The Case of Inedible Chocolates
VI
>"And then?" I echoed Elf's question.
>
>"And that's when Charlie came to me for help," said the Old Man.
"And he's been 'helping' me ever since," said Chuck. Something in his
voice said he wasn't sure about the honor.
"Never mind that," said Elf, "how did this all start?"
"It began," said Chuck, "when a Mr. Rolls found Hollis Roger's body in
an alley two years ago."
"It _began_," I corrected him, "when Janie and Hollis Rogers showed up
in my barn a few months before that."
"It BEGAN," growled the Old Man, "in Tunisia, North Africa, 1944."
He'd done it again. We all turned towards him, except Gunsel who
hadn't recovered from his last scene, and who had mistakenly been
called Bingle, and who would undoubtably take offense at that, as soon
as he was able.
Having taken possession of our attention, the Old Man was in no hurry
to relinquish it. He poured himself another three fingers of Rum and
swirled it around in his glass before beginning. "Near the end of the
war," he began, "a destroyer escort in the Mediterranean developed
engine trouble and had to drop back from its convoy. The rest of the
floatilla was-- well, let us just say there wasn't any way to
corroborate the story."
He had us hooked. We ignored flamewars, calls to for RFDs in town,
entire mobs chasing newbies through the diner, Pat's transformation
into a Soap/Porn star, and Hound's subsequent sulking as the only
working character in town. We ignored all that and we watched while
The Old Man finished the Rum and dribbled more into the glass before
continuing. "The USS Smart was limping East some hundred or two miles
from Tunis when it had to divert North. It came upon debris from an
Italian freighter that had been torpedoed. They found a small life-
boat with two men in it. One was dead, the other dying. Lashed to
the side of the boat was a large crate. The Smart picked up the
survivor and, at his hysterical prodding, brought his crate along.
It was labelled 'Chocolates.'
"The man died before the Smart reached Tunis, but his ravings were
extraordinary. Few members of the crew could speak Italian, but what
was understood made the officers uneasy. It was never determined what
exactly killed the man. He had so many wounds, it wasn't clear if
he'd picked up one more on board the Smart. Shortly after he died,
his crate disappeared, along with a Midshipman named Hershey."
"How do you know this?" demanded Elf, voicing what the rest of us were
thinking.
The Old Man smiled. "Because, after the War, I was assigned to find
out what happened to Midshipman Hershey, and his crate."
"And did you find him?"
"Him, I found. More or less." He leered at us. If he was expecting
someone to ask him what he meant by that, there wasn't anybody at that
table with a weak enough imagination to need to ask--.
"What d'ya mean, more or less?" It was a small voice. Gunsel's,
actually. The pixie was sitting up in the satchel and holding his
head like it hurt.
The Old Man leaned close to the pixie. "I found enough of him to
identify. Parts that made it certain that the rest of him wasn't
going on by itself." He glared at him as if to dare him to ask for
more.
"How'd ya identify 'im?" Funny how a headache didn't seem to curb the
pixie's curiosity.
"Dental records," said the Old Man.
"You found his teeth?"
"A bit more than that. But I had to dig them out of a hardened
block."
"Of concrete?" offered Elf.
"No." He looked at us funny. "Of Chocolate." The Old Man sat back
and the rest of us exchanged glances. Except Gunsel--he looked like
he was taking notes.
"I tracked the sailor to a chocolate festival in a coastal town. His
was a tortured road which took him across Europe, leaving behind him a
string of kisses and broken hearts, to end his days on the Black Sea
coast near Odesa. He had become one with a large orange-chocolate
bunny. Once I found him, my--ahem--employers were satisfied, but I
was not. I wanted to find that crate. I knew something of it
already--."
"What?" I shouted. "This talk of crates is making me nervous! What
about it?"
"As well you should be, but patience!" the Old Man demanded. And to
ensure he drummed the lesson in he took his time finishing his glass
and refilling it before continuing. "The crate, or rather its
contents, were discovered by an archeologist just before the war.
He'd been doing research into the lost biblical city of Tannis, and
had found and excavated the mysterious Well of Godiva, expecting to
find the remains of the Lady. What he found instead was packed into a
crate for shipment to England. How the Nazi's learned of his
discovery--."
