Part Eight of The Sensational Shrimpleton Saga: The Laverna link….

In the last episode of our potential Soap Opera, Private Detective Jim Proudfoot, a.k.a. Threefeet of the Yard was being beguiled by the simply sumptuous Lady Lynne Shrimpleton in her office at the House of Lords. The experienced conman expected Her Ladyship to be putty in his hands. But things were not going exactly the way he had anticipated – and very far from it…

We left him reading doctored editions of the Daily Mail and the Guardian which contained articles about her Ladyship. She had just re-joined him in her own office holding a steaming drink with a spoon sticking out of the mug and a tea-bag brewing within it…

Jim Threefeet of the Yard had put on a pair of pince-nez and was seemingly engrossed in the Guardian article Lynne had given him. He couldn’t have looked more ridiculous if he had donned a deerstalker but Jim thought it gave him a certain amount of gravitas. In truth, he was struggling – the ridiculous glasses were things he’d stolen from a Donkey Sanctuary shop in a further attempt to impress and bamboozle prospective employers or victims but – truth be told – he could barely see anything through them. The Peeress was plainly aware of his discomfort and – secretly suppressing another smile – saved him any further embarrassment or play-acting by taking-up their so far totally one-sided conversation once more:

“As you will see, Mr Proudfoot, I’m a bit of a star at the moment.”

Jim looked up sharply. Nobody had called him by his birth name for literally decades. Was it a slip of Her Ladyship’s tongue?

“But how very presumptuous of me, Mr Proudfoot. I’m getting ahead of myself and forgetting my manners again into the bargain. I really should introduce myself properly and give you an idea of some basic principles which I hope we both share.”

Lady Lynne gave James Churchill Proudfoot one of her very best professional smiles before continuing:

“My view of the United Kingdom would probably give some British people – maybe even yourself, Mr Proudfoot – pause for thought. My homeland – Vietnam – would not be regarded by most of you as a `developed’ country. Certainly not in terms of industrial prowess or the material aspirations of a population where mopeds are still more prevalent than motor cars. But in my view, Vietnam is light years ahead of my adopted country in one other very important regard. Are you a Marxist, Mr Proudfoot?”

Jim was startled. He didn’t really know what a Marxist was, truth be told. If he had to guess, he would go for something to do with that well-known high street store where his Mother always bought his underwear when he was a kid. But was this right? Or was it about old American film stars – Harpo and Groucho? He wasn’t sure. In the back of his head though, a big Red Warning Sign for Danger was flashing. He’d inherited this from his Mother and other people – teachers and the local Vicar, for example – who reserved it for Trades Unionists, Communists and even the local Co-Op. They were all Reds, weren’t they? – as were fans of Leyton Orient. Keep away from all of them because Red Warning Signs mean dangerous things – bad things.

But her Ladyship was from a state where the Reds were in charge, wasn’t she? Kicked out the King – as Communists did – and replaced him with Red people. (Were they literally red? Jim wasn’t sure.) Hold on a moment, though…

Something stirred in the back of Threefeet of the Yard’s thick head. Visions of US Army helicopters in some place with a lot of jungles. Hong Kong was it? No but it was in that neck of the woods, if he remembered correctly. – something like Hong Kong but to do with Vietnam… Viet Cong – that was it! Of course – the Viet Cong had overthrown King Cong and replaced him with Red people, hadn’t they? Oh dear. But Her Ladyship might be keen on the blighters though… So he’d better be careful what he said next…

“We studied Marxism at school” he lied.

“So you are obviously familiar with Marx’s views on dialectical change; capitalism and class struggle.”

“Dialectical change?” thought Jim. “What had Daleks got to do with it? Or was she talking about `diapers’? `Diaper-lectical change’ – was that what Americans called a `Nappy Change’? Oh my gawd – she seems to be waiting for an answer: say something – and try to make it at least vaguely believable!” so he added:

“Yes, Highness, I am very aware of class struggle. From my own experience. I am proud to announce that I was always top of my own class at school and got really good grades. Hence…”

Was there just a hint of mockery in Her Ladyship’s gaze? Did she smirk ever so slightly as she said:

“Top of the Politics class, eh? Top Marks presumably? Top Trotsky too?” There was a pause before she continued:

“As the daughter of committed Vietnamese Communists, class struggle has always been part of my DNA. So what’s your view of feudalism In Britain today, Jim?”

