Nick Barton & the Curse of the Pink Pyjamas

The young woman walked into Nick Barton’s office with the kind of confidence that came from old money and good breeding. Barton watched her cross the threshold, his detective instincts already humming.

‘Someone’s flooding the market with fake ear wax,’ she announced, settling into the chair opposite his desk.

Nick leaned back, puzzled. Who on earth would want to fake a chap’s earwax? The question tumbled in his mind as he studied her features more closely. Recognition dawned like a slow sunrise.

Her face had aged, but gracefully, with the kind of beauty that matured like fine wine. Those same blue eyes that had once glanced over him dismissively at Bletchley Park during the war.

‘Cordelia, remember me? From Bletchley Park?’ Dick asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

Her eyes widened. ‘Is it you Nick? Gosh, you have changed. You were such a scraggy thing, I never gave you a second look, but now—my, have you grown!’

Pride swelled in Dick’s chest. He’d filled out since those days, hardened by combat and sharpened by experience. ‘Yes it’s me—Nick Barton, or to give my full title, Captain Richard Barton, ex-commando, war hero, resistance fighter and super-sleuth.’ He couldn’t help the touch of swagger. ‘So—give us your story, Cordelia.’

She smoothed her skirt, a smile playing at the corners of her red lips. ‘Well, Nick darling. I’m in business now, manufacturing my own anti-ageing wrinkle cream.’

‘No kidding!’ It occurred to Dick that her wonderful complexion suddenly made sense. Like porcelain, not a line in sight. ‘Tell me more.’

‘It comprises a secret mix of Peruvian healing herbs, using llama earwax as an emollient,’ she explained, leaning forward confidentially. ‘It has been tremendously successful, but the secret of its success is due to its exclusivity. The small amount of earwax harvested annually from Peruvian llamas makes it a very expensive commodity worth millions on the Stock Market.’

Her voice trembled slightly as she continued. ‘But here’s the problem. Someone is flooding the market with an anti- wrinkle cream using fake earwax from alpacas, a far inferior animal, and passing it off as the genuine article! They are making a fortune and before long, I will be ruined!’

Tears welled in her eyes. Nick’s heart lurched as he pulled out his grubby handkerchief and gently wiped the soggy mascara off her cheeks. Her skin felt soft under his trembling fingertips.

‘Don’t fret, Cordelia,’ he assured her, his voice dropping to the tone that had calmed frightened resistance fighters in occupied France. ‘Captain Barton will soon catch the villains – but first you must have dinner with me.’

Cordelia’s smile returned, brightening the dreary office. ‘Darling, I thought you’d never ask.’

Later that evening,

‘So, to offset my losses, I invested in a llama farm in Patagonia where we’re developing a health drink suitable for those who are lactose intolerant.’

‘We? Who’s we?’

‘Oh, just some young Patagonian entrepreneur by the name of Ambrose. He’s rather handsome actually ….’

Recognition lit up Barton’s face as he choked on his prawn cocktail.

‘Of course! Kirk Ambrose!’

‘Careful, dear’, said Cordelia, wiping mayonnaise from her tiara.

‘I thought it rang a bell.’ Barton continued, ‘He’s changed his name — the scoundrel! His real name was Senor Ambrosia Curd, the devil whose dastardly deeds first triggered the Patagonian milk wars!’

Cordelia sat back. ‘Tell me more, darling.’

Nick could feel a flashback coming on…

‘It was back in 1937. It was winter, I’d just returned from a job in Moravia. I wrote a book about it ‘Winter in Moravia’ remember? Never mind. Anyway. The phone rang, and the operator asked if I would accept a reverse-charge call from overseas. On came this voice in broken English repeating the phrase ‘Beware of your pink pyjamas!’

‘Your pink pyjamas? Cordelia exclaimed, ‘But darling, that’s always been our little secret.’

‘So I thought,’ replied Barton, ‘but it seemed my security was blown. I had no choice but to run this devil to ground in his native Patagonia. It was a gruelling thirteen day journey from Berlin, first by Graf Zeppelin and then by flying boat all the way to Bolivia. The flying boat turned out to be a mistake.’

‘Why?’

