The following morning Shoames awoke none the worse for his over-indulgence, save for suffering the delusion that he was now a concubine in the court of King Caractacus. We let that pass, as he seemed otherwise unaffected and gave a damned good blow job into the bargain.

After a hearty breakfast of kedgeree, kidneys and coco pops we left brother Piecrust at the Dodgy Knees Club and set off back to Baker Street. The fog was so thick that Shoames took out a pocket knife and carved himself a cube of it, which he put in his deerstalker for safekeeping, reasoning that we could heat it up when we got home and have pea soup for lunch. "After all, Wotsit," he suggested, "we should use all measures at our disposal to evade Mrs. Handsome's cooking." Thinking of the rock cakes that would still be awaiting us, I readily concurred.

When we reached our lodgings at No. 222 we were relieved to find our housekeeper in the yard beating the antimacassars, the lascars, and the chap from the Chinese laundry, so while Shoames installed himself in the kitchen, I began our investigation. "Go look in The Index, Wotsit," he bade me, "and see what you can turn up." The word 'trousers' immediately came to mind, but I held my tongue. It was warm and moist and a little bit furry, which brought something else to mind, but propriety forbids.

Finally letting go of my tongue, I sat down and flicked through the weighty Index for some minutes before offering my verdict. "It's all very fine, Shoames, but there's more choice in the Argos Catalogue." I ducked as a bowl of pea soup whizzed past my head. "You know perfectly well, Wotsit, to which Index I refer," said Shoames, wiping his hands on his pinafore. "Now look: you've made me spoil my French maid's outfit. I'm such a dirty girl, I need a good spanking!"

"Shoames," I shouted, "shluttish dishplays shimply musht shease! Sheesh! This is a time for deduction rather than seduction, else I fear your nemesis Arty Marty will use this ill-conceived alliance to bring about your downfall."

"Ah, good old Wotsit, practical as ever," exclaimed Shoames as he bent down to clear up the spilt soup, revealing an enticing glimpse of long johns beneath the frou-frou underskirt. "Of course, there's more to this than meets the eye," he added with a licentious wink. "Take a look under H, then, and let me know what you discover."

"H. Hmm... Habeas corpus, Hackney marshes, Haddock (smoked), Hanky-panky (my baby does the, Tommy James and the Shondells), Hanukkah, Hartebeest, Harlots (known places of business), Hashish (reliable cheap suppliers), Headshrinkers of Borneo (plc), Heisenberg's principle, Hemlock, ha ha! Now, let me see, Hercules: a strongman at The Dingaling Brothers' Circus; a horse belonging to notorious rag-and-bone men Albert and Harold Steptoe; ah now, Hercules Grytptpype-Thynne, international con-man and fraudster, known accomplice of the supposedly French nobleman, Count Jim 'Kidney-wiper' Moriarty. The italics are mine."

"Don't worry, Wotsit, you can have them back in a minute!" Shoames exclaimed excitedly. "I think the situation calls for Bold. Moriarty, eh? Taken from the Latin mori, as in moribund, and loosely translating as 'dead arty'. It could well be that Arty Marty has Anglicised the family name to conceal his European extraction. No decent God-fearing British criminal would knowingly work for a frog, dago, or wop."

"Well said, Shoames," I replied, flushed with pride, and I was about to launch into a chorus of God Save The Queen when Shoames shushed me. "Hist," he hissed, "hear it?" "I'm not sure I do, Shoames," I breathed tremulously, but Shoames had already taken the poker from the grate and was creeping stealthily toward the door.

As the door swung open, I summoned up all my years of school sport experiences (except for the ones in the showers and changing rooms, for which I would have use at another time) and launched myself forward in a flying rugby tackle, bringing our unexpected visitor to the ground a moment before The Great Defective dashed his brains out with the poker.

