Knocker dropped down into the kitchen as the others had done. Adolf followed him and they both seized Rumble-sticks from the corner of the room.
"Aha," said Adolf, "good weapons for close work." The door opened and they stiffened but it was Chalotte and Sydney returning from the corridor.
"It's all quiet outside," said Chalotte, "but we don't know for how long."
"What's all this nasty steam and stink?" asked Knocker, peering round the room. Sydney gestured to the huge pots still boiling and bubbling on the stoves. "Chalotte shoved her namesake into the porridge," she said.
Adolf hooted. "So we have to felicitate you on your first name. I'm sure you will have many in the future."
"I got mine as well," said Sydney, "in the cupboard."
"You certainly wasted no time," said Knocker. "What about the others?"
The two girls told them that Napoleon and Vulge had set off already, suggesting before they left a rendezvous in the heart of the Bunker, where most of the tunnels met.
"That sounds all right," agreed Knocker. "Adolf and I will try to stir things up a bit; some alarm and despondency is what we want. Meanwhile, you girls could start preparing a line of retreat."
When Chalotte and Sydney had gone, Adolf leant on his Rumble-stick and looked at Knocker from under his brow. "Well, my Battersea friend," he asked with the bright light burning in his blue eyes, "what is it we are up to?"
Knocker laughed with happy excitement. "I'm going to get a second name out of this, and you can help Adolf. Somewhere in this maze of tunnels and corridors is a chest of treasure, money. My job is to get it back to Battersea High Street, so that it can be shared amongst all Borribles."
"A fine Historian and Observer you are," said Adolf. "Where is it?"
"I don't know," said Knocker, making his catapult ready and inspecting the nail on the end of his lance. "The Head Rumble's office seems a likely place, and that's where I am going."
"Excuse." Adolf held up his hand. "That is where we are going."
"Come on then," yelled Knocker and they dashed from the room.
Vulge came to a halt at a place where the corridor divided. A notice showed him which way to go, it said, "Headquarters." He turned to Napoleon.
"See you back at the Central, or at the Great Door."
"Or not at all," said the Wendle, with an ironic smile.
"It is sad to pass through life without one good Adventure," said Vulge, quoting one of the oldest of Borrible proverbs, and plunged forward with a mad eagerness.
"And remember," said Napoleon to himself as he watched the energetic figure recede, "it is foolish to run faster than what you chase." Then he settled the bandoliers on his shoulders and marched away down the other corridor.
Vulge had not far to go. He rounded a bend in the tunnel and came upon a well-lit and spacious hallway. It was more luxuriously carpeted than any other part of the Bunker. Rows of armchairs were there for lesser Rumbles who might wait to see their chieftain, and opposite Vulge was a stout oaken door. It was guarded by two stalwart Rumbles, armed with lances.
Vulge gave no warning, his catapult was loaded and the first shot stunned one of the guards. He fell to the floor, his soft body making no sound on the carpet. Vulge reloaded quickly but not before the second guard had thrown his Rumble-stick with all his force. It struck the Borrible in his left shoulder and he fell back, staggering against the wall. He could feel blood running down his arm and the pain made him blink his eyes.
"Dammit," he said, but pulled back the elastic of his catapult as far as his wound and the pain would let him.
His antagonist reached for another spear and lifted it above his shoulder; he was a mighty thrower but he was not to throw again. The second stone from Vulge's catapult struck him fairly on the temple, he fell forward and the lance dropped from his hand.
Vulge stuck his catapult into his belt and, with an effort, he pulled the four-inch barb from his shoulder and threw the lance to the ground.
"I hope the bleeder weren't rusty," he said to himself, crossing the room, "and I hope there aren't too many guards inside."
He rapped on the oak door with the butt of a dead guard's lance.
"Who's there?" asked a rich and plummy voice from the other side.
"I've come with the bweakfast," said Vulge, whose imitation of a Rumble was perfect.
