Parrot's Last Case.

The shiny, authentic taxicab passed the knot of perfectly-groomed
passers-by and ground to a halt outside the immaculate
brand-spanking-new Art Deco building.

"Why, Gawd bless yer, guv'nor!" the stock-cockney-character taxi driver
gasped, examining the coin for authenticity. "Threepence tip! Yer a
real toff, an' no mistake!" His neatly-suited passenger smiled
diffidently.

Delighted with his good fortune, the driver saluted smartly and backed
his suspiciously clean vehicle away. That night, his ever-expanding
family would taste meat.

Captain Bexhill straightened his tie and strode into the immaculate
foyer of the "Bide-a-Wee Nursing Home" (motto: Pricey but Discreet: if
you're poor, go and bleed somewhere else). Every item of furniture was
new and unmarked, each lavishly-filled vase of flowers country-fresh,
each perfectly researched costume beautifully tailored.

"The name's Bexhill." The captain spoke politely but firmly, raising
his hat in the manner expected of a man of his social class. "I'm
visiting M. Parrot."

"You mean.. the great detective?" The receptionist sprang to attention
at the mere mention of the hallowed name. "Nurse Hitler! Oh, where is
that girl? Every time I tick her off, she starts stamping round,
saluting and sounding off about her brother being some big shot." She
leaned forward to whisper confidentially. "They come from abroad
somewhere, so he can't be that important, can he? Ah!"

"You vanted me?" The muscular figure marched to the desk and clicked
her heels. "I vos just trimming my moustache."

"Quite," the receptionist twittered. "Captain Bexhill would like to
see.."

"M. Parrot?" Nurse Hitler hissed, her unshaven features contorting into
an ugly frown. "Come zis vay. Schnell, schnell!"

Tipping his hat once more, Bexhill attempted to follow as Nurse Hitler
kept up a blistering pace, marching briskly along the
disinfectant-scented art-deco corridors, snapping off a smart salute as
each white coat passed. At a discreet, cream-painted door she stopped
dead and Bexhill narrowly missed knocking his pipe down his throat on
her starched peaked cap.

"Ze private room, eh?" Nurse Hitler sneered. "Zere vill be none of this
nonsense soon. Not for.. Belgians!" Chuckling to herself in a gutteral
tone, she strode off to terrify some other hapless unfortunate with
threats of world domination and giant enemas.

"Parrot?" Bexhill leaned round the door. It was a spacious, sunlit
room; in the single bed was a surprisingly small figure. The head on
the pillow resembled nothing less than a large brown egg with a silly
false moustache painted half-way down its front. It could only be the
great man himself.

"Bexhill, mon ami!" Parrot struggled to sit up, a gleam of genuine
pleasure illuminating his porcine features. "Parrot, he zought zat you
would never come!"

"Ah," Bexhill said shyly, advancing into the room. "I had a girlfriend
once who used to say much the same thing.. anyway, old chap, how are
you?"

"Getting better," Parrot shrugged. "Between you and me, Bexhill, I'm
glad to be giving up zis detecting business."

"I say!" Bexhill exclaimed, seating himself at his old chum's bedside.
"A card from Inspector Flapp? That's jolly decent of him, what?"

Bexhill opened the cheap, florid card and read: "Shame about yore (the
next couple of words had been scratched through with a blunt pencil)
illnes ha ha! Now we can get on with sum reel pleece work without sum
smug Beljan git stickin his ore in. Love and kises from the
lads."

"Ah, Scotland Yard's resident intellectual," Parrot mused. "Britain is
in safe hands wiz ze likes of him, mon ami."

"Of course!" Bexhill bristled. "Sound fellow, Flapp. One of the best.
And er.. they've managed to fix your.." he blushed and coughed. "You
know.."

"Ah, that. Yes." Parrot tapped his nose and winked. "Did you never
wonder why, all zese years, Parrot he walk round like a constipated
penguin?"

"It crossed my mind, but a chap doesn't like to ask about such
matters." Bexhill averted his gaze.

"Of course. Ze piles, Bexhill, zey are no laughing matter."

"I should jolly well say not!" Bexhill stuffed his crisp linen
handkerchief into his mouth in an attempt to stifle the shriek of
hysterical laughter that was threatening to bubble up.

"Parrot, he tried everything," the patient continued sadly. "Ze
ointment, ze sandpaper, even those little explosive charges.."

"I say, steady on!" Bexhill ejaculated, his laughter subsiding. "That's
a bit bally private, what?"

"Bexhill!" Parrot chuckled. "You are every inch ze English gent,
no?"

"I suppose so. One has to try, you know. Frankly, I was too dim even to
get into Eton."

"Too dim for Eton? Zut alors!" Parrot interrupted. "Parrot, he never
guessed zis. It explains a lot.."

"Ye..es," Bexhill blundered on. "Anyway, father pulled a few strings
and I got into St. Aubergine's on a needlework scholarship. It made me
into the man I am today."

"And zis school, zey took money for zis service?"

"I suppose so, yes." Bexhill's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Parrot, he is in ze wrong business. Anyway, mon ami, tell me about
zese last cases."