‘Because there is no water in Patagonia.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Eventually, the pilot put her down on Lake Titicaca. Then followed a gruelling 200 mile Llama trek down the foothills of the Andes. Finally, we reached La Paz. My A to Z had the address listed as the headquarters of ‘Curds & Whey, Llama Milk Distributors.’ - an innocent enough front for their real dealings. We finally tracked them down to a broken down shanty bar in the back streets of La Paz. It was called – The Pink Llama.

I was greeted by a very short Chinese gentleman – a Mr Whey

He bowed his head and said. ‘Please Mr Barton, come this way.’

I knelt down and looked him straight in the eye. ‘What’s all this about my pink pyjamas?’

He screwed up his eyes in confusion as only a china-man can do.

‘Pink pyjamas? Ah, silly mistake, Mr Barton. Must have been bad line. I say pink Llamas!’

He lead me into a back room and it was then that all the pieces began to fall into place.

Messrs Curds & Whey were spiking their Llama milk with strawberry and cranberry juice on an industrial scale. As a result, a string of milk bars were opening up all over Patagonia selling strawberry flavoured Llama milk-shakes. A whole generation were now turning their backs on hard drugs in favour of strawberry milk-shakes. Naturally, the drug cartels were up in arms and wanted a piece of the action. Thus began the Llama milk wars. And the rest is history.’

After a brief pause, Cordelia said

‘So what do I do now? I mean, about the fake Llama ear wax?’

‘Well, you can start by laying out my pink pyjamas.’

‘Oh, Nick darling, you remembered! But Dick, I thought we’d agreed to burn those pink pyjamas after the incident with the Maharajah of Rangoon?’

‘That’s what I wanted the world to believe, my dear. But one does not simply discard a pair of pink pyjamas that have been blessed by the High Lama of Tibet. They’re our secret weapon.’

Cordelia’s eyes widened. ‘You mean...?’

‘Precisely. The pink pyjamas are woven with a rare Himalayan silk that’s impervious to Llama ear wax. When Kirk Ambrose – or should I say Senor Ambrosia Curd – discovers that his counterfeit ear wax has no effect on me, he’ll be forced to show his hand.’

Barton dabbed his mouth with his napkin and signalled for the waiter.

‘The bill, please. And could you tell the gentleman in the fedora by the potted palm that his reflection is visible in the silver coffee pot?’

The waiter turned pale. ‘Sir?’

‘Come now, we both know he’s been watching us since the prawn cocktails arrived.’

As they left the restaurant, Cordelia clutched Barton’s arm. ‘Nick, I’m frightened. What if the pink pyjamas aren’t enough?’

‘Then we’ll have to rely on Plan B.’

‘Which is?’

Barton’s eyes twinkled mysteriously. ‘Do you remember that summer in Biarritz when I taught you how to milk a llama blindfolded?’

‘How could I forget? The French authorities still have my fingerprints on file.’

‘Well, my dear, those skills may just save the free world.’

As they rounded the corner, a black Daimler screeched to a halt beside them. The rear door swung open.

‘Get in,’ growled a voice from the shadows. ‘Mr Ambrose is expecting you.’

Cordelia smiled coolly. ‘How thoughtful. I do so hate waiting for taxis.’

Barton guided Cordelia into the Daimler with a gentle hand at the small of her back. The interior smelled of expensive leather and cheap aftershave.

‘I must say,’ Barton remarked, settling into the plush seat. ‘Mr Ambrose’s hospitality has improved since our last encounter. The last time he sent transportation, it was a donkey cart with a distinct aroma of llama dung.’

The hulking figure beside the driver grunted. ‘No talking.’

Cordelia squeezed his hand in warning as the car swerved through London’s evening traffic.

‘Don’t worry, my sweet,’ Barton whispered. ‘Remember Casablanca?’

‘Which part? The bit where you challenged that Bedouin to a camel race, or when you accidentally set fire to the French ambassador’s toupee?’

‘Neither. The part where I slipped my revolver into your handbag at dinner.’

Cordelia’s eyes widened, and her hand instinctively moved to her beaded hand bag.

