bout de papier, Vol. 24, No. 3 (2009) — Summer/Fall 2009 // Été/Automne 2009, pp. 43–47
Mo’ was slow out of the gate. I set fire to my ten o’clock stogie and scanned the paper. Iggy and the Harp were still playing double-dare-you on the Hill. Conrad Black had married Vanna White for no clear reason. Tired of all the respect going to tough guys like Afghanistan, Bangladesh had invaded Burma. The Han Island case simmered down when Denmark and Canada agreed to arbitration by Robert Mugabe and the Muppets. Yawnsville. Across the office, Effie was deep in the homes-for-rent section. His end of town had been crashed by political refugees from south of the border — mostly Republicans from Cleveland. “It’s just ruined. The white belts and shoes clash with my Manolo Blahniks. And I’m allergic to polyester.”
The hallway door opened. A creak like that, I expected Vincent Price. Worse, it was D Essex Mackinaw, the driest man walking since the mummy got out of the museum. Behind him was Hairy Harry January, a local player. Mackinaw opened. “Sir, am here in connection with the disappearance of a client, one Hamish MacBannock. I believe that this disappearance is linked to the recent acquisition of an amusement park in the east end. Mr. January has information pertinent to the enquiry but will say nothing without a neutral witness. Although I shall probably regret it, I suggested you.”
The begonia turned yellow and paint began to flake off the walls. I turned the humidifier up to “Bayou” and said to the bearded thug, “You usually try to avoid witnesses, Harry, so this must be good. Fire away.” He did. “Louche Louie LaRue is running a long con on Moses Moribundo, which proves that Louie has more moxie than brains, because the last person who makes a monkey of Moses is under a banana tree in the zoo and the one before that leaves town glued to the cow-catcher on the Midnight Special to the coast.
“Moses is getting on, but his heart has not heard about it yet. He falls for this hoofer at the Follies, but she does not give him the time of day, Moses being more than a few years past young, with a kisser like a cake in the rain. But she gives him the soft chill, since Moses is the kind of guy he is and his goons are the kind of guys they are. She slips up by saying, ‘If you are only a younger man, I can really go for you’ When Moses’ eyes light up like that, a smarter dame takes a run-out powder and does not stop to pack.
“The word goes around there is a big breadpan of dough for anyone who can make Mr. Moribundo young again, assuming he is ever young, which many of us find hard to swallow. Such a trick is not likely, but Moses is not a guy that nods when you say ‘impossible’. And Louie knows enough twists to give a snake lumbago.
“Every grifter has his pitch. One gonif swears he has water from the Fountain of Youth, which some ponce named de Leon discovers just before he dies of being an old geezer, so what can you believe? And there is this Arab who offers hooch called Arbie’s Hideout …” “Aab-e-hayat,’ murmured Mackinaw. “The elixir of life, distilled from gold, cinnabar, jade, haematite and tea.” He shuddered. “Dreadful thing to do to a cup of Darjeeling.” “Another hustler claims to be the grandson of a quack named Voronoff,” January went on, “who tries to make people young during Prohibition by giving them extract of monkey glands. All it makes them is crazy for bananas, but the grandson says the new stuff is the pips. Then a broad offers Moses the apple of youth, only it has to be fast cash because some tough doll named Idunn is after her for borrowing this fruit.
“And this other guy, his dodge is that you make a deal with the Devil to get these special T-shirts with your picture on them. Long as you wear them, you stay young and the picture gets old. The devil gets the pay-off, but Moses loses track of his soul some time during the Clark administration, so he probably figures no big loss. I am thinking a bigger problem is if you are already old and ugly, or else the Stones cornered the market for these shirts a long time ago, but nobody is asking me and I do not queer another man’s pitch.
“Anyway, Louie knows he needs something big and flashy to show in that crowd, so works his nut off on what makes Moses tick, I mean aside from hurting people and collecting their valuables. Then one day he sees in the paper that this old carnival is up for sale.” “Cougar and Dart’s,” interjected Mackinaw. “Just inherited by my client, Hamish MacBannock, from his great-uncle Mangelwurzel. A very old firm. Hamish has no personal interest but hopes to realize a reasonable profit or at least some useful tax benefits.”
“Right; agreed Harry. “Louche Louie remembers Moses is a big fan of this scribbler Bradbury, what he, that is Louie, knows from the time he is doing five-to-10 on a jaywalking beef and that is all that the library in the slammer has to offer. He recalls one story about riding a merry-go-round backward to grow young, and he figures Moses probably remembers it too. If he can pick up the carnival cheap, he can set up a sting to trim some of Moses’ spare spondulicks.
“But Louie needs dough to back his play, so he comes to me, myself being known to make a careful investment now and then. He does not tell me up front that the mark is Moses Moribundo, since he knows I think going up against that citizen is not in fact a careful move. But by the time he names the high roller in question, I am too far in to wiggle out.”