"Right," Bexhill nodded, his meagre brain racing. "The Wimbledon
ferret-rustling case, that was solved."

"It was ze laundry boy, no?" Parrot shouted triumphantly.

"But.. how did you guess?"

"Parrot, he never guesses. He knows much, says little." Parrot tapped
his nose again, in that irritating way that made people want to slap
him.

"Flapp had arrested Fifi the naughty French maid and her boyfriend. A
beastly foreigner, you know the type.."

"Indeed I do, Bexhill," Parrot said coldly. "Go on."

"Well, it turned out that she was at some sort of.. ahem, fancy-dress
party at the time, with the mayor and most of the council. And Sir
Hubert Froop, the MP. So Flapp arrested the vicar, then three of his
own men by mistake before the real culprit was caught
red-handed.."

"Red handed?"

"I believe that ferrets bite. They were in his laundry basket." Bexhill
explained, though his chum was visibly losing interest. "Still, all's
well that ends well and another dangerous felon is banged to
rights."

"Anything else?"

"The Westmorland sheepdog trials. They were all found guilty." *

"Parrot, he predicted that too. But what about ze Winton murder? Zat,
Bexhill, has indeed been exercising ze little grey cells."

"It's a pity you weren't around to solve that one," Bexhill nodded. "As
you may recall, Lord Winton-le-Dale was murdered horribly in his study.
There were so many suspects."

"Mm, it seemed as if millions wanted him dead. It was my most baffling
case."

"Yes. He was discovered with eight gunshot wounds, a knife in his back
and enough poison in his system to wipe out Bognor Regis."

"What a waste!" Parrot shrugged.

"Exactly. You remember that Flapp originally had it down as suicide?
Well, after he'd turned his attentions to a rogue band of Cluedo
enthusiasts, who were actually mountaineering in Norfolk at the time of
the murder, he gave up and went home for tea."

Bexhill rose and strolled across to the window. Pausing for effect, he
turned to face Parrot with a faint smile playing about his lips.

"Actually," he drawled. "I solved the bally case myself!"

"Bexhill!" Parrot exclaimed, shuffling upright before wincing and
sinking back under the covers. "Parrot, he is impressed. Do go
on."

"I called the principal suspects in, and jolly crowded it was. Anyway,
I went through them one by one - A to B before lunch and so on."

"Parrot, he is not interested in ze detail. Not if it is someone else
who is hogging ze limelight!"

"Right. It turned out that Arthur, the maid's uncle, supplied the
weapon. Old Mrs. Moore swam the moat, carrying a double extension
ladder under her petticoat."

"I knew it!" Parrot squealed with delight. "Do go on, mon ami!"

"Benny the gardener had acquired the getaway tandem from his father,
the notorious bicycle thief Moriarty O'Raleigh. It was a brilliant
plan: the first shot was fired down the chimney, ricocheting off the
crystal inkstand, off the decanter and into the moose's head above the
fireplace. Muriel, who stood to gain half the family camping business
under the terms of her uncle's will.."

"Ze Wintons, zey were big in camping?" Parrot asked.

"Very big. Winton-le-Dale himself was possibly one of the most camp men
in the country," Bexhill replied. "Or so I'm told, old chap. Anyway,
Muriel guessed that old Winton would stagger back into the knife when
the moose fell on his head, grab the gun which was specially set up to
pump eight aimed shots into him, gulp down the contents of the doctored
decanter and topple theatrically into the fireplace."

"Exactement! But it is all so simple!" Parrot shouted gleefully.

"The walrus in the scullery sink," Bexhill confided with a knowing
wink. "That was a cunning ruse to throw us off the scent."

"Ah, mon ami, zat is ze oldest trick in ze book. If Parrot, he had a
franc for every time he's come across ze old walrus trick.."

"Anyway, it was a tricky one, Parrot, and I doubt if I'd have solved it
so quickly if Lola McTavish, Winton's Highland chiropodist, hadn't got
plastered and spilled the whole plot in the "Frog and Nightgown" the
next night. As it was, the whole fiendish gang might have escaped if it
hadn't been for that unlucky puncture on the Purley by-pass. Muriel had
thought of everything except the humble puncture repair outfit."

"Ah, zat McTavish, he always was a funny chap. And you, Bexhill, you
are retiring to zat little cottage of yours?"

"Er..I'd rather hoped to have someone special to retire with," Bexhill
stammered.

"Zat Marjorie.. Surely ze wooden leg, it did not put you off?"

"No, it was the tattoos," Bexhill announced sadly. "Fifteen years as
chief stoker on the Isle of Wight ferries changes a girl."

"Oh.."

"But.." Bexhill said shyly. "It's big enough for two, that cottage. Now
that the er.. problem's cleared up.. What do you say?"

"Bexhill!" Parrot shot bolt upright. "Parrot, he thought zat you would
never ask!"

* Author's note: "sheep dog trials" gag. This wonderful old chestnut
was first broadcast on April 19th 1928 and retired to an old jokes'
home near Eastbourne in 1972. It still makes occasional guest
appearances in pantomime and on Chucklevision.