When bumbling detective Freddy Larson and his reluctant assistant Robin Webster are commissioned to locate a park bench drunk who just inherited a fortune they find themselves unearthing far more than they had bargained for. Are the two cousins responsible for more than frittering away the family fortune on foolish investments? And what part does beautiful Madeleine really play when she sobs gently into the chests of the two investigators? Excitement and drama build up as the threats materialize in the shape of psychopathic relatives. When the bullets start whistle, Robin regrets he didn't go for something more peaceful, like killing sharks with his hands...

Steven Bink's eyes moved menacingly under the mustache-thick brows. Slowly proceeding on the gravel walk he surveyed the nearest surroundings of the park. Except for an elderly couple who seemed to be picking white flowers from a bush, no one was within earshot. He took it they were at least partially deaf. Not wanting to be caught talking to himself in public, he covered his mouth as he spat out the nasty-tasting words he had kept repeating to himself for the last hour. He pressed his voice into a hiss.

'Absolute likeness!'

The "absolute" proved to be an effective spit word. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his palm. The relief he had hoped for remained absent.

He was aware of attracting attention, not only because he was six feet eight; his features were firmly pronounced with square angles, high cheekbones and a permanently blue chin. Plastic combs usually got caught and cracked in vain attempts to arange his thick hair into the resemblance of a hairstyle. His hands huge with rough skin and looked able to clutch a normal-sized individual's skull and lift him straight up. To avoid public panic he used to keep them behind his back.

A bronze roe deer on a stone plinth magified his bad mood. He stopped and rammed his hands into pockets the size of small sacks. The innocent metal animal received a snarling review concerning the intellectual powers of the memebers of the particular board that a couple of months earlier had commisioned him to make a life-sized reproduction of their recently deceased benefactor. He chose his words carefully, not forgetting anyone in the ignorant and arrogant party.

Steven Bink was a prominent sculptor, not only in his own eyes and nothing but a temporary and very acute lack of money had forced him to accept in silence the chairman's pompous, slightly defamatory reproofs. His teeth gnashed as he recalled the most flagrant adonishments, insultingly accompanied by schoolteacher's finger in the air. Applying his most ridiculous expression he mimicked the man. "We certainly don't want to be exposed to any experimental malformation. Our benefactor was a man of distinctive looks. His wife as well as the board expects you to do the very best out of the conditions. Most important, of course, is the absolute likeness." The last sentence had followed by a contemptuous smile. "You do understand, Mr. Bink".

One hour later, scrutinizing the photographs Bink understood only too well. He was the victim in a conspiracy. His task was to transform a pop-eyed little fatty with sticking-out ears into a magnificent Viking. A desperate hope that he by mistake had received pictures taken in a comic hall of mirrors was dashed, as he required others for reference. Nothing in the face of the baloon-head was in accordance with the generally accepted idea of a face. Chubby faces normally have thick, fleshy lips, small, well-shaped ears, wide noses and three chins, the original just visible below the mouth.

This specimen had no lips at all, just a short thin line under the nose, two monkey-ears sticking straight out of the head, adding the impression of a wing nut. His nose was small and elegant. It had better fitted a pretty girl of seventeen. His eyes too were small, protruding and located so far apart it wasn't only due to malice people used to describe him in terms of something related to a cod.

But all these features looked handsome in comparison to the chin. A large, square, stupid chin. A chin so full of irregularities and malformations it looked as if someone had crammed gravel under the skin. A caveman would have jumped at the sight. No artist ever had faced a challenge like that chin.

Bink passed his giant fingers over his own huge but fairly noemal chin. The rasping informed him he hadn't shaved.

The chairman's insolent and provocatory inquiry "whether the sculptor felt he could cope with the task", should have aroused suspicions, but the man had framed the request as if the sculptor's skill was in question. The challenge had been accepted without second thought and before the delivery of the photographs. A shadow of doubt had, wise and too late as always, informed him it was obvious he was about to play the leading part in a deception.

Throughout the working process, his artistic conscience had waged a loosing struggle against his monetary needs. He ignored the reminders that pointed out he possessed all the necessary qualifications to make a career in North Korea or some other suspect communist state, if there were any left.

