Monty "Killer" Spiffington
Monday, July 25 2011
Picture this, chaps: I’m sitting on the river bank, polishing my golf hat, when I see Carmichael “Two-Guns” Penterlock running up with a tense face and a bloodstained waistcoat.
“Monty! Monty! It’s urgent!”
It had to be. Carmichael never ran unless it was urgent.
“What is it, old bean?”
“I need a favour.”
“Oh, come, Carmichael, you know I don’t do favours.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for Lady Ursula Bindlethorpe. A girl I know.”
That changed things considerably. Being a detective, and since all detectives are primitively-minded, I couldn’t resist the lure of the feminine form. So I let him take me to her. And boy was she formed. The girl was in tears, and if there was one thing more melting than a feminine form, it was a feminine form crying. Her whole figure coupled with the lachrymose inundations could melt the frown off an elephant.
“What is it?”
“It’s… the crumpets. My mother’s crumpets. Somebody stole them,” she sobbed.
Gosh, that struck me hard. A girl’s mother’s crumpets are her most treasured possession. I had to find the heartless son of a bitch who took them.
Donning my crumpet-retrieving spats, I hastened out into the biting autumn chill, and lit my grandfather’s pipe. After a quick chat with him, I went on my way.
Who could have committed such hooliganism? Samuel Porter-Jones? No, he was in prison for holding his fork in the wrong hand. William Biggs? He killed a hooker. So that left… Bobby Corduroy-Smith. The elusive baked-goods thief. If I knew him well, and I did, he would be in his warehouse, sorting his felt collection. I hastened there, and sure enough as dick is spotted, he was inside, with a grimace that indicated to me that he was taking elocution lessons from a shrew.
“Monty ‘Killer’ Spiffington.” he said.
“The one and only.”
“I didn’t think I’d see you here.”
“And I rather thought I’d find you here.”
“What do you want?”
“Cut the crap, Bobby. I know you have the crumpets.”
“Crumpets?”
“Crumpets.”
“What crumpets?”
“Do you really want me to spell it out for you?”
“Yes. You seem to have been instilled with the rather absurd idea that I’d steal anybody’s crumpets.”
“Well, Bobby, you’ve done it five times before. Why shouldn’t you have done so a sixth?”
“Had I the willingness, Spiffington, I would have stolen those crumpets thrice over and had the pudding to spare.”
“You’re talking utter sloblock. I will beat you fiercely if you don’t tell me where they are.”
“Look, Monty, I don’t want to have to do this. Just leave, and all will be well.”
“Jove darn, you jackwipe, if you don’t tell me about the crumpets, I’ll stick this pipe so far up your arse you’ll be smoking it.”
Suddenly, he sprang at me, with the ferocity and gracelessness of a tiger in the morning. That was all I needed. With one swift kick to his stomach, I dislodged his intestines, which came flying out of his mouth and into my waiting hand. Wrapping them around his neck and nailing them to the pole, I left Bobby hanging, gasping and bleeding, and walked on, annoyed at having soiled my Sunday gloves. Where could the bastard have hidden them? Something about his manner disgruntled me severely.
But what was done was done. I wandered on through the warehouse, flummoxed by the seemingly crumpetless enclosure, and the disturbing amount of cartons of what upon further inspection turned out to be his felt collection. Rummaging through it, I sensed something amiss. As I felt felt, I felt uneasy. I kept looking back on that awesome bit where I kicked him, and something in his eyes made me think that perhaps he wasn’t lying, and that he didn’t have Ursula’s crumpets at all. But then why had the blighter been so eager to die? Bobby was never the brightest candle in the candelabra. He could never have masterminded the operation.
Unless…
I rushed back to Ursula’s mansion, stopping for a quick tea or three on my way there. As soon as I got there, I sprinted up the marble stairs like a dog on fire, and burst into the library.
So it was that conniving tart who set it up all along, and paid Bobby to take the rap and frame. Crumpet insurance was worth a fortune, and she knew it. I had to get back and take her arse round to the relevant law enforcement authorities.
“The game’s up, m’lady.”
“But Monty, don’t you understand? My whole life, I have been pressured into looking after these blasted crumpets. I wanted do something, but I couldn’t. Those… crumpets. Surely I can offer something for you?”
“Cool it, sugar. I wouldn’t mess with the law if you gave me a piece of your own crumpet.”
This called for a cup of tea. My cup of tea. And a nice, juicy muffin.