| Hargrove
the Marxist Detective and the Adventure of the HMS Hoobe-Entwhistle |
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Hargrove
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“A
woman drove me to drink, and I never had the decency to thank her.” –
WC Fields Hargrove
braced himself to be knocked unconscious again, slowly relaxing as it
seemed that no stealthy pipe wrench was presently whistling its way
through the air intent on using the back of his skull as an opportunity to
illustrate certain nuances of Newton’s laws. That he was still standing and conscious was somehow comforting to the
famed Marxist detective since it dispelled a nagging suspicion that had
been climbing hand over hand up his spinal column into his brain.
For a while, he had entertained the notion that he might have been
sucked into some alternate universe consisting entirely of repeat episodes
of ‘Mannix.’
Had there ever been an episode where Mannix didn’t get
cold-cocked? It bore
thinking. Hargrove stood,
chin in hand and pondered the idea. Was
there some dimension where detectives of whatever political stripes had
similar dilemmas? Did
Banaczek ever wonder if he was in the Matlock universe?
Had Jim Rockford ever suffered similar moments of doubt? Hargrove was interrupted in his reverie by a voice made sultry by about
a carton too many menthol cigarettes.
“Well? Are you just
going to stand there humming the theme from ‘Hart to Hart’ or are you
going to say hello?” Looking up, he was transfixed by a pair of green eyes he hadn’t seen
in a decade or more. “Frieda,” he said. “You
are as beautiful as ever - like the workers of a collective farm proudly
vowing to fulfill the Five Year Plan in four years.” She blushed. “Flatterer.
And you are looking…” she took in the multiple head lacerations
and contusions, sprained wrist, oil-stained suit, and the still-bleeding
foot wound. “…The same as
you ever look.” Hargrove sighed. Frieda
Engles, youngest granddaughter of famed socialist writer Friedrich Engles,
and for all too short a time the detective’s lover.
Their brief relationship had been torrid, intense, all-consuming.
As Hargrove reminisced, he could have sworn he heard violins. He was right, actually. A
string quartet had
begun to play. Largent had
rallied his minions and they began to circulate among the passengers,
making sure that everyone was enjoying the cruise.
And it was working. Even
the recent bombing and present beaching weren’t enough to prevent the
entertainment crew from completing their missions. Largent was on deck now, supervising his thralls.
Supervising may have been too strong a word.
Reclining on an over-stuffed divan, the entertainment director
appeared insensate. Only when the dangling opium pipe fell from his numb yet full
lips to his lap did he rouse himself at all, and then only to reach for a
small cup of laudanum on the table beside him.
“How bravely they dance,” he said, although a quick glance
around confirmed nobody was dancing. While Hargrove and Frieda made small talk involving how the means of
production cannot transfer to the commodity more than that value lost in
the process of production, he noticed a number of people discreetly making
their way to Largent. They
would hover around the burgundy divan, talking softly but urgently to the
decadent wastrel. After each
spoke for a minute, Largent would make some vague almost-gesture, which
they took for agreement. Each
petitioner would gleefully pump a fist in the air as they left him. Intrigued, Hargrove leaned in close to Frieda.
“Do you know anything about what is going on over there?” She looked around for eve droppers before replying.
“The dissolute lap dog is in charge of all seating on the ship.
It was assumed that it would only apply to who sat where during
dinner. When the bomb went
off and the crew consulted the emergency plan, they found out that nobody
was in charge of seating on the lifeboats so by default it falls to
Largent. Those elitist few
that know are currying favour with him in hopes of securing a bench when
the ship finally goes down.” Scandalous, thought Hargrove, although he made a mental note to have a
quiet chat with Largent soon. Purely
in an investigatory capacity, of course. The ship suddenly pitched to starboard, accompanied by the ear-splitting
noise of metal grinding on metal. The shift cost several passengers their lives, as overly
oiled suntanners slid off the deck like shuffleboard pucks. More passengers were swept overboard as the water in the pool
washed over them. From the
initial listing of the ship, the pool’s shallow end had become the deep
end, but with the Hoobe-Entwhistle now lurching the opposite way, a great
wave had enveloped and carried off almost a score of them. Everyone ran to the gunwales to see what had happened.
Well, not everyone. Several
of Largent’s men had run to keep the divan and their beloved, effete
leader from plunging into the sea. Frieda
hadn’t moved either, nor had the crate she sat on.
Whatever was in there, it was heavy. Hargrove and MacGuinness peered over the side.
Far below them, waves crashing against its hull, was a Russian
submarine. It had surfaced
under the luxury liner, shaking it but not freeing it from the sandbar. A hatch on the conning tower slammed open, and a man’s head popped
out. Surveying the scene, he
cursed extensively in a foreign language before looking up at the faces
peering down at him. “I am Captain Boris Borisovitch of the Russian Navy,” he said, in
thickly accented English. “HMS
Hoobe-Entwhistle, you not move until we in a better position.” “Ye better move that rusted tub, ye whey-faced, pimply maggot, or
I’ll lean me arse over the rail and blow ye a kiss!” yelled
MacGuinness, waving a fist and spitting. The submarine captain gave what was to Hargrove’s eyes, an obscure
mariner’s salute involving only the upraised middle finger.
