Horatio Anicet Biddle looked with disapproval at the anonymous couple sitting in front of him in his remodeled Scotland Yard office, in the political center of Westminster District, without using the glasses that nevertheless surmounted the tip of his large hooked nose. With one hand, he supported his head, covered by a thick mane of straw-blonde hair. With the other, he stirred a small cup of coffee, his jeweled little finger raised like a periscope. His desk was crammed with mug shots, various papers, and a thirteen-volume encyclopedia on how to clean service weapons.

He was exhausted from spending the whole day keeping back the media assaults and reassuring hot-tempered council members. In spite of this, he had returned to the central station without any hesitation when his subordinate had called him excitedly to follow what seemed at the time the only possible trail. And that's not because he was so loyal to his title of Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard's Special Crimes Unit. Under other circumstances, he would never have missed the TV finals of the World Cup of Darts. In reality, the Kingdom's senior officials, who had met the entire police force that morning, had left them no choice.

The situation was obvious: the whole Country was waiting for conclusive answers and, without an immediate solution to that unpleasant question, many heads, including his, would roll into the unattractive sewers of London.

This graphic message had been successful. Biddle, who had no intention of losing his head, had set a major goal for himself: buying time and delaying as far as possible the date of the bloody execution. He instinctively massaged his neck, then checked his wrinkled shirt pockets in the agonizing search for one of his Montecristo cigars, even if he knew perfectly well that he would only find a pen, a pair of buttons, and a few bitter licorice roots.

Under doctor's orders, he hadn't been smoking those stinky scraps of junk for months now. He just pretended to have forgotten in order to save his image of a tough impenitent and to lead others to believe his prolonged abstinence was only a matter of bad luck.

"Bugger! Just when one would come handy..." he mumbled quietly. Resignedly, he stuck a disgusting licorice stick in his mouth and looked again at his notebook, browsing through the whole testimony. He had listened attentively to the couple's deposition, writing down carefully every word and zealously reading and re-reading every line. Still, in spite of his efforts, he could scarcely believe their version of the events. He preferred to plunge himself again in unbearable silence, stirring his cup of coffee and casting occasional glances on the couple who, like children in the headmaster's office, worriedly awaited his next move.

Eleanor sat in front of him, her feet crossed, constantly pulling down her skirt as if she had suddenly become conscious of overly exposed knees. Romeo, his hat resting on his belly, kept stretching the collar of his shirt, moving around on his narrow chair in search for a more comfortable position.

"So, Mrs. Moffet..." the man started off, taking a "puff" from his licorice root. "According to your statement, everything started with the arrival of that pendulum clock."

"Precisely!" confirmed Eleanor, promptly.

"And this evening, the object in question has exploded in your house. Do you confirm this?"

"I confirm it! I confirm it!"

"Where are the remains of that object?"

"Ah! I don't have the faintest idea," Eleanor admitted, trembling at the memory. "When we recovered from the explosion, thank heavens, there was no trace of the clock."

"I see..." said Biddle, suddenly troubled. "In other words..." he continued, playing with a paper clip, "we have no shred of evidence. Without evidence, there's no indictment, and without an indictment we're back at square one!" He sighed, flopping back on the chair. His dream of receiving glory and honor for solving this ill-fated case in record time had definitely vanished. "So much for a trail to follow!" he thought, discouraged. It looked more like a steep, smelly mule track.

He put his hand on his wearied face, and then scratched his head, ruffling his hair. He regretted not being back at the pub, enjoying the darts championship final with a cold Belgian beer.

"And my deposition? It has no value to you?" squealed Eleanor. "I'm a key witness! Don't you understand?"

"Um..." moaned the inspector, resting his large face between his hands. "Mrs. Moffet... Have you ever suffered from psychiatric disorders?"

"How dare you?" answered Eleanor, offended.

"Calm down, honey... the inspector's only trying to do his job. These are just routine questions," Mr. Moffet reassured her.

"I don't give a hoot if they're routine questions! I didn't come here to be humiliated. I have some useful information."

"Do you recall any case of depression or paranoia in your family?" Biddle continued, unaffected by the woman's refrain.

"If you count a 93-year old grandmother who tells stories of tea parties with Winston Churchill, then yes, we have clinical cases in our family. Are you happy now?"

The inspector jotted down her answer in his notebook. After another endless pause, he spoke again.

"So, in summary..." he said, getting up to walk around the room, while his fatigue assaulted him like a kamikaze. "You support a conspiracy theory, correct?"

"Um... yes!" Eleanor replied, even if she was not entirely sure of what that meant. "I support that theory."

