“That bastard Bob is not giving up,” Pooley climbed to his feet. “Thanks very much, Neville.”
The barman sniffed at the end of the dart. “Curare,” he said. “He was out to kill you, Jim, and in my pub, the bloody cheek.” Old Pete chuckled, Pooley had nothing to say. “Curare,” said Neville, “a distillation from the Amazon plant Cameracio Apolidorus. The natives boil up the tubers and the roots, you know. The poison maintains its potency for years, a single prick and you’ve less than a minute to say your prayers. Attacks the central nervous system, you see.”
“Thank you,” said Jim. “I had no idea you harboured an interest in toxicology.”
“I did a night-school course at the Arts Centre,” said the barman, “from their Poisoner in Residence. Funny what you remember.”
“Oh, dead amusing, yes. And how are you on anti-gravity? Your man Norman looks to be in some difficulty.”
Indeed the floating shopman was exhibiting signs of extreme discomfort. He was flattened against the ceiling and now very red in the face. “Oh help!” wailed Norman. “Get me down, for Godsake!”
Neville sighed deeply and climbed on to the bar counter, disciplinary knobkerry in hand. “Take hold,” he called. Norman gripped the knobkerry, the onlookers gripped the barman’s ankles. Amidst much puffing and blowing and with no small utterances of profanity, the zero-gravity shopkeeper was returned to terra firma and the weighted belt was hastily clamped once more about his waist.
“It’s handy stuff though,” said Norman, breathlessly. “Got it sewn into the jacket, you see.”
The onlookers saw. “Clever,” they said, wondering if the source of the free drinks had now dried up. “You are a genius, Norman.”
“A large brandy on me for Mr Einstein,” said Pooley, pressing his way through the crowd.
“My thanks, Jim.” Norman checked his belt. “Perhaps in my zeal, I overdid it. I shall have to watch the walk home, or I could end up in orbit.”
“Norman,” said Jim, “could I have a word or two with you in private?”
“As many words as you wish, Jim, what’s on your mind?”
Pooley led the shopkeeper away to a quiet corner. The onlookers looked on in disgust and purchased their own drinks. “A small word,” said Jim.
“And why not?” Norman tapped his nose. “From one millionaire to another.”
“Ah, you heard about my bet.”
“There’s not much stays quiet in Brentford. I do live next door to Bob after all.”
“Quite so, but listen, Norman. This Normanite of yours. A man wearing such a flying-jacket could, I suppose, drift up to the stadium, could he not?”
Norman looked doubtful. “If the wind was favourable. I don’t think I’d care to take my chances though. You could end up, well, up, indefinitely speaking.”
Jim nodded thoughtfully. “Somewhat dangerous, yes I agree. It’s a pity though.”
“What are you up to then, Jim?”
“Not me,” said Pooley, “the Professor. He wants to get a look at the stadium before it opens, some matter of public safety, I believe.”
“He’s got his free ticket, hasn’t he?”
“I understand he’d like a private viewing.”
“He’s a man of some influence, can’t he swing it with the organizers?”
“I don’t think they would approve, this is something of a secret operation.”
“Ooh.” Norman placed a finger to his lips. “Mum’s the word, eh? Well, I might be prevailed upon to …” He made thoughtful faces.
“To what, Norman?”
“To drive him up.”
“What?”
“A little top secret project of my own.” Norman spoke in the conspiratorial whisper much favoured by conspiratorial whisperers. “I have done a bit of a conversion job on the old Morris Minor. The Hartnell Harrier is now the Hartnell Air Car.” Pooley shook his head, the man was a genius. “A revolution in personal transportation with almost limitless potential in the fields of haulage, commuter-carriage, inter-city travel, et cetera, et cetera. Another first for Hartnell International.”
“Does it work?”
“Does it work? How dare you? It’s a bit spartan at present, only a prototype, but when they start rolling off the production line. I’ve come up with some great little modifications,” Norman rattled on with boundless enthusiasm, “a single tiny switch which cuts out those annoying red dashboard lights that always come on when you’re half-way up a motorway. Rear headlights to revenge yourself on those blighters who come up behind you at night with their main beams on. A sweety dispenser, in-car commode, automatic pilot, self-contained …”
“You don’t waste any time once you’ve an idea in your head,” Pooley put in hastily, to staunch the verbal flow which showed no immediate signs of abating.
“There’s no time like the present, Jim. A lot of it is still in the ideas stage, but the car does work, I’m telling you.”
“And would you be prepared to take the Professor up to the stadium?”
“Why not? I’d like a sneak preview myself. There are also one or two matters I’d like his advice on. Tit for tat, eh, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t!”
“When does he want to go?” Norman asked.
“Tomorrow night, how does that sound?”
“The night before the games start.”
“What?” said Jim. “They’ve brought them forward?”
“Yes, it was announced this morning, didn’t you know?”
“No, I did not, oh dear.” Jim chewed upon his knuckles.
“There’s no sweat, the car will be ready, sounds like a bit of an adventure. Yes, I shall look forward to it.” Norman raised his glass. It was empty. “Want another, Jim?”
“I’ll get them,” said Pooley. “Another pint?”
“No. Just a light ale, don’t want people thinking I’m a heavy drinker, light, heavy, get it, eh?” Norman tapped at his weighted belt and giggled foolishly. “Can’t keep a good man down, eh? Good man down? There I go again.” He creased up with mirth.
“Norman, you are a caution,” said Pooley, taking the glasses up to the bar. As he stood waiting to be served he pondered upon the rare coincidence that Norman had conceived and constructed the very means by which he and the Professor could enter the stadium, exactly when it was required, and that he should just happen to bump into him at the very moment. Many would argue that such a chance was one in a million, improbable to the point of near impossibility and they would no doubt be absolutely right.
42
By “towels up”, Pooley was what the English magician Crowley referred to as “nice drunk”. He wandered off down the Ealing Road, hands in pockets, roll-up between his teeth. Jim paused a moment outside Bob the Bookie’s, considering what form his retribution should take. It would have to keep for the present, Bob’s security was of the Fort Knox persuasion and Jim did not possess the necessary military hardware to storm the premises. “You will get yours,” he told the iron-bound doorway. Out of sheer badness, Jim ran his pocket-knife down the length of Bob’s parked Rolls-Royce and signed his handiwork with a flourished JP.
Half-way down the Albany Road, he wondered if he should pop into the Police Station and report the shabby man’s attempt on his life. Attempted murder was a punishable offence after all. But Jim’s recent encounters with the law, particularly that personified by Inspectre Hovis, led him to consider this action pure folly. And of course the Professor had said that he preferred no police intervention in his schemes.