The Daimler turned sharply and pulled through the imposing iron gates. Before them loomed a Victorian mansion, its windows glowing with a dim light.

‘Ambrose Manor,’ announced the driver, speaking for the first time. ‘End of the line.’

‘How delightfully ominous,’ Barton remarked.

They were escorted through cavernous hallways decorated with an eclectic mix of hunting trophies and South American artefacts. Barton’s keen eyes noted several stuffed llamas in various poses.

‘Mr Ambrose will see you now,’ intoned a butler who appeared from the shadows.

The double doors swung open to reveal a sumptuously appointed study. Behind an enormous desk carved from a single piece of mahogany sat Senor Ambrosia Curd – stroking a white Persian cat with unsettling intensity.

‘Ah, Nick Barton,’ he purred, his Patagonian accent still detectable beneath layers of affected English refinement. ‘And the lovely Lady Cordelia. How kind of you to accept my... invitation?’

‘Ambrose,’ Barton nodded coolly. ‘I see you’ve embraced the villain aesthetic wholeheartedly. The cat is a particularly nice touch.’

Ambrose smiled. ‘Always the joker, Barton. But I wonder if you’ll find this amusing.’ He pressed a button on his desk.

A panel in the wall slid open to reveal a glass case containing a familiar garment – pink silk pyjamas glowing supernaturally in the room’s dim light.

‘Impossible!’ gasped Cordelia. ‘Those are at home in our—’

‘Second drawer, left side of your mahogany dresser,’ Ambrose finished for her. ‘Or so you thought. What you have, my dear lady, is a clever replica. The original has been in my possession for months.’

Barton’s expression remained impassive, but his mind raced. If Ambrose had the real pyjamas, then Plan A was in tatters. It was time for Plan B – and possibly Plans C through to Z.

‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve gone to such trouble,’ Ambrose continued, rising from his chair. ‘Why I would care about a pair of ridiculous pink pyjamas?’

‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ Barton admitted. ‘Though I assumed it was simply poor taste in nightwear.’

Ambrose’s face darkened. ‘The Curse of the Pink Pyjamas, Barton. Surely even you have heard the legend?’

‘Refresh my memory,’ Barton replied, subtly positioning himself between Ambrose and Cordelia.

‘When worn during a full moon by one who has tasted the milk of the sacred pink llama, these pyjamas grant their wearer control over the entire global dairy industry!’ Ambrose’s eyes gleamed with fanatical light. ‘And tonight is the full moon, Barton. Tonight, I reclaim my birthright!’

Cordelia gasped. ‘Nick, the Patagonian Milk Wars—’

‘Were just the beginning,’ Barton finished grimly. ‘Ambrose doesn’t want to control the llama milk trade. He wants it all – cow, goat, even that new soya nonsense.’

‘Precisely!’ Ambrose cackled. ‘And there’s nothing you can do to stop me!’

Barton checked his watch and smiled. ‘Actually, old chap, I think you’ll find there is. Cordelia, darling?’

With practised grace, Cordelia opened her handbag and withdrew not Barton’s revolver, but a small silver device that looked like a cross between a fountain pen and a cheese grater.

‘What is that?’ demanded Ambrose, backing away.

‘This, my dear Ambrose,’ said Barton, taking the device from Cordelia, ‘is a Tibetan llama call. And if I’m not mistaken, the herd should be arriving right about... now.’

The distant sound of hooves and distinctly un-English bleating filled the air.

Ambrose’s face contorted with rage. ‘What have you done, Barton?’

‘Something rather elementary, I’m afraid,’ Barton replied, adjusting his cuff links. ‘You see, while you were busy stealing my pyjamas, I was busy making friends with the groundskeeper of your estate – charming fellow, former llama herder from Peru. He was quite helpful in establishing a direct line of communication with the local llama sanctuary.’

The thundering of hooves grew louder. Outside the study window, a sea of woolly bodies surged across the manicured lawn, led by a particularly magnificent specimen with pink-tinged fur.

‘Impossible!’ Ambrose spluttered, his face draining of colour. ‘That’s... that’s Rosa!’

‘The legendary Pink Llama herself,’ Barton confirmed with a satisfied nod. ‘Thought to be extinct, but merely in hiding. Much like myself during that unfortunate business in Madagascar.’

