Omally raised his eyebrows. “And why not?”
“Well, they’ve gone, haven’t they?”
“Yes, so?”
“So, we go down and dispose of the Captain.”
“Oh, and how do we do that?”
Neville, who had been sitting on the edge of his bed, rose brandishing the whisky bottle. “So it’s treachery is it, Omally?” he roared. “You had no intention of getting rid of him.”
“Me? No.” Omally wore a quizzical expression, mingled with outraged innocence. “There is nothing we can do, he is welded to the floor in a most unmovable manner. If I was a man with a leaning towards science fiction I would say that an alien force field surrounded him.”
Neville waggled his bottle at Omally. “Don’t give me any of that rubbish, I demand that you act now, do something.”
“If you will give me a minute or two to explain matters I would greatly appreciate it.”
Neville took out his hunter. “Two minutes,” said he, “then I waste this bottle over your head.”
“I deplore such wastage,” said John, “so I will endeavour to speak quickly.”
“One minute fifty-three seconds,” said Neville.
John composed himself and said, “As we both observed what happened to the Captain I do not propose to lecture you upon the sheer inexplicable anomaly of it. It was clearly the work of no mortal man, nor was it any natural catastrophe, or at least none that I have ever heard of.”
“It’s Reekie’s Syndrome,” said Norman.
“Shut up Norman,” said Neville.
“It was caused,” said Omally, “I believe, to shut the Captain up. He was about to spill the beans over what was going on at the Mission and so he was silenced.”
Neville scratched his Brylcreemed scalp. “All right,” said he, “but what do we do about him, we can’t let him stay there indefinitely.”
“No, and nor can they. Now, I have listened to certain propositions put forward by Professor Slocombe.”
Neville nodded. “A good and honourable man.”
“Exactly, and he believes that there has come amongst us of late an individual who can affect the laws of chance and probability to gain his own ends. This individual is presently ensconced in the Seamen’s Mission and calls himself Pope Alexander VI. I believe that he is to blame for what happened to the Captain, and I also believe that he cannot afford to be tied into it and will therefore arrange for the disposal of same.”
“You went over your two minutes,” said Neville, “but if all is as you say, it would go a long way towards explaining certain matters which have been puzzling me for some months now. Have I ever spoken to you of the sixth sense?”
“Many times,” said Omally, “many, many times, but if you wish to retell me then may I suggest that you do it over a glass or two of scotch?”
“Certainly.”
“And may I also suggest that we keep a watch on the road at all times?”
“I will do it,” said Norman, “for I have had little to say or do during this entire chapter.”
Night fell. Almost at once the sky became a backcloth for a spectacular pyrotechnic exhibition of lightning. The lights of the saloon bar were extinguished and the frozen Captain stood ghostly and statuesque, covered by his linen cloth. Norman stood at Neville’s window staring off down the Ealing Road, and Omally drained the last of the scotch into his glass. Neville held his watch up to what light there was. A bright flash of lightning illuminated the dial. “It’s nearly midnight,” he said. “How much longer?”
Omally shrugged in the darkness.
The Guinness clock struck a silent twelve below in the bar and in Neville’s room Norman said suddenly, “Look at that, what is it?”
John and Neville joined him at the window.
“What is it?” said Neville. “I can’t make it out.”
“Down by Jack Lane’s,” said Norman, “you can see it coming towards us.”
From the direction of the river, moving silently upon its eight wheels, came an enormous jet-black lorry. It resembled no vehicle that the three men had ever seen, for it bore no lights, nor did its lustreless bodywork reflect the street lamps which shone to either side of it. There was no hint of a windscreen nor cracks that might indicate doors or vents. It looked like a giant mould as it came to a standstill outside the Flying Swan.
Omally craned his neck to look down upon it but the overhang of the gabled roof hid the mysterious vehicle from view. The familiar creak of the saloon bar door, however, informed the three men that someone had entered the bar. “Here,” said Neville suddenly, “what are we doing? Whoever it is down there could be rifling the cash register.”
“Go down then,” said Omally, “you tell them.”
The part-time barman took a step towards the door then halted. “Best leave it, eh?”
“I think it would be for the best,” said Omally.
The saloon bar door creaked again and after a brief pause Norman said from the window, “It’s moving off.” The three men watched as the hellish black lorry crept out once more into the road and disappeared over the railway bridge past the football ground.
Together the three men descended the stairs. The bar was empty, lit only by the wan light from the street. The lightning had ceased its frenzied dance on the great truck’s arrival and the night had become once more clear and silent. In the centre of the floor lay the white linen table cloth. Neville flicked on the saloon bar lights. Norman picked up the table cloth. Holding it out before him he suddenly gave a cry of horror and dropped it to the floor. Omally stooped to retrieve it and held it to the light. Impressed upon the cloth was what appeared to be some kind of negative photographic image. It was clear and brown as a sepia print and it was the face of Captain Carson.
“There,” said Omally to the part-time barman, “now you’ve something to hang behind your bar. The Brentford Shroud…”
19
Omally lost little time in conveying news of the previous night’s events to Professor Slocombe. The old man sat behind his desk surrounded by a veritable Hadrian’s Wall of ancient books. “Fascinating,” he said at length. “Fascinating although tragic. You brought with you the tablecloth, I trust?”
“I thought it would be of interest.”
“Very much so.” The Professor accepted the bundle of white linen and spread it over his desk. In the glare of the brass desk lamp the Captain’s features stood out stark and haunting. “I would never have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes.”
“It takes a bit of getting used to.”
The old Professor rolled up the tablecloth and returned it to Omally. “I would like to investigate this at a future date when I have more time upon my hands, but matters at present press urgently upon us.”