"Spies who infiltrate a secret neighborhood... dubious, but fascinating. Very fascinating," he said, as he stopped again to suck on his licorice.

"Then you believe me!" Eleanor exclaimed, relieved.

The inspector didn't answer. He was engrossed in his thoughts. "Enemy agents in a secret mission... yes... it could be..." He spit off a piece of his chewed up root into a vase of wilted flowers "adorning" the windowsill. Without warning, he pulled his Colt 1911, 45 caliber, out of its holster, with the typical dexterity of a former British Special Forces agent with multiple decorations. "Bang-bang-bang!" He fired three phantom shots toward the streetlight, and then blew on the barrel, pretending to cool it off.

"So, what are you waiting for? Run and get a warrant, then go arrest them before they blow us all up! They have as many bombs in their homes as they have plates and glasses. They're dangerous people, believe me."

"My dear lady, I thank you for your advice but I think I can manage my workload by myself," he replied, dusting off the curtains and pointing his weapon at a fly that was scampering around a little too smugly on the window.

"What do you intend to do then? Do you intend to let them do as they please?" she replied angrily, as she bashed her purse around on her lap.

"We can't stop anyone on the basis of simple suppositions. I'm sorry, Ma'am. For now, I'm afraid my hands are tied."

"Suppositions? These are not suppositions! I've seen those subtle enemies of the kingdom with my very eyes! Come on, Romeo! Tell the inspector!"

"It's true, inspector. My wife has seen them with her very eyes." Romeo fanned his face with his hat, changing position on the chair for the umpteenth time.

"Whether she saw them or not doesn't change the situation. It might seem absurd to you, but British law doesn't allow us to incriminate a person just because someone thinks he or she is strange," Biddle explained, putting his pistol back in its holster.

"Well! Then it's a dreadful law!" the woman exclaimed as she stood up. "I'm certainly not going to twiddle my thumbs, waiting for those scoundrels to destroy my home. I'm leaving, inspector. Thank you very much... for nothing!"

"Sit down, Mrs. Moffet," the inspector summoned, firmly. "It's an order!"

Eleanor sat down, fuming. Before she could complain about the ill-mannered treatment, the old-fashioned black phone on the desk started to ring, easing the tension.

"Captain Flink? Put him on three, right away!" said Biddle, nervously. "Good evening, sir. Yessir. We'll find them very soon, sir. I'm just now questioning some eye witnesses. Of course, no doubt. Tomorrow morning you'll find a detailed report on your desk. I understand perfectly, sir. Good evening, sir!" He hung up the phone, shaken.

"Problems?" asked Romeo, increasingly worried.

He had to wait for the answer, because right then a subordinate came into the office.

"Inspector!"

"Agent Higgings, I have specifically requested not to be disturbed," admonished Biddle as he threw the leftover licorice into the bin, missing the target. "Rats!"

"Yes, I know, inspector, but I wanted to give you some update on the investigations." he said, handing Biddle a stack of papers filled with hundreds of marks. "These are the symbols showing up on the streets of London. We've already called the best secret code breaker in the country. He'll be here tomorrow morning."

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Biddle. "How about Big Ben? Any news?"

"Not yet," the policeman admitted, "but at this very moment a team of specialized technicians are trying to identify the cause of the malfunction."

"And the tempest?" 

"Inactive, for now."

"Very well, Higgings! Good job," the inspector congratulated him, forgetting that just a few minutes earlier he had lashed out against him. "Now, you may leave and have a beer. It's on me! ... By the way..."

"Yes, inspector!" said the young man, with a foot almost out of the room.

"Don't make mention of this progress to anyone. Agreed?"

"Of course, sir! No one will rob us of the credit for solving this case. Good night, sir."

They both winked, finger gunning each other like old adventure buddies.

"Good kid, that Higgings!" said Biddle to the Moffets, while browsing through the papers he had received. "Well, sir and madam..." he said, standing up wearily and putting on his jacket. "Do you want to add anything to your statement before you leave? Anything important to the development of this investigation?" he asked, out of duty more than sincere curiosity.

"Anything important?" Eleanor repeated, incensed. "So, you haven't heard a word I said, right?"

"Calm down, Ma'am!" the man tried to soothe her. "Let's do this... I promise I'll send a squad near that mysterious neighborhood tomorrow. Alright?" said the inspector, looking drowsily first at the woman and then at Mr. Moffet, who struggled in vain to keep his legs crossed.

Eleanor stuffed her laced handkerchief angrily in her purse and got up, resolutely.

"Come on, Romeo! Let's go," she said, sounding like an army general. "We're just wasting precious time."

