Dralon and The Adventure in the Contrary World (English version)

Inspector Biddle

Horatio Anicet Biddle looked with disapproval at the anonymous couple sitting in front of him in his remodeled Scotland Yard office, in the political center of Westminster District, without using the glasses that nevertheless surmounted the tip of his large hooked nose. With one hand, he supported his head, covered by a thick mane of straw-blonde hair. With the other, he stirred a small cup of coffee, his jeweled little finger raised like a periscope. His desk was crammed with mug shots, various papers, and a thirteen-volume encyclopedia on how to clean service weapons.

He was exhausted from spending the whole day keeping back the media assaults and reassuring hot-tempered council members. In spite of this, he had returned to the central station without any hesitation when his subordinate had called him excitedly to follow what seemed at the time the only possible trail. And that's not because he was so loyal to his title of Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard's Special Crimes Unit. Under other circumstances, he would never have missed the TV finals of the World Cup of Darts. In reality, the Kingdom's senior officials, who had met the entire police force that morning, had left them no choice.

The situation was obvious: the whole Country was waiting for conclusive answers and, without an immediate solution to that unpleasant question, many heads, including his, would roll into the unattractive sewers of London.

This graphic message had been successful. Biddle, who had no intention of losing his head, had set a major goal for himself: buying time and delaying as far as possible the date of the bloody execution. He instinctively massaged his neck, then checked his wrinkled shirt pockets in the agonizing search for one of his Montecristo cigars, even if he knew perfectly well that he would only find a pen, a pair of buttons, and a few bitter licorice roots.

Under doctor's orders, he hadn't been smoking those stinky scraps of junk for months now. He just pretended to have forgotten in order to save his image of a tough impenitent and to lead others to believe his prolonged abstinence was only a matter of bad luck.

"Bugger! Just when one would come handy..." he mumbled quietly. Resignedly, he stuck a disgusting licorice stick in his mouth and looked again at his notebook, browsing through the whole testimony. He had listened attentively to the couple's deposition, writing down carefully every word and zealously reading and re-reading every line. Still, in spite of his efforts, he could scarcely believe their version of the events. He preferred to plunge himself again in unbearable silence, stirring his cup of coffee and casting occasional glances on the couple who, like children in the headmaster's office, worriedly awaited his next move.

Eleanor sat in front of him, her feet crossed, constantly pulling down her skirt as if she had suddenly become conscious of overly exposed knees. Romeo, his hat resting on his belly, kept stretching the collar of his shirt, moving around on his narrow chair in search for a more comfortable position.

"So, Mrs. Moffet..." the man started off, taking a "puff" from his licorice root. "According to your statement, everything started with the arrival of that pendulum clock."

"Precisely!" confirmed Eleanor, promptly.

"And this evening, the object in question has exploded in your house. Do you confirm this?"

"I confirm it! I confirm it!"

"Where are the remains of that object?"

"Ah! I don't have the faintest idea," Eleanor admitted, trembling at the memory. "When we recovered from the explosion, thank heavens, there was no trace of the clock."

"I see..." said Biddle, suddenly troubled. "In other words..." he continued, playing with a paper clip, "we have no shred of evidence. Without evidence, there's no indictment, and without an indictment we're back at square one!" He sighed, flopping back on the chair. His dream of receiving glory and honor for solving this ill-fated case in record time had definitely vanished. "So much for a trail to follow!" he thought, discouraged. It looked more like a steep, smelly mule track.