It had taken a big wodge of the folding stuff and two kilos of heroin to secure Colin’s services as first arriving guest. But being the professional he was, he turned up sharp on the dot of eight, an Essex babe on either arm and a great big smile on his face.
I greeted him warmly and shook him by the hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ I said.
And then I introduced him to Norman.
‘Who d’you think you’re looking at, you bastard?’ said Colin.
And after Colin, in they came. The coaches pulled up outside the door and a steady stream of top-notch celebs filtered in, smiling and waving and loveying about and generally behaving as if they owned the place.
‘What a pack of wankers,’ I said to Norman.
‘Bollocks,’ the shopkeeper replied. ‘You’ve buddied up with enough famous folk over the years. You’re just bitter because this isn’t really your party and you’re afraid someone’s going to murder you.’
‘You’re not wrong there,’ I said.
‘I rarely am. Here, look, there’s Big-horny-beaver.’
‘Who?’
‘Sigourney Weaver. Watch while I go over and chat her up.’
Norman tottered off into the crowd. I shook more hands and offered more greetings.
There was an interesting pattern to the arrivals. Each giggling gaggle of the glittering glamorous would be followed by its negative counterpart. Grim-faced evening-suited company-chairman types, with well-dressed worn-down women on their arms. Among these, I felt, were the folk I had to fear.
I had already shaken hands with old silly-bollocks and what’s-his-face, the other one. And the two fellows from the Colombian drugs cartel. The bald-headed woman who usually wore the wig had yet to arrive. As had the bloke who runs all those companies.
And if I just say the word jumpers’ to you, you’ll know the one I mean.
The great hall was filling up nicely now and everyone was rabbiting away. The catering staff were taking care of business: offering around bowls of snuff, trays of those canapé things that I’ll never understand, drinks and more drinks and more drinks.
It occurred to me that no-one so far had thought to bring a bottle.
‘I’ve brought a bottle,’ said someone.
I glanced up to meet the golden smile of Professor Merlin.
‘Professor,’ I said. ‘You look wonderful.’
And he did look wonderful. He hadn’t aged by a day.
He cut a most fantastic figure. Powdered face and purple periwig; diamond ear-studs in his lobes and pearls upon the tips of his waxed moustachios. A velvet frock-coat in a whiter shade of pale. Silken trews and buckled shoes. His slender fingers weighed heavily with wonderful rings and his turquoise eyes twinkled merrily. ‘Hello, young Edwin,’ he said.
I wrung his hand between my own. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ I said. ‘I knew you were on the guest list, but I had no idea whether you were even still—’
‘Alive?’
‘Well...’
‘I am, as you can see, alive as ever I was. And sprightly with it too.’ He handed me a bottle wrapped in brown paper. ‘Something rather special in there for you,’ he said with a wink. ‘Martian sherry. Picked it up upon my travels between the planets. I’ll tell you all about them later, if you want. But for now I suppose I should get down to the job in hand.’
‘The drinking?’ I asked.
‘The MCing, dear boy. The sadly departed Doveston had engaged me as Master of Ceremonies. Did you not know?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid that the big portfolio had a lot of very small print. I must have missed some of it.’
‘Then as to the matter of my fee?’
‘Charge whatever you like, I’m easy. Oh and, Professor, I have something of yours downstairs. A certain box, bound in human skin. I’m sure you’d like it back.’
‘Like it back?’ Professor Merlin laughed. ‘The box was never mine in the first place. I think the Doveston bought it at a jumble sale. He asked me to weave a story around it to wind up young Norman. For reasons of his own, I suppose.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That certainly makes sense.’
‘And isn’t that the self-same Norman there in the trilby hat? Excuse me while I go and say hello.’
And with that he was gone into the crowd, leaving me to shake new hands and offer new hellos.
Now, one of the other problems with holding a big celebrity bash is the gatecrashers. There will always be certain other celebrities whom you haven’t invited who feel it is their divine right to be there. And even with all the security I had, I felt sure that there’d be one or two of the buggers doing their best to sneak in. I’d ordered the guards to fire upon anyone they caught trying to scale the perimeter fence and already they’d managed to gun down David Bowie and Patsy Kensit. I had every confidence that by the end of the evening the world would be free of Michael Jackson too.
‘Hi,’ said a squeaky voice. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve brought Bubbles too.’
I grinned through gritted teeth. ‘No problem at all, Michael,’ I said. ‘The chef will look after Bubbles.’
‘He always has his own place at the table.’
‘Michael,’ I said. ‘Bubbles will have his own place in the table.’
Norman came tottering over.
‘Oooooh, hello,’ said Michael. ‘You look nice.’
Norman cleared his throat. ‘Here,’ he whispered to me. ‘Did you see that? Did you see how I got on with Sigoumey? I’m taking her out for lunch tomorrow.’
‘I’m very impressed,’ I said.
‘That’s nothing. Hey, look over there. It’s Come-here-and-poke-my—bowels.’
‘Who?’
‘Camilla Parker-Bowles.’
‘Norman,’ I said. ‘Although I find this a good deal more amusing than Brentford rhyming slang, my bet is that you won’t be able to keep it up for very long.’
‘I will you know. I’m on Viagra.’ Oh how we laughed.
Norman tottered off once more and then a voice said, ‘Psst.’
‘I’m not,’ I said.
‘No. Psst. Come over here.’
I turned to see Michael standing in an alcove and beckoning to me with his foolish glove.
Hello, I said to myself What’s this?
‘Come over here and hurry.’
I sauntered over. ‘What is it you want?’ I asked.
‘It’s me,’ said Michael.
‘I know it’s you,’ I said.
‘No. It’s me. Lazlo.’ And Lazlo lifted up a corner of his face. ‘Lazlo Woodbine, private eye.’
‘By God,’ I said. ‘You certainly had me fooled. You really are a master of disguise.’
Michael’s face smiled crookedly. ‘It’s a bit of a cheat, really,’ said Lazlo. ‘The guards shot the real Michael trying to shin over the fence.
‘Then there is a God,’ I said.
‘The guards dumped his body in the woods. I couldn’t resist the opportunity, so I sort of—’
‘You sort of what?’
‘Sort of flayed his body and put on his skin.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ I said. ‘I thought you were going to say something really disgusting.’
‘How dare you! But listen, we must talk. I know who the murderer is. But I also know a lot more than that. It’s a global conspiracy. The end of civilization as we know it is only a few hours away. The Secret Government of the World is going to take over, the minute all the computers crash. They’ve been planning it for years. We have to stop them.’