"And what do we do with the lamp?" asked Romeo.

"We'll take care of that later," said Eleanor, pulling her husband by the elbow.

Biddle, who was just putting on his camel colored raincoat, stopped abruptly and, for the first time, looked at the couple with sincere interest.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, curious.

"Well, we didn't get to tell you but..." said Romeo, escaping his wife's grasp, "after the explosion of the clock, an Indian lamp appeared on our living room carpet."

"A lamp?" the inspector repeated.

"Exactly," confirmed Romeo.

"I'm sure those terrorists left it while we were unconscious on the floor," his wife explained.

"And you're convinced it has something to do with the investigation?"

"Oh, we know for sure, or Moffet isn't our family name," Romeo assured him, lifting the package Agent Higgins had left on the desk. "Do you see these symbols?" he said, pointing his plump finger at some lines. "They were repeated in exactly the same order on the lamp. I'm sure they hide some other terrible secret," he added, worried. "In my opinion, you must come and inspect it right away."

Biddle stared at him as if he were mentally computing a difficult mathematical operation. Then, he picked up the phone and dialed an internal number.

"Greenwich, for goodness' sake, how much time do you need to pick up the phone?" he roared at the agent assigned to the entrance. "Don't waste time. Send me three agents and get a vehicle ready... I don't care if it's midnight, twilight or dawn, do as I said, that's all!" he said, hanging the phone. "Mr. and Mrs. Moffet..." he continued, with a new sparkle in his eyes. "What are we waiting for? Let's arrest those criminals!" He put one more licorice stick in his mouth and motioned for the couple to exit.

* * * * * * *

Inspector Biddle entered the house first. As the children ran to the door, he placed his index finger on his lips to tell them to be silent. Then, turning back, he nodded at his agents, sending them to inspect the rest of the house. At the end of the investigation, he invited the parents and the children to sit in the living room.

"You can come in now. It looks like there's no imminent danger," he said, putting his gun away.

"What's your name?" asked Kate, pulling on the inspector's sleeve. "Will you help us find Pendulum?"

"Honey..." said her father, kneeling by her and placing his hands on her shoulders. "This is Inspector Biddle. He'll do everything he can to find out what happened to Pendulum. Now, it's very important that you three go to your rooms and let these people work, Ok?"

"But... maybe you need a consultant!" exclaimed Michael, excited at the idea of working with a true detective.

"In your room!" yelled Eleanor. "Now!"

She didn't need to say any more. The children took the backpacks they had left in the entrance and went upstairs, closing their doors as their mother had ordered.

"So, this is the infamous lamp," said Biddle, circling around the object and examining it as if it were a threatening animal. "Have you tried to touch it?"

"And risk another explosion in our house?" replied Eleanor "Certainly not! We left it exactly where we found it."

"Well... well..." said Biddle, tossing his coat on the sofa and rolling up his shirt's sleeves. He then crouched onto the carpet to study the artifact. "Let's see what you're hiding." He tried to lift it with his hand protected by a latex glove, but the lamp didn't move. It was glued to the carpet as if it weighed a ton.

"Can you do it or do you need help?" asked Eleanor, raising one eyebrow.

"Of course I can!" replied the inspector, securing his feet on the ground and pulling on the lamp with both hands. "I-can-I-can..." The lamp stood still. It didn't move even when the three agents came to his rescue.

"Ok, this is not working!" admitted Biddle as he let go of the lamp, red in the face. "You!" he ordered one of the policemen who stood beside him. "Get the rope from the trunk."

Within a few minutes, the inspector secured the rope at the base of the lamp and held the loose end firmly in one hand.

"On three, pull hard, OK?" he said, while Mrs. Moffet watched perplexed. "One... two... three!"

The inspector and the agents started to pull with all their strength. Even then, the small brass lamp didn't budge a fraction of an inch.

"It's not possible!" the inspector cried, as he dropped the rope, exhausted.

"That's just fantastic!" shouted Eleanor, throwing her arms up in the air. "Now, I have a lamp glued to my floor."

"Stay calm, dear," Romeo tried to placate her. "You'll see, we'll find a solution."

"As you did with the clock, I suppose?" she snapped.

"What should we do, Inspector?" asked one of the agents. "Should we call for reinforcements?"

"Um... not yet..." he said, thoughtful. "I want to know what's hiding inside." He bent down to lift the small round lid.

"No! Wait, I don't think that's a good..." Mr. Moffet tried to stop him. Before he could finish his sentence, a cloud of blue smoke issued from the spout, engulfing the room, and causing everyone to instantly disappear.