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“No, taxi drivers.”
“This is all rubbish,” Balfour said, “the kidnappers will have dumped the motor by now.”
Holms was on him like a flash. “Kidnappers, Mr Balfour? You seem to be singularly well-informed. Pray tell why there has been no ransom demand from these kidnappers then?”
This left Balfour totally flustered and he mouth a few meaningless phrases. Holms. Having his quarry on the ropes, now proceeded to the coup de grace. “You mean that Henderson's abduction might not be for
mere financial gain.”
Which confused Alexander who interjected with, “But what else could …?”
“We must accept, Mr Alexander,” Holms continued, “that the absence of Henderson leads to vacancies in the role of Captain for both club and country and would also lead to an undoubted advantage to their opponents.”
“It's Spanish Liverpool fans, the buggers!” Balfour cried.
“I note you have taken yourself swiftly out of the equation, Mr Balfour,” Holms commented accusingly.
“I never had nothing to do with it!” the player protested.
“And yet you have your eyes on the Captaincy, I’ve no doubt.”
“Ah spotted him sniffin' roon Jimmy's burd tae,” Alexander added.
“Ah, the fragrant Miss La Crème. So, you have ambitions in that direction as well, do you?” the great detective added with relish.
“It's not fair, Jimmy got all the benefits of deprivation to reach the top,” Balfour complained. “All I got was sports science, a cardo-vascular training regime an' a high protein diet. But I'm loyal, I wouldn't do anything to harm a hair on his head.”
Holms shook his head sadly. “I believe you, Balfour. You are a weasel, but you do not have the intellectual capacity to mastermind this foul deed.”
And with that he clapped his glass to his eye again and continued on his search for my absent contact lens.
Balfour watched him go and scratched his head. “What did he mean by that?”
“He means yer thick,” his manager explained.
Meanwhile I had tracked down Rodrigo de la Cerveza Montoya who was proving to be uncooperative. I had him by the throat and demanded, “Admit it, you little Spanish swine, you kidnapped Jimmy so you wouldn't have to face him at Wembley.”
“I give you autograph!” the Spaniard squealed, “I give you signed photo!”
I tightened my grip and advanced my interrogation. “Tell the truth, you devious little Iberian!”
The force of my attack caused the little fellow to trip and fall, pulling me down with him. It was here, wrestling ineffectually with each other, that Holms found us.
“Wilson!” he ordered, “Stop fondling that football player.”