Departing the train at a high rate of speed, our bodies bounced across the golden autumn foliage of the moor several times before coming to rest in front of the red brick villa on the farm known as Travis-stock. It was only a week past the country music festival featuring the odious Randy, and the grounds were still littered with empty beer cans and badly-permed groupies. We were met almost immediately by Inspector Allen and Colonel Rossi.

"I was expecting Inspector Martin and Colonel Lewis," Hose said matter-of-factly, "But that's probably just my French ancestry coming through. Do you have dogs for the horse-hunt, Inspector?"

"Yes, but they do nothing in the night-time, so you'd best get started soon," the Inspector cautioned.

"I think that I shall stay here a little while and practice my shooting upon the sheep," Hose replied. "But first give me some details on this horse we shall be hunting."

"Modesty Blaze is from Trigger stock," Colonel Martini Rossi explained. "When I whistle to him from the stands, he will run furiously around the track to get to me, and has won enormous sums of money for me over the years. But as Modesty Blaze is nearly fourteen now, it seemed that it was inevitable he begin racing in the Whitesox Cup, the annual race to see who comes in last. I had hired John Streaker who, despite his penchant for running nude through public events, is a fine veterinarian specializing in trimming tendons to make horses run as slowly as possible. Modesty Blaze was favored to win the Whitesox cup, and I had every hope that he would, until the fateful night . . .

"Streaker was supposed to give Modesty Blaze another good tendon-nicking out on the moor. When Mrs. Streaker woke the next morning with the drugged stable-boy she had taken liberties with the night before, she realized that her husband had not returned from the moor. We found Streaker's naked body a quarter mile from Travis-stock, his forehead marked with a great horseshoe-shaped impression. Modesty Blaze was gone."

"What a remarkable sequence of events," Hose commented absently, sniffing the air. "Is that curry I smell?"

"Why, yes," Colonel Rossi replied. "Mrs. Streaker always prepares curry for our out-of-town male guests. Would you care to have lunch before going to the scene of the crime?"

Sunblock Hose was in the habit of eating sparingly while on a case, but train travel had given me a voracious appetite. I heartily agreed with the proposition, and stayed behind for lunch while the others started across the moor. I was not halfway through with my meal, however, when my head began to swirl madly . . . consciousness slipped away from me, but not before I saw Mrs. Streaker's outstretched fingers reaching for my waistcoat buttons . . .

WILL WHACKO SUFFER THE SAME FATE AS THE UNFORTUNATE STABLE-BOY?

WILL ALLEN AND ROSSI SPLIT UP TO FIND MODESTY BLAZE?