She sat back and wondered what nonsense this idiot would come up with next. Then, seeing that he was really struggling again, she helped him a bit:

“Feudalism is considered by most people in this country to be a concept that can be consigned to the Dustbin of History along with the Dinosaurs and the Romans, wouldn’t you agree?”

Jim was worried that this might be a Trick Question and the former Trang Linh could see it.

So she went on:

“But to my foreign eye, feudalism – and feudal attitudes – are still very much alive and well in modern Britain. I’m a Peeress of the Realm and thus one of the Lords and Ladies. But most other people are Commoners. Like yourself, Mr Proudfoot.”

Jim looked a bit offended – he didn’t think anybody had called him `common’ before. But Lady Lynne seamlessly charmed him with what she said next:

“Common or not, I happen to know that you have an un-common talent, though Mr Proudfoot. And that is why I have invited you here today.”

She paused just long enough to let this flattery sink-in and then continued:

“As you can see from the articles in the papers you have just read, I’m having a bit of a problem which I need someone of your very special skillset to help me with. This problem concerns things I have said about some obscure group with links to nationalists in the Punjab…”

There was the slightest pause once more before she continued:

“India: the Punjab, India – you know?” She wasn’t sure that he did but she continued anyway: “This group styles itself the Khalistan Warriors. You may have heard of them…”

Jim Proudfoot clearly hadn’t.

“Football…” Lynne promped.

“Oh!” said the proud sole member of APE , knowing that the Conman who appears to be stumped is, to use his own words “Basically stumped. And snookered!” But he’d learned from years of practice a simple lesson which had served him well for longer than he cared to remember: If you don’t know anything about a particular subject – never admit it. Make something – anything – up instead. Yes: “Make something up – or even invent it!” as he had advised himself and others countless times in the past. But make whatever drivel you make-up sound authoritative. If you do, it will work every time.

So he said, as if it had just dawned on him:

“Birmingham City of course!”

This wasn’t a random guess. Jim was smart – or at least cunning – enough to put two and two together: if they were talking about Indians, chances were that we were also talking about big Indian communities here in the UK. London was the obvious choice – but there were loads of football clubs there. Birmingham’s odds were better: 50/50. Failing that, he would have plumped for Bradford City. Her Ladyship looked a little disappointed but no matter, he knew how to deal with that.

“I was thinking of Shrimpleton Town of thefamous Northern Counties Islands and Craggy Outcrops League (Second Division)actually” she said.

“Yes – they’re involved with them now but football efficient ardoes such as myself remember them cutting their teeth in the hustle and bustle of Second City soccer back in the 1990s first.”

“Ardoes?” thought Lynne, wondering what on earth these things might be. Aloud though, she replied:

“I bow to your superior knowledge Mr Proudfoot. Forgive me, football is a man’s sport after all, isn’t it?”

Jim was subjected to that unsettling smile again. It distracted him from a framed photograph on the wall which his wandering eye had settled on earlier. In it, female soccer players of a clearly Oriental football team were holding aloft a cup and smiling. The strikingly attractive woman wearing the Captain’s armband looked remarkably familiar, albeit younger. Even without clocking the significance of the photo, it suddenly occurred to Jim that this beautiful woman on the other side of the desk might be gently mocking him again. He looked at her directly for the first time. Wow – she really was a stunner! And she had that Far Eastern thing about her too, no doubt about it. What did they call it? Inscrutable – that was it! But if she was actually amused by him, he thought as he adjusted his pince-nez, he couldn’t begin to imagine why. Nor why she’d used that name again… So puttin’ – sorry – adoptin’ – usin’ – oh gawd!… So he put on his very poshest voice as he replied:

“Forgive me, your Ladyship – you keep calling me Proudfoot. My name is…”

“James Churchill Proudfoot, born on the fifth of May 1958 in Homerton Hospital. That’s you, isn’t it?” She looked concerned and began to rise from her chair, adding:

“Of course – if it isn’t and I’ve got the wrong person, I can only apologise for wasting your time and…”

“No!” he protested “No your Ladyship. Proudfoot is my original name but I prefer to be known as Threefeet…”

“Of the Yard?”