"Nazis! I knew there'd be Nazis!" I said.
"I _hate_ those guys," muttered Doktor Fraud.
"--I never learned, but they hijacked the shipment and repacked it as
a crate of Chocolates, sending it to Germany on a well-guarded Italian
freighter. Bad luck seemed to dog the crate from that point on. The
freighter got separated from its entourage in a fog, having the bad
luck to be encountered and sunk by an American submarine with one
torpedo. All hands but two were lost. The tale of the USS Smart you
know. What remained was to discover the nature of the discovery, and
what had become of it. A shadowy Russian named Colonel Dove next came
into the picture--."
"Russians! I knew there'd be Russians!" said Elf.
"I _hate_ those guys," muttered Chuck.
The Old Man glared us into silence before continuing. "I was never
able to meet Colonel Dove, but we were aware of each other. I heard
that he'd taken the contents of the crate for his own personal
collection. Sometime, while in his possession, the items acquired a
thick coat of tempered chocolate armor. Then, with the fall of the
Soviet Union, Colonel Dove consolidated his fortune and shipped it
all, bar none, to Morocco, where a friend of his had opened an
American Cafe. He'd labelled the crate Maltese Chocolates to throw me
off the track, but I got word of his maneuver. Too late to stop him,
I reached the airport in Casablanca in a thick fog in time to see the
plane leave. I eavesdropped on a conversation out on the tarmac which
led me to believe that his friend Rick had a new partner, and that the
Russian himself had gone on to England."
"I was at the end of my rope. I had no more finances for chasing
after the elusive Russian. I was about to leave, when what should I
see? The airlines had misplaced the Russian's luggage!--"
"Airlines! I knew there'd be Airlines!" said Gunsel.
"I _hate_ those guys," muttered Hound.
The Old Man ignored them. "There sat the crate, on the tarmac with
the rest of the suitcases. I hastily exchanged the claim tag with one
from another suitcase nearby and made a note of it's new destination
and owner. I booked myself on that flight and managed to arrange a
seat near the young couple. Their name was Rogers. Hollis and Janie
Rogers."
He let that sink in for a minute while he let another Rum sink in
himself. I decided to stop counting.
"I pretended to sleep on the plane, while listening to their
conversation. What I heard alarmed me. They were professional
smugglers, and I had just handed them, I assumed, the biggest prize of
their lives. Fortunately, the weren't aware that their luggage had
been switched, so if I could get to baggage claim first--." He broke
off as the rest of us stared at both of them, him and his stomach. "I
am not speaking of a footrace," he declared, indignantly. "There are
ways to ensure a party has difficulty deplaning. Unfortunately, I was
not successful. Instead I was detained by airline security and when I
finally made my way to baggage claim, they, and the crate, were gone.
They'd left me their suitcase. I won't mention what it contained."
"Why?" Gunsel was insatiable.
"Because it contained unmentionables!"
"I knew there'd be unmentionables"
"Oh shut up, dammit!"
"Call me Chuck."
"Wait, WAIT!" I shouted. "You still haven't told us what's so
all-fired important about what's in that crate! And you haven't tied
it to Freling-- Frelinghouse--"
"Frelinghausen Augustus Polychronius Minkminder," filled in Doktor
Fraud. We all stared at him. "Vell, zat iss his name!"
"Did I mention," added the Old Man, "that the archaeologist who start-
ed everything's name was Minkminder?"
"Freylinghausen?" said Chuck.
"Probably his father," said Doktor Fraud. He pronounced 'his father'
"hiss fassa."
"Yes," said the Old Man. "Dr. Augustus Polychronius Iglesiaus
Minkminder. His friends called him Julio."
"Ok, ok," I said. "So what's this got to do with my crate of Polish
Chocolates, and _WHAT'S IN THAT CRATE_?"
"Polish chocolates?" the Old Man looked at me blankly.
"Yes. My crate has 'Polish Chocolates' stencelled in the side."
He looked around at each of us in turn, then leaned back and closed
his eyes. "Oops. My mistake. Forget I said anything.
)