He carried out all the sub-operations himself in the well-equipped studio. The trunk and the limbs had caused no problem. By moving a couple of pounds up or down and hiding the rest in a too large suit he had obliterated the most apparent flaws. Since a couple of weeks the two body halves were ready for the final welding process.

But he was no magician and the pig-to-lion transformation trick was becoming too much for him. It was since long too late to withdraw. The unveiling was to take place two weeks later in connection with some celebration or jubilee at the institution. The board and a few members of the family - among them the widow who defrayed the expenses - had appointed a preliminary examination next Saturday. Today was Monday.

He kicked a beechnut at the roe deer but the curve was too flat. After bouncing on the lawn the little fruit landed provokingly beneath the stone plinth.

To his further annoyance there was a clause in the contract that would not only reduce his profit to zero; the widow could also claim damages in case of delay. He clenched his giant hands in his giant pockets and glared at the bronze deer. If it hadn't been for the man's contrary to nature combination of granite jaws and fish eyes, the statue would have been completed weeks ago.

He straightened his powerful body and continued the dreary walk. On a bench som thirty yards ahead he spotted a lonely alcoholic. The vodka was obviously finished, a message the shabby fellow, peering into the bottleneck refused to accept. In his anger he made as to throw the bottle in the nearby canal but controlled himself when he recalled he could collect a deposit fee on it. With an equally uncontrolled gesture he put the bottle into a brown plastic-coated bag on the bench. His face competed with the artists in the gallery of enraged expressions and he too looked around for a scapegoat.

Bink noticed the man's irritation and curled his upper lip contemptuously. It was an insult to his situation that someone got vexed over a simple object as an empty bottle. He hoped the old soak would address him as he passed by. The smallest gesture would pave the way for an informative tirade about all these damned drunks who pollute the parks and scare ordinary people, the taxpayers from the beautiful green areas even in broad daylight. And if the drunkard took the liberty of answering he would shake his enormous fist an inch from his surely disgusting face. He estimated the fellow's height to about five feet seven, a reassuring difference of more than a foot.

He slowed down in a provocative manner as he approached the bench. From the corner of his eye he noticed the raising of a hand and was just able to keep the satisfaction from glowing in his face. He stopped, turned towards the man and fixed his eyes on the flaccid-looking face.

'I beg your pardon.'

His voice was far too deep to give the words the proper sting, an imperfection he compensated for by a rumbling secondary stress.

The man on the bench jumped and stared for a moment at the gigantic individual.

'Excuse me, sir. I only meant to ask if you might be civil enough to advance a wretch like me a small sum for a bite.'

Bink twisted his face into a malignant grin and held up a forefinger big as a sausage. A piece of information he intended to keep to himself was that five years in a row he had manipulated his income tax return so cleverly he hadn't allowed the collector one cent.

But the finger got stuck in the air and the words in his throat when his eyes fell on the ragamuffin's round face. He stared with amazement. Above a short, thin mouth was a fine little nose. On the side of the head two ears protruded in a pleasant way and not at all looking as if transplanted from a schimpanzee. The eyes were small and bright with a strange, intense look but located almost where they were expected to be. But what really attracted his attention was the chin. It looked exactly like the one he had failed to create for weeks. The man was simply a likable copy of the unpleasant pig he was instructed to reproduce.

Bink's face softened to an expression innocent enough to allow an introduction of himself as member of the society "Preserve the Souls of the Caged Birds". At the same time he set his mind to work on a strategy to persuade the man to accompany him to the studio.

'My poor fellow, what seems to be the matter? You don't look altogether well.'

His art of acting surprised and impressed himself. The drunkard returned the look with doubtful yet hopeful air. The impulse to ask the tall, ungainly fellow to get drowned in the canal was resisted by the permanent craving for a drink. After a short self-councel, he decided to fall in with the stranger's tone. He lowered his eyes towrads his clothes.

'You're right, life wasn't always good to me, sometimes I think I received more than my fair share of bad fortune.'

