first go missing
— as possibly an offshoot of his noticing, just two days prior to
this vanishing act, a most alarming story in his Figaro.
It was all about an unknown individual (a man, so rumour
had it, of such vast, almost occult authority that no journalist
had sought to crack his incognito), who had, at night, unlawfully
burst into a commissariat building that was said to contain many
important official manuscripts and got away with a particularly
hush-hush account of a major scandal implicating a trio of guards
at Poulaga Prison. Normalising such a situation was an awkward
task; convincing so diabolically crafty a burglar to hand back such
a compromising manuscript just as awkward; but it was crucial
to do so, for this kind of traitor usually has no difficulty in finding
a nation willing to buy his goods at any cost. But though it was
obvious that X . . . (for our burglar holds a high-ranking position
to this day and is, I am told, a notoriously litigious man) had
put it away out of sight in his flat, ransacking that flat again and
again had thrown up nothing significant.
Staking all on a hunch, a Commandant, Romain ("I just want
th' facts, ma'am") Didot, along with Garamond, his adjutant and
Man Friday, pays a visit to Dupin, known for his unfailing gift
for nosing things out.
"/4 priori ," Didot informs him, "it's not our constabulary's job to worry about such a burglary. For anything . . . 'normal', shall
I say, in our filing library, for an x or y, nobody'd complain too 3 7
much. But this sort of McGuffin is, I'm afraid, just a tiny bit too
significant to —"
"McGuffin? McGuffin?" Dupin, to whom this word's conno-
tation is a total blank, savours it in his mouth for an instant or
two.
Didot grins. "Pardon my film buff slang. Put simply, I want
you to know that solving this burglary is vital to us, in that it'll
ruin, it'll undo, what can I say, it'll play bloody havoc with our
organisation. Why, it risks cutting our working capacity by up
to 20%!"
"So," asks Dupin, "you say you shook down our burglar's flat,
high and low, with a toothcomb? Is that right?"
"Uh huh," admits an unhappy Didot, "but I can't say I found
anything incriminating. And I was as thorough as any of my
rivals from Scotland Yard!"
"Hmm," grunts Dupin. "It's as plain as daylight. You hunt
high and low, you tap walls and floors, but without any luck;
for whilst you may think that your approach is obvious, it's ironi-
cally that which is truly obvious that it can't account for. Hasn't
it struck you that your criminal had to find a hiding spot that a
big, plodding flatfoot - it's you I'm alluding to, Didot - wouldn't
think of looking at, and would probably not stash his loot away
at all but simply stick it into an ordinary blotting pad, a blotting
pad that you probably had your hand on again and again, without
knowing what it was, without caring or trying to know that
what it had on it was no casual scrawl but your own almighty
McTavish!"
"McGuffin," says Didot sulkily, still smarting from Dupin's
insults. "Anyway, I saw no such blotting pad."
"That's what you think," Dupin murmurs with ironic
suavity.
Putting on his mackintosh, taking a big black brolly out of its
stand and unlocking his front door, Dupin turns to Didot and
says, "I'm off. In a twinkling I'll hand you back that manuscript
of yours."
3 8
But — not that anybody could fault his logic - but our famous
dick was, on this particular occasion, all wrong.
"I'm PO'd, truly PO'd" (PO was a contraction of "piss off"),
sighs Dupin; who, at that point, as consolation, and allowing
Didot and his constabulary to work it all out without his aid,
starts tracking down a homicidal orang-utan with a grisly trio of
victims.
If Dupin should fail, though having it all within his grasp from
A to Z, how can I possibly look forward to my own salvation,
to my own absolution? That's what Anton Vowl jots down in
his diary - adding:
"I did
— as possibly an offshoot of his noticing, just two days prior to
this vanishing act, a most alarming story in his Figaro.
It was all about an unknown individual (a man, so rumour
had it, of such vast, almost occult authority that no journalist
had sought to crack his incognito), who had, at night, unlawfully
burst into a commissariat building that was said to contain many
important official manuscripts and got away with a particularly
hush-hush account of a major scandal implicating a trio of guards
at Poulaga Prison. Normalising such a situation was an awkward
task; convincing so diabolically crafty a burglar to hand back such
a compromising manuscript just as awkward; but it was crucial
to do so, for this kind of traitor usually has no difficulty in finding
a nation willing to buy his goods at any cost. But though it was
obvious that X . . . (for our burglar holds a high-ranking position
to this day and is, I am told, a notoriously litigious man) had
put it away out of sight in his flat, ransacking that flat again and
again had thrown up nothing significant.
Staking all on a hunch, a Commandant, Romain ("I just want
th' facts, ma'am") Didot, along with Garamond, his adjutant and
Man Friday, pays a visit to Dupin, known for his unfailing gift
for nosing things out.
"/4 priori ," Didot informs him, "it's not our constabulary's job to worry about such a burglary. For anything . . . 'normal', shall
I say, in our filing library, for an x or y, nobody'd complain too 3 7
much. But this sort of McGuffin is, I'm afraid, just a tiny bit too
significant to —"
"McGuffin? McGuffin?" Dupin, to whom this word's conno-
tation is a total blank, savours it in his mouth for an instant or
two.
Didot grins. "Pardon my film buff slang. Put simply, I want
you to know that solving this burglary is vital to us, in that it'll
ruin, it'll undo, what can I say, it'll play bloody havoc with our
organisation. Why, it risks cutting our working capacity by up
to 20%!"
"So," asks Dupin, "you say you shook down our burglar's flat,
high and low, with a toothcomb? Is that right?"
"Uh huh," admits an unhappy Didot, "but I can't say I found
anything incriminating. And I was as thorough as any of my
rivals from Scotland Yard!"
"Hmm," grunts Dupin. "It's as plain as daylight. You hunt
high and low, you tap walls and floors, but without any luck;
for whilst you may think that your approach is obvious, it's ironi-
cally that which is truly obvious that it can't account for. Hasn't
it struck you that your criminal had to find a hiding spot that a
big, plodding flatfoot - it's you I'm alluding to, Didot - wouldn't
think of looking at, and would probably not stash his loot away
at all but simply stick it into an ordinary blotting pad, a blotting
pad that you probably had your hand on again and again, without
knowing what it was, without caring or trying to know that
what it had on it was no casual scrawl but your own almighty
McTavish!"
"McGuffin," says Didot sulkily, still smarting from Dupin's
insults. "Anyway, I saw no such blotting pad."
"That's what you think," Dupin murmurs with ironic
suavity.
Putting on his mackintosh, taking a big black brolly out of its
stand and unlocking his front door, Dupin turns to Didot and
says, "I'm off. In a twinkling I'll hand you back that manuscript
of yours."
3 8
But — not that anybody could fault his logic - but our famous
dick was, on this particular occasion, all wrong.
"I'm PO'd, truly PO'd" (PO was a contraction of "piss off"),
sighs Dupin; who, at that point, as consolation, and allowing
Didot and his constabulary to work it all out without his aid,
starts tracking down a homicidal orang-utan with a grisly trio of
victims.
If Dupin should fail, though having it all within his grasp from
A to Z, how can I possibly look forward to my own salvation,
to my own absolution? That's what Anton Vowl jots down in
his diary - adding:
"I did
Similar Books