The hatch slammed shut and the ocean bubbled as the Russian ship
descended into the depths. Again the ship rocked back to port, and again more passengers were swept
to a watery doom. The sea boiled as the sub burst to the surface again, a short distance
away from the luxury liner. The
hatch on the conning tower opened and Captain Borisovitch climbed out.
From another hatch, a number of crewmen crawled out and started
readying the deck gun. “I’m be telling you I would be back.
Now, be giving us Tobermorrey.” Tobermorrey? Hmmm, thought
Hargrove. There was more to him than he let on.
All that talk of Armenian separatists was a ruse to keep the
Marxists detective busy chasing red herrings.
Now all he had to do was track down the General before Tobermorrey
slipped away or the sub started firing on the ship – preferably both. Hargrove turned to face the people on deck. “Has anyone seen Brigadier General Tobermorrey?” “HAHAHAHA! You are too
late, socialist simpleton!” yelled Tobermorrey, standing in one of the
lifeboats. In one hand he
clutched a sheaf of papers, and in the other he held the controls to the
lifeboat davits. “Aha! Unless I miss my
guess, you are collaborating with that Russian submarine.” “Another amazing deduction. I’m
astounded, I assure you. If I
hadn’t been so busy preparing for the arrival of Captain Borisovitch, I
would have made sure you were thrown in the brig for killing a crewman.
Be thankful the photocopier needed toner or you would be helplessly
locked in a cell right now.” Hargrove ran across the deck to stop him, but with a cry of triumph,
Tobermorrey slammed the control to release the davits.
Unfortunately for the general, the boat he chose was on the
starboard side. It plummeted
to the deck of the Hoobe-Entwhistle, smashing into wooden shards.
All that could be seen of Tobermorrey was one foot, oddly clad in a
basketball sneaker. One
particularly sturdy piece of the boat’s wreckage flipped end over end in
the air, before plunging downwards to impale Hargrove’s previously
uninjured foot and pin it to the deck.
He stifled a shriek. From over the rails, Hargrove could hear the Russian captain.
“Hello? I’m tiring
of waiting for Tobermorrey. Gun
almost ready and then we start firing. Or if you are liking better we can give another torpedo.”
Frantically, Hargrove tried to move, but the damnable piece of
wreckage in his foot reduced him to hopping around in a tight circle.
Luck was with him though. On
one circuit, he spied the First Mate. “Quickly! You must summon
the captain and tell him to get the engines going full speed astern.
If we don’t get this ship off the sandbar, we’ll be like the
Bolsheviks being run down by the Cossacks in Dr. Zhivago!” The First Mate seemed startled by Hargrove’s request, and after
stuttering for a moment, replied. “I’m
so sorry, but ship’s guests are requested not to bother the captain
while he is involved in ship’s business.
If you’d like, I could put you on the list for a tour of the
control room tomorrow afternoon.” “Ship’s business?” shouted
MacGuiness. “Let me tell
you what yon cheese-arsed pansy poufter isn’t saying.” “Shut up, MacGuiness. I’m
warning you,” said the First Mate, drawing a pistol and brandishing it
at the monolithic engineer. “Och, go ahead and shoot, ye splay-toothed frilly boy.
I’ve had worse.” The crewman raised the pistol and aimed at MacGuiness.
Hargrove drew his beloved Webley and fired just in time to stop the
First Mate. Unfortunately for
Hargrove, his sprained wrist couldn’t take the strain of the heavy
pistol’s recoil. It popped
out of his grip and hit him in the precise center of his forehead leaving
a sizeable divot. He could
see nothing but a swirl of stars, hammers and sickles for several moments.
When his vision cleared, the First Mate lay on the deck.
Kneeling over him was a man curiously dressed in a mitre and long,
elaborate robes. In one hand
he held a croizer, and with the other hand, he was inspecting the body. “Did I kill him?” asked Hargrove of the stranger.
The stranger shook his head in response. “Ah, good, I was worried I had killed another crewmember.
How badly is he wounded?” “He’s dead.” “But I thought you said I didn’t kill him.” Flipping the corpse over, the stranger revealed a large knife sticking
out of the First Mate’s back. “No,
you didn’t kill him. Someone
else did.” Standing up, he
arranged his robes for maximum effect.
“I am Serapion, Bishop of Thmuis, Feudal Detective.
I and I alone will get to the bottom of this mystery.” Is Tobermorrey dead? Who killed the First Mate? How did a fourth-century Egyptian Bishop make it aboard the ship? Does he know anything about ticks? What is the captain’s dark secret?
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