Rio Grandé meet our man in Wroclaw

Robbiati meets our man in Wroclaw

I followed Don Blanco into the hotel bar, sat in the sponge armchair was a ridiculous looking man in a deerstalker hat and tweed suit, with a garish tartan tie. He had pink macaroon crumbs all down the front of his jacket, which he started to anxiously brush off as we approached. I was left in absolutely no doubt that this man was English and wondered if he was actually as stupid as he looked. He quickly sprung to his feet and shook the Dons hand, who turned to me and said

 “Allow me to introduce to my Grandé friend Signor Robbiati.”

 The man stuck his hand out and in the most perfectly clipped English accent said.

 “My pleasure, it is an honour to meet you Signor Robbiati my name is Mr Sempleton.”

 I thanked him and the three of us sat down, as usual the rest of the conversation was directed by Don Blanco, who no matter wherever he was would always leave everyone in the least doubt as to who was in charge. He carefully explained that in his opinion, which was the only opinion in the room that mattered, Torado had indeed been kidnapped and that Gilberto’s stolen boots and Suarez’s bicycle accident were certainly somehow related to this heinous crime. It was his theory that the persons behind this crime, were part of some powerful cabal, whose symbol was that of some strange pink animal and that they were hell bent on the total annihilation of Rio Grandé and everything their magico players represented. He told us that at first he had suspected it could be the work of agents under the instruction of Rio Grande’s new despotic ruler. So with this in mind he had dispatched a team of six trusted aides to uncover any information of a plot back home. After two days they had reported back to him that their beloved homeland had fallen into a desperate malaise, the locals were afraid to speak above a whisper, the new regime was running the country with an iron claw, creating an atmosphere of terror among the inhabitants of this previously peaceful nation.

They had carried on investigating for two weeks, but could not conclusively confirm any direct involvement by the new regime. However there was strong evidence that pointed to a shadowy group who had allegedly financed general Sarsaparilla’s rise to power and that the forcing of Rio Grandé into exile was just the first stage of some dastardly plan.

Inspectore Comorossa had telephoned Don Blanco moments before boarding the private jet the Don had sent to extract them; he told Don Blanco that he had managed to compile a lengthy dossier that on his return he hoped would shed more light on Torado’s kidnap and also about much darker events that would come to pass. The only problem was the private jet containing the six investigators sent at Don Blanco’s behest never made it back to Poland.

The plane had just disappeared, vanished into thin air somewhere off Bermuda. There had been no distress call, no wreckage found, nothing just “POOF” roared Don Blanco, his roar causing both of us to jump out of our chairs. The English detective tipped his tea all down the front of his tweed jacket and dropped his hat into the jug of the milk, which crashed off the table, its contents emptying out on to the Don’s lap. The roar had been so loud that the elderly barkeeper dropped the tray of champagne glasses she had been tentatively carrying across the room and the sound of breaking glass echoed around the cavernous room causing us to jump up with fright again, everyone except for Don Blanco that was. Who just as if oblivious to everything, calmly reached into his pocket, pulled out one of his huge cigars, popped it into his mouth, before lighting it and disappearing behind a cloud of smoke.

The Don dabbed at the milk stain on his lap and turned to me.

“Well Mr Sempleton, now you know everything, do you choose to accept this potentially deadly task?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, not able to tell if the wetness under my arms was coming from the spilt Yorkshire Gold or from a nervous sweat. All the talk of military juntas, vanishing jets and secret cabals, made me feel unsure if I was the man for such a complex and dangerous case. But to be honest I was more terrified about what might happen to me if I refused the Don’s request, so trying deeply not to sound shaky and consumed by fear, I replied.

“I would be happy to accept Signor Blanco.”

“Magnifico” roared the baritone voice of the Don, “it will be a grandé adventure detectivo Sempleton.”

Don Blanco’s Men

I looked at poor Mr Sempleton and the expression on his face betrayed the same feeling I could sense growing in the pit of my stomach. It was one of intense worry and fear, clearly the only person in the room who thought this was going to be a grandé adventure was the Don himself.

Now it was my turn to be the focus of our generous benefactor’s attention.

“Robbiati, detectivo Sempleton is going to require assistance in this perilous task, I obviously will take care of all financial needs, but our fine Englishman will not be able to undertake this mission alone.”

“So tell me Rolando, who are your two toughest, strongest and most unbreakable players as Signor Sempleton is going to need constant protection and companions with the ability to use physical persuasion to encourage informants to talk.”

The only two players who I knew would be both, brave and strong enough to undertake such a task, were the swarthy Uruguayan midfielder Gargagno and the defensive enforcer Gilberto, who had already proved today that he was still the most formidable of opponents even with those giant feet encase in a pair of velvet slippers.

The Don clasped his huge hands together, “so it is decided” emerging from behind a cloud of blue smoke. “Gilberto and Gargagno will assist, protect and accompany Signor Sempleton during his investigation.”

From the doorway came a cough, everyone looked round and there leaning on his crutches was Suarez. “I will go too”

Both Don Blanco and I knew there would be no dissuading the graceful forward, he was after all Torado’s closest friend and the destruction of his beloved Mirabela and his broken leg meant there was now nothing to distract him from obsessing about his friends disappearance.

Besides I thought unusually for a footballer, Suarez was a master tactician with a brilliantly deductive mind. Something which as I watched the good natured Englishman struggle to work out which button went with which hole in his ridiculous tweed jacket , our esteemed detective might be severely lacking in.