“Indeed: Threefeet of the Yard, Madam. I think it has a certain… ring to it! “

“I’m sure you do!” thought Lynne but sat down again. He continued:

“I am now officially retarded (he meant `retired’), of course, your highness. But I am doin’ – doing – certain select jobs on a pretty pathetic (he meant `peripatetic’ – but who cares?) and emery, er, emery… Emery Paper basis.”

“Emery Paper?” thought Lynne. “Could he possibly mean Emeritus? – surely not!”

But he did…And he was still droning-on – oblivious – and had managed to seamlessly slip in something about `enhanced fees’ for coming especially out of retirement:

“These fees will be concomitant upon the scope and complexity of the services you require – as well as what I have to do and how difficult it might be and…”

She could see he was about to launch into some sort of spiel of the sort she had heard a million times before from men like this one. So it was time to get this interview over with and get rid of him. But first, she had to get him hooked…

“Well that’s fine then. So let me explain your remit. As you have already gleaned, the aforesaid former owners of…”

“Birmingham City…”

“Birmingham City – thankyou – are not best pleased with a number of things I have said about them publicly. Now…”

She leant forwards slightly and lowered her voice in a conspiratorial manner before continuing:

“What I am about to reveal to you is a matter of considerable importance personally to me – and of no little insignificance to national security as well. It must be handled very sensitively. No police. No press. Totally hush-hush! You report back to me – and me alone. You talk to nobody else – nobody! – about it. Is that agreed?”

“I am the soul of discreption, your Majesty!”

“I can see that Mr Proudfoot! I’m sure `discreption’ is your middle name. Or would be if it wasn’t already Churchill of course!” She made a small self-deprecating laugh and then adopted a particularly serious expression as she almost whispered to him anew:

“What I am about to show you is in the strictest confidence. You will be dealing with ruthless people involved in overseas terrorism and an on-going insurgency against democratically elected governments….”

“That will naturally be reflected in my fees…”

“Naturally, Mr Proudfoot. These particular people know no boundaries as far as extreme violence and senseless brutality is concerned. I would be lying to you if I said there was no personal risk to yourself. You could be kidnapped. Taken prisoner. Tortured. Beaten. Burnt. Cut. Electrocuted. Even kill…”

Jim looked suddenly less sure of himself but managed to insert his Mantra “That will be reflected in my fees” at this point.

“Yes – perhaps posthumously, regrettably.” So saying, Lady Lynne picked up a large tome which had been lying on the desk next to her. Opening it, she said:

“In case you don’t grasp the seriousness of the situation I am asking you to put yourself in, Mr Proudfoot, I have prepared some pretty graphic photographic images of some of the things these desperados have done to people in the past who have got in their way or otherwise antagonised them.”

She opened the book but kept it turned away from the fearless Private Eye and visibly shuddered as she clearly saw some obviously diabolical image within it. Without taking her eyes away from it, she asked:

“Have you ever had your testicles electrocuted, Mr Proudfoot?”

There was a brief very dramatic pause during which the man with the given names James Churchill made a very un-Chuchillian gesture by gulping and then crossing his legs. But then he actually jumped out of his chair as Lady Lynne suddenly snapped the book shut with a sickening THUD! and demanded:

“Or had them clamped in a vice?”

She laid the book back down again and continued, earnestly:

“That’s why I have chosen you Jim! May I call you `Jim’?” Proudfoot gawped at her soundlessly; “You are the sort of fearless investigator who will resist any threat, bear any discomfort; withstand any mistreatment – however savage – in the relentless pursuit of a goal. And that goal is to track down the Khalistan Warriors and infiltrate their organisation. Yes – the infamous Khalistan Warriors; better known in Yorkshire as `Turban Guerrillas’. “

She even pronounced these last two words like a native of Barnsley as she scanned Jim’s eyes for any understanding of the irony – and found absolutely none. Undeterred, she continued:

“Find these Khalistan Warriors; `Turban Guerrillas’ or whatever you want to call them! Gain their trust! Sell yourself to them. Can you do that, Mr Proudfoot?”

