The Case Before Christmas: Chapter VIII

Hugh Hamilton

 “There, you see?” Ben knelt down and retrieved the plot-filled portion of the carrot. “When in doubt, throw a tantrum.”
“That’s achingly unfair,” said Hugh, who would have been the first to act were he at all prepared for the sight of a note-concealing carrot.
“Isn’t it?”
Preparing for the reveal, Ben lingeringly cracked his knuckles, spilling the carrot as he did so. It broke a further time on the concrete. Before Ben could gangle downwards, Hugh retrieved the relevant piece and hurriedly unfurled the note.
“‘Dear Ben’,” he began.
“Give me that.” Ben snatched the note. “‘Die erben.’”
“That makes less sense to me.”
“That’s German for you.”
“What else is on there?”
Ben scanned the page. “‘Gerchwister.’”
“Right.”
“And I think that says ‘auf den Kopf stellen.’”
“You understand it?”
“No, but check out the exclusive club letterhead.”
Hugh peered at the aesthetic red logo at the top of the page. He had never seen a more impressively rendered umlaut. “Which helpfully includes an address.”
“‘Die ölige Dame’ it is!”

Contrary to the fancy letterhead, but entirely appropriate to its name, ‘Die ölige Dame’ turned out to be a dankly lit strip joint populated by Austrian ex pats. Never being at their best in front of naked women, Hugh and Ben shuffled inside with an awkwardness that attracted every gaze in the place. An overproportioned waitress appeared in front of them, brandishing a menu.
“I’ll have that one,” Ben said, placing his finger at random.
“The note,” murmured Hugh.
“What? Oh yes.” Ben turned back to the waitress. “And what can you tell us about this?”
Playfully curling a red lock, the waitress studied the note.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Thanks anyway,” said Hugh. “Is that a dye?”
“Of course.”
“Oh.” Hugh blinked. “See, I don’t know where to go from here.”
“You could try that huddle of suspicious men in the back.”
“Oh?”
“They actually speak German.”
All of a sudden the music changed and the strippers, previously dispersed evenly throughout the room, gathered on the main stage. A handful got down on all fours while the rest made abortive attempts to scale them.
“Good God,” said Ben, as another tumbled to the stage.
“You ordered the Flesh Pyramid, didn’t you?” said the waitress.
“I was hoping it would be some sort of disgusting sausage dish.”
“That’s included.”
“Suspicious men! Suspicious men!” urged Hugh.
“Excuse us,” said Ben, taking his companion by his little hand.

The suspicious men, all of whom looked as though they had never known grooming, beamed as they approached.