“If I might interrupt Mr. January’s circumlocutions,” said Mackinaw. “Mr. LaRue approached me as the advertised intermediary in the sale of the amusement park. We toured the site together, and I did in fact take note of his particular interest in the rather tasteful black carousel. Mr. LaRue appeared to regard the property as a good one and we quickly settled a price. Two days ago, we were to meet Mr. MacBannock to sign the necessary papers, but he never made an appearance. No-one at his office and no-one at his home knew where he had gone. We were stymied.”
Harry returned to the charge. “Then last night, I am knocking back a tequila special at Good Time Charlie’s when a mechanical Eskimo moseys in and slips me a message, which is not your usual event of an evening, even at Charlie’s. The message says to come to the mirror maze in the carnival tonight if we want to close the deal.” Said the lawyer, “I am reluctant to approach the police, but I can’t let matters lie and I fear a confrontation. Would you accompany us?” J agreed.
An hour after sundown, we strolled into the carnival. The weather-worn entrance proclaimed “Fun for the Whole Family”. Only later did I notice the fine print: “You Should Live So Long”. The usual sights, worn and tattered even in the flattering light of dusk: the animals, the games, the rides, the freak show, the fortune teller, smells of stale popcorn and cotton candy, crumpled handbills blowing down the canvas alleys. On a small stage to one side of the midway, a vampire in antlers and a tattered tailcoat pulled a dead rhino from the wrong top hat, while a zombie with Richard Nixon’s face sang “I Wonder Where’s Kissinger Now.”
Harry pulled at my sleeve. “That guy over there in the three-piece and shades. I am sure that this is Moses Moribundo.” I said, “He isn’t looking this way. Play it cool.” Harry nodded, squared his shoulders and walked straight into a fire-eater, who belched the eyebrows off six strolling mimes. Past the carousel, we came to the mirror maze, closed and signposted ‘’Paused for Reflection.” “Do you think MacBannock could have gone inside and got lost?” asked Effie. Mackinaw replied, “In my experience, he could get lost in a telephone booth. If he could find one these days.”
We were wandering endless passages of dusty mirrors, which distorted our images in very ugly ways. No sign of MacBannock or anyone else, but then we heard what sounded like a small but enthusiastic bullfight. We turned a last corner and entered a mirrored arena. In the middle was a giant chessboard, with one letter of the alphabet marked in gold on each square except the four in the middle. There, surrounded by a flickering curtain of light, was a man in a recliner, killing a bottle of scotch and reading a book. “What in the name of the sainted Willy Blackstone is MacBannock doing in there?” asked Mackinaw.
Just then a huge pendulum, its edges gleaming sharply, swung directly at the seated figure. As it passed though the curtain, MacBannock dropped his book and bent over to pick it up. The pendulum clipped a corner off the headrest but missed him completely. There was a groan from the audience.
In the stands was the biggest basket of bad apples since the House recessed. Mid-bench was seated a tall clown in a tuxedo, a painted smile backed by a real sneer. He looked familiar. Near him, I saw Rialto Sleazewagon, Papa Jacques Paridy and Bertha de Kuhl amid a crowd that was strictly Hallowe’en in the pen. Hairy Harry gasped. “Those people with the clown, they are the chisellers what try to sell the other cures to Moribundo. And over there is Louche Louie himself. Why are they all here together?”
Two figures in spandex marched over to a seesaw by the edge of the board. One was slender, the other the size of a pregnant gazebo. The smaller one mounted the teeter, while the larger one climbed a nearby ladder and jumped down onto the totter, which snapped clean off, leaving him standing upright on the board and the other guy flat on his keister. Two roustabouts brought in a stronger model. This time, the acrobat wound up hanging from a light fixture near the roof. He pulled off a triple back somersault, missed the centre of the board and landed on a square near the edge, which collapsed under him.
Bouncing back out, chased by an irritated-looking tiger, he fell onto another square, which slid back over dark and bubbling water. Fortunately for the guy, the tiger attacked the giant octopus that erupted from the pool, letting the man scramble away. MacBannock calmly turned a page as the crowd booed.
The fat man snatched up a bow and arrow. Tying a rope to the arrow, he arced it over the board and into a washroom on the far side. Anchoring the rope at both ends (don’t ask), he clambered up and started edging across. As he neared the middle, the pendulum swung out again.
With a cry of “Olé”, he lurched back and the pendulum shaved his belt-buckle. Mopping his face, he set out again, only to be swept off the rope by the flying form of his partner, hanging upside down and backward from a trapeze. The fat man clutching him desperately, the slender man let go. They crashed together onto a
Limburger-burger stand. The crowd went I wild as they limped off, reeking.
I went over to the clown. “Commander. Long time no see, although I could have used longer.” “Ah, the perspicacious Mr. Dikk,” he replied. “A random element, how nice. Let’s find somewhere quieter to talk.” He led us to a side room. I started to explain. “There’s this hood named Moses Moribundo who wants to be young again.” Loud chirping from the clown’s jacket. He pulled out a box, opened it and said to the red-eyed insect inside, “Hush, Tithonos. As for you, Dikk, do I look like Peter Pan? And even if I have been setting Moribundo up, he is a major-league pimple on the backside of the cosmos.”
