‘Oh yes, Mr Harry,’ he said glumly. ‘As I told you, I had played the markets for many years while I was in the lamp. The return was, how shall I say, significant.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ I muttered to myself as Danny cut another of Basili’s credit cards in two. As my dreams of a high-tech detective agency began to fade back into obscurity, a thought struck me. Reaching for my cellphone, I made a quick call to my lawyer, Sol Grundy (a man I keep very, very busy most of the time), and explained the situation to him. He told me he’d see what he could do and get back to me asap. If anyone could find out what was going on, he was the man. In the meantime all we could do was wait (and hope), surrounded by all the extra-large suits we were trying to buy.
Fortunately my lawyer works fast. Barely ten minutes had passed before he rang back.
‘Sol,’ I said, ‘what’s the story?’
‘Not good, Harry.’ Sol replied. ‘Looks like your buddy has some problems. From what I’ve been able to find out, it looks as though Aladdin has had all his assets frozen, claiming that as they were acquired while your man was in his employ then, legally, they’re Aladdin’s. As of now, Basili has nothing. I know it sounds a bit high-handed and I’m not sure as to the legality of Aladdin’s actions, but it’s a grey area, so the courts will have to decide.’
‘See what you can do, OK?’ Aladdin was probably doing this out of sheer spite because we’d gotten one up on him. ‘But watch out: that Aladdin is a slick operator.’
‘Yes Harry, I’m aware of that. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.’ Which was true, yesterday was Thursday. ‘Oh, by the way, he’s repossessed the lamp too.’
‘He’s more than welcome to it. It’s worthless now.’ Even the genie couldn’t use it as a home now that he had no magic. He’d already bruised his big toe trying to get back into it through the spout. It was most definitely an ex-magic lamp. Then another awful thought struck me – it was clearly my day for them: if the genie couldn’t get back into the lamp and had no money, then where was he going to live?
This was a question with only one possible answer: it looked like, for the foreseeable future, I was going to have a large, farting, silk-clad genie sleeping on my couch.
3 Wondering in a Winter Wonderland
The Claus house was so sweet and twee it made those candy cottages that dotted the Enchanted Forest look like outhouses. I could feel my teeth starting to decay and my arteries hardening just by looking at it. I’d probably die of a sugar overdose once I crossed the threshold. No matter what angle you looked at it from, it screamed Christmas in much the same way as Aladdin’s mansion had screamed bad taste.
The house itself was a long, low log cabin – at least I think so. It was impossible to make out for sure, covered as it was from floor to roof in brightly coloured Christmas lights, which explained the bright glow in the sky we’d noticed as we drove over. These weren’t just your usual strands of lights draped along the roof; oh no, there were rock bands that didn’t have light shows as extravagant as what we were witnessing here. Rumour had it that Hubbard’s Cubbard’s lighting tech had spent six weeks studying these illuminations so he could get some good ideas for their next world tour. I couldn’t say I blamed him; at any moment I expected a plane to land in the front garden, having mistaken the house for the approach to Grimmtown Airport. Even sunglasses wouldn’t have been of any use here.
I could have sworn I even saw some people stretched out in the garden getting themselves a nice tan, but I couldn’t be sure such was the assault on my eyes.
Seasonal ornaments covered the lawns. Reindeer jostled with Christmas gnomes; trees and snowmen seemed to be fighting for space with models of sleighs and Santas. It looked like a Christmas civil war had broken out and I had no idea who was actually winning. Even the corner of the swimming pool that I could see around the back of the house looked to have been covered with some sort of plastic ice on which mechanical rabbits, reindeer and snowmen skated happily away.
Snow covered the entire scene, giving it a little extra seasonal ambience – as if it really needed it. As we hadn’t seen snow in Grimmtown for over five years, I used my powers of deduction to work out that it too, like everything else, was clearly fake.
Gingerly stepping around sunbathers and giant ornaments, I made my way to the door, pausing only to flick my fingers against a giant stalactite that hung from the eaves in front of me. Plastic too! I hammered on the reindeer-head door knocker, which lit up when I grabbed it and began singing ‘Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer’. It had gotten as far as ‘Then one foggy Christmas Eve’ before, to our relief, the door finally opened and Mrs Claus’s familiar imposing figure peeked out. Just in case she wanted to exercise her forearm again I took a careful step back, but this time she seemed happier to see me – thankfully.
‘Mr Pigg.’ Then she saw Basili standing behind me. ‘And your comedic sidekick, how nice.’ There was an indignant snort from just over my left shoulder. ‘It’s good of you to come so soon. Please, come in.’ She held the door open so we could enter.
Inside was just as tastefully decorated as outside. It seemed to be going for that ever-trendy neo-Lapland Rustic Charm look – as in pine everywhere. A mouth-watering aroma of mince pies emanated from a nearby kitchen. If the effect was to lull visitors into that warm Christmassy mood and leave them feeling good about themselves and everyone else, then it was very effective – until it came up against a cynical gumshoe like me. I was more of a ‘Bah humbug’ merchant when it came to Christmas.
Mrs Claus led us into a large living room dominated by a roaring fire. Gaudy red-and-white patterned socks hung from the pine mantelpiece and an enormous Christmas tree towered in one corner of the room. She indicated that we should sit in the comfortable-looking armchairs facing into the blazing inferno.
Once we were settled, I began. ‘Has your husband contacted you?’
A quick shake of her head was the only response.
‘Anyone else been in contact? A phone call or ransom note?’
Another shake of the head. Her lower lip began to tremble.
Please, no more waterworks, I thought to myself. I didn’t bring any wet gear.
‘Very odd,’ I mused. ‘I would have thought by now someone would have gotten in touch.’ Of course, the fact that no one had contacted her gave credence to the police theory that Santa had done a runner – but I wasn’t going to say that in front of the lady with the strongest forearms I’d ever seen. On the other hand, I had to be seen doing something to justify whatever fee I might get out of this case.
‘Mrs Claus, do you mind if we have a look around? I’d particularly like to see where your husband left from yesterday. We might just spot something.’ I have to confess that I couldn’t see how it was possible for a sleigh and team of reindeer (whether they could fly or not) to actually leave the property; there just didn’t seem to be any space available in the grounds to do so. Chances were that any vehicle trying to depart would end up colliding with a giant plastic snowman and crashing into a hill of artificial snow trailing streams of coloured lights behind it. Now there was a traffic accident I’d love to get the police report on!
After getting her consent, we went through the house looking for anything out of place, anything that might throw some light on what had happened. Let me tell you, there was so much Christmas junk around it was hard to tell what might constitute a clue. Everywhere we looked there was another tree laden down with tinsel or a sleigh hanging from the ceiling, and effigies of the man himself seemed to have been placed strategically in every room we entered. We certainly wouldn’t have any difficulty identifying him; he was just like every picture you’ve ever seen: large, fat, jolly, dressed in red with a long white beard. I just hoped that we wouldn’t be doing that identification as he lay on a slab in the morgue. That would certainly put a damper on Christmas – and would be more than a