Tuesday, July the 6th, 2004
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THE MANUFACTURE OF TOOTHPASTE, by Gervase Pint, is a book which I would recommend to all students of bodily hygiene: lay readers, too, will find a close examination of its contents highly rewarding. Pint was a student of the great dentifricist Lamouche, and poured the best part of his life into this matchless tome, a copy of which I have to hand as I write.
The first six hundred and forty nine pages of Pint's book are devoted to a disquisition upon two popular toothpaste recipes—camphorated and myrrh. The former is comprised of one pound of prepared chalk, and one or two drachms of camphor. The camphor must be finely powdered and, after mixing with a little wine, pounded into a big splodge with the chalk. The latter is, for amateurs, a simpler recipe: the mingling of two ounces of myrrh with a pound of powdered cuttlefish. How prosaic the bare details: yet how world-shuddering the poetry of Pint's commentary!
The workers at the Port of Tongs toothpaste factory were presented with a copy of Pint's book upon their recruitment, and were expected to learn it by heart during their first month: failure to do so resulted in automatic dismissal, without the right of appeal. Draconian such regulations may be, but as a confirmed Pintist I cannot bring myself to quarrel with them.
While I have been telling you this, the action has moved forward. The ferry has docked at the Port of Tongs, and our three detectives, suitably disguised, have holed up in a cave high in the purple hills which surround the three landward sides of that perfectly square town. On with the tale:
His reconnoitering mission accomplished, Fig reported back to his colleagues. There was nothing for it, he announced, but to pose as toothpaste factory workers, until such time as they should see what they should see.
“What?” snapped Brewster, brusquely.
“What I mean,” said Fig, “Is that if we are to track down the Patch album, we must wheedle our way onto the toothpaste factory premises, and keep our eyes peeled. Remember,” he added, “I came upon a clue which led me directly to this toothpaste-a-go-go: if we are to know where to go from here, we will need to have our wits about us, and keep a sharp look-out for the next clue.”
“Spare us the dramatics, Fig,” said Brewster, “I say we storm the place, brandishing cutlasses.”
The poor postie had the casting vote. Sensibly, he telephoned me for guidance.
“Side with Fig,” I advised, “He knows so much about these things.”
As I replaced the receiver in its cradle, Scrimgeour lolloped in, bearing a couple of bottles of 1922 Bestial Freak. I sank back on the pillows.
“Have you looked in on Mister Patch this morning?” I asked.
“Yes, sir” said Scrimgeour, in his smarmy voice. I couldn't bear him. Not only did he call me “sir”, but he fawned and scraped, treated my mother with respect (!), and never touched a drop. The final item in the charge-sheet against him was that he was well in with my odious aunts. I was highly suspicious of him, convincing myself for some time that he was a paid agent, employed to spy on me and to reveal my malingerment: the thought of being packed off back to school was so horrifying that I was actually ill for a few weeks. But no, Scrimgeour was merely a forelock-tugging sniveller of the worst sort. Countless were the times I sacked him, only for my commands to be overridden by Maisie or Daisy, to whom, as he put it, he “owed obeisance, sir”. Ach! Spit, spit, spit.
I was so used to having a retainer of the Patch or Brewster stamp, a man with whom I could happily get drunk while execrating my family, that I am afraid I went into something of a decline during this period. I became listless and irritable. Even my stamp albums held no allure for me. I languished in my bed, groaning quietly to myself, hating everything. Weeks went by in a kind of haze. Then, at the height of spring, I received a letter from Fig:
Dear Young Scalliwag, it read, You will no doubt be amused that I write these lines while clothed in the apparel of a toothpaste-factory worker: to wit, one bib, one tunic woven of goat-hair, a pair of surprisingly comfortable yellow cheesecloth trousers, alarming socks, great sturdy boots, and a protective facemask not unlike a fencing instructor's. Brewster and Binnie —ah, so that was the postman's name!—are similarly attired. Now, wipe the smile off your face, and I shall apprise you of the latest developments in the case.
For the past six weeks we have been posing, with some success, as ordinary workers at this toothpaste factory. My job is to slam huge iron clackingtons on to a series of oblong paste-receptacles carried past on motorised railings, each container then being lowered to the hardening chamber, where Brewster is employed to place them in groups of twelve on a sprung plinth, the control mechanism of which is situated in an adjoining room behind protective glass panels, wherein Binnie manually rotates several metallic wheels, the action of which impels the plinth-load up through a chute to the whirlbath. What happens after that is unknown to us.
At snack-times and other rest periods we have been diligent in following up the clue which led us here. Binnie in particular is indefatigable. Yesterday, for example, he pretended to be sick, and spent the day not, as our masters thought, in the gleaming white Parlour for the Ailing, but scurrying like a mad thing through the administrative building, disguised as an inspector of utensils. Thus he was able to take microfilm photographs of a number of documents which may or may not prove pertinent.
The thing is, Fig prattles. I shall spare you the next seven or eight pages of his twaddle: towards the end, however, there was a nugget of interest:
Now, boy, you will doubtless be wondering why on earth we are hanging around in this little hotbed of toothpastery. I will tell you. From the earliest days of the case, I have been convinced of one startling idea: that Professor Underlip and Walter Mad were—perhaps still are—one and the same man. To date, this is only conjecture, but I sense that, somewhere in the bowels of this godforsaken factory, I will find the proof. And when I do, I will be one step closer to finding Mister Patch's pre-adhesive stamp collection.
The letter was signed Yours very sincerely, Stanley Fig. PS: When sending further instalments of money, please address to my alias, Vercingetorix Sepulveda, c/o Zone 94, The Toothpaste Factory, Hobgoblin Boulevard, The Port of Tongs.
Wearily, I shoved another few hundred panes into an envelope and sent Scrimgeour off to the postbox. Upon his return, he handed me a telegram.
Proof found. Onward to Wint. The chase is on. Fig.
My spirits were lifted.
“Scrimgeour,” I said, “Fetch me a jeroboam of Stomach-Churning Sour Slop!”
“I do not wish to incommode you sir,” he replied, “But your aunts have forbidden me to supply you with beverages of an alcoholic nature.”
If I were a fictional character, I may have said “Gadzooks!” or something of the sort. Instead, I berated Scrimgeour with a litany of abuse unsuitable for family reading. There is a sub-plot brewing here, the climax of which will find the narrator having his aunts drowned in a handy duckpond. Assume that this has already happened, and, if you come upon Maisie or Daisy later in the narrative, you can gloat in the foreknowledge of their eventual destruction.
I had to think fast. I had not stirred from my room for sixteen months, and I was blowed if I was going to be forced from my bed to collect my own supplies of hooch. Besides, I didn't have a key to the cellars. A stratagem was called for, obviously. Rack my brains as I might, I could not think of one. I sucked on the bottle of tap-water with which Scrimgeour had taunted me, and fell into a swoon.