Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 835 & 836, March/April 2011

The Teapot Mountie Ball by James Powell

In 2010, Canadian-born James Powell received a nomination for the Crime Writers of Canada’s Arthur Ellis Award for Best Short Story for his February 2009 EQMM tale “Clown-town Pajamas.” He’s a previous winner and multiple nominee for that award. Mr. Powell has lived in the U.S. for many years, mostly in Pennsylvania. He has several series running in EQMM, but it’s been quite a while since we’ve seen an entry in that starring Maynard Bullock of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

On a warm October night three buses with curtained side windows drove up Canada’s Gatineau Valley Highway from the direction of Ottawa. Passing an abandoned quarry, they doused their headlights and turned off onto a narrow macadam road. Behind them, dark figures came out of the trees carrying a large metal sign marked “Road Closed.” They were followed by a loaded gravel truck which parked behind the sign to reinforce its message.

More figures with flashlights stood along the roadside to guide the buses until they reached the dark shape of the Quarryview Dance Pavilion, where their passengers stepped down. Then the pavilion doors swung open, casting a quadrangle of light that revealed sixty men and women, not one of them over five foot six inches tall, in red tunics and Stetsons formed in ranks of six abreast. From inside the building a dance band with muted horns struck up “Little Things Mean a Lot” and the new arrivals marched smartly inside. The Tenth Annual Teapot Mountie Ball had begun.

After the Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s successful infiltration of organized crime during the 1980s, the mob became so gun-shy that an undercover Mountie needed more than a loud tie, an applied scar, or a fake cauliflower ear to get taken on. In fact, they gave a quick bum’s rush to any mobster wannabe who met Mountie height and weight requirements or had the hint of a steely gaze.

So the Force recruited a secret cadre of short, stout men and women for undercover work. The Mountie Academy taught them shiftiness of eye, slouching, language no Mountie would ever use, wisecracking, how to cheat at cards and, for the ladies, the seductive walk and come-hither look. The Force nicknamed these short, stout newcomers “teapots,” Mounties in every sense of the word except that they were not allowed to wear the uniform in public or enter headquarters by the front door.

Thanks to teapot infiltration, mobsters were soon crowding the halls of justice again or had fled the country. (The United States scratched its head over this sudden return of people they’d gotten rid of for years with a stiff boot in the pants, a bus ticket for Toronto or Montreal, and a stern warning not to come back.)

Searching for a way to honor these short, stout, unsung heroes, Mountie Commissioner Ralston came up with the Teapot Mountie Ball. On this occasion, Ralston decreed, the teapots would come in full dress uniform, while the Mountie brass and other members of the Force would attend in civvies.

Acting Sergeant Maynard Bullock was pop officer for the ball again that year, in charge of the soft-drink stand. He’d come on the buses’ earlier trip with the Mountie musicians and others in attendance.

Bullock never cared much for wearing civvies or what he called his mufti duds while on duty. For him, the uniform was a real morale booster and the dress uniform all the more so. One day awhile back he’d gotten himself real down in the dumps thinking he might have made a bad career move when he left field work to go into the public relations end of Mountieing, posing for tourist photographs among the flowerbeds on Parliament Hill and doing TV public-service spots with the popular Mountie mascot Winnie the Peg, the small black bear who wore a wooden replacement for a leg lost in a trap. So when good old Mavis, his wife, reminded him they’d been invited to a party that night he decided to buck himself up by going in full Mountie regalia, boots, breeks, scarlet tunic, and all. It wasn’t until their host greeted them at the door dressed as Chuckles the Clown that they remembered it was a costume party. So Bullock spent the night trying to convince the other guests in fancy dress he really was a Mountie. No one believed him, not even the guy in what looked like a Swiss cheese kilt who claimed to be Sponge Bob Squarepants’s Manhattan cousin, Harold Squarepants. The man eyed him up and down sceptically before walking away humming “Give My Regards to Broadway.” Good old Mavis hadn’t helped any by telling everyone she’d come dressed as a Mountie’s wife.

