The Hippo of Indeterminate Hue: Part 3

Von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt produced a pipe and began stuffing it. “We have fought many times, the Hippo and I. The last time, in Zimbabwe,” he paused and glanced over at Robert/Mangrove. “It was Zimbabwe, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” replied Robert/Mangrove. Then, with a sigh, he produced a piece of chalk and scratched ‘Yes’ onto the small chalkboard he carried and then held it up.

“Yes, Zimbabwe,” continued von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “I thought him dead, as I shot him forty-seven times at close range with an elephant gun.” He glanced at Detective Smitts. “I had to reload frequently.”

Detective Smitts cocked his hat back. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you are the famous detective Charles Alonso Credenza von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt the Third, aren’t you?”

“Here it comes,” said Robert/Mangrove.

“I am,” began von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “’a’ Charles Alonso Credenza von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt the Third, who happens to be a consulting detective, yes.”

Detective Smitts took a deep breath. “Officer,” he said, to the nearest Bobby. “Please escort this man outside the barricade.”
“You do not understand,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt, as the officer took him by the arm. “The Hippo will kill again! In fact, this is not his first victim!”

Detective Smitts raised his hand and the officer stopped. “You don’t say?”

“I know the Hippo and his methods well,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “He always begins his sprees on new moons and always kills in prime numbers.” He shook his arm from the officer and smoothed his sleeve. “Last night was a new moon and as this corpse is only recently deceased, it therefore must be the second. He will continue to kill, until either confronted or he gets bored and wanders off, generally to his summer home in Stockholm.”

Smitts nodded. “I see. Officer, arrest these men on suspicion of murder, loitering, impersonating a famous detective, and irritating me.” He paused. “Scratch that last part.”

“I must protest, Detective!” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt, as the nearest officer pulled his arms behind his back and slapped on a pair of handcuffs. “A man of my breeding would never commit homicide in such a manner! It would be undignified!”

Smitts motioned to the officer, who guided the still protesting von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt and the smirking Robert/Mangrove towards the curb. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Detective,” said the Sergeant.

“Yes, what is it?”

“We found something, well, odd.”

“Odder than a squished corpse and a madman with a non-mute, non-Turkish man servant?”

“I can’t say as to that,” began the Sergeant, after a brief moment’s introspection. “But it is passing strange.”

“Show me.”

The Sergeant led him to the back wall of the alley, where someone had thoughtfully scrawled ‘Up the Fishes!’ next to a pile of old crates. The butt of a cigar was on the ground, next to an extremely large footprint.

“My word,” said Smitts, as he leaned down to inspect it. The footprint was large, almost two feet across, with four toes. It was, relatively speaking, round.

Cheers,
-Jason