Thanks, James. I really enjoyed the Wodehouse post, too.
So here’s my next attempt:
Raymond Chandler presents
“Frodo, My Lovely”
or
“The Big Schlep”
It was one of those castle in the Elvish style, the type that were all the rage three or four centuries ago. The address was far out on the Rivendell Turnpike, so that I had to drive a long way on the parkway and then hope I could find a place to park on a driveway.
Out here, the castles were set far back from the road, behind tall hedges and stone walls, so that the rich could protect their privacy, and their buried secrets. Me, I keep a shovel. If there aren't any secrets to unearth, at least its good for the bull they attempt to unload.
The big front door was carven oak, old and in good taste. I pulled the tasseled bell-pull rope and heard silvery bells peal five perfect notes. "Prelude to Lothlorien," of course, the tune that all houses of good breeding once would have had on their chimes.
It was a long time before footsteps sounded on the marble floor within, and they were slower than a truant approaching Sunday school. When the door opened, there stood an elf in butler's garb, looking like he might pass for the elf version of a tough guy. He didn't speak. He just looked down on me, which is easy to do to a Hobbit.
I played his silent game and held out my card. "Philip Frodo. Private Investigator. Missing-Person Cases, Quests, Divorce, Shire-Cleansing. Offices: Cahuenga Building, Bag End." He turned to lead me in, but did it in a way that was sure to let the big oak door begin to shut on me. I elbowed it aside.
"We didn't expect you at the front door," he said.
"Next time I'll come to the side door for the lackeys," I said. "I could get here when you start your shift."
He gave no sign of hearing me, except for the slight red coloring on the back of his neck.
"Mr. Wormtongue will be with you presently," he said, motioning me into a study not quite large enough to hold the mines of Moria. The room had that rich-house smell -- the aroma of exotic fabrics and polished wood, of high dusty shelves and lightless corners, of cigar smoke and crooked dealings, secret shames and obvious exposition. I quickly took in the furniture -- the Neo-Gondorian settees and highboys and damask-covered chairs that might be favored by a Regency dandy. There was an inlaid candle stand, a claw-footed mahogany sideboard, and a walnut, burl-paneled secretary on which lay a collection of magical scrolls, loosely bound. I lingered over these a while and then was drawn to the carved chessboard. White had opened with the classic Marzabul Salient, but with rook not brought out. It was either a foolish blunder or a daring feint. I knew someone here liked to play games.
Then I heard footsteps and silk that had a rustle indistinguishable from money. She came down the curving staircase with the makeup and expensive clothes that fairly shouted "I'M BEAUTIFUL AND TERRIBLE AS THE DAWN! LOVE ME AND DESPAIR," although the pout on her mouth might as well have been shouting "FAHGEDABOUTIT."
She took a cigarette from a silver case with Elvish chasing and sized me up, a routine that did not take her long.
"Short, aren't you?" she said.
"I didn't mean to be."
"So what do they call you," she asked. "Stretch? Shorty?"
"Teapot," I said. She was puzzled. She was thinking. I could see, even on that short acquaintance, that thinking was always going to be a bother to her.
"Are you a dick?" she queried. "I've never understood the need for a private dick."
"Perhaps you've never had one in private," I said.
She moved to the liquor cabinet and poured herself a glass. "But I do enjoy a short one now and then," she said with a look that would give an Ent a woody. Then she moved in close.
"Being short shouldn't keep you down," she said as she bent down to ruffle my hair.
"No, it has it's advantages," I said.
"Like?"
"Like I can see what you have up your sleeve." I caught her hand just as she went for it. It was a thin little silver dagger, with a floral motif on the handle. A woman's weapon, light and fast -- you could maybe get in a couple of nicks on an Orc before he crushed your skull with a war hammer.
"You don't like me ruffling your hair?" she pouted.
"I have ticklish feet."
"I don't like you, I think," she said and sauntered from the room with a languid motion that was treacherous as the sea and stronger than the foundations of the earth.
Mr. Wormtongue kept me waiting for a period that might have been shorter than it takes for an elf to reach puberty. Then I heard a strange sound that had me completely baffled. It was merely the French doors opening. But I realized I had no idea what a "French" was.
