Onto Chapter 2

Hargrove and the Case of the Stolen Starlet

Chapter 1

Hargrove’s crusty, half-closed eyes were totally unprepared for the assault of the rising sun.  Some primitive survival instinct housed in the deepest recesses of his brain, perhaps nestled into some forgotten crease next to the spinal cord, woke him before his eyeballs could be totally dehydrated.

Still, it felt like they had shrunk enough to rattle like dried peas in their sockets.  Grudgingly, he rubbed at them.  The gritty, sandpapery feel brought him closer to full consciousness and with it, awareness of a hangover.

Well, that’s something to keep in mind for the next time, thought the famed Marxist Detective.  Vodka and guava daiquiris don’t mix.  The pain throbbing in his head made him wonder if he would survive long enough for there to be a next time.  A fit of phlegm-choked coughing sat him upright, and revealed other disturbing facts to his attention.

First, this wasn’t his bedroom.  It was a park bench.

Second, these weren’t his comfy flannel pyjamas, or even his trademark spotless white linen suit set off with a crimson bow tie.  He was clad only in yesterday’s newspaper.

Thirdly, there appeared to be multiple stab wounds in his chest.  Trying to review the events of last night was no help, as no memories wormed their way to the surface.  Groaning, he wrapped the sheets of newspaper closer about him as he stood.  His headache intensified as he realized it was the financial section. 

“Oh, the ignominy of it all,” said Hargrove.  “Forced to shelter under the banners of the Capitalist stock prices, the pulp flags of the filthy elite who feast leech-like on the proud workers of factory and fields, these paper sheets which are little more than the shrouds of the proletariat worked to death by a demanding and uncaring so-called ruling class, whose swaggering haughtiness will inevitably result in class struggle and revolt!”  A wino applauded his speech, before belching and falling over.

Hargrove was undaunted.  Luckily his office was only a few blocks from the park.  He was sure he could stagger that far, in spite of whatever ridiculous amount of blood he might have lost.  Except for the occasional cold gust of wind, the trip was uneventful.

As always, his office was crowded and noisy.  A lifelong believer in socialist dogma and all things collectivist, he participated in a co-op office shared with a tailor, bookkeeper and dog groomer.  The communal secretary handed him his messages as he stumbled past.

“Thank you, Mavis,” he mumbled distractedly, leafing through the little pink slips of paper for anything interesting.

“My name isn’t Mavis, it’s…” Her voice trailed off as she realized, yet again, that the famed Marxist Detective wasn’t listening. 

His newspapers rustled loudly as Hargrove settled himself in his battered office chair.  About to put his feet on the desk, he thought better of it.  There was only so much newspaper to go around, and between keeping himself warm and blotting the multiple stab wounds, modesty was at a premium.

He swivelled in his chair to see the tailor in the space next to him.  “Stan,” he asked.  “By any chance do you have a suit ready for me?”

Without looking, the diminutive Stan plucked a white linen suit off the rack next to him and tossed it to the famed Marxist Detective.  “Standing order, Hargrove.  I make ‘em as fast as I can.  You’re single-handedly putting my children through college.”

He was about to climb into the coat closet to change, when the receptionist cleared her throat to get his attention.

“You have a visitor, Hargrove.  Or is it Mr. Hargrove?  You know, I don’t think you’ve ever told me whether that’s your first name or your…”

“-Thank you, Hazel,” he said, interrupting.

“But my name’s not Hazel,” she protested, but Hargrove cut her off with a wave of his hand.  His attention was riveted to his prospective client.  His eyes travelled up and down the shapely woman, with various entertaining side trips.  Tall, buxom, and with eyes that reminded Hargrove of a cat about to decapitate a mouse, she strolled slowly over to the entranced detective’s desk.

“I hear you’re the best,” she said, her voice giving just enough of a hint of a purr.  “That you’re the only man who can handle my… special problem.”

Hargrove was busy with his own special problem, namely whether he should employ his newspaper to clot his still bleeding stab wounds, or to stifle his rebellious crotch.  He decided on the latter. 

“Delighted to meet you, Miss…” She leaned over the desk to shake his hand, giving him an ideal vantage point to stare at her cleavage.

“Appel.  Candace Appel.  But you can call me Candy.”

“Candy, then,” said Hargrove, who had noticed that the room had suddenly become unaccountably hot, and his shirt collar was much too tight.  He remembered quickly that he was not wearing a shirt.

