Part 13

Yanick Champoux (29/10/2001)

Haddock's never been a man of many words. He was one of those old school police officers that believed in the power of grunts, one-liners and very big guns. Something I could respect in a man, and fear in a mother-in-law.

Faithful to himself, Haddock snorted, growled and produced other sounds conveying the same message of miscontentment. The pulsing veins of his eyes were of a particularly angry red, and the sour reek of stale coffee was heavy on his breath. As he was still a good three meters away from me, I gathered those observations to be bad news from me.

Indeed, the captain zeroed on me like a fly on the bloated carcass of a toad dead of indigestion. I felt the sensation of cold steel on my wrist, heard the sharp clickety of metal closing on metal. I was handcuffed. Loudly, I proclaimed my indignation.

"Shut you trap, Gear. I arrest you for the murder of whoever the bloody remains we are scrapping from the pavement belong to." He looked at me like a Frenchman would eye a plate of haggis. "Effin' private eye... Think yourself above the law..."

I was about to hit him with a pithy reply, but Joe, and the shovel he was holding, beat me to it. Haddock might be tough as a nail, but even nails, when hit on the head, go down. And that's what he did.

"Cops," mumbled Joe, "I dunna a-like them..."

I voiced my agreement that one could never be too wary of policemen in general, and of Haddock in particular, and pointed out to Joe that the latter was still moving a little bit. A well-placed second helping of shovel took care of sedating the captain. Quickly, for I knew Haddock's men could burst in at any time, I frisked him and found the handcuff's keys. Free once more, I pondered upon my situation. Like my clothes, it was grim and rather foul-smelling.

An idea struck me.

"Joe, close that door. And come here help me undress the Fish..."