| "Good Lord, Watson!"
I looked up from my copy of the London Times to where the great detective stood, in front of the blazing fire. It was late December and although the weather had been uncommonly warm of late, my good friend had insisted on keeping the hearth lit at all times. Something about Moriarty and Santa, he’d once muttered while under the influence of that demon drug.
"What is it, Holmes?" I asked.
My companion held up the letter he had been reading and waved the sheets of foolscap vaguely in my direction.
"My good doctor," he replied, "I do believe it is another letter from that curious gentleman in Canada. The one who has written to us before on several occasions."
I looked blankly for a moment, before it dawned on me to whom Holmes was referring. "That man who writes for that paper out in… where was it now? Ah yes, Calgary, Alberta."
"Indeed."
"Aha," I exclaimed. As well I might. I now remembered clearly the cases in which the gentlemen in question had previously engaged my faithful friend. More than a decade ago he had provided details that inspired my own account of The Case of the Vanishing Majority, based on the disastrous reign of Prime Minister B---n M------y. More recently, little more than a year ago in fact, he had brought to Holmes’s and my attention what eventually became known as The Strange Case of the Prime Minister Who Stayed On Too Long. A nasty affair, that, I seemed to recall.
"What does he have to say?" I asked. "Surely Canada can’t be in trouble again already?"
Holmes peered at me, his mouth puckered in consideration. With a flourish he once more waved the letter at me and quickly crossed the room to stand before the large bay window.
"The facts, Watson, how many times must I tell you? Consider the facts!"
"And what facts might those be?" I asked, a little annoyed by my friend’s customary dismissal of my own role in our affairs. Had it occurred to him, I wondered not for the first time, just who paid the bills around here?
"The facts," he repeated. "One. A little more than a year ago, Canada’s former minister of finance, P--l M----n, finally inherited what he believed to be his by right: namely, the job of prime minister of that distant colony."
I nodded. I remembered reading something about this in the news.
"Two," Holmes continued. "In June this past year, Mr. M----n led his Liberal government into a federal election. It would seem, according to our correspondent, that the new leader was keen to secure a popular mandate in order to validate his position. It appears, my good doctor, that there were those in Canada who thought this Mr. M----n was merely an aging, time-serving party hack who had simply outwitted, outplayed and, above all, outlasted any other contenders for the position."
I nodded. I had heard about this too. "That’s right," I exclaimed, "and wasn’t there something about his father being passed over for the very same job three or four decades before?"
Holmes gave me a reproving look. "Innuendo, Watson. How many times must I remind you, stick to the facts?" I grimaced, but let this pass. "Three," the detective continued. "Having inherited the job of leading Canada, and subsequently squeaking to a narrow electoral victory to form a minority government, Mr. M-----n promptly disappeared from public view. In fact, according to our Canadian friend, it would appear that the prime minister has simply vanished!"
I was startled by this, I must admit. "Rubbish!" I declared before I could stop myself. "I pride myself on keeping abreast of foreign news, Holmes," and I distinctly recall reading about Mr. M----n in the press in recent months. Something about gay marriage I believe."
Holmes looked at me, smugly. "That’s what you were meant to believe, Watson," he said soothingly. "But look at your newspaper reports again. I think you will find, on closer examination, that Mr. M----n actually had nothing to do with the ruling on that question. Instead, the decision was left to Canada’s Supreme Court. Indeed, at no time could anyone pin down just what, if anything, Mr. M----n really believed about homosexuals enjoining in wedlock."
I stared at Holmes. By God, I thought. He’s right! But, wait a minute. "Holmes, I definitely remember just this past month seeing pictures of Mr. M----n in Libya, meeting the erstwhile, but now apparently repentant, international terrorist Moammar Gadhafi."
Holmes strode over to the table on which some old newspapers lay. "Be that as it may, take a look at these." He thrust copies of the papers into my hands.
I looked down at the photographs on the front page. There, indeed, was Mr. M----n shaking hands in a tent with President Gadhafi. "Look at his face," Holmes directed me. "No, Mr. M----n’s, I mean. Look at the yellowy skin, the glassy expression of the eyes, the constipated smile." I looked.
"Good Lord, Holmes!" I almost shouted, looking up from the photographs and back to the great sleuth, who by now had returned to the fireplace. "That’s right, my good doctor," he said. "That’s not the prime minister at all. It is, rather, a mannequin. A storefront model, I believe. And look again." He pointed to a label jutting out from the collar of the wax dummy’s suit. "From Harry Rosen, I do believe."
I looked up in amazement. "So if our Canadian friend is right," I mused out loud, then just where has the real Paul Martin gone to?"
"Fucked if I know," Sherlock Holmes replied. "And don’t you go thinking we’re going to accept this assignment. After all, I’m still working on The Strange Case of the Broken NAFTA/GST/Child Poverty/Full Employment Promises. Damned Canadians. Won’t they ever learn?" |
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