Cordelia moved to the window, her face illuminated by the full moon. ‘Oh Nick, she’s magnificent!’

‘YOU FOOL!’ Ambrose lunged for the glass case containing the pyjamas. ‘If Rosa has returned, then these are more powerful than I imagined!’

But before he could reach the case, the study doors burst open. The butler appeared, his usually impassive face twisted in panic.

‘Sir! The llamas are inside the house! They’re... they’re drinking all the milk!’

‘ALL the milk?’ Ambrose’s voice rose to a shriek.

‘Every drop, sir. The regular milk, the almond milk, even your special reserve of Himalayan yak milk!’

Barton stepped forward, his expression grave but eyes twinkling. ‘You see, Ambrose, there’s one crucial detail about the Curse of the Pink Pyjamas that you overlooked. The pyjamas don’t just control the dairy industry – they control those who control the dairy industry. And what creature has more influence over dairy production than the llama itself?’

The first of the llamas appeared at the study door, chewing contemplatively. Rosa, the pink-tinged matriarch, stepped forward with regal bearing, fixing Ambrose with a penetrating stare.

‘No!’ Ambrose backed away, clutching the Persian cat protectively. ‘Keep them away from me!’

‘I’m afraid they’ve come to reclaim what’s theirs,’ Barton said, moving to stand beside Rosa. ‘You see, the silk of those pyjamas? Harvested from special cocoons that only grow on pink llama wool. They’ve been rather put out about it for generations.’

Cordelia, who had been circling the room during this exchange, suddenly darted forward and snatched the glass case. ‘Got them, Nick!’

‘Splendid work, my dear!’

Ambrose made a desperate lunge for Cordelia, but slipped on a freshly deposited llama offering. He landed with an undignified thud as his Persian cat leapt gracefully to safety on top of a bookcase.

‘It’s over, Ambrose,’ Barton declared, helping Cordelia extract the pyjamas from the case. ‘The genuine article, I presume?’

She nodded, running the silk through her fingers. ‘The very same. I’d know the feel anywhere.’

‘You haven’t won yet, Barton!’ Ambrose struggled to his feet, his elegant suit now considerably less elegant. ‘The fake ear wax operation continues even without me! My associates will—’

‘Your associates have already been rounded up by Scotland Yard,’ Barton interrupted. ‘While you were busy droning on about global dairy domination, I took the liberty of alerting the authorities. You really should upgrade your telephone security system.’

Rosa the llama stepped forward, somehow managing to look both intimidating and fluffy at the same time. She fixed her gaze on Ambrose, who cowered against his desk.

‘What does she want?’ he whimpered.

Barton cocked his head as if listening. ‘She says you’re to cease and desist all fake ear wax production immediately. Also, she’d like her great-uncle’s earwax back. Apparently, you’ve kept it in that rather gauche locket around your neck.’

Ambrose’s hand flew to the gold pendant. ‘How could you possibly know—’

‘Llamas never forget an ear, Ambrose. Particularly one that’s been recently harvested.’

The sound of police sirens wailed in the distance as Rosa and her herd formed a woolly perimeter around the defeated villain.

Cordelia slipped her arm through Barton’s. ‘Nick darling, you were magnificent.’

‘All in a day’s work, my dear. Though I must say, I’ve worked up quite an appetite. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a midnight snack? Something dairy-based, perhaps?’

‘After we’ve returned these pyjamas to their rightful place,’ she replied, patting his arm. ‘Under your pillow, where they belong.’

As Scotland Yard officers flooded into the mansion, Barton and Cordelia slipped out through the garden, the pink pyjamas safely tucked under his arm, and a single pink llama following faithfully behind.

‘I say, Cordelia,’ Barton remarked as they strolled beneath the full moon, ‘have I ever told you about the time I infiltrated a secret yoghurt cult in Istanbul?’

‘No, darling, but I have a feeling it’ll be the perfect bedtime story.’

Behind them, Rosa the Pink Llama bleated softly in what sounded suspiciously like approval.

The End.

No ruminants of the South American continent were harmed in this production.

May contain nuts.