“I need you,” she said.  “My sister is missing, and I need you to find her for me.  We talk on the phone every day without fail, but I haven’t heard from her for the last three days.”

“You suspect foul play?”

“I don’t know.  That’s why I need such a big, strong, socialist detective like you to go and find her.  I have everything you need – a plane ticket to Hollywood, an 8 x 10 glossy of my sister, and money to cover your out-of-pocket expenses.”  She pushed a large manila envelope across the table to him. 

“The money isn’t necessary,” he said, trying for gallant but coming out with something more strangled instead.  “It will be my pleasure to strike a blow for Marxism, in the very heart of the decadent, elitist entertainment industry.”  An almost obscenely large roll of money fell from the envelope into his lap.

He coughed at the sight of it.  “Of course,” he spluttered.  “It would be ungracious of me not to accept whatever help I might need.”

She smiled.  “The last I heard from her, my sister mentioned an appointment she had the next day with a casting director at BFG Movie Studios.  I’m sure you’ve heard of it – run by movie tycoon BFG Wapkaplet.  I don’t know why, but I have a feeling that they are somehow responsible for whatever happened to my sister.  She’s on the verge of the big break that will propel her to stardom, and, well, actors can be jealous.  Jealousy can make people do the strangest things.”

She stood to leave.  “Find my sister, Hargrove, and you won’t believe just how grateful I could be.”

He watched her shapely legs as they left the office.  Hargrove allowed himself the luxury of an appreciative sigh before leaping into action.  From his desk drawer, he retrieved his beloved .45 Webley revolver, then seized his fresh suit and raced for the coat closet, sheets of bloody newspaper flapping as he ran.  The door slammed behind him.  For the other residents of the office, they could hear the frenzied sounds of the famed Marxist Detective wrestling himself into his suit in the confines of the closet. 

Suddenly, a shot rang out, spanging off the bookkeeper’s impressive set of filing cabinets.  Hargrove sheepishly peeked out of the closet and eyed the new hole in the door.  “Stan?  Would you happen to have another shirt for me?  This one seems to have powder burns.”

With a new shirt in hand, he finished changing and ran toward the exit.

“When will you be back?” asked his exasperated secretary.

“When I have solved this mystery most foul, Mabel!” 

“But my name’s not…” she said, to his quickly departing back.

Hargrove raced down the steps of the office building and into the plush, faux-vinyl seats of his Trabant automobile.  The motor started on the third try, and he slowly, but loudly, made his way to the airport.  Luckily the trip was mostly downhill, or the woefully underpowered car would have never made it fast enough for him to catch his flight.  As it was it would still be close.

The slow pace of the car had its uses, though.  Hargrove had little fear of a major road accident as he searched through the glove compartment for anything he could use to staunch the blood presently spreading pink across his shirt.  He looked up just in time to prevent the Trabant from hitting a skateboarder passing him.  Unfortunately, there was nothing he could find for his chest wounds.  He would just have to make the best of it.

Thanks to a fortuitous tailwind, he made it to the airport in time for his flight.  Not bothering to wait for the car to fully halt, Hargrove leapt from the driver’s seat to the sidewalk outside of the airport terminal.  From behind him, he could hear the Trabant bonk softly into a lamppost.  He ran through the building, shoving old ladies from his path, waving his ticket over his head.  “Totally ordinary proletariat traveller coming through,” he yelled.  “Clear a path for an absolutely common commuter who needs to catch his flight to Hollywood.”  Once again he felt confident of his uncanny powers of disguise.  There would be no advance warning that the famed Marxist Detective was on the case.

Before him lay the security check, and beyond it, the boarding area for his flight.  He would just make it, if only… if only… Something was nagging at him, something he had forgotten.  He folded his hands over his chest and stood lost in thought.  Suddenly, his eyes went wide, and his lip trembled.  It was his firearm, the beloved .45 Webley revolver tucked securely under his left armpit.  Lenin’s beard, how would he get his favourite firearm, nay, his best friend past security and onto the plane?

In fact, the security guards were already taking an interest in the man in the immaculate white linen suit.  This was not the time for reasoned, sober thought; this was the time for action.

Will Hargrove catch his flight?  Will his Webley?  How disappointed will Hargrove be when he finds out the inflight movie is Wall Street and not Dr. Zhivago?

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