The old loon put his head upon one side and stroked his chin. “Is it a film or a television programme?” he asked. “Do I get any clues?”
“It’s a book,” said Pooley, taking the opportunity to retrieve his pint before retreating to a safe distance.
“I… I… I…” went Neville.
“Must be the Bible then,” said Old Pete. “Not that I’ve ever read it. Should say by the look of the stick and everything that it’s either Moses parting the Red Sea or Samson slaying all those Philippinos with the jawbone of an ass.”
Young Chips, who was of a more metaphysical bent, suspected that it was more likely Lobsang Rampa’s The Third Eye, with the caste mark and the glassy stare and what was quite obviously some kind of mantra based upon the concept of self-realization; the I.
Neville slowly replaced his knobkerry, and turned to the cash register where he drew out Pooley’s change, including amongst it thirty shillings’-worth of florins. Preventing patrons from playing Captain Laser machines did not seem to be of much importance any more. “Enjoy your game,” he said, handing the still flinching Jim the money.
Old Pete shook his head. “Can’t abide a poor sport,” he said. “Guessed it in one, did I? Told you I was good. What about the prize then?” Neville, however, had wandered away to the end of the bar where he now stood polishing an imaginary glass with an invisible bar cloth. “What about a drink then?” The ancient turned imploringly towards Pooley and Omally, but the two had taken themselves off to a side table where they now sat muttering over an outspread map. “I won it fair and square,” said Old Pete to his dog. Chips shrugged, he had a bad feeling about all this and wished as usual to remain non-committal.
Jim Pooley ran his finger up and down the cartographical representation of Brentford and made a wash-handbasin out of his bottom lip. “This really is all getting rather dire,” he said. “Spacemen on the allotment, starships on the attack, and the Flying Swan without a darts captain. Are we dreaming all this or can it really be true?”
Omally fingered his beard and examined the tide marks about his cuff. “It’s true enough,” said he, “and I think we might do no better than to apply ourselves to the problem in the hope that a solution might be forthcoming.”
“We’ll have to do something about Neville.” Pooley peered over his shoulder towards the dejected figure. “I can’t stand seeing him like that.”
“All in good time,” said Omally, giving his nose a tap. “I am sure I shall be able to effect some compromise which will satisfy both parties and get us one or two freemans into the bargain. For now though the map must be the thing.”
Jim had his doubts but applied himself once more. “What are we looking for?” he asked very shortly.
Omally took out his Asprey’s fountain pen, which by virtue of its quality had withstood its ordeal by water with remarkable aplomb, or la plume, as the French would have it. “If a pattern exists here I shall have it,” he said boldly. “When it comes to solving a conundrum, the Omallys take over from where the fellow with the calabash and the deerstalker left off. Kindly turn the map in my direction.”
“Whilst you are solving the Enigmatic Case of the Cerean Cipher,” said Pooley sarcastically, “I shall be off to the bar for another brace of Large. I am at least getting pleasure from my newly acquired wealth.”
The ordnance survey map had received more than a little attention on his return. “Looks very nice,” he said. “I didn’t know that there was a streak of William Morris in you, John. Taken to designing wallpaper, is it?”
“Silence,” said Omally. “If it is here, I will have it.”
Jim sucked at his pint. “What are all those?” he asked, pointing to a network of squiggles.
“The drainage system of the borough.”
“Very good, and those?”
“All the houses that to my knowledge have recently fitted loft insulation.”
“You are nothing if not thorough. And the curlicues?”
“That is a personal matter, I have left nothing to chance.”
Pooley stifled a snigger. “You surely don’t believe that an alien strikeforce has plotted out the homes of your female conquests as a guideline to their invasion?”
“You can never tell with aliens.”
“Indeed.” Pooley watched the Irishman making crosses along a nearby side-road. “Might I venture to ask what you are plotting now?”
“Morris Minors,” said Omally.
Jim stroked his beard reflectively. “John,” he said, “I think that you are going about this in the wrong way. The Professor suggested that we look for some kind of landmarks, surely?”
“All right then.” Omally handed Jim his cherished pen. “You are obviously in tune with the Professor’s reasoning, you find it.”
Pooley pushed out his lip once more but rose to the challenge. “Right then,” he said, “landmarks it is. What do we have?”
“The War Memorial.” Pooley marked a cross. “The Public Library.” Pooley marked another.
Twenty minutes later the map had the appearance of a spot the ball contest form that had been filled in by a millionaire.
“I’ve run out,” said Omally.
“So has your pen,” said Jim, handing his friend the now ruined instrument. The two peered over the devastated map. “One bloody big mess,” said Jim. “I cannot make out a thing.”
“Certainly the crosses appear a little random.”
“I almost thought we had it with the subscribers to Angling Times though.”
“I could do with another drink.”
“We haven’t done those yet.”
Omally pressed his hands to his temples. “There is not enough ink in the country to plot every drinker in Brentford.”
“Go and get them in then.” Pooley handed John one of the Professor’s pound notes. “I’ll keep at it.”
Omally was a goodly time at the bar. Croughton the potbellied potman, finding himself under the sudden overwhelming strain of handling the bar single-handed while Neville sought divine guidance, had begun to crack and was panicking over the drinks. The Swan now swelled with customers and arguments were breaking out over cloudy beer and short change. Omally, seizing the kind of opportunity which comes only once in a lifetime, argued furiously that he had paid with a fiver; the flustered potman, being in no fit state to argue back, duly doled out the change without a whimper.
Omally pocketed the four well-won oncers, reasoning that the news of such an event might well unbalance the sensitive Pooley’s mind and put him at a disadvantage over the map plotting. When he returned to the table bearing the drinks he was somewhat surprised to find that the expression Jim Pooley now wore upon his face mirrored exactly that of Neville the part-time barman. “Jim?” asked John. “Jim, are you all right?”
Pooley nodded gently. “I’ve found it,” he said in a distant voice. Omally peered over the map. There being no ink left in the pen, Pooley had pierced the points of his speculation through with defunct matchsticks. A pattern stood out clearly and perfectly defined. It was immediately recognizable as the heavenly constellation of Ursa Major, better known to friend and foe alike as The Plough.
“What are they?” Omally asked, squinting at the crucified map.
“It’s the pubs,” said Pooley in a quavering voice. “Every house owned by this brewery.”
Omally marked them off. It was true. All seven of the brewery pubs lay in the positions of the septentriones: the New Inn, the Princess Royal, The Four Horsemen, and the rest. And yes, sure as sure, there it was, there could be no mistake: at the point which marked Polaris, the North Star in Ursa Minor – the Flying Swan. “God’s teeth,” said John Omally.