Easy(ish)

And so it was that Sir Melvin, tired yet giddy with anticipation, found himself standing upon the figurative doorstep of victory over his greatest foe, the cunning Dr. Mortgate.

He had, of course, solved the mystery, and he had done it in record time, too. The postcard had arrived at his flat at five past eleven the night before, a special delivery. It read, simply: “When the New Year does swell, all shall be under my spell.” The handwriting was unmistakable. This was the contemptible doctor’s doing.

Naturally, Sir Melvin had rushed to the Hillcrest Village Square, where they carried out their own quaint celebration that mirrored, in miniature, the famous Times Square festivities, complete with a countdown and a ball drop. Within this ball, he’d found the device that would, as the crowd cheered ‘Happy New Year,’ emit a light capable of hypnotizing the entire population of the village.

What would Dr. Morgate do with the assembled citizenry under his control? It was impossible to say, for Sir Melvin had successfully deactivated the device, and with mere seconds to spare!

His locating of the tyrant involved pure happenstance.

In the course of the deactivation, during which he hung precariously from the ball, the postcard had fallen from Sir Melvin’s pocket and fluttered into the onlookers below. After he saved the town and took his bow, the great do-gooder made to leave, so that he might drink a cream sherry and eat three grapes for good luck, such was his annual New Year’s Eve custom. As he made his way through the crowd, however, his old friend, the retired railwayman Mr. Hirsch, stopped him. “Dropped this up there, did ye, Melvo?” he said, holding out the postcard.

“Keep it as a souvenir,” Sir Melvin said with a chuckle. “I shan’t be needing it.”

“Fine enough. But answer me this, Melvo. How long ye been takin’ free rides in the box?”

“Mr. Hirsch, I have nary an idea of what you imply,” Sir Melvin said.

Mr. Hirsch pointed to a small smudge on the side of the card, explaining that boxcar axles were treated with a special lubricant, and he’d recognize its smudge anywhere.

Which explains how, at the first dawn of the New Year, Sir Melvin and the entirety of the Hillcroft Police Department surrounded the abandoned boxcar in the train yard outside of town. But just as he was about to lead the charge and catch the villain once and for all, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

“It’s him,” he whispered to the Police Chief as he looked at the screen. “I’d better answer.”

“Ah, so you must think me a dunce, allowing myself to be surrounded so easily,” Dr. Mortgate said when Sir Melvin answered.

“Give it up, you fool,” Sir Melvin said. “It’s fitting you find yourself in a train car, because you’ve reached the end of the line.”

“A funny thing, Mr. Melvin,” Dr. Mortgate said. “Did you know that certain couriers can be persuaded to make deliveries, even on New Year’s morning? How do you think papa likes his present?”

Sir Melvin’s blood ran cold. “Dear god, what did you send? Some sort of chemical agent that will be released as soon as he tears open the packaging?”

“I simply sent a late holiday gift,” Dr. Mortgate said. Sir Melvin could almost hear him sneering through the phone. “A package of four smart plugs. You know, the kind with two outlets each that you can connect to wifi and then control via your phone or a digital assistant. Very simple. For you and me. But for those of our aged parents’ generation?”

“You monster!” Sir Melvin said.

“In fact,” said Dr. Mortgate. “I’m getting word that the first packages are being opened… right now.”

Just then, a phone rang in the crowd behind him. The officer pulled it out and looked at the screen. “Oh, this is my folks. It could be an emergency. I should take it.”

“Yeah, my parents are calling too,” said another.

“Wait, don’t answer those calls!” Sir Melvin cried. But it was too late. Already, pandemonium was setting in.

“No, dad, not the wifi network name,” one officer shouted into his phone. “You need the password.”

“I know Netflix also uses the internet, mom,” said another, “but that’s not what you need right now.” She lowered the phone, shut her eyes, and massaged her temples. “And I was just there for Christmas,” she muttered to herself. “If only I could’ve set them up then.”

Sir Melvin put his own phone back to his ear. “You won’t get away with this, you vile–” but just then, a beep sounded; he had an incoming call.

“Look, Mel, I don’t know what to do with these things,” his father said in lieu of a greeting when Sir Melvin switched over. “Here, I’ll put you on speaker so you can talk straight to Alexa.”

In the ensuing chaos, Dr. Mortgate escaped easily.