A World of InTemperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 2) (5 page)

“Yes, Ma’am, I reckon you do.”

“This is our friend Miss Abigail GoldenBear and this is our friend Bolt.”

Bolt steps forward. He wags his tail and tenderly approaches Madame Pâte à Glacer.

“Here is the back of my hand for your perusal and approval,” says our Creole Duchess.

Bolt takes a sniff and wags his tail.

Bolt looks at Mademoiselle Gauzot.

A small whine and a questioning look.

“It is all right, Monsieur Bolt,” smiles the lovely French-Canadian, “I do not bite. Not good little doggies, in any case. Oui!”

Bolt wags his tail and approaches Mademoiselle Gauzot. She passes his hand sniffing test.

“What a small world. What brings y’all to the Alaskan territories?”

“Zee climate, no?” Mademoiselle DeeDee Gauzot laughs with infectious humour. “No, it is this wretched allergy to sunlight from which I suffer. I spend my time traveling from one polar extreme to another, in an effort to avoid the sun’s deadly and damaging rays.”

“I say, as our party intends a continued northern trek, may I suggest we travel together for a time?”

“Oh, merci beaucoup, Persephone! Wolfgang and I would be delighted!”

“Me too!” from Madame Pâte à Glacer. “I am taking quite a liking to this merry band.”

*~~~*

The next day, if you can call it such, for the sun is but a dim and distant southern hint behind thick cloud cover, we meet at the train station. Mademoiselle Gauzot is heavily protected from even these weak rays of Sol’s radiations. A  wide brimmed hat with heavy veils, parasol, and colored lensed glasses, help to guard her fragile complexion.

We board the Grand Alaskan Central’s “
Yukon Komet
” and head into the blanche tundra.

The swaying train rattles northward.

A steward, Spike Rogers, shares a smoke on the observation car with me and Bolt. He rolls a cigarette. I fill my clay pipe. Spike offers a treat of sardines to Bolt.

“Enjoy the the fish treat, Bolt; that’s the last of it.”

“Last of the fish? I figured there’d be plenty of fish in these parts.”

“Normally that would be the case, but there is a shortage of fish right now for some reason.”

“Any reason given?”

“Well,” says Spike, relaxing into an affixed seat, “they say with the salmon, that the fish are somehow able to migrate around the normal fishing routes. The fish just never seem to be where they oughta be.”

“What about in the ocean?”

“The commercial fishing industry has slowed down. The rumour is that the the nets are being cut. No one knows how it is being done.”

“Are the nets cut while underwater?”

“Yep, and nobody knows how it is being done.”

*~~~*

The passengers on this train are a strange collection of characters.

Colonel Ketchouppe is a saucy old coot. I met him in the Conservatory car, with a length of rope.

What a ham this James Murray fellow is! He is the most energetic person on the train. “Wotcha!” he cheerfully exclaims. He loves playing cards (Never heard of Brag, and just what are “Sheep Stations?”), singing songs, telling jokes and daring to drink anybody present under the table. This Australian wild man has a way of teasing everyone present in a playful manner.

An older, genteel woman of remarkable bearing shares our communal coach. Miss Wilma Altamont is a welcome addition. She is tremendously well educated and shares many delightful anecdotes to rival even those of the red-headed man from down under.

What a wonderful time, with wonderful people. That is, until Colonel Ketchouppe, after loosening up with a few drinks, opens a mouth that should probably have remained shut.

“I saw a heathen display of some kind today back in that village of savages. The foolish people called the thing a ‘Totem’ pole. Silly bit of nonsense, really. I intend to chop one down and ship it home for a scarecrow on the lower forty. Yes. Harumph.”

Miss GoldenBear’s jaw tightens in an strained effort not to grow angry at these uncouth words.

“Harumph. Sharing a train with a dog. Really. Harumph.”

The Colonel gets dirty looks from several quarters as Bolt has made many friends.