Anyway, Commissioner Ralston said mufti duds and mufti duds it was. But when the latest issue of The Scarlet Trumpet, the Mountie newsletter, announced that Sweden had awarded Ralston the Star of Saint Olaf, Second Class, for his work against international crime, Bullock bet himself Ralston would put on the dog and show up at the ball with the decoration around his neck. To the man’s credit, he arrived in an unadorned tuxedo so as not to distract from the teapot Mounties’ moment of glory.

Of course, Bullock’s sidekick Winnie the Peg was there in full dress uniform. He was a teapot favorite. The men liked to throw an arm over his shoulder and mock punch him in the stomach. The women loved teaching Winnie the latest dance steps.

Ball security was always tight. The underworld must not learn the identities of these secret Mounties. Tonight it was tighter still. Last year, an attaché at the Norwegian Embassy had tried to crash the event disguised as the piano tuner. But an alert constable spotted the cleated horseshoe on the man’s cuff links, the insignia of the Royal Norwegian Mounted Police. This cavalry unit, famous in Hamlet, Prince of Denmark’s day for using cleated horseshoes to smite the sledded Polacks on the ice, had morphed into the Consolidated Scandinavian Intelligence Service known popularly as the Scandihoofs.

(Along with infiltrating the mob, the teapot Mounties worked to frustrate Canadian crime at every level, even loitering on street corners in plainclothes to arrest drug pushers, street hoodlums, and scofflaw jaywalkers. Word had it that gloom descended over the Scandinavian countries when they heard rumors Canada was about to pass them in the United Nations’ annual listing of nations with the highest quality of life. Baffled — they considered Canadians a frivolous southern people much like the Italians — they had ordered the Scandihoofs to investigate.)

When those less-than-standard-size Mounties swept into the dance hall ramrod proud in the uniforms they so seldom got to wear, everyone stood and applauded. Bullock got a lump in his throat. Yes, he’d been sceptical. But, by Godfrey, the teapots had proved themselves an invaluable arm of the Force.

The uniformed arrivals were followed by their spouses and well-vetted dates. Now Commissioner Ralston stepped forward to invite the wife of Corporal Tinker, the ranking male teapot, to take his arm for the opening dance while Tinker bowed and led the commissioner’s wife onto the floor. The band struck up the first foxtrot of the night.

The young Mountie working behind the counter with Bullock was Constable Preston Armstrong, an advanced weapons expert and recent transfer from Regina. Earnest in manner, he’d proved a tireless listener to Bullock’s locker-room stories of his early adventures with the Force.

Becoming a Mountie had been Armstrong’s boyhood dream. But somehow along the way he’d fallen under the spell of the Force’s predecessor, the North West Mounted Police. So Bullock felt obliged to take him in hand and tell him about the Retros. This small backward-looking Mountie faction had been long before Armstrong’s time. They despised the Stetson as a cowboy thing and yearned for the NWMp’s scarlet and gold pillbox hat and the rugged days of yore when one Mountie on horseback could stare down whole tribes of Indians, crews of drunken miners come to town to raise hell, or rival lumberjack gangs out for blood. The Retros scorned everything modern from the automobile to the Internet. Their bellyaching grew louder when women were admitted to the Force. A few years later, along came Constable Arthur McAdoo, who transformed these malcontents into the Retro Lodge, a disciplined fraternal organization with a secret handshake and initiation rites.

