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

The Hippo of Indeterminate Hue: Part 2

“Good god!” The detective snatched the card away from the Sergeant, reading it for himself. “You there!” he said, pointing at the young man who’d brought the card. “Bring Mr. von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt up immediately!”

“Sir,” the young officer said, saluting weakly, and then staggered down the alley, returning a moment later with a 30-ish man in a tuxedo and top hat, who was accompanied by a rather short man carrying a small chalk-board and wearing a red scarf around his neck.

The detective stood up, brushing off his trousers and straightening his tie. “Mr. von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt?” he said, holding out his hand. “Detective Smitts. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

“Likewise,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt, taking the proffered hand. “This is my manservant, a mute Turk I call Mangrove.”

“My name’s Robert!” said the decidedly non-mute Mangrove, in a distinct London accent.

“Yes,” continued von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “Utterly mute. Can’t speak at all.”

Detective Smitts stared, first at one man and then the other. “I think he just did.”

“Impossible,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “He’s been with me nearly 8-years and he hasn’t uttered a single word the entire time.”

“But-” began the detective, only to be silenced by a raised hand.

“There is more pressing business at hand, is there not?” asked von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt.

“Uh, yes, sir,” said the detective, glancing at Robert/Mangrove, who just shrugged. “A body found just an hour ago. Rather . . . squished.”

Von-Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt nodded. “As I surmised.” He strode over to the corpse, the waiting officers parting before him. He took only a cursory glance at the body. “Yes,” he said. “The work of the Hippo.”

“The what, sir?” asked the Sergeant.

“The Hippo of Indeterminate Hue,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “The most fiendish ungulate ever to walk this earth. Well,” he amended. “That I am aware of. Certainly, other hippopotami of a criminal bent have appeared throughout history, though I would wager that few matched the Hippo of Indeterminate Hue in either cunning or savagery.”

Detective Smitts stared at the tuxedoed gentleman for a moment. “What?” he finally asked?

Later: A History!

The Hippo of Indeterminate Hue: Part 1

A few tendrils of fog were beginning to drift lazily on the slight breeze, lit by the soft glow of lanterns. A group of men were huddled at the end of the alley, most dressed in the familiar blue of the English Bobby, the light flashing gold on their brass buttons. A few officers were keeping the growing crowd of civilians, mainly local shopkeepers, carters, and migrant mime hunters, clustered at the mouth of the alley and away from the scene.

“What’re you thinkin,’ Detective?” asked an older officer, with a fine moustache.

“Hard to say, Sergeant,” replied the only man in plain-clothes. “He’s sort of . . . “

“Squished?” volunteered the Sergeant.

“Yes, squished.” The detective glanced up at the roofs that lined the alley. “Hardly enough of a fall to do that kind of damage.”

“Perhaps he fell from a passin’ dirigible, sir?”

“I think that unlikely, Sergeant.” The detective stepped around a pile of crates, taking care to not tread on what was left of the victim’s leg, and squatted down for a better look.

“Flung from a trebuchet?”

“Also, unlikely.”

“If he, y’know, jumped, before he left the roof, sir, that might account for the . . . er . . . extreme state.”

The detective looked over at the Sergeant. “Are you suggesting that three-odd more feet of falling could have done this?”

“Hard to say, sir.”

“Pardon me, detective,” began a young officer, who hurried up from the mouth of the alley. “There’s a gentleman who wants to speak to- oh god!” The young man turned several shades of green, including celadon, chartreuse, myrtle, and other variations I found on Wikipedia. He was noisily sick in a nearby crate, though he kept hold of the business card in his hand.

“Sergeant, if you would?” asked the detective. The Sergeant leaned over and plucked the card out of the young man’s hand. He read it solemnly.

The detective waited a moment, before sighing. “Out loud, Sergeant.”

“Ah, right, sir.” The Sergeant cleared his throat. “Mr. Charles Alonso Credenza von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt the Third. Esquire. Consulting Detective.”

Tomorrow: Part II