“This country is going to the dogs fast enough already. Ha Ha. Harumph. It is my intention to do something about it. The United States is destined to be the greatest power on Earth. Harumph. She shall soon be moving on to Empire status. I mean to do my part to make that happen. Harumph.”

“How would you manage that, Colonel?” I ask, trying not to be hateful to the old gentleman for his inconsiderate remarks towards Bolt and the wonderful people of Kuetinpeenk.

“I am not at liberty to discuss that with the likes of you, young man,” condescends the contemptuous Colonel.

Miss Plumtartt bristles, but I touch her arm to settle her back down.

“Though,it would make a few men ‘ill’ if they knew what was cooking. Heh, heh, heh. Burbityburb. Harumph.”

“Those imaginarian quotational markers dilly up my kwonky, Colonel. Triddie me scuppers, and blocko the diggers, am I to understand that you are involved with a plot to barbee up a method of making the populatto all gully gully?”

James Murray is not afraid to ask the hard questions.

“Did I spill the beans on the Bacterial Warfare Plan? Ooops! Harumph! I mean, you silly Aussie. You should mind your own silly business and go back to your own silly country. Harumph.”

Several hands reach out to stall the Southern Hemispheric. James is quite a nice chap and slow to anger, but this rude Colonel is completely unaware of how angry he is making the people around him. James does not want to upset his fellow passengers and sits back down.

“Perhaps the cold environment makes for a safe place to handle the dangerous bugs?” inquires a quick on the uptake Wilma Altamont.

“Yes. Quite so. Burbityburb! Oops! You impossible old bat! Oops! I mean. Er. Be quiet, you foolish woman; this is man talk. Harumph.”

Several hands touch several arms to stay their angry impulses.

The Colonel is blissfully unaware of the disagreeable demeanor he projects. Colonel Oblivion is actually very proud of himself, his pedigree, his station, and his place in the world. He surveys his companions while remaining safely ensconced within the husk of his tweed cocoon. Scornful, haughty, self-important, and self-centric, he manages to look down on us, even while sinking further into his seat.

He looks drunkenly at us each in turn. He mutters a brief description of each person under his breath. In his mind, he is speaking low enough for us to not overhear, but we all overhear just fine.

He looks first to:

Me. “Stupid Hick.”

Wolfgang Metzger. “Kraut Lout.”

Mademoiselle Gauzot. “Foreign Frog.”

Miss Altamont. “Battle-Axe.”

Madame Pâte à Glacer. “Darkie Busybody.”

James Murray. “Australian Nobody.”

Spike Rogers. “Beneath Contempt.”

Miss Plumtartt. “Pampered Pet.”

Miss GoldenBear. “Heathen Tart.”

Bolt. “Ugly mutt.”

We are all stunned at this man’s rude words and oblivious attitude.

His callous contempt seems to warm the coddles of his grinchly heart.

“Well! What a charming way to end our evening together,” beams Mademoiselle Gauzot. “After such a pleasant visit I am sure we are all tired and wish to get a good night’s sleep.” The elegant and gracious woman bids one and all a good night. She pauses by the disagreeable Colonel.

“Sleep well, Mon Colonel. Don’t let zee bedbugs bite!”

Mademoiselle DeeDee Gauzot’s words break the ugly mood that had descended upon the Railroad Club Car. We disperse to our personal compartments.

Our train continues to rattle northward, through the dark, cold, Klondike night.

I get a few good hours of sleep. I can’t really say I get up in the morning, as it is difficult to gauge as to when morning is, in this sunless land, but I am aware of agitated sounds in the narrow corridor. Something is afoot.

“What’s up, Spike?”

“I’m not sure, Icky. Colonel Ketchouppe is not replying to his wake-up call. I have summoned the conductor.”

“Colonel?”

~knock, knock, knock.~

“Colonel Ketchouppe?”

~Knock, Knock, Knock.~

“Colonel Ketchouppe!”

~Knock, Knock, Knock!~

“I am opening the door, the Colonel could be in distress. Holy Expired Passengers, the Colonel is dead!”