Bink nodded and studied the man's outfit with a deliberately neutral air. Claiming the man was no ornament to his nation wasn't going too far. The trousers were blue - so blue you might suspect a flag had lent them its fabric. They contrasted in such a ghastly manner with the soiled brown jacket that people with weak disposition might cry out if not warned. The tennis shoes might have been white in Bill Tilden's days when they were new. The right one was fastened with string of the kind used for tying parcels, the left with a black shoestring so long it was wound twice round the shoe and still left ten inches dragging on the ground. The marks in the hairless face, accentuated in a red and blue network of perforated blood vessels on the cheeks, told the story of his way of life.

Despite that, to the eye of Steven Bink he was a beauty. The artist successfully convinced himself that the desire to help the man to a certain extent emanated from pure and unadulterated humanity. A discreet judging of the activity in the poor fellow's alcohol-weakened head lead to the conclusion it would be superflous to waste the day on diplomatic feelers.

'May I introduce myself. My name is Bink, artist and sculptor.' He stretched his hand towards the alcoholic and prayed that any diseases the touch might transmit would be non-malignant.

The man on the bench hesitated and his face retained a suspicious air. A long life involving police and social workers had chastened him and he had high opinions only of individuals who offered vodka or at least promised to do so later. His chubby little hand disappeared in the artist's enormous fist.

'Leonard.'

Bink waited for the abruptly delivered name to be followed by a surname but realized he had reached the limit of the man's confidence. He returned his hand to his pocket and wiped it discreetly against the handkerchief.

'You are probably wondering why I stopped for a chat.' He smiled without getting any response. 'The thing is that I'm working on a statue and I have yet to complete its head.' He laughed with embarrassment as he realized the phrase must sound stupid to the old soak. 'However, spotting your face right now gave me an idea and I decided I have found what I'm looking for.'

Leonard raised his intense, light-blue eyes to the tall artist's face and tried to focus against the glaring sun. He was very much aware of his looks and had never imagined his globular head on a select item such as a statue.

'My face?' His rubbing hands stressed his confusion. 'Who would like to see my face on a statue?'

Bink realized it might be unwise to let Leonard grasp the urgency of the mission. The drunkard was undoubtedly underhand enough to use the situation to his financial gain. A convenient lie was rapidly constructed in the back of his mind.

'Don't misunderstand, but you are exactly...' He swallowed the word "type" '...the kind of person I have in mind. You see, the statue is part of a group, representing all Germanic variations and your face is exectly the one I need. You get paid, of course.'

The final piece of information lit up the drunkard's face. He scrutinized the sculptor for a moment as if the amount were had been written on the angular face. 'How much?'

Bink shrugged and mentioned a sum he assumed to be immediately exchangeable for vodka in the thirsty friend's mind. That was the start and the end of the negotiations and the artist sat beside his model. It surspised him the old alcoholic didn't give an offensive scent.

'It's easy work, all I'm going to do is make a plaster cast of your face.'

Leonard's pale eyes still fastened on the huge sculptor while he was trying his own face smeary with plaster. The image ended in a disgusted grimace. 'Suppose it won't come off afterwards?'

The artist laughed at the objection.

'It's absolutely harmless. We'll put a kind of oil on your face, cover it with gauze bandages and after drying out, the mask will just ease off when you shake your head. I've made heaps of plaster casts. It's easy, you know.'

The truth was he had made only one of the kind, back in art school, and tried desperately to recall the exact procedure. He knew there was a package of plaster somewhere in the studio.

'All you have to do is lean back in a comfortable chair until the plaster sets. Afterwards you can leave with all your money.'

Leaonard nodded, tolerably reassured. 'When do you want me to do it?'

Bink looked at his watch.

'The sooner the better. We can do it right away if you like. We'll walk to the studio in ten minutes.' He described the block, well known to the native alcoholic. 'If you prefer a taxi, it's all right with me.'

Leonard considered the alternatives. His last ride with a taxi was beyond his memory - most things were - but there was another aspect.

'Save your money, Bink.' He had worked out they would pass his local off-license on the way. 'If you'd be so kind as to advance me some of the money I could pop in and buy something against the trembling. It can't be good for the mask if I tremble, you know.'

Bink nodded and smiled. The man's desire was quite within reason. A drink or two would probably make the old ruffian more cooperative and if he quietly slept it off while the plaster dried, no one would be happier than the sculptor...