SORTS OF LEADS I HAVE GOT EVERYTHING UNDER CONTROL YES INDEEDY STOP GO STOP GO STOP YIELD CAUTION STOP HAVE RECEIVED RED HOT TIP ABOUT SECRET OFF ISLAND TRYST SITE STOP GO STOP GO FJGHRYTF FHRHBGBT PLEASE SEND ORANGES BARRELS LOVE AND KISSES BROTHERS KARAMAZOV I COMMAND THE PARADE STOP TOODLE OO STOP GO STOP GO STOP GO STOP

    "Charlie?"

    "Yeah, Jerry?"

    "Could it be that Bernie is actually improving his field craft?"

    "Looks like it, doesn't it?"

    “Anything new about those torpedoes Fawnsworthy spotted?”

    “Nope.  They’re keeping a low profile.”

*****

    "He's *where*, Lodge?"

    "Mr. Buckhorn is on Gull Island, Sir, on business."

    "What business?  There's nothing on that island but a bunch of shifty-eyed vulpines and about six hundred years of accumulated gull poop.  What on earth could Reggie do with tons of gull...no, wait.  I withdraw the question.  I really don't want to know."

    "I think that wise, Sir."

    "Damnit, I have to get Reggie ready for my hearings tomorrow.  I need him to have his wits about him.  And you can laugh if you wish, Lodge, about that."

    "No thank you, Sir.  That would be most unfair."

    "Lodge, can I rely on you to have Reggie in one piece, and more or less sane, for the hearings tomorrow?"

    "I will make every effort to do so, Sir."

*****

    Brother Phlute and I returned to Casino Island.  We had not discovered any clews on Gull Island.  We had discovered, however, that the natives were capable of producing a simply amazing rice wine.  The secret was burying the barrels under a few tons of gull poop.  The heat from the gull poop does something to the wine, giving it extra body and heft.  We congratulated ourselves on this sensational discovery.

    We were leaning against each other at the water-taxi stand, watching the various buildings dance a charming mazurka, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.  Turning, I discovered that Po'na was seeking to discuss something with me.  Or one of them, anyway.  Amazing. He had two identical twin brothers.  Who knew?

    "Po'na-self urgent information-news rendering creature-with-stilts outlander.  Po'na-self creature-with-stilts outlander tell?"

    This took a few repetitions before it slowly penetrated that the chap with stilts meant my drinking companion, who began to giggle, and repeat "creature-with-stilts outlander" to himself.  He was evidently charmed by the phrase.

    "Po'na-self knowing is, assistor Inocenta-doe procreation make canine outlander."

    Bernie blinked at that.  I could relate.  Spontoonie is a bit hard on the bean, even when it hasn't been soaked in rice wine.  Luckily, I could translate.

    "I say, Bernie old sport, he knows who's helping Les boink Inocenta."

    This news startled Bernie into half-sobriety.  "Ya...ya do?"

    Po'na nodded sagely, and motioned Bernie over.  This was a risky move, as Bernie was giving off sufficient fumes that might have proven very dangerous had Po'na been smoking.

    "Assistor Spontoonie fox is.  Assistor recognizable is, dress distinctive being is."

    Bernie stared, slack jawed.  "Yeah?  Yeah?  Yeah?  Yeah?"

    I gently fwacked Bernie on the head to stop him skipping, and Po'na continued.

    "Assistor Euro-clothes wear.  Flat-cap wears.  Outer-garment being checked is.  Assistor wearing is additionally shirt-shield many colors."

    I sought clarification.  "I say, Po'na, do you mean this chappie wears a loud tie?"

    Po'na blinked, and then caught the gist of what I said, and nodded.  This description seemed vaguely familiar, and I was mildly troubled by this.  Something in the back of my swimming bean told me to remember a request I'd made of Po'na, but I couldn't remember it.  I staggered over to a nearby lamp-post, catching it on the fourth pass, and held on for dear life.

    At this point, Po'na gave an excited exclamation, and pointed out someone to Bernie.  Bernie gawped, and then straightened his tie and cuffs, brushed some gull poop off his trousers, and sidled up to the figure that was pointed out.

    The element of surprise, as Mr. Phlute had pointed out to me, was black-letter law in the Detective's Handbook, and Bernie certainly achieved a measure of surprise by pouncing on the fox.

    "What th'....?!" was the latter's reaction, as he turned around.  At this point, I recognized the individual in question.  Paws up all of you reading this who didn't see this coming.  Fifty lines for the lot of you:  "I will not underestimate how obvious the authors can be."

    "Awright, you...you...you...well, fox-thing, you.  I gotta question you."

    Br'er fox took one sniff in the air, and glowered.  "Lissen, ya bum.  Beat it, 'fore I ties yer beak in knots, see?  I ain't in th' _______ mood fer dealin' wit' drunks, see?"

    A nearby public works crew, leaning on their shovels, found something new to lean on their shovels and look at.  Some passers-by also saw the possibilities, and paused.  An enterprising merchant began selling snacks from a cart.

    The chappies at Minkerton's are obviously of the breed not to retreat, even in the face of overwhelming odds.  "Are ya gonna come quietly with me, or do I have to use my training on you?  I'm warning you, I've trodden in the steps of the martial arts masters."

    "Th' way yer smellin', ya trod in somethin'.  I'm warnin' ya..."  At this point, the rozzer flicked his right wrist, and out popped a rather ugly looking blackjack.

    Bernie began moving his wings in some sort of stylized intricate ballet, hopping up and down on his feet.  All rather graceful, actually.  It would have won him a role in the Ballet Russe, for sure.

    There were a few tentative passes made with the blackjack.  "Stand still, ya _______!"  The vulpine's mood was not helped by the fact that the audience was taking sides.  Some were pro-mammal, some were pro-avian.  One could see the situation was fraught with nerves a-quivering.

    First blow honors went to Bernie, as with one mighty leap he flicked out a foot and caught the fox square on the ear-hole.  The fox wobbled a bit on his footpads, more from surprise than anything else.  There was a rapid change in tactics.  Out went the long-range artillery, and in went the paw-to-wing fighting, where the fox was in his element.

    Certain by-standers felt that the situation was somehow unequal, and partisans began to render assistance to the combatants, which triggered assistants coming to assist those assistants, and so forth.  In a twinkling, there was a jolly nice Manchester-on-Saturday night brawl developing in the middle of the street.

    For myself, I found that the lamppost I was holding onto for dear life was some shelter.  A whizzing pushcart smashing against the lamppost, however, convinced me that discretion was the better part of valor, and I chose to weave off in what I hoped was the direction of Shepherd's.

    A few minutes later, a ricksha pulled up alongside me, and a vulpine pair of paws gently assisted me into the backseat.  Po'na was in mood radiant.  I begged particulars.

    "Pona-self pleased is.  Karok-son-Karok size indicator greater trousers is.  Po'na-self enjoying is Karok-son-Karok head thumping receipt."

    I toasted this with some rice wine.  I decided that Bernie wasn't going to be needing his share, and it seemed such a waste not to enjoy it right now.
 

next
   Valentines Dazed