Spontoon Island
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29 October 2007
| "Valentines Dazed"
by E.O. Costello, M. Mitchell Marmel, & Walter D. Reimer All characters © their respective creators (*sigh*) (Sir?) (Hmmm? Oh, hullo Lodge.) (Would I be intruding, Sir, if I asked why you were staring at that typewriter?) (If I said I was trying to complete "Kubla Khan," would it be believable?) (Perhaps not, Sir. After all, who do we know in Porlock?) (*sigh*) (You are writing this portion of your memoirs, Sir?) (Oh, yes, Lodge. We're right up to the point in early February, when that silly stork from Minkerton's showed up, rooting around in Les' background, and right after Les talked to those boring chappies.) (Oh. Ah.) (That "Oh" and that "Ah" cover a lot of ground, Lodge.) (Indeed, Sir. Was it not the very next night that...) (Yes, Lodge. Yes. And therein lies the problem, you see.) (How so, Sir?) (Lodge, we live in fast times. Fast cars, Automats, fast jazz. But there are some things that, while fast, are not exactly...well, dash it, I can't find the word for it. In any event, were I to set the events of this night...and, I suppose, the following morning...down on paper, the Teeming Millions are going to reach one, and only one, conclusion. That Reginald Buckhorn is a first-class bounder.) (Oh. Ah.) (Lodge, you are hiding something beyond those bland monosyllables. Out with it. He who has seen me borne upon my shield, and not with it, after a hard night with Bacchus surely has something on the bean.) (It was more often the bonnet of a motor-car, Sir.) (Don't be literal, Lodge. I was reaching for an historical allusion, demonstrating that at least something of the four years I spent at Wharton stuck.) (If I may, Sir, I think you are overlooking one of the central purposes of an auto-biography, which is to allow the reader an insight into your mind, and allow them to make their own judgments.) (Bosh, Lodge. I read the memoirs of both Cellini and Casanova, the latter in the plain green wrapper. And you know what that means.) (I beg to point out, Sir, that the fact you are staring at the paper with a fraught expression concerning these activities separates you from Casanova. Or de Sade.) (There's a bloody sight more than that, that separates me from de Sade, Lodge.) (Indeed, Sir. However, I believe that my point is still valid, Sir.) (Eh?) (Set the matter down truthfully, Sir. Which is not to say graphically...) (I should bloody well think not, Lodge!) (Anyfur who has read this far in your narrative, Sir, will know in great detail your feelings about...er, Miss Fawnsworthy.) (Errrrr. Yes.) (Perhaps, Sir, you will feel better once you see it on paper.) (*sigh* I suppose. Lodge, d'ye think Miss...errrr, Fawnsworthy is going to think any less of me for telling tales out of school?) (I should think it most unlikely, Sir, given the . . . psychology of the... well . . .) (You have your doubts, Lodge.) (Framed in the appropriate way, Sir, I believe the matter still holds. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.) (If you want a coffee break, Lodge, take one. You don't have to ask me.) (I am sorry, Sir. I did not make myself clear. I was merely suggesting that confession was good for your soul.) (I suppose you're right, Lodge, as usual. Oh, Lodge?) (Sir?) (If you're going to get some coffee, could you give me a pot, too?) (Very good, Sir.) *****
I've had a limited experience with Father Merino, which largely consisted of the old ram grabbing one of the prominent cervine ears and giving it a frightful twist. This, combined with my memories of school, have made me wonder if Confessing All is the sound and statesbuck-like policy. Nevertheless, half a league, half a league, half a league onward, into the valley of the Underwood rides Reginald. When last we met, a chap from Minkerton's had just told me that he was investigating a shady character, who turned out to be, much to my rather unpleasant shock, Leslie duCleds. I initially had fears that this sort of thing involved Les doing the equivalent of pushing a barrow about the streets and bellowing "who will buy my lovely high explosive?" (Les' family owns the duCleds chemical works, the furs that have made a packet producing explosive stuff. And no, this *is* different from the baked beans that formed the basis for the Buckhorn fortune, thank you very much.) It turned out, thanks to the rather naive and indiscreet nature of the Minkerton's agent, Bernie Phlute, that Les was under suspicion of having, to put it bluntly, seduced Inocenta de Ciervos, and enjoying carnal relations with her. Now, I didn't tell the chap this, but I had a bloody good suspicion that: (a) There was no seduction on Les' part, because (b) Said La Ciervos was dynamite with hooves and a flag, and furthermore (c) Any enjoyment was likely to be mutual, to say the least Granted, I had no first-paw proof as to what Les was up to. I had heard about the incident with the back-rub leading to a merry chase, and had caught, in part, the final act, which involved La Ciervos' father attempting to use Les for target practice. Considering that *my* first, mark you, *first* meeting with La Ciervos involved her forcibly removing my lava-lava and making a grab for my boxer shorts, I was under no illusions whatsoever as to what would happen if La Ciervos and Les were placed in close confinement. Let's face it: Les is a good-looking chap enjoying a great deal of health, and there's only so much of La Ciervos one can take before the blood starts to fizz, if you follow me. The other part of the Narrative of Bernie Phlute that puzzled me was the fact that he was referring to me as Agent Fawnsworthy. This was bizarre, yea verily, bizarre beyond coincidence. I didn't disabuse the chap as to his error, but still, it set the brain-pan rattling. I made my excuses, finished off my juice, and promised to keep my ears open and my information confidential. Which was not to say, confidential from a real Fawnsworthy. One for whom I was starting to sustain the impression that there was a great deal more than met the eye. *****
