Back to Hargrove

Chapter 1  Remain Calm, Passengers.  This is Just a Fire Drill

 "Anybody can be stupid, but some people abuse the privilege” – Stalin

The violent pitching of his bed threw Hargrove onto the floor and from a fitful, uneasy sleep into fitful, uneasy consciousness.

He didn’t move from the cold floor, preferring to let his razor-sharp detective’s instincts sift through the information his senses fed him. The first thing that struck him was how much his bedroom had changed from what he remembered.  Without waking him, someone had come into his room at night and remodeled everything.  His ceiling was now made of metal plating, as was the bed at his side.  Instead of the broad window, now there was what looked to be a small rabbit hole.  How strange, he thought, how exceedingly strange.

And there was the yelling outside his new metal door; that was strange too.

Suddenly, he sat up and Hargrove’s eyes filled with a particular gleam.  “A mystery,” he breathed, with awe normally only possessed by 8-year-olds getting a pony for their birthday.

Standing, he quickly started to dress.  Now that he could look out the rabbit hole, he was mildly disappointed to realize that no one had been sneaking into his room at night.  He was on a ship, although he had no recollection of how, why or when he had boarded.  Luckily the screaming of several voices continued outside his door.  At least there would be one worthy mystery to solve.

 Having donned his trademark spotless white linen suit, set off with a red bow tie, Hargrove gazed adoringly at his beloved .45 Webley revolver before holstering it snugly under his jacket.  Looking into his suitcase, he let out a fond sigh at the sight of all the rest of his firearms.  However he had managed to be on this wretched vessel, at least he had brought his best friends. 

Opening his cabin door revealed a passageway running off to the left and right, with sunlight spilling in down the stairs at the ends of the corridor.  Other passengers stood like Hargrove, with their heads out their cabin doors looking left, then right, then left again as if some phantom tennis match held their attention.  Whoever had been doing the screaming, they were somewhere else in the ship now, to judge by the sound.

“I say,” said a voice to Hargrove’s right.  “Frightful business with the shaking and yelling and running around and what not.”  Hargrove turned to the man, a resident of the cabin next to his.  Instantly, the famed Marxist Detective’s powers of deduction leapt into the driver’s seat and threw his brain into gear.  It metaphorically raced all over the man in its quest for information.  In a heartbeat, Hargrove knew everything he needed to know about his neighbour. 

“I deduce that you are Brigadier General Tobermorry of the British Army,” said Hargrove, with a certain smugness.  “Don’t even try to deny it.”  Gen. Tobermorry looked down at the uniform and nametag he was wearing, and then back up at Hargrove.  “Incredible,” he said flatly.  “You’ve managed to see right through my clever ruse.  And you are…”

“I am Hargrove, the Marxist Detective.  I am opposed to all you represent, impudent tool of the bourgeoisie.  You are the jaws of the tick that sucks the lifeblood from the brave workers in the factories and fields.  Don’t you know that class struggle and eventual revolt is an inevitable part of the capitalist system, with you and your kind forced to either protect your masters or admit your slavish devotion to them?”

“Come, come now, dear boy,” said Gen. Tobermorry.  “First of all, I don’t think that ticks even have jaws.  Secondly, when one pays the usurious fees necessary to secure a first-class cabin, one does not expect to receive a harangue from a devotee of some old busybody who had nothing better to do than sit around in the British Library all day.”

Hargrove began a retort, but it was bitten off when he realized what Tobermorry had said.  He turned and looked back into his well-appointed cabin.  With horror, he spun to look again at the general.  “I’m in first-class,” he said, a slight quaver to his voice.

Ignoring the general, he walked down the corridor; chin in hand as he thought.  “Surely this must be a mistake.  I would never deign to stay in a first-class cabin, while my comrades must subsist in second-class and steerage.”  Stopping in mid-stride, he brightened.  “Aha!  This must be due to some redistribution of the cabins, and not to me unwittingly supporting an oppressive capitalist regime.”  The injury to his Marxist sensibilities consoled, Hargrove continued down the corridor in search of the captain.  He must congratulate him on his progressive management of this ship.

The direction he walked had nothing to do with knowing where he might find the captain, or even which end was the bow or stern.  Instead, the ship was tilted slightly.  Hargrove’s inclination matched that of the ship as he walked the downward slope instead of climbing the slight pitch uphill.

As he reached the stairs at the end of the hall, a crewman stopped his ascent.  On his cap were emblazoned the words HMS Hoobe-Entwhistle.

“Sorry sir, but we are asking that all passengers remain in their cabins until further notice.”

“I am no mere passenger,” said Hargrove.  “I am Hargrove, the famous Marxist Detective.  There is a mystery aboard this ship, and I am determined to solve it.”

“In that case, sir, perhaps you should come with me.  Someone has set off a bomb, and we’re taking on water.”

Can Hargrove find the mysterious bomber?  Are there enough life rafts for all the passengers?  Have they stopped showing “Titanic” in the movie lounge yet?  And will Hargrove determine whether or not ticks have jaws?

On to Chapter Two