When the first women took part in the Musical Ride, McAdoo and the Retros were outraged. Perhaps they wouldn’t have minded as much if the women had ridden sidesaddle, but they rode astride. The Retros protested by detonating a bomb hidden in the buffalo head on the wall behind the commissioner’s desk. When the fur stopped flying, the commissioner, who only moments before had gone down the hall to the canteen for tea and a butter tart, ordered an internal investigation, including a Force-wide foot inspection. (Many Retros emulated NWMP Constable “Gimpy” Flanagan, who’d sworn never to pull his revolver without drawing blood, an oath that cost him several toes.) After the courts- martial of McAdoo and the ringleaders, most Retros resigned from the Force. But there were still some sympathizers around and they didn’t like the teapots. Recently Bullock found this written above a headquarters urinal: “Constable Pillbox says: You can’t stare the bad guy down if you’re staring up at him.”

Clearly impressed when he heard Bullock was pop officer for the ball, Armstrong had asked if he needed any help. “The more the merrier,” Bullock replied. The young constable had come in his own car. Bullock was happy he’d found the place since he was new to the Ottawa area.

Now the O’Haras, a quartet from the Scarlet Ladies, the female Mountie chorus, came out on stage to sing some lively numbers from the forties and fifties while Winnie jitterbugged with the female teapots. Peg leg or not, Bullock had to admit the bear danced better than he did.

At intermission, there was a great crush at the pop counter. Then, soft drinks in hand, everyone took seats around the bandstand for the halftime entertainment. A table was brought out with ten thick candles on it. Later the commissioner would say a few words and light them to commemorate the Tenth Teapot Mountie Ball.

But first, Constable Riddles, the Force’s standup comic, slick show-business smile and all, came out, “hello-helloing” all the way, to tell from his store of humorous puzzlers like: “What do little Eskimo boys and girls shout when they go from igloo to igloo on Halloween? Answer: ‘Blubber or blubber!’ ” Most of his jokes went back to 1885 and the second Riel Rebellion. “Why’s a man like a three-pull telescope? Answer: Because a woman picks him up, draws him out, sees through him, and shuts him up.”

When Riddles got to “Why’s a woman like a hinge? Answer: Because she’s something to a door,” Bullock turned the counter over to Armstrong and stepped out through the fire doors for a smoke. He’d heard the man’s material many times over and knew the next one would be: “Why are women like telegraphs? Answer: Because they’re faster than the mails in intelligence.”

The large harvest moon now stood above the trees. Bullock lit his pipe, uncrossed his eyes, leaned back against the pavilion wall, and pondered women being like telegraphs. No, he just didn’t get it. He’d told the joke to good old Mavis and she’d laughed loudly but wouldn’t explain why.

Bats staggered across the night sky. Years before, stones from the nearby quarry were used to build the Rideau Canal, leaving a natural amphitheater in whose crevasses the bats lived.

Now an owl hooted. Bullock thought he smelled the faint odor of skunk. Or was it the animal’s only predator, the great horned owl? He’d read somewhere how many of these stuffed birds in museums still reeked of skunk after a hundred years on display.

Applause from inside signaled the end of Riddles’ routine. In a moment the standup comic came out through the fire doors and strode off purposefully down a path through the trees in the direction of the highway.

From behind the window curtains Bullock now heard the commissioner welcome the teapots, describing them as the stout red line in Canada’s war against crime. Wasn’t this the same speech he’d delivered the year before? When Bullock heard enough to determine it was, he decided to follow Riddles and get him to explain the telegraph joke.

As he walked down the path, Bullock suddenly smiled to himself. “No, I was a liar back there,” he thought. “The great horned owl isn’t the skunk’s only predator. We mustn’t forget Arthur McAdoo.”

Many predicted a great future on the Force for the young, articulate, and personable Constable McAdoo. But as the years went by and he was passed over for promotion he turned bitter and made himself the first and only Grand Skunk Master of the Retro Lodge. The members were said to dine on a favorite dish of the NWMPs, skunk simmered in three changes of water and then roasted over a campfire. One of the Skunk Master’s jobs was to catch the creatures. He was good at it and wore a cape made of their fur.

