The New Book

Janice was over the moon after her trip to the library.

She had located a new author -Anita Rusty- whom she had never heard of, and unbelievably, the library had all twelve of her books, set in the 1930s and featuring her fictional private detective and amateur painter Dolfus, the short-tempered Austrian with a little Chaplinesque mustache.

She was reading the first book (Dolfus and the Broken Windows) now, sitting at her kitchen table looking out into the garden. The plot was so intriguing that she failed to notice her digestive biscuit bellyflop into her mug of coffee.

“ I haff ein suspicion that our killer has a garden mit die daffodils.” Dolfus informed the half-witted Viennese police inspector.

How on earth can he possibly know that? thought Janice.

As her eyes roamed the garden, she noticed that the new neighbours next door had been doing some gardening and had a lovely border full of daffodils. Janice smiled, what a coincidence.

Later that evening, after a session of binge reading and digestive biscuit eating, she reached the final chapter in which Dolfus is screaming at the police to arrest the florist before she flees to Russia.

“ Ve must stamp out zis type of person verever zey hide,” he shouted as he threw himself in a rage onto the carpeted floor of his office.

Great stuff, thought Janice, my kind of guy, a total Ubermensch.

She parted the chintz pattern curtains and watched from the living room window as her neighbour drove up and parked her small van on her driveway and began to unpack some gardening tools from the cargo space.

That's a bit late for gardening, it's almost dark. Janice thought.

She picked up the next paperback installment, ‘Dolfus and the Devil’, with its lurid pagan cover illustration, licked her lips and eagerly started book two.

“Ve are surrounded by Bolshevik criminals." Dolfus is lecturing a classroom of German police cadets, “closer than zis moustache,” he gestures to his angry red-flushed face as his comment received a gentle laugh.

“ Do your sworn duty to die Vaterland,” he bellows, punching his fist into his palm and commences goose stepping across the stage.

Blimey, thought Janice, there's no half measures with Herr Dolfus. He's a one-man crime scourge.

The following morning Janice heard the letter box slam and went to collect the free local paper from the door mat and glanced at the headline. ‘Local Boy still Missing. Police Appeal for Help.’ She sat at the kitchen table waiting for the kettle to boil and read the piece.

As she went for some milk for her tea, she noticed the post-it sticker stuck to the fridge door. ‘Doctor. Prescription.’ she needed to top up her medicine, not that she always remembered to take it.

She pondered the newspaper article, this was very like the case that Dolfus had just solved against all the odds. The Jewish bank manager - the devil of the title- who was also a secret white slave trader, had murdered the little girl living next door to him. The fiend had almost got away with it too until Dolfus foiled him and subsequently exposed an international banking conspiracy

Let me just check his reasoning again she thought as she quickly read through the next book, ‘Dolfus and the Final Answer,’ which finds Dolfus covering summer holiday leave and in charge of the German police force.

“ Dolfus told me how to save the boy,” Janice tried to explain as Church, the police officer, placed her under arrest. He escorted her past the various scene of crime experts, out of her neighbours house and, with his hand on her scalp, gently eased her into the police car and drove her to an interview room in the local police station.

“ It's all in the book on my kitchen table,” she continued, “Dolfus has deterred the red peril, but has been betrayed and locked in a burning cellar. As his kamerades desert him and the oxygen runs out he screams ‘Nein, Nein, Nein.’ see?”

Church stopped writing and glanced up.

“That's why I phoned you. To confess like Dolfus told me, 999. The boy is hidden in the house, I had to kill the neighbour, she was a communist spy, and the postman, well he arrived at the wrong moment so I stabbed him too. Anyway he was her handler and running a dead letter drop. It was the perfect cover for him being out and about so early.”

There was a knock on the door and another officer entered the room.

“ The boy's been found, Sir.”

“ Hidden in the attic, like I'm trying to tell you,” announced Janice proudly.

“ Um, no, at his Nan's, the ex-husband was playing silly buggers. Some argument about alimony apparently, all sorted now and no real harm done.”

He threw a salute and left the room.

“ Look Janice,” said Church. “I'm going to suspend this interview until the doctor has had a look at you,” he reached across and clicked off the tape recorder.

“ But what about Dolfus?”

“Janice, just listen alright.”

He took a cigarette from the packet on the table and offered the pack to Janice.

“No thank you, Dolfus hates smoking.”

He struggled to get the cigarette back into the pack undamaged, finally snapping it and throwing it onto the floor in disgust.

“ Right. Let me be frank with you. All we found in your kitchen was a carving knife in the sink and a pair of bloodstained marigold gloves in the bin.”

Janice went to speak but he cut her off.

“No books at all, just an empty tablet bottle, months out of date for some antipsychotic medicine.

He raised his hand to stop Janice's fresh attempt to interrupt.

The policeman stationed inside the door behind her tapped his temple with his index fingertip and rolled his eyes heavenward.

There was a knock on the door and another officer entered.

“Phone call for you Sir. Geezer at the library.”

He rose telling Janice he would be back in a minute, and left the room.

“So, what do you think? Candidate for a tinfoil helmet ?” Asked the desk sergeant as he held out the receiver.

Church listened for a while, asked a couple of questions then returned to the interview room.

“That phone call was from the librarian. He informed me that you are no longer a library member, and that you are actually barred from the premises due to your repeated attempts to undress yourself in the military history and crime fiction aisles. Particularly beside Chester Himes apparently.”

“Gotterdammerung,” whispered Janice.

Which was strange as she'd been a bit of a duffer at languages at school and had only taken French CSE.

Church continued, “He went on to tell me that there is no such author as Anita Rusty. And when I asked about your Herr Dolfus, he burst out laughing and asked if anyone would believe in such a ridiculous character.”