Sunday, 4 August 2019

The Case of The Mystery Crime - Part 3

As I made my way back home I kept thinking at what had just happened. A big burly man had just warned me about François Bordeaux. How did he know I was looking for him? I wasn't really ... I just asked casually the wine merchant whether he was François Bordeaux. It must have been him ... this Jean-Pierre Chevalier who had passed the information to the burly fellow.

And what did the big man mean by François Bordeaux would find me when he is ready? Why would he be looking for me? Am I in some sort of trouble all of a sudden? Have I stirred up a wasps nest by accident? Or is it a hornets nest? What's the difference? Have I unwittingly opened Pandora's box? Who is Pandora anyway?

I tried to recall my mythology lessons at school. Zeus gave to Pandora a box with strict instructions that she not open it. Her curiosity soon got the better of her, and she opened the box. All the evils and miseries of the world flew out to afflict mankind. So that's where wasps and yellow jackets come from? I always blamed Noah for that.

Eventually I arrived at Gardenia Avenue and I decided to pay Mrs Scrivener a visit. The front door was open as usual. I knocked and called for her. We chatted for a while and I gave her the bottle of wine to cheer her up.

The rest of the day was uneventful although it weighed heavily on my mind. What is the connection between Mrs Scrivener's red parrot, François Bordeaux, Jean-Pierre Chevalier the wine merchant, and the big burly man? Should I go back to the farmers market and challenge this Chevalier fellow? What would I tell him though? I can't accuse him of passing on the information. Maybe he didn't. Maybe I was overheard asking about François Bordeaux. Maybe Chevalier is in fact François Bordeaux. I didn't check his passport did I? Why did the sign say "Vins de Bordeaux" and not "Vins de Chevalier"? Aha ... I am onto something here ... but what exactly?

I decided to do nothing for now.

That evening as I took the dog for a walk I noticed a police car outside Mrs Scrivener's house. I tied the dog at her garden gate and walked to the house.

The door was open. I got in.

There was a police man and a police woman with Mrs Scrivener in the living room. The parrot was on his perch. I asked what is going on.

Apparently whilst Mrs Scrivener was with Edna next door, having left her front door open as usual, a big burly man entered the house and tried to steal Polly the parrot. The bird made a lot of noise which brought back Mrs Scrivener into the house. The big man panicked and ran passed her and out of the house.

My mind got all blurred as I tried to make sense of it all. Obviously the big burly man could be the same fellow I met in the alley way. He must have followed me home and saw me talking to Mrs Scrivener earlier. But what does he want from the bird? Had he stolen Polly it would have been a case of polygon. Is that a geometric shape of some kind? No that's polygamy. A game you play with the family at Christmas and other gatherings. I love families, don't you? If it was not for families people would have to argue with complete strangers. At least with families we can keep our arguments within the family as it were.

The policeman shook me out of my reverie by asking, "Who are you, Sir?"

"Oh ... I'm just a friend," I mumbled, "I have known Mrs Scrivener for years. Mr Scrivener too ... may he rest in peace ... he was a nice man ... always well dressed ... he was a health and safety inspector down the mines you know ... they used to tie a rope round his waist and lower him down the mine. If he fainted they'd pull him back again because it was not safe to go down. They'd revive him and send him down again a while later!"

Why is it when I am nervous I tend to ramble on? Have I given too much information do you think? Should I tell the policeman about the big man I met in the alley way? Would that help or confuse their enquiries?

I certainly believe someone should write a book with all of life's difficult questions and how to deal with them? The first advice would be not to interfere with events. Had I not asked Chevalier who he was all this would not have happened. Now I don't know whether to tell the police about the talking parrot, about François Bordeaux who is supposed to have done something according to the parrot, about Jean-Pierre Chevalier the wine merchant and the burly man. If I told the police all that they'd probably arrest me for wasting their time.

"Is there anything else missing in the house?" asked the policeman to Mrs Scrivener.

"No ... nothing ..." she said, "when I came in the man grabbed my Polly by the neck and the bird was fluttering its wings and squawking like mad."

"Did he say anything?" I asked.

"The man?" asked Mrs Scrivener.

"No the parrot!" I replied.

"No ... no ... the parrot does not talk," she said emphatically, "never has!"

"Excuse me, Sir," said the policeman, "I am conducting this enquiry, unless of course you have been seconded from the elementary school of detectives!"

Oh ... that insult hurt ... I so felt like telling him that the parrot actually talks. Because I heard him with my own ears only a short while ago saying François Bordeaux did it. Obviously the bird witnessed some sort of crime and they are trying to silence him.

I took whatever left there was of my courage by both hands and said, "Excuse me officer ... and lady officer too ... it seems to me that the bird here is central to our enquiries. Someone tried to take him. Perhaps he witnessed a crime ..."

"And he needs police protection ..." interrupted the policeman as the policewoman sniggered. "I'll have to check the rules as to whether we have a witness protection program for parrots. Maybe we could dye his feathers blonde and give him some dark sun glasses so that he is not recognised. And change his name from Polly to Rover or Max or perhaps Tweetie Pie ..."

The policewoman covered her mouth with her hand to hide her big smile.

I stood there getting angrier but saying nothing. The two officers said their goodbyes and left, promising to keep Mrs Scrivener informed of any progress in their enquiries.

Fancy suggesting calling a bird Rover or such other dog's name!


  1. A case of polygon . . . Too clever, Victor! But I wonder, does the parrot really talk as Mrs. Scrivener claims he doesn't? What a mystery that is.

    1. You'll never believe the real reason, Martha. I hope you continue to follow this series. I am so excited I cannot wait to read how it ends. Another episode soon.

      God bless.

  2. Good thing Polly put up a commotion, or the police would be investigating a murder most fowl! Happy Sunday, Victor!

    1. Indeed you're right, Mevely. Fortunately the parrot fought back. But why would someone wish to kill him? Does he really talk or did I imagine it? Who is François Bordeaux and what has he done? The mystery deepens and I have to make up another episode for tomorrow's post. This is an "as you make it" story being written live day-to-day!

      Best wishes. God bless.

  3. Is there going to be a part 4? Seems like this isn't quite done yet...

    1. Yes indeed Terri. We need to discover the mystery of François Bordeaux.

      God bless.

  4. I always believed Polly could talk and I think that parrot knows something. "Polygon", I love it. :)

    1. You are right, Bill. Very right. But what does Polly know? That's the mystery. More tomorrow.

      God bless.

  5. More questions than answers!!

  6. Does Polly want a cracker to talk or maybe a glass of 🍷 will loosen his tongue...or is he really a stool pigeon in disguise???
    I must he truly a talker or is it Memorex???

    God Bless 💮

  7. By now I was getting deeper in the story. I'd mentioned an attempted robbery that went wrong; thus pointing attention to the bird. Whatever next?

    God bless you, Jan. Thanx for your continued interest. Please read fast. Last episode tomorrow.



God bless you.