"This is all very sudden, Doctor," said Inspector Destroyde as he lay panting beneath me on the landing. "Morning, Mr. Shoames. Fancy dress today is it?" he remarked, eyeing the French maid's outfit suspiciously. "I 'eard you was a master of disguise, but this is a little theatrical, even for you"

"Ahem, yes, well... Morning, Destroyde," replied Shoames, who was now innocently using the poker as a back-scratcher, "we who aspire to be thespians learn by our mistakes."

"Oh, thespians, eh?" Destroyde remarked. "You'd 'ave a lot in common with my wife then, Mr. Shoames. I pretends not to mind of course, but when you keep on finding appliances underneath the pillow. Still, I didn't come round 'ere to burden you with my martial difficulties. I was hopin' you could lend your acumen to our new department."

"Why, have they broken theirs?" Shoames declared, sotto voce. "And what department would that be, my good Inspector?"

"We're calling it the C.I.D., Mr. Shoames," Destryode answered, "and it stands for..." "No, don't tell me," Shoames interjected smugly. "Cretins, Idiots and Dolts? Cruel, Ignorant and Dangerous? Am I warm yet?"

"Yes, well, Mr. Shoames, you will have your little laugh at our expanse," Destroyde replied, bristling slightly. "Still, our Crinoline Investigation Department hopes to make use of the new techniques in defection that you’ve been pioneering with such excess."

"Why, thank you, Destroyde," replied Shoames, beaming beatifically, "you know my methods then?"

"Well, it's hard to overlook the way the Doctor walks. That story about an old war wound's fooling no-one - no offence meant, Doctor. Anyway," Destroyde continued insouciantly, "that's by the bye. We have reason to believe that a new kingpin of crime has taken over from Arty Marty. I recently received a letter from a young European, he's trying to follow on your footstools and set 'imself up as a Consulting Defective. He goes by the name of Aircooled Peugeot. It's just come through our translation section, let me read it to you." Destroyde cleared his throat, blew his nose, scratched his balls, farted, and began:

"Good Moaning. Allo me to antrodeurce mysolf. Jim Apple Peugeot, je suis, I am, ow you say, whooping to beachcomb a fey mouse defective like your Hammock Shoals. I have straddled his methanes of destruction and rasher ocean nation, and have new thing but the grotesque odd my ration.

I am writhing to warm you of a greet man arse to your Umpire, who goose by le nom of Morry Arty, climbing to be a French knob lemon. I fare he mable the new nappy lion of chrome. He is port near of an English moan name Gripped Pipe Thin, as border croak as I have ever load ayes a pawn, and I bog you to toke cure should they crease your perth.

I hope this fondles you as it loathes me, etc."

"Fascinating!" cried Shoames. "Not a Frenchie himself then?" "A Belgian, Mr. Shoames," replied Destroyde, "they do waffle on, eh?"

"But Shoames, this is marvelous!" I cried triumphantly. "Why, this verifies all your suspicions! Surely, the game is afoot now, and the villain as good as apprehended?"

"Why, surely so, my Good Wotsit," Shoames replied. "Perhaps the Inspector would send some of his Crinoline Investigators to trace this Gryptpype-Thynne chap for us? And perhaps you, Wotsit, can take the message to my Irregulars to be on the lookout for new of this Morinarty mans?"

"Of course, certainly, Shoames," I replied. "But what do you intend to do?"

"I? I intend to do approximately two canisters of Toilet Duck, three pipes of Boar's Head Shag, half an ounce of hashish, a quart of brandy, a bottle of Cillit Bang - and perhaps, if I get the munchies, a packet of Maltesers, a Wagon Wheel and a Curly-Wurly. Now leave!"

Despite our protestations, the Great Defective would vouchsafe no further information nor give any insight as to what was on his complex, inscrutable and drug-ravaged mind, but as I set about my errand I was once again gripped by a feeling of intense foreboding. Did that make it eightboding or twelveboding now? I could no longer tell. But as long as I remained my Shoames's Busty Boswell, it was my duty to seek out the Baker Street Irregulars.