“Back your truck up then for God’s sake,” shouted another somebody, “we’ll try and get the cable off him.”
Leo hastened into the driving seat and stuck the customized Bedford into reverse. Gear cogs ground together adding further screams of distress to those already being loudly voiced.
He had been meaning to get the reverse fixed for some time.
With an almighty clunk the gear found its housing, and lodged into it as firmly as a barman in a beer cellar. Leo clawed at the gear-stick but it would not shift by an inch. His knackered tow-truck, sick to the worn treads with its constant bad treatment, had chosen this of all times to exact revenge upon its Caribbean tormentor. Tearing his keys from the dash, Leo Felix leapt pale-faced from the cab. The malevolent tow-truck rolled relentlessly backwards, bound for the crowd and the struggling barman.
As the unstoppable vehicle gathered speed, those free to do so hastily took to their heels. Neville stared up, his good eye starting from its socket. The acrid smell of exhaust fumes filled his brain, and a rear number-plate which read NEM 1515 began to engulf his world.
It looked very much like strawberry jam time for Neville the part-time barman. The truck’s engine roared like some beast loosed from the bottomless pit, and ground upon its hellish course. With one final despairing gasp Neville passed from consciousness, which as it happened was quite a shame because he missed the very best bit.
As the crowd burst asunder in a screaming panic-torn explosion, a heroic figure leapt into the fray. He plunged through the mass of fleeing humankind and took up a stance between the comatose barman and the roaring instrument of doom. The feet of this titan were firmly rooted upon the pavement and his face was a cold mask of determination. His eyes shone with a strange inner light. With a single sudden lunge forward, he grasped the tailgate of the wheel-screeching vehicle and stopped it dead in its tracks. The tyres squealed upon the pavement, raising black clouds of tread. With superhuman effort Neville’s deliverer dragged it up from the ground. The engine whined into overdrive and exhaust smoke enveloped him in a great monoxide cloud of death. Struggling beneath the weight of the possessed vehicle, he bore it aloft, and held it high above his head. The truck rocked and shuddered, howling like a banshee, but in a moment he had done with it.
Brentford’s St George cast down the mechanical dragon, bursting out its tyres, scrambling its axles, and driving its engine to ruination upon the cold stones of the pavement. As the smoke cleared, small knots of the cowardly crowd stared back in wonder. The hero calmly knotted the slackened hoist cable about his hand and tore it from its mountings. He turned slowly towards Neville and, freeing him from his hangman’s harness, stooped and carefully drew him up to pavement level, where he laid him gently to rest.
Before the crowd could arouse itself from its slack-jawed wonderment, engulf the hero, and raise him shoulder-high, Norman silently turned away from the scene of his glory and strode back to his corner-shop.
12
The ambulance bells had long died away into memory when three men came strolling along the Ealing Road. One was bowed and ancient, walking with the aid of a slim ebony cane, a mane of snow-white hair trailing out behind him. Another was tall and gaunt with a great hawk of a nose, clad in an oddly Victorian tweed suit. As to the last, he was Irish and wanted his thirty quid.
As these three approached the Swan, Sherlock Holmes suddenly laid a gentle palm upon the Professor’s chest and said, “Now what do you make of that!”
Professor Slocombe shook his old head. “Cellar doors ajar, a barman somewhat remiss in his duties?”
“Oh, no,” said Holmes. “Much more. And what here?”
The elder perused Leo’s defunct tow-truck parked at the kerb, its back axle supported by two piles of red flettons. “Unusual bravado upon the part of the local criminal fraternity?” he suggested.
“I think not.” Holmes drew out his glass and as Omally watched him, with one eye forever straying towards the saloon-bar door, he dropped to all fours and perused the pavement.
“How many entrances to this cellar?” asked Holmes, looking up.
“Just that,” said Omally. “And a door behind the bar.”
“I see.” Holmes examined the blackened skid marks. “Interesting,” said he.
“Riveting,” said John. “Might we step inside now, please?”
Holmes rose to his feet and patted dust from his trouser knees. “I think so,” he said.