I said, “Why we’re actually here is to get MacBannock off the hook. He’s an innocent bystander.” “Much overrated, innocence, and bystanders so often get whacked regardless,” said the clown. “But if you want to save him, I can offer you a chance. In his own bumbling way, he’s a useful generator of chaos.
“The letters on the chessboard squares link up into seven chains spelling out, in order, names associated with the search for eternal youth. The letters in each chain can be adjacent vertically, laterally or diagonally but a given chain cannot cross itself. Taken together, the seven chains use all the squares but each square only once. One chain starts in a square adjacent to the shooting gallery in the middle and ends in an edge square, from which Hamish can escape. All the other squares face you with — surprises. Now look at this cipher text. The corresponding plaintext is by the author whose first and last name spell out the escape chain. Can you figure out who it is?”
Effie looked over my shoulder. “A simple letter substitution. I could solve it by doing a frequency count of the symbols and then matching it to the known frequencies of English letters — E the commonest, A/H/I/N/O/S/T also frequent and so on. I could also start by working out the one- and two-letter words — there aren’t all that many in English. But there may be an easier way …” The clown’s left eyebrow went up. Effie can amaze you when you get behind the fluff. He soon had the puzzle wrapped.
We headed back to the arena, only to find MacBannock off the board and about to be whisked away by the acrobats. I went up to the slender one, who explained, “Our tracking devices located the Chief and we were sent to rescue him. Sleazewagon spotted us — who knew he’d be here? — and we were ambushed. They said we could try to save the Chief, but only in these outfits and using that circus equipment.” “Caramba,’ moaned the fat one, dabbing at the Limburger stains on his moustache.
“You saw how that went — and that was only one try. But after the Chief had killed his second bottle, he staggered to his feet and lurched onto the squares. He couldn’t walk a straight line, but stumbled from one square to the next and made it out untouched. He didn’t even know he’d been in danger, since the force-field around the centre is mirrored and sound-proof from the inside.” The acrobat shrugged. I’m almost sure that MacBannock didn’t wink at me.
The clown’s laughter followed us out the door of the maze and onto the dark abandoned midway. The only light came from the merry-go-round, which began to rotate slowly. In reverse. Music started from the calliope, although no-one sat at the keyboard. “Oh gross,” said Effie. “Chopin’s Funeral March played backward. What a downer. And it’s been done.”
Moses Moribundo spun into view braced against one of the carousel horses. He wore a T-shirt with the picture of a young man waving a pistol. Moribundo picked up two bottles, one clear, one glinting jade-gold, and drained them both. The carousel gathered speed. He took a hefty bite from a gleaming red apple, then pulled out a syringe, stuck it into his arm and pumped. Adjusting black glasses, he hoisted himself stiffly onto the horse, facing its tail.
Hairy Harry shouted over the music, “He is trying all the jujus at the same time, which I am not sure is so wise.” As Moses came back into view, he said, “What have I got to lose? One of them has to work!” The music became ever more frantic and I spotted the clown playing the calliope. He looked up and said just loud enough to carry, “Ah, but what if they all work, doubters?”
Moses was clearly shedding years as the carousel raced on. But he was in trouble. Back to a teenager, he struggled to dismount, but couldn’t let go of the pole. We saw him melt like candle-wax to a tearful child, a wailing baby. Then an ape, then a trembling big-eyed rodent, then something low and scaly, then things I couldn’t identify at all. The hub of the carousel smoked and screamed. The ride finally crashed to a halt, its wooden floor split, horses tossed right and left, the calliope disappearing in a cloud of steam.
I moved to Moses’ horse, still somehow upright. Harry and Effie followed, but Mackinaw just sniffed and pulled out his pocket Prune. The clown tugged his shirt-cuffs and joined us. On the saddle was a pulsating greasy slick topped with a pair of shades. “Slime mould,” said the clown. “How appropriate. Isn’t evolution wonderful? I just hope this doesn’t start a movement for Stupid Design.”
Back in the office, Mackinaw and I had negotiated my fee with our usual professionalism and I was bandaging my wounds. Effie hung up the phone and announced a deal to rent the house next door to Hairy Harry’s. Mackinaw bridled. “Although he was of considerable assistance to us in the case of Mr. MacBannock’s disappearance,” said the lawyer, “Mr. January is also the biggest receiver of stolen property in the province. Why would you want to live immediately adjacent to him?” “Good fences make good neighbours,” replied Effie. Frostily.
Can you duplicate Shamus’s feat by giving the name-forming 10-letter chain that MacBannock followed to safety at the edge of the board? bout de papier will choose the winner by drawing one entry from those with correct answers submitted by November 15, 2009. The prize will be a book autographed by A Aalto. Not necessary to win, but can you also provide the other six names or phrases (all of them, unlike the first chain, mentioned explicitly in this puzzle) formed by linking the letters of the board, plus the plaintext matching the cipher text? And what is the significance of the clown’s insect friend?
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 24, No. 3 (2009) — Summer/Fall 2009 // Été/Automne 2009, pp. 43–47. Read the rest of this issue →
