Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 03/01/11 (13 page)

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.