The door popped open and Vulge saw the Chieftain's major-domo standing before him. A haughty sneer was stretched along his snout and his rich beige fur was decorated with a green, white and gold sash; these were the colours of Rumbledom.
"Here's your bweakfast," said Vulge, and prodded the regal domestic in the solar plexus with the sharp end of his lance. The butler doubled up, clutching at his stomach, and Vulge clouted him hard across the head with the shaft of the spear. The Rumble collapsed to the floor and rolled over on his back, his snout crashing open like an unhinged drawbridge.
"That's sorted you out, weasel-chops," said Vulge.
He stepped over the body and entered a magnificent and luxurious sitting-room. The carpet was a spotless white and a huge sofa in cream leather was matched with armchairs of the same material and on the misty green walls were original paintings in good taste. There was a colour television set, telephones in brass with ivory mouth-pieces and copies of the national newspapers and magazines resting aristocratically on small leather-covered tables.
Vulge jerked a linen runner from one of the tables, spilling a majolica vase to the floor, where it broke. He folded the material and shoved it inside his combat jacket to pad his wound and stop the bleeding.
"The sooner I get this over with, the better," he muttered, "otherwise this arm will go as stiff as a Rumble's snout."
He opened another door and saw that he had come to the Chief Rumble's office. Here he found a huge desk, meant to impress visitors with its top of dark green morocco, a map of the world on the wall, bookshelves, electric typewriters, Xerox machines and, once more, everything was furnished in white and misty green. It was an expensive and oppressive room, but what Vulge wanted was not there.
Next he entered a circular bedroom, furnished as if for some great pop-star. A huge round bed stood in the centre of white goat-skin carpets, its coverlet made from green silk, the colour of gorse bushes at dawn. The lighting was concealed and gentle.
"Blimey," said Vulge between his teeth, "I'd like to put a match to this lot." He winced with pain, for his wound troubled him. He walked round the bed and blood dropped from him and stained the floor. On the far side of the room a door stood open and perfume-laden steam floated through it. "The bathroom," thought Vulge, and he stepped inside.
Through the clouds of sweet-smelling vapour Vulge saw his namesake and enemy, Vulgarian Rumble. The Chieftain reclined in an oval bath of green marble which was big enough to swim in. The taps were gold and shaped like Rumble snouts, and scented water poured through them to wash across the furred body and out through an overflow grating, also of gold. The floor, where it was not covered with absorbent carpets, was covered with Italian tiles of a warm southern tint.
Near the bath were several telephones on articulated arms that could be pulled in any direction. Two enormous electric fires faced the marble steps that led down from the magnificent pool so that Vulgarian could warm himself the moment he emerged from the water. Right by the two fires stood a hot air blower on a stand, ready to dry the Chieftain's magnificent coat.
Vulge stepped across the room, trailing the bloody lance point noisily behind him on the tiled floor. The Rumble's snout turned, there was a flurry in his bathwater.
"I twust you've got my bweakfast at last," he began angrily, and then he saw, not the obsequious butler, or even one of his guards. He saw a Borrible.
Vulge was no reassuring sight at that moment. His face was still smeared black from Knocker's greasepaint. His combat jacket was filthy and torn from the scuffling and climbing about in the ventilation shaft and, even more dramatically, blood was spreading out to stain his shoulder. The Borrible cap was jaunty on his head however and there was a gleam of triumph in his eye. Vulgarian Rumble slid down into the water until only his snout was visible. His small red eyes, intelligent and cunning, fluttered over the room, but he saw no escape. For a while the only sound was the gurgling of the bath-water.
"A Bowwible?" asked the Rumble at last.
"A Borrible," said Vulge, "all the way from Stepney, bloody miles."
"Don't swear," said the Rumble.
"Knickers," answered Vulge and gobbed into the bath-water. "This is the Great Rumble Hunt, mate. You've got everything you need up here, you should have stayed out of Battersea."
Vulgarian raised himself a little. "As if we would want your stinking markets and wubbishy old houses, but, I'll tell you this, we'll go where we like and . . ."