As it happened, Bullock had been court bailiff for the trial of McAdoo and the Retro ringleaders after the buffalo-head incident, meaning when the guilty verdict was pronounced his job was to take each man’s Stetson and break its brim over his knee. The others didn’t care. Their hearts were with the pillbox. But when Bullock broke McAdoo’s Stetson he saw hatred in the man’s eyes, hatred for him and for the Force. As a boy, bet on it, McAdoo had dreamed of being a Mountie, too. A sad ending to a sad story.

Afterward, McAdoo returned to Alberta to work at his father’s lunch counter before striking out on his own with a drive-in he called Stripey’s Skunk-on-a-Stick. The last Bullock heard, he’d changed the name to a more upscale Mr. Stripey’s House of Skabobs and was selling franchises across the Prairie Provinces.

Bullock still hadn’t caught up with Riddles. He lengthened his stride. At last, as he hurried around a turn, he saw the man ahead of him on the path. “Wait up,” he called out.

Riddles swung around in surprise.

“I give up on the telegraph being faster than the mails in intelligence,” said Bullock, hoping the man would laugh and explain the joke to him.

Instead Riddles said, “You’re following me, Bullock. Who the hell do you think you are?”

Bullock blinked. Then, smiling at his own slowness, he waited for him to say “Answer” and finish his new riddle.

From the now distant pavilion the band struck up “Dancing in the Dark,” meaning the commissioner had said his piece, the lights had been turned off, the window curtains opened, and everyone was dancing by candles and moon- shine.

Just then, three men appeared on the path behind Riddles. Two wore security detail IDs. The third, to Bullock’s amazement, was the Skunk Master himself, Arthur McAdoo, in smelly pontificals which now included a Stetson with a broken brim that gave him an Australian air. He had gray hair now and walked with a gouty limp.

“Good work, men,” said Bullock, thinking security’d caught McAdoo up to some mischief. Then he saw their pillbox hats. And all three were armed with shoulder missile launchers. In fact, each security man carried an extra. One passed Riddles his spare.

“What’s going on here?” Bullock demanded.

“Well, if it isn’t Maynard Bullock, the scourge of the litterbugs,” said McAdoo, referring to the public-interest TV spots Bullock and Winnie did for the “Don’t Dump on Canada” campaign where Winnie wore a special ferrule on his peg leg for spindling trash. “Don’t worry. We aren’t littering. Just a little nipping in the bud.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we don’t like what we see coming down the road, these teapot Mounties, this runting of the Force.” He slapped his missile launcher. “We won’t let that happen.” McAdoo signaled the others to move past Bullock.

“Over my dead body,” announced Bullock and stood in the middle of the path with folded arms, the traditional challenge to a good old Mountie stare-down. He’d practiced it in the bathroom mirror many, many times, one man against a mob of troublemakers. He was sure the men in front of him had practiced it, too. He stared. They stared back. Three against one.

Ex-Mountie McAdoo didn’t even try the stare-down. He stepped out of the line of fire and said, “You get the scenario, Maynard. Teapot Mountie boy meets teapot Mountie girl. Wedding bells followed by blessed events. Remember, Mountie children get special consideration at the Mountie Academy. So today it’s short and stout. Tomorrow, heredity tells us, it’s going to be squat and roly-poly.”

Bullock didn’t answer. He focused on the stare-down. A few minutes into it, sweat broke out on his brow. He cranked his stare up a notch and saw Riddles touch fingertips to his temples. Bullock felt a headache coming on, too. But he jacked up his stare again.

Somewhere a great horned owl hooted. McAdoo’s cape seemed to stir at the sound. The smell made Bullock’s eyes water. He stared on through the tears and knew he was winning when Riddles asked, “Anybody got an aspirin?”

Then Bullock heard a step behind him on the path. Reinforcements! Without turning he said, “You’re just in time. These guys mean to destroy the dance pavilion and everybody in it.”

“Sorry, Maynard,” came Preston Armstrong’s voice. “I’m with them.”