“That will naturally …

“…Be reflected in your fees. Of course. Let me show you a letter…”

She picked up the large bag from which she had produced the newspapers she had shown him earlier again and removed an envelope with SIGNED FOR clearly written on it. From it, she took a letter on a piece of A4-size paper and unfolded it. She went to hand it over to him but – seeing him fiddling with his pince-nez once again, thought better of it. Instead, she simply pointed at the letterhead.

In red ink, it stated:

“The Chambers of Sir Theobold Mountebank M.A. (Oxon); K.C.; Member of the Bar Council; Knight Commander and Supreme Court Senior Judge.”

In case Jim had missed any of this, Lynne read it to him twice and added that their Chambers could be found at a very exclusive address somewhere in Mayfair: Laverna House, no less.

He looked – and was – suitably impressed, if not actually gobsmacked – blimey, these were proper toffs!

“Let me read you what the letter says:”

“My dear Lady Lynne.

It has been brought to my attention that you are allegedly responsible for certain scurrilous remarks impugning the reputation of my clients, who you will know as the Khalistan Warriors.

The Warriors insist that you publicly redact and withdraw these scurrilous remarks or face the full might of His Majesty’s Statutes and Regulations in regard of a Criminal trial for libel and/or slander.

We would appreciate a written response within seven working days otherwise legal action may be taken against you without any further notice.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Your Obedient Servants…”

“It is signed by one Charlotte-Anne Langbam – unusual name don’t you think? – on behalf of Sir Theobold Mountebank M.A. (Oxon); K.C. blah, blah blah.”

“You have seven days to track down the Khlalli Scallies as I like to call them. I want you to persuade them to use your good offices as a lawyer instead of Sir Montebank’s. He will cost them a fortune. They’re cheapskates. You can do a better job, much cheaper. And your fee – if successful – with be thirty-five thousand pounds.”

“From them?” asked Jim, looking suitably confused.

Now, most people would be daunted by what he was supposed to do for it: impersonate a lawyer; infiltrate a gang of cut-throats; put his life in jeopardy…

But Jim wasn’t bothered about any of that. All he cared about was the moolah…

“Whatever you can extract from the Scallies is yours to keep Mr Proudfoot. The thirty-five thousand pounds is the fee you will receive from me personally. Tax-free. No questions asked. If and when you are successful. Do you understand?”

He nodded mutely at her as Lynne turned to her mug of steaming liquid and lifted the tea bag out of it. This was the cue for her Office Manager – Victoria – to implement an agreed plan as she monitored the interview between her boss and the smelly man with the silly glasses from next door.

“Take the newspapers. I want you to start work straight away. I… Oh – please excuse me, I must take this.”

One of the phones on Her Ladyship’s desk was ringing. She picked it up, bestowing on James Proudfoot a smile which politely but unmistakably said: “You are dismissed.”

Not usually lost for words. Jim meekly obeyed, pausing only in the doorway to nod vaguely again as Lynne, phone in hand, added:

“Ring me with your progress in three days. The clock is ticking.”

And with that, she turned her full attention to the phone. “See him out Vic” she said, “And then come in here so we can de-brief.”

Vicky did as she was asked and also locked the main office door so that they would not be disturbed. Then she took the seat Jim Proudfoot had been sitting in.

“Phoo!” she said, holding her nose, “Fish! So how did it go then?”

“Without a hitch” said Lady Lynne. “Talking about fish, the greedy so-and-so fell for it hook, line and sinker! Some `investigator’ he turned out to be! I gave the idiot plenty of chances to call foul.”

She pointed at the large red-bound book on the desk. “I told him this was full of photographs of victims of the notorious Khlalli Scallies for a start!”

