Free Day of the Djinn Warriors by P. B. Kerr

thirteen to be precise.”
    “Unlucky for some,” said Groanin.
    “But it’s been more than ten years since I was down here,” said Nimrod. “And my bearings are a little bit rusty.”
    They went down a long winding staircase into a deep and rather damp basement. Nimrod walked to the end of a corridor and opened another door. “Ah, this is it, I think,” he said, and brushing aside several cobwebs, went inside and switched on the electric light.
    Philippa glanced around the storeroom in wonder. The chair in the corner was perhaps the one normal thing in the room. There were several rows of once famous heads, as if Madame Tussaud had collected them from the basket in front of a more recently active guillotine, and some larger racks where dummies had been stored separately. And there was a box of hands and a box of eyes.
    “How could she do it?” said Philippa. “How could Faustina ever leave her body somewhere like this? I’d have been petrified just coming in here.”
    “Faustina was not like most female djinn of her age,” said Nimrod. While he spoke, Nimrod advanced into the back of the storeroom where, on wide metal shelves, there lay hundreds of dummies. “She was a solitary child. Serious. Given to melancholy. Even a little cold-blooded. All of them excellent reasons why she was ideally suited to becoming the BlueDjinn of Babylon. Besides, one of these old dummies is Ronald Reagan. My information was that Faustina always rather admired Ronnie in a granddaughterly way, and I suppose she must have thought it might be nice to stay on the same shelf as Reagan for a while. Because that’s where I found her the first time I came down here.”
    “You mean the guy who used to be president of the United States?” said Philippa, only vaguely remembering him now.
    “That’s right,” said Nimrod. “And here he is.”
    Nimrod advanced on a man in a suit who was still grinning genially from the shelf where he was lying. But next to him on the shelf was an obviously empty space.
    “Not anymore,” said Groanin.
    “She was right here,” said Nimrod. “I’m certain of it.”
    “Perhaps that ambulance came and took her after all,” suggested Philippa.
    “No, no,” insisted Nimrod. “I told you, Philippa, I checked with the hospital. Besides, this has happened relatively recently. Look at the dust on this shelf. Clearly, a figure has been lying here until just a few months ago, I’d say. The figure of a young person, too. Look how much shorter this outline is than that of President Reagan.”
    “You don’t suppose they took her to be melted down, thinking she was made of wax?” said Groanin. He walked down to the end of the freestanding shelves and pointed his flashlight into the shadows.
    “What a horrible thought,” observed Philippa.
    “But why her and not these others?” said Nimrod. “There are wax figures in this room that have been here much longer than Faustina. No, Groanin, Faustina’s body has been stolen, I’m quite certain of it.”
    “Who would steal her body?” asked Philippa. “And why?”
    “Perhaps there are more than one that are gone,” said Groanin. “Look at this.”
    Nimrod and Philippa followed him to the end of the shelf. Clearly visible on the shelves were two more dusty outlines, where other wax figures had previously lain. “Yes, you’re right, Groanin,” said Nimrod.
    Groanin bent down and picked up something off the floor. It was a small strip of peel-and-stick adhesive. And on it was a fingerprint. “Hello,” he said. “What have we here?” He shone his flashlight across the floor and found another similar strip, only this one was still unpeeled. “Looks to me like the police have been here, sir,” he said. “The crime scene people from Scotland Yard. This is an evidence strip. For fingerprints.”
    “In which case,” said Philippa, “the theft of three wax-museum dummies may well have been noticed and reported.”
    “Well done, Groanin,” said