Problem At Pollensa Bay

"Parker Pyne." "Bath chair for Parker Pyne," the hotel concierge announced.

"What!? Where am I?" The one-time, lesser-known great mind of Agatha Christie's creations was roused from an afternoon snooze by the booming voice of the concierge.

"Pollensa, Pyne. Near the pine walk, Pyne," Wiggins said usefully.

"Did they name it after me? I am very famous, don't you know".

"I think it was named after some pines, Pyne. Pine trees, Pyne."

Wiggins, Pyne's faithful and long-suffering retainer, mopped the cream that had missed the old buffer's mouth and had deposited itself on his chin when he had fallen asleep in mid cream tea. "Dashed fine scones, Wiggins. What a home from home this is. Just like Eastbourne."

"And everyone is just as old as in Eastbourne," muttered Wiggins to himself.

"What? What was that?"

"Nothing, Pyne. Time for your walk. Along the pine walk, Pyne."

"Ah yes. I need to find some problems, Wiggins."

"Why is that, Pyne?"

"It's why I'm here. It's why I've always been here. In Pollensa. Solving a problem at Pollensa Bay. It's why I'm famous, you know."

"You're not really that famous, Pyne. Not like Miss Marple, for example."

"Miss Marple!" exclaimed Pyne, his face reddening with rage. "Ridiculous old trout. Whoever heard of an old maid solving murder mysteries. It's a total nonsense."

"The same person who made you, er, famous, Pyne. And at least Miss Marple did solve murder mysteries. The problem at Pollensa Bay wasn't actually a murder story, was it. All you did was to get a mother and son to see eye to eye when it came to the son's lady friend. Strange then that they should be using 'Problem At Pollensa Bay' to justify all this discussion of the crime novel at the Pollensa Festival. Don't you think, Pyne?"

"What? What are you talking about? It still shows I am famous. Now get this Bath chair moving. I have problems to find."

"Yes, Pyne."

Wiggins wheeled Pyne past the pines. It was a splendid summer's afternoon, but the idyll was shattered by a sudden squelching noise. "I think we may have found your problem, Pyne."

"Dog mess. Not the sort of problem to exercise the wizard mind of Parker Pyne, Wiggins. Wheel on. There must be other problems to unearth, like ... . Look, over there, Wiggins. A foreigner. Call the police immediately."

"I don't think merely being a foreigner is sufficient grounds to merit the attention of the forces of the law, Pyne."

"It would have been in my day, Wiggins. This modern world. It's not like 80 years ago. When things were more civilised, genteel and foreigners knew their place. And ... . Wiggins, what in the name of heaven is this thing coming towards us?"

"It's a mobility scooter, Pyne. A motorised Bath chair."

"And look at this frightful woman, Wiggins. Smoking a cigarette, sunburned to a leathery crisp. What does she look like?"

Pyne stared at the woman, and she stared back before shouting: "Who the frig are you looking at?"

"Oh no, Wiggins. I've been transported into a 21st century comedy series about British people on holiday in Spain. I've found the problem, Wiggins. My beloved Pollensa. Men with tattoos. Women with tattoos. Karaoke. Aaargh. Take me back, Wiggins. Take me back."
 
Footnote: A course on the crime novel, from Agatha Christie to the current day, is currently taking place at the events hall of Colonya bank in Pollensa.


Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.