The Case of Chet Millerby And The Missing Weevil- Chapter Seven

PREVIOUSLY ON CHET MILLERBY...Chet Millerby, the world's most famous cat detective, has been hired by a mysterious man in a yodelling costume to track down his beloved weevil, Alfonso. A mysterious match box has so far led the feline sleuth to Tony's French-Bulgarian Brasserie...

"So what's theez all about?", said Tony, wiping down the zinc bar with a white rag. "To what do I owe the pleasure, eef eet can be called a pleasure, of Britain's famous cat detective?" He hoiked some phlegm into a bucket at his feet, which made the noise of a bullet ricocheting around a bell tower.

Chet merely wrinkled his nose, and slid the matchbox the man had left in his office across the counter.

"Do you know what this is?"

Tony shrugged. "Of course. Our world famous free matches. You can keep it if you like."

"It's not mine. I have reason to believe it once belonged to a weevil."

The bar fell quiet. For the first time Chet noticed that a player piano had been churning out honky-tonk in the corner, with a gaggle of French dancers in pink crinoline gossiping and chirruping like birds around it - now they all stopped suddenly, and an old man accidentally fired his pistol into the air, bringing down a small section of ceiling in a cloud of dust and plaster.

"I don't know anything about no weevil", said Tony, drawing himself up to his full, ugly height."

"Oh yeah?", said Chet, gesturing with his can-opener. "Well how do you explain those then?"He pointed to the wall behind Tony.

And there, hung high on the wall, above the unwashed glass shelves cluttered with dusty, greasy bottles, above the antique mirror with the bullet holes, but below the wonky chandelier, were rows and rows of photographs.

Photographs you might not have given a second glance to were you but a casual drinker coming in here for some steak and frites or half a bottle of Absinthe and the can-can. But photographs that a trained cat detective immediately noticed, with his acute eye for the obvious clue.

Photographs of weevils.

There was Alabaster the Weevil, the mid-weight beetle boxing champ of 1916. Arlene Weevil, siren of the silent movies. Captain Algernon Weevil, RAF flying ace and amateur ventriloquist. Next to them, chipped but autographed- A Weevil and A Wig, the infamous weevil-earwig double act who entertained the gangland nightspots of the Fifties. A lurid colour snap of legendary music svengali Big Al Weevil and his lovelies splayed around an Antibes swimming pool. There was Arthur Weevil, the host of such radio panel shows as "Half A Crown? Mind Yer Bleeding Bob!" and "I'll Get Up When It's Over".

Chet put the date of that last photo as approximately 1979.Then- nothing. A total gap. Or at least he though he could make out some blank spaces where photos had once been.

And then the photos began again, nearer the ceiling still. A Weevil Is A Danca, the nineties rave act, flashing his bling at the camera with a gold toothed grin, and the first ever Weevil TV reality star, "Awful" Ajax the Weevil.

Tony didn't even bother to follow Chet's gaze behind his head. He didn't bat a muscle, or move an eyelid.

"I don't know about thees weevil", he said, jabbing a thick finger at the matchbox.

Chet realised in an instant the mistake he had made. Oh the things that stare you in the face, and you see right through. He was a good cat detective, probably the best, but even he could still be surprised.

He opened the matchbox.

TO BE CONTINUED...