Chapter XIV – Paging Jim Stalin
Jim Stalin and Jack Wack sat in the dining area of the hotel that the government had paid for. Admiral Sackenbrenner may have stuck them with the dilapidated Gremlin for transportation, but his cruel sense of humor did not extend to their living arrangements. They were actually dining on some rather decent looking food.
"What is this?" Jim asked his friend, "It looks good, but I’m almost afraid to try it."
"It’s not a soufflé," Jack assured him, taking a bite, "It’s good for you."
"You don’t know what it is either, do you?" Jim said, seeing the look in Jack’s eyes, "Ugh."
"It tastes good," Jack shrugged, "Starve for all I care. We need to go to see that Abruti guy today."
"Yep," Jim nodded as he took a halting bite, "That’s true. We do. We’ll do it after breakfast."
"If we get a chance," Jack noted, "Look over there. Any bets on whether those dudes are French cops or not?"
"Of course they are," Jim shrugged, eating a bit more food, "You’re right, this isn’t bad."
"So why are you not worried about this?" Jack wondered, eating quickly because he knew he would not have long, "Or are you?"
"Remember," Jim said, "This smacks of the Da Vinci Code. You know as well as I do that Abruti is probably dead by now and we’ll have to interpret another silly puzzle."
"That does seem to be the recurring theme here," Jack admitted, "Probably will continue to be that way until we get close enough to fifty thousand words for the author to begin bringing this mess to a close."
"Exactly," Jim nodded, finishing his unidentifiable breakfast, "Let’s talk to them before they decide to tell me just what the hell I ate."
"Jim Stalin?" the French cop said, "May we have a word with you?"
"Sure," Jim nodded, "Which one do you want? Dumb? Ass? Moron?"
"Try murder," Jack said, "From the look in their eyes your guess was right."
"Your friend is perceptive," the cop said, still not bothering to give a name, "Jacques âne Abruti was murdered last night. I understand you were supposed to meet him this morning?"
"Yes," Jim nodded, "We were supposed to see him. We quite obviously hadn’t gotten to it yet."
"You never will," the cop said, "But we do need you to see something at the crime scene. Maybe it will make more sense to you than it did to us."
"You want Jim to look at a crime scene?" Jack said, almost in disbelief, "That’s like asking Inspector Cluseau to solve something more sinister than a purse snatching."
"Save it," Jim told Jack, "Remember, this country loves Jerry Lewis. Their sense of humor is stunted. Let’s go look at Abruti’s bag of bones and see how we’re doing."
"Right," Jack sighed, "Let’s go."
"Follow us in your car," the French cop said, "I don’t want to have to be seen with you."
"To the Gremlin we go," Jim said, "You’re driving, buddy."
"If we’re going to keep driving that thing I want the damned 8-Track player fixed," Jack said as he got up, "Let’s hope it isn’t raining, shall we?"
Of course it was raining, as it wouldn’t have been funny otherwise for them to say this. The Gremlin started flawlessly, despite the excessive damage that had been inflicted on it in chapter eight. They drove quietly to the museum, trying to follow the police officers who were driving much too fast in the rain.
"I hate this car," Jim said, spitting out a mouthful of water, "You know this, right?"
"If you’re lucky we’ll get to destroy it later," Jack said, "Now let’s go look at this dead man so we can get this story back on track."
"And out of France," Jim nodded, "I’m running out of bad jokes about the French and I’m sure after dealing with the daft head of Abruti’s investigation we will be repeating ourselves."
"I’m confident you can come up with plenty of bad one liners," Jack assured him as he dodged a piece of debris kicked up by the police car in front of them, "If we survive the drive."
"We’ll survive," Jim grinned, "We may suffer, but nothing really bad will happen to us. I’m the hero, remember?"
"That’s true," Jack agreed, "And I’m the token gay Jewish black dude. You’re right. All will be good."
With that Jack pulled the Gremlin into an illegal parking space, hoping that someone would tow it so they could claim it was stolen. They followed the lights up to the museum and looked for someone that was obviously the head of the investigation. Jim knew from experience that this man would be older, unstylishly dressed and fat, both in the body and head.
Jim walked up to the French police officers who were manning the door and flashed his governmental ID. Of course, since none of the officers spoke English, let alone were able to read it, they did not know what it said. Jack waited for them to be arrested, but of course they were let in anyway.
"We look trustworthy," Jim shrugged, "I guess we follow the sounds of the retching officers to find the body."
It was not hard to follow the sounds, as retching French officers made a unique noise, just as they did when they were surrendering. Jim and Jack walked into the room and looked for the one man who was too stupid to bother to retch. They rightly figured that this man would be the one who would be in charge of the situation and the description of older, unstylishly dressed and fat fit perfectly.
"I take it you’re the one who asked for us," Jim said, "I’m Jim Stalin, and this is my partner Jack Wack."
"Oh yes," the man said with an unbelievably bad French accent, "I did send for you. I would like to show you what is causing my men to retch so uncontrollably."