Omally led the way and the three men entered the bar. Pooley, who with Old Pete’s aid had long ago finished the bottle of Neville’s reserve, rose unsteadily to greet them. Omally eyed him with great suspicion. “Have you seen Soap this morning?” he asked.
Pooley shook his head. “You’ve missed all the excitement.”
“Obviously. Whose round is it?”
“I’ll get these,” said Professor Slocombe. “Holmes?”
“A small sherry,” the detective replied. “And a small word with Mr Pooley here.”
“Oh yes?” asked the half-drunken Jim.
“The fellow with the beard serving behind the bar is not, I believe, the regular barman.”
Pooley squinted disgustedly towards Croughton the pot-bellied potman, who was now up to his elbows in froth behind the beer engines. “Certainly not,” said he.
“And the regular barman, a gentleman of some standing in this community, he is not one who would leave the bar during a lunchtime session without a very good reason?”
“Not Neville.”
“So I would be right then in assuming that the fat gentleman who was until recently stuck fast in the cellar doors was this very Neville?”
“You what?” said John Omally. “What happened here, Jim?”
“I’ll do my best to explain,” said Pooley, tumbling backwards from his bar stool. “But for now I think I need to go to the toilet.”
It was quite some time before Pooley re-emerged looking a little more sober. During the period of his absence Holmes had gleaned all the necessary information from other sources, finished his sherry, and had taken himself off to places elsewhere. Jim relocated his behind upon the bar stool. Looking up at the battered Guinness clock he asked, “Anybody know what won the one forty-five?”
“Ahriman Boy,” said Old Pete. “I get Free Radio Brentford on my deaf aid. The commentator was having a coronary by the sound of it.”
Pooley struggled a moment to comprehend this intelligence. Slowly he withdrew his betting-slip and peered between his fingers at his selection. “By the gods,” said he. “Did you hear the SP?”
“Sixty-six to one,” Old Pete replied. “A quid or two there for the outside better.”
Pooley spread his betting-slip before him on the bar counter, “I am sixty-six quid in the black,” said he.
Omally peered over his shoulder. “Then order me a pint of froth quickly then, Jimmy boy,” said he. “I suppose there is no chance that was your only bet of the afternoon?”
“Actually, no,” said Jim. “I have an accumulator here.”
“A four-horse Yankee?”
“No, a six-horse Super-Yankee.”
“I’ll get my own in then.”
“Nobody has any faith in me whatever,” Jim told Professor Slocombe.
“No?” the old man shook his head in wonder. “Then let me at least get you another drink in. Are you feeling a little better now?”
“A temporary lapse,” said Jim. “Your man from below puts the wind up me more than a little.”
“The two o’clock’s on,” said Old Pete. “Got one in here, Jim?”
Pooley nodded. “Lucifer Lad.”
“Want to listen?” Old Pete took out his deaf aid and turned up the volume. The Mickey Mouse voice of the commentator tinkled out the race as three men, at least, knotted their fists and offered up with small sounds of encouragement for the game outsider. Lucifer Lad romped home at sixty-six to one.
“My brain’s gone,” said Pooley. “Can anybody work it out?”
“You don’t want to think about it, Jim,” said the Professor. “Let us just say that it is a goodly sum.”
“How goodly, tell me.”
“Four thousand, three hundred and fifty-six pounds.”
They brought Jim round with the contents of the soda siphon.
“Jim,” said John, drawing him up by the lapels, “now wake up. What kind of deal have you done with Bob?”
“The six-horse special as ever,” mumbled Pooley. “Six winners or nothing.”
“You buffoon.” Omally threw up his hands, “If you’d had another winner you’d get a percentage even with a couple more seconds or thirds. You’d be a thousand pounds in profit now. There is no such thing as a six-horse Super-Yankee, such things are myths. An ITV-seven there is, that bookies laugh at as they fly off to their holidays in the Seychelles. Give me that slip.” Pooley pushed it across the counter. “Anybody got a paper?” Pooley brought his out. “Did you pay the tax?” Pooley nodded. “You bloody buffoon.”
“Tell me again how rich I am,” said Jim. “Just so I can hear it.” Omally dollied it out on his fingers. By the time he had finished Old Pete said, “The two-fifteen’s on.”