I soon had my opportunity. I had arranged to have dinner with Willow in the dining room of L'Etoile. For some reason, Andre was not on duty, and instead there was a smiling young minkess who escorted us to our table. Somehow, it made L'Etoile seem that much brighter and more cheerful. Addition by subtraction, I suppose. Willow, for her part, had made quite an effort. She was wearing a brand-new black silk dress, set off with pearls, which went well with a pair of hooves shined to a gleam. I told her she looked marvelous, and held her paw. Not that it did much good. For most of the dinner, her thoughts were obviously elsewhere. At one point, she reached into her purse to take out some cigarettes, not realizing until she almost lit up that she was still in the middle of her main course. Back went the smokes, though she kept out the lighter, and was nervously toying with it, opening and closing it. I was going to take it from her, under the guise of holding that paw, when I stopped, and took a closer look (not that Willow noticed). To my surprise, I saw a familiar eye logo with the capital letters M.N.D.A. Now, any chap who has read as many mystery novels as I have knows what M.N.D.A. stands for. Namely, Minkerton's National Detective Agency. The home of all manner of hard-boiled, two fisted furs, the chaps who smoke cigarettes out of the sides of their mouth, drink whiskey out of the other side (sometimes simultaneously), and who always manage to get the bad guy to confess by the last reel or the last chapter. But you know, this wasn't the first time I had seen that lighter, that exact type of lighter. Mummy had one exactly like it, down to the finish. I was once at a cocktail party, and met Allan Minkerton. Well, Allan Minkerton III, actually. I described the lighter to him, and asked him straight up if Mummy had worked under him, and he sort of turned a funny color and zipped off to the buffet table. It was Mrs. Minkerton, of all people, who happily filled me in on the details of some of Mummy's exploits, some of which she had shared. It was an eye-opener, all right. She had just started in on how she had worked under her husband before the marriage when he came back to introduce her to some ambassador or other, and I never got a chance to continue the conversation. Not long before the Sire shipped me off to the Pacific, I asked Mummy about it. She simply sighed, and rummaged around in a desk drawer until she found her old Minkerton's badge. "It was a long time ago, darling, and that sort of thing isn't in demand for a doe of my position, so..." And with another sigh, the badge went back into the desk drawer, which was closed with a firm snap. Looking at Willow stare at her plate of banana blossoms, largely untouched (and that's a sign of trouble in a doe if I ever saw one – I’ve said that before, haven’t I?), a few of the pieces snapped into place with a little click. So that's why Phlute addressed me as Agent Fawnsworthy. I mean, there aren't all that many whitetail deer in the North Pacific, and he must have assumed, based on how fast I figured him out, that I was another Minkerton's agent. Whitetail + action = agent. I realized I was looking at the real Agent Fawnsworthy. They say that bucks often want to find does that remind them of their mothers, and now I saw that it was true. So *that* was why they got along so well last fall, when the Sire and Mummy came here. And that explained how the Sire changed his mind. Obviously one, the other or both of Mummy and Willow roughed him up, and made him spill the beans. It made me wonder if they did it while smoking a cigarette and drinking whiskey. And it also explained a few things about Les. I mean, Willow was a competent secretary and all, but if she was a Minkerton's doe, it stood to reason that she was on duty far more than to take Pittman shortpaw. Was she capable of this? The answer came back in a dim memory of a ruffian deposited muzzle-down in a dustbin on a moonlit September evening. How did I feel about it? Well, one part of me was excited. I mean, a real, live Minkerton's agent, just like you see in the movies and the books! Another part of me was a bit frightened. If Reginald got fresh, Reginald could well be undergoing the third degree somewhere. This, clearly, called for some degree of diplomacy. "Willow?" Willow slowly blinked out of her reverie. "Huh? Oh. Reggie. Sorry, just...woolgathering." She looked sorrowfully down at her plate of banana blossoms, and pushed it aside with a sigh. I tried the more direct approach. "What's wrong, darling?" Willow tried to smile, but something was blocking it. She mumbled something, and began fiddling with the lighter again. "Just business matters." Subtlety on my part was tossed to the winds. "Minkerton's business?" The lighter slipped from Willow's paw and clattered to the table, and she looked up at me with a greatly startled expression. I pointed to the lighter, and in my best Baker Street summing-up manner, elaborated on my chain of thought. Willow's only reaction was in her ears, which were standing straight up and twitching. I sought to put her at ease, by regaling her about Marjorie Fleece, the heroine of the latest detective novel I was reading, but somehow it didn't put her at ease. She closed her eyes, drooped her ears, and asked me to stop the explanation, as it was making her head hurt. There was silence for a minute or so. Upon direct examination, the witness admitted that there was an understanding between Lady Gwladys Buckhorn and herself, and attempted to change the subject to how adorable I was. Pleasant as that line of testimony was, I steered things back to what was biting her. The witness seemed reluctant to answer, so an attempt was made to hold her paw in encouragement. Now, when I was a buck-fawn, I once, in a spirit of scientific investigation, inserted a few ten-penny nails into a power point to see what would happen. I got a jolt of similar dimensions just now, though there was one difference. This was not a jolt of the variety that would send me across the room. Quite the contrary, I assure you. Willow's jaw quivered. The thought crossed my mind as to whether she, as a doe-fawn, had ever done the old power-point exploration. She was silent for nearly a minute, and then murmured in a low voice as to how much she loved me. I indicated that the feeling was reciprocal. Willow didn't smile at my attempt to be funny. Instead, she did something a bit puzzling. She took my paw, specifically, the finger on which I had my engagement ring (I had bought myself a ring to match hers), and she kissed it, slowly and emphatically. There was not much more that could be said. Willow murmured something about cocktails elsewhere, and I called for the cheque. next |