I heard riding boots clomping across the marble floor, then Mr. Wormtongue entered the study. He glanced and nodded at me, no more of a gesture than is needed to acknowledge the help, and strolled to the liquor cabinet. After he had poured a glass, examined the swirl, tasted and savored a mouthful and set the glass down, he turned and spoke. "Mr. Frodo, I'm glad you could look me up."
"If not look up to you," I said with a quick, bitter cynicism that disguised the heart of a battered romantic.
"Do you know why I asked you here today?"
"Sure. You've got something you want me to investigate. You want an account written by an outside source so you can pass it off as impartial. In truth, you plan to keep me in the dark, point me in the direction you want me to go, and you figure I'll be too lazy, dumb or corrupt to look for the real answer."
"Very good, Mr. Frodo," he said. He was smooth, his face betrayed no surprise at all. "But why would I want you write up such a report?"
"Because there's a rumor that you plan to murder Theoden."
"Presuming such a rumor exists, where would you have heard it?"
"If the real reason you called me hear is to find out my sources, you can keep your wallet in your pocket. I don't sell out my clients."
"I wouldn't expect you to, especially since I hope to be one. I might need your services as a bodyguard. There is a certain Eowyn who might wish me ill."
"You'll have to ask Eomer."
I'll have to admit, he was smooth, even when I dropped this bombshell. "How would you know what's on Eomer's mind?" he asked with a casual air.
"Let's stop playing hide and seek, Mr. Wormtongue," I said. "When Legolas and Gimli encounter the company of Rohirrim that destroyed the Orcs, there were no hobbits in sight. Those hobbits didn't just disappear. And how did Gandalf get out of Saruman's clutches? He didn't just sprout wings and fly."
"But you must know that Eomer has his eyes set on becoming King of the Mark. That's more than enough reason for him ..."
"King of the Mark or Queen of the May won't disguise the fact that a Balrog came after Gandalf. The Riders of Rohan are still going to get to Gondor."
"Then how can you explain the presence of this diminutive hobbit you call Merry in the presence of Eowyn, or the fact that she disobeyed orders to stay behind?"
"Eowyn may have a mind of her own, but that doesn't mean she's in on the plot to stall the Rohirrim while Saruman gears up his war machine."
"Perhaps you could ask the Sternwood's chauffeur ... if you could find him."
"Owen Taylor is dead. Whether it was murder or suicide doesn't really concern me much. Dead men are heavier than wet furniture."
"Then it may surprise you that I have information indicating the one called Gollum has managed to take himself into Ithilien. Now what possible dealings could he have with Faramir? And how is it that Boromir was supposedly killed at about the same time Owen Taylor disappeared?"
"Because I KILLED HIM," shrieked a voice from a darkened corner.
She stepped out into the light. Even now, Wormtongue betrayed no surprise.
"I killed him because I couldn't have him," she spat.
"You killed who?" I asked.
"Because you couldn't have who?" Wormtongue said. "Taylor?"
"No, not him," she said.
"Whom?"
"Wait, wait, wait," I said. "You killed him because you couldn't have Owen Taylor?"
"No, you fool," she said. "Not Owen, and I don't want him."
"Owen? Boromir?"
"Sheesh," she said. "Can we start over?"
"Not on your life, sister," Wormtongue said. With a slow and entirely casual manner, he walked over to the desk and picked up one of the scrolls as if to peruse it as a momentary diversion. Then he turned to her and flung up his arms. "Now you will speak no more," he cried.
Even then, he managed to keep his poker face for a very long time as reality had set in. His arms and legs began to stiffen, his skin turn to bark. When I had perused his stash of magic scrolls, I had taken the precaution of removing the magic and substituting blank spells. This one had obviously backfired on him.
The frail began sobbing. "I did it, I did it all," she confessed. "I resurrected Sauron, set the Ringwraiths in motion, put Gollum on your tail, ratted Gandalf out to Saruman, blocked your path in the mountains, set the Balrog on you, slew the dwarves, killed entire villages, murdered baby kittens and fuzzy little ducklings, and pimp-slapped Mother Theresa. Now what are you going to do?"
"Cover up your tracks completely," I said.
"Why?"
"Why? Because you're a frail." So she started to cry. "Can it, sister," I said. Women. So weak.
As I headed for the door, I turned to Wormtongue, or what remained of him. He had grown leaves and roots.
"You're turning me into a tree," he said.
"Yes," I replied. "That's Ent attainment."
As I stepped outside, I turned my collar up against the cold wind and the rain.