Bullock broke off the stare-down and swung around. His first thought was “By Godfrey, who’s tending the pop counter?” Then he saw Armstrong’s gesturing automatic and raised his hands.

“These men are my lodge brothers,” said Armstrong. “Yes, I’ve eaten roast skunk. Frankly, it didn’t quite live up to my expectations. But I’ve sworn my oath to obey the Skunk Master. The teapots got to go.”

“Good man,” said McAdoo.

Armstrong handed the Skunk Master his automatic and went over to get a missile launcher from the other security man.

As Riddles tied Bullock’s hands behind his back, McAdoo looked up at the broken brim of his Stetson then down at the automatic. “I should shoot you here and now, Maynard. But that’d alert the pavilion.” He stuffed the handgun in his belt. “Besides, I’ve got other plans for you.”

“Come off it,” said Bullock. “You can’t kill the Mountie brass and everybody else just to get rid of the teapots.”

“He’s got a point there, sir,” said Armstrong.

McAdoo shook his head. “Nothing’s going to happen to the brass, at least not for now. That’s where Operation Trip Wire comes in.”

At the height of the Cold War, the United States feared a Russian sneak attack by land through Canada, either down through Alaska and British Columbia or from some secret Russian base in Greenland through Ontario or Quebec. So Canada agreed that in the event of such an attack the Canadian Armed Forces and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police would stand shoulder to shoulder in their assigned places, weapons at the ready, facing northward waiting for the Russian tanks and troop carriers to emerge from the trees heading south. Die they might, but at least they would delay the invaders long enough for the U.S. to get its defenses up and running. Canada had given its word. Why? Because it knew that if Mexico ever tried to invade Canada by land, the United States would do the same for Canada.

“I don’t get it,” said Armstrong.

“Me either,” said Riddles.

“Men, I was keeping this for a surprise,” said McAdoo, looking at his watch. “I’ve somebody in headquarters communications. Commissioner Ralston’s about to get an Operation Trip Wire alert.”

Now Bullock understood McAdoo’s plan. Operation Trip Wire meant Ralston would have to get himself and the other Mounties home to change out of their civvies. He’d need all the transport he could find. So he’d leave the teapots behind and send the buses back for them later.

The music stopped back at the pavilion. Now came shouts mixed with police whistles calling the security people in, car doors slamming, and the growl of bus engines starting up. Headlights sprang to life. Through the trees Bullock saw Ralston’s limousine coming up the road toward the highway. McAdoo and his men stepped into the shadows, dragging their prisoner with them.

Bullock hadn’t realized how close they were to the road. As the car approached, he opened his mouth to shout a warning. But Riddles was ready for him. He looped a bandana over Bullock’s head, pulled it between his jaws, and tied it tight behind his head.

The car hurried on past before coming to a stop at the gravel truck. The driver honked several times. The first bus pulled up behind the car. Through its now curtainless windows the Mountie dance band could be seen packing up their instruments. The commissioner’s driver got out and stepped up into the cab of the truck. Then the call went out for the truck keys. They were found with a security man on the third bus when it finally arrived. Then the caravan of Mounties, desperate to change into their dress uniforms and face certain death in Operation Trip Wire, sped away down the highway.

Bullock regretted he wouldn’t be there with them. Instead, it looked like he would face certain death here. Alone. And in his mufti duds. Well, at least Commissioner Ralston would get to wear his Star of Saint Olaf, Second Class.

“All right, men, let’s not keep the teapots waiting,” ordered McAdoo. “Armstrong, you bring Maynard here.” As Riddles and the two security men started back down the path toward the pavilion the Skunk Master continued, “No, Maynard, we won’t be killing the brass. But I bet they’ll wish we had. I see a lot of resignations down the road. A parliamentary inquiry will sure want to know how they allowed a degenerate Mountie, unhappy that the teapots had alienated his unnatural affection for his animal sidekick, to fire missiles into the dance pavilion, before killing himself in lovelorn remorse.” McAdoo rubbed his palms together until they squeaked. “Yes, I’m settling beaucoup scores here tonight,” he said and limped away to the front of the line.