Jim and Jack followed the annoying French inspector further into the building. Jack was more amused by the art than by the smell that was coming from the room where people were going in and retching. Jack made an effort to hold himself calm while they entered. Jim had seen worse in his days, so he didn’t even worry about it.
"What is your name, by the way?" Jack asked belatedly, "No one told us who to ask for."
"I am Inspector Jean-Louis Bricon," he said, continuing his disdainful look towards the two Americans, "And if the corpse himself didn’t request you I would piss in your soufflé."
"What is it with French people pissing in our soufflé?" Jack wondered, "Can’t they just offer us a mediocre wine and be done with it?"
"Sounds like they should," Jim agreed, "So where is the corpse and how did it ask for us?"
"In writing," Bricon told them, "Come and look for yourself."
They walked into the reopened area and found out why everyone was retching. Jacques âne Abruti had managed to use a statue and his knowledge of his body to get himself into a really strange position. His eyes were wide open in death and rigor mortis had set in locking him in the position he took.
"Is he flipping us the bird?" Jack asked, "Man, that is grotesque. Adam and Reizvolle must be hard up for interesting things if they did that to him."
"I know not of who you speak you stupid American," Bricon hissed, "But they did not do this to him. The esteemed curator did this to himself."
"Why us?" Jim asked, "I mean we hadn’t met him yet."
"He knew we were coming," Jack said, "Maybe Ferguson clued him in or something. I mean our trip wasn’t that much of a secret."
"Typical," Bricon sneered, "You Americans think it is all about you. Well again, I piss in your soufflé!"
"Enough with the soufflé!" Jim exclaimed, "Damn man, this isn’t funny anymore! Are you really that hard up for jokes here?"
"Yes," the author told them, "Now get off your ass and look at the corpse so I don’t have to have that idiot Bricon piss on your soufflé again!"
"Ok," Jack said, "That’s a mighty odd thing to do. It looks like he’s flipping us off in death, doesn’t it?"
"Right," Jim nodded, "He’s also cupping his balls. It would be funny if it weren’t so grotesque."
"He’s propped against a statue," Jack noted, "Not just any statue
either, but one a good twenty feet from where he was shot. See the blood over near the iron gates?"
"Yeah," Jim agreed, "So he dragged himself over here. Why though? Why not just write it down directly?"
"Because Adam would have been able to read that," Jack said, "He’s dumb man, but he ain’t that dumb."
"True," Jim said, "But we’re not much smarter. How the hell are we supposed to figure this out?"
"Do we Frenchman have to do everything for you?" Bricon said, sneering as usual, "Fine then you bastards. I’ll tell you what it means. You are looking for something having to do with the penis. Probably something that is right in front of your faces."
Jim and Jack grinned and went over to where Abruti’s corpse was sitting. They looked straight ahead and saw a few drippings of blood heading over to a painting that was a bit crooked. Unlike the book this spoof is coming from, Abruti was not smart enough or in good enough shape to make it through all those contortions without making a mess.
"Let’s look behind the painting," Jim said, "It’s obvious that he moved it."
Jack nodded and went over to the painting, mainly because Jim was too clumsy to be trusted with a multi-million dollar piece of art. Bricon watched, but was not happy that the Americans were going anywhere near the precious art. It wasn’t until he noticed that Jack was going to touch it that he realized this had to stop.
"No!" Bricon shouted, "Don’t touch it you slimy American pain in the…"
Too late. Jack Wack moved the painting off the wall and set off the security system again. The iron gate came crashing down and this time landed on Jean-Louis Bricon’s foot. He shouted obscenities loudly while his men ran around. Jim and Jack ignored the ruckus as they looked at the drawing behind the painting.
"That’s Da Vinci’s anatomical man drawing," Jack said, "What the hell is that other thing?"
"A rock with mold," Jim said, "He’s pointing at the mold."
Bricon still yelled obscenities and the men around him didn’t know whether they needed to help their boss or find the nearest soldier to surrender to. Jim and Jack took a few minutes to realize that they were essentially playing a game of pictionary with a dead man.
"The Da Vinci Mold!" Jack exclaimed, "We’re looking for the Da Vinci Mold!"
"What the hell is that?" Jim wondered, "And why did Jacques âne Abruti die to protect it?"
"Because he wasn’t much use alive," Jack reminded him, "And it still doesn’t tell us what or where the Da Vinci Mold is."
"Ferguson might know that," Jim said, "And there might be another clue around here about somewhere."
"Look at the ceiling," Jack said as Bricon’s men turned off the power to try to get the gate off their boss’s foot, "It’s a map…"
"Now that took dedication," Jim said, "But what of?"
"My office, you idiot!" the corpse grunted to them and died again, "Now finish this chapter!"
"Testy for a corpse, isn’t he?" Jack said, "The X marks the spot. Let’s go to the office."
"I think we should do the next chapter in song," Jim said, grinning, "We’re going a bit too slow and they really need to move this along a bit, in both words and music."
"Fine, fine," Jack said, "Who sings this time?"
"We both do," Jim smiled, "Let’s go."
Chapter XV – I’d Do Anything For A Plot