“But it’s Burke’s Peerage: it’s written on the spine!” said Victoria.

“Correct! And read him the names involved in the impending legal action against me”. She handed her Office Manager the forged letter she had received from the Vietnamese Embassy earlier.

“Sir Theobold Mountebank? Isn’t `mountebank’ a proper word?”

“Yes” replied Her Ladyship. “It’s a little-used noun meaning `trickster’ or Charlatan. Or even Charlotte-Anne – who has signed the letter. You will also notice the address of his apparent Chambers: Laverna House in Mayfair. There is no such building – Laverna was the Roman Goddess of liars and cheats.”

“Very clever!: Charlotte-Anne Langbam – that’s an unusual surname, isn’t it?” asked Vicky.

“As I pointed out to him. To be fair, that’s a bit trickier. “Charlatan” in Vietnamese is “lang băm”. So there we have it: two charlatans in the letter – and another one sitting where you are now!”

“So what’s next?”

“We wait” said Lynne Shrimpleton. “Proudfoot is a fully-paid-up B/S Merchant and a conman too. But he seems to have a knack of successfully bamboozling people – even smart people – with whatever it is that’s made him money – dirty money – in the past. He knows how these things work better than most. To use one of your English idioms: “Set a thief to catch a thief”. I’ve just changed that a bit: I’ve used an English idiot and set a conman to catch a conman. Because I firmly believe that Khalistan Warriors are a sham and that the football club they own is a key to uncovering whatever it is that they’re really up to. We haven’t been able to track them down so far. But maybe Mr James Proudfoot and his cunning little animal brain will be able to succeed where we haven’t!”

“And if he doesn’t? Do we have to use what we know about the waitress at Wembley?”

“The waitress thing can wait. You have the recording of what he got up to in here when he thought he wasn’t been observed. That will probably do. Proudfoot’s a chancer. He will try to sell the secrets he thinks he’s discovered to the highest bidder.”

“And if he succeeds?”

“God help him when the buyers find they are worthless. Foreign intelligence services don’t like being sold donkeys. But he’s got to sell them some believable spiel before he gets that far first. Spy networks are constantly being offered duds by cranks; loonies and agent provocateurs. The Russians, Chinese and Americans have ways of sorting-out the wheat from the chaff, you know.”

“Americans?” asked Victoria, looking genuinely surprised.

“You surely don’t think they don’t spy on us do you Vicky? Next thing, you’ll be telling me they don’t have nuclear weapons targeted on these islands. This is Aircraft Carrier Britain to them, young lady: the Yanks have feared a Russian feint to occupy it for years and they have a strategy the deal with it.”

“What? – to blow us all up?”

“Precisely!” said Her Ladyship. “But don’t worry about that for now – it’s very unlikely to happen. And if it did, we wouldn’t know a lot about it, would we? But on that cheerful note, let’s get back to our Mr Threefeet of the Yard. If he succeeds in flogging a few fake secrets to anybody, it will be only a matter of time before they come looking for him.”

“And if they don’t?”

“We have the tape of him photographing them. Official Secrets Act; Breach of Trust; Espionage on behalf of a Foreign Power; Treachery – the list of things we could scare him with is endless.”

“For what purpose?”

“To keep him on his toes. To motivate him. To keep him focused on `”Turban Guerrillas’…”

“…As they call them in Halifax.”

”Indeed – think of it from his point of view: a long stretch in Pentonville or Wormwood Scrubs – or the location of the Khlalli Scallies. Which would you prefer?”

Lady Lynne glanced at her watch.

“Look at the time!” she exclaimed, getting to her feet. “I’ve got to fly! Literally! Forgive me Vicky – you’re in charge now! You know what to do. Any probs – ring me! I should be back in about three days.”

And with that, she kissed her Office Manager on the forehead and was out of the door in a shot.

Where was she going?

What had this got to do with her pursuit of the elusive Khalistan Warriors?

And what was James Churchill Proudfoot going to do to earn the massive fee she had offered him?

Find out next time in the next bamboozling episode of the

Sensational Shrimpleton Saga.

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