Bullock and Armstrong followed behind the others. After a few minutes the young Mountie said, “Boy, Maynard, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather when Mr. McAdoo told me about your unnatural relationship with Winnie.”

Purple-faced with effort, Bullock tried in vain to shout a denial through the gag.

Armstrong shook his head. “That’s when I threw in with him. The Force is degenerating. That’s got to be stopped. But look on the bright side. When our heat-seeking missiles zero in on the anniversary candles the teapots won’t know what hit them.”

They had come within earshot of the pavilion. As the teapots and their guests and spouses waited for the buses to return, they’d fired up the jukebox and went on with what was left of the dance.

While Armstrong led him forward, Bullock began working on the rope that bound his wrists. If he could free himself, then when they got closer to the pavilion he’d tear off the gag, shout warnings to the teapots, and duck into the trees. But he was still struggling with the knot when the pavilion came in sight.

“Keep the noise down,” McAdoo ordered his men. “Little pitchers have big ears. When I launch you launch.”

McAdoo stopped behind a clump of trees near the entrance, gesturing for Armstrong to bring Bullock and join him. Then he signaled Riddles and the others to take up positions at the large windows on the other three sides of the building. When they were in place and weapons on their shoulders, McAdoo and Armstrong raised their weapons, too.

Bullock’s only chance now was to bolt for the front door of the pavilion. But the Skunk Master must have read his mind. When he took his first step, McAdoo swung around and struck him down with the barrel of his weapon. Suddenly Armstrong, who must still have had some spark of Mountie decency in him and could not stand to see anyone strike a tied and gagged prisoner, shouted, “Mountie down!” In a rage McAdoo swung back and knocked Armstrong to the ground, too.

Up on one wobbly knee, Bullock saw scarlet-tunicked teapots surging out of the pavilion to aid a fallen comrade.

McAdoo cursed loudly. He knew the heat-seeking missiles were useless now.

The teapots set their angry stares on stun when they recognized Constable Riddles. Then they saw the missile launchers and moved toward McAdoo’s men with slow, fearless strides. (Bullock remembered reading in The Scarlet Trumpet that the only thing a fighting teapot feared was hitting below the belt.)

McAdoo’s men were looking over their shoulders for escape routes. The teapots came on ahead. “By Godfrey,” thought Bullock, “who says you can’t stare down a bad guy if you’re staring up at him?”

McAdoo shouted to his men to fall back to the rendezvous point and they vanished among the trees. With another glance up at the brim of his broken Stetson he turned back to hit Bullock again. Just then he saw Winnie the Peg heading toward him fast. Perhaps McAdoo remembered the “Don’t Dump on Canada” spots, and decided to get his gouty foot out of range of Winnie’s peg leg. He followed his men into the darkness.

The teapots broke off their pursuit. They had a downed Mountie to find. Winnie’s growl of discovery brought them running. Tinker took off Bullock’s gag and helped him to his feet. The teapots formed a protective circle around the unconscious Armstrong.

It was some time before Armstrong came to. He wore a considerable bump on his noggin. But Bullock thought it may have knocked some sense into him, for he saw Armstrong look around at the teapots guarding and caring for him and hang his head in shame as he realized he would have killed them all.

“Guess I’ll have to resign from the Force,” he told Bullock.

“Sounds like the Mountie thing to do,” said the pop officer sadly.

Suddenly several explosions came from the direction of the quarry. The teapots looked to Tinker. Tinker looked to Bullock, who told him, “It could be a trick to get you to show yourselves and compromise your undercover work. I say stay here and wait for the buses to come back.”

Then he turned to Armstrong. “I’ve still got a chance to make Operation Trip Wire. If you’re up to it I could use a ride home for my uniform.”