The horribly pale pallor, and blank, staring expression, immediately give away the state of the deceased militarist.

Sprawled across the floor of his railroad compartment, in his anchor and cannon pajamas, is Colonel Ketchouppe, with a candlestick, wrench, and a lead pipe. His room is unkempt, as if it has been ransacked.

Everyone comes by for a peek at Colonel Ketchouppe. We all concur that he appears to be very dead, and that it agrees with him.

“Looks as if our Koala-witted friend got up on the wrong side of the bingabingaboll.”

“Yessir.”

Even from the doorway, it is easy to spot two puckered puncture marks on the dead man’s neck. His sunken features and ghastly pallor bear evidence that he is a quart or so low on the red stuff.

It is determined that a detective is aboard the Winniedepuh Express. He is a fastidious little Belgian, and he is in a bad humor, for being asked to look into this affair.

“It seems that very many of you had reason to kill this man.” accuses the ridiculously mustachioed investigator. “After extensive questioning and a thorough look into this sordid affair, I conclude that this Jeaque-asse needed to be killed and that whomever the murderer or murderess is, deserves a reward, not confinement in our penitentiaries. Had the murderer not beaten me to it, I may have committed zee murdaire myself.”

“Bon.”

“Mademoiselles, Monsieurs, Adieu.”

Our detective exits.

No one can quite bring himself or herself to feel any sorrow for Colonel Ketchouppe, but the strange circumstances of his death are worth consideration.

Our train continues to rattle northward.

We arrive at a railroad station in Winniedepuh.

We all disembark and secure rooms at a nice local hotel.

We all say goodnight, and retire to our individual rooms.

Gee, whiz, I am having trouble getting accustomed to constant darkness. I am having a tough time falling asleep.

Hmmm. I think I heard a noise outside in the hallway. It was like the tippy-toe step of a person trying to move in complete silence.

Did that person stop in front of Miss Plumtartt’s door? Could someone be trying to sneak in there?

“I say! Who goes there! Oh! Help! I have an intruder!”

“Oh my Goodness! Here I come, Miss Plumtartt!”

I am in that room quicker than a flash of summer lightning, but run into the perpetrator as he is exciting. I find a hand and twist it up behind my opponent’s back.

Wolfgang Metzger bursts into the dark room.

“Wolfie, help! Gimme a hand with this guy.”

“Hold on Icky, I vill help you, ja!”

The fella I have a hold on ducks under my arm, stepping behind me, even as I have a hold upon him, and manages to reverse my hammerlock.

“Eee-ow! Dang, mister, you sure know how to work this hold!”

“Let go of mein friend!”

~kee-RACK!-ack-ack-ack!~

A cobalt blue flash of electric light fills the hotel room in a blinding flash!

“Ah!-Yah-yah-yah!” is all Herr Metzger can say as he is seized in an electric current and bodily disrupted by a powerful blast of electric energy!

My shocked friend hits the floor in a heap.

I am unable to render assistance as my assailant holds a secure arm lock on me.

“I say, unhand that man!”

~Thwunck!~
Echoes the skull of our intruder as Miss Plumtart brings her weighted, parasol-mace down upon the crown of his head.

With a strangely familiar, Australian-accented groan, the prowler slumps to the floor.

A light is ignited.

“James Murray!”

All of our companions are gathered in the doorway of Miss Plumtartt’s suite. Indeed, our Australian friend is rubbing his head, and sitting on the floor where Miss Plumtartt’s well-aimed para-parasol attack deposited him.

“Is Wolfgang all right, Mr. Temperance?”

“Yes, Ma’am, I think so, but I think he’s gonna be awfully angry.”

“So, James, was it you who murdered Colonel Ketchouppe on the Winniedepuh Express with a two-pronged garden tool and a siphon hose?”

“T’was not I, Abigail, me tall dark, beautiful Sheila! You see, that fellow had a way of entering locked rooms, and leaving them as such while draining his victims of blood, that is beyond my training.”