“You’ve got it,” said Armstrong. “Me, since I’m resigning, I think I’ll pass on certain death. But I envy you, Maynard.”

Armstrong’s car smelled of Skunk Master. “I drove him out here yesterday with the weapons,” he explained. “Mr. McAdoo stayed with them in the quarry overnight.”

As they reached the end of the macadam road and turned onto the highway, a man came staggering out of the bushes and into the car headlights. Armstrong hit the brakes. The man was wild-eyed and bleeding from a scrape on his forehead. Bullock jumped out of the car. “By Godfrey, man,” he said, “what happened? You can tell me. I’m Acting Sergeant Maynard Bullock of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”

His words seemed to focus the man’s attention. He gave Bullock a Harold Squarepants look. But at least he didn’t hum. Then after a moment he said smoothly, “Of course you are. And I’m Lars Larson with the Swedish trade delegation at our embassy here.”

“Of course you are,” purred Bullock. Armstrong was now out of the car, too. Bullock caught his eye and led it to the man’s cleated horseshoe belt buckle. (The Scandihoofs seemed to be into accessories.) “What brings you to these parts, Mr. Larson?”

Larson had a well-prepared answer. “Ever heard of the Bat People?” he asked. “We’re very big back home. Some say the bat is Scandinavia’s bluebird of happiness. Anyway, wherever we are on the night of the October full moon our members visit local ruins, abandoned quarries, or belfries and do a bat count.”

“I’m listening,” said Bullock.

“So I was up in the old quarry here counting when suddenly below me came this man wearing a cowboy hat with a lighted candle on its broken brim followed by three men in bellboy hats. All I could think of was Saint Lucia’s Day in my country, where we mark the start of the Christmas season with a procession of children led by a young girl who wears a crown of lighted candles. A bit early for starting the Christmas season, I thought. Then I remembered that at my previous posting in Washington the Americans told me that Canadians, for some reason they could not for the life of them understand, celebrated Thanksgiving in October instead of November like everyone else. That left me unsure when you people celebrate Christmas.

“Anyway, when the first man stopped, the others stepped forward and he gave them each a candle which they lit from his. They dribbled melted wax on the tops of their hats and stuck the ends of their candles in it. Then all four formed a wide circle facing inward and raised these long tubes they were carrying to their shoulders. Just then some bats flew from a crevice behind me. As I turned in surprise, several explosions threw me hard against the quarry wall. When I recovered consciousness there was nothing but blood and body parts below me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Larson. We’ll investigate this matter,” promised Bullock, who suspected the man had witnessed a circular firing squad. Constable “Gimpy” Flanagan rides again. Except you can’t blow a toe off with a heat-seeking missile. “Meanwhile can we give you a ride into town?”

The man shook his head. “Thank you, but I’m parked just up the road.” As he started toward his car, the opening notes of the Swedish national anthem sounded delicately. Larson answered his cell phone, grunted a couple of times, and put it away. He gave Bullock and Armstrong a thoughtful look. “Let us say you are who you say you are. You might be interested to know I’ve just been informed that your Operation Trip Wire alert was a false alarm.”

Looking a bit shamefaced, Larson gave an apologetic shrug, winked at Bullock as one policeman might to another, and made a circle of his thumb and forefinger, which he laid on his chest. Then he nodded down at it and walked away.

As they watched Larson head back to his car, Armstrong said, “McAdoo was sure full of surprises. When he told me this was a do or die situation all I thought he meant was it was a really serious business. I didn’t know he was planning a Gimpy Flanagan.” As the two of them got back into Armstrong’s car he added, “Sorry about Operation Trip Wire.”

“Oh, there’ll be other times for facing certain death,” said Bullock, confidently. But right now, if he read Larson’s wink and a nod correctly, what he needed was a tactful way to tell Commissioner Ralston that the Scandihoofs had bugged his Star of Saint Olaf, Second Class.

Copyright © 2011 by James Powell