The two braves entered. “We bring greetings from the tribes of the North,” said Paul. “We travel with speed of prairie wind to answer call of great white brother.”
“Hot moccasin,” Barry agreed, “we kid you not.”
“Quite so, gentlemen. Kindly be seated.” Espying the only chair, which was now occupied by Hovis, Paul and Barry lowered themselves cross-legged to the lino.
“We smoke many pipes, tell many tales,” said Paul hopefully. “Got plenty firewater in medicine bag.” He patted his designer briefcase with the buckskin fringes.
Inspectre Hovis shook his head firmly. “Smoke many pipes later, but for now, what news?”
“Much news.” Paul made expansive gestures. “Many wonders in Heavens and upon lands of the white-eyes. In Chiswick, they say, squaw give birth to papoose in shape of fish. Stars fall on Alabama, blue moon seen over Kentucky, famous TV personality named in ‘gay sex for sale’ scandal. Only last night, brother Barry see many strange things at sister’s ‘Ann Summers’ party. All portents show times of great tribulation ahead. Old Sandell predict …”
“Yes,” said Hovis, “such news troubles the heart of great white brother.” He tapped at his chest. “But is it not written that brave who beat about cactus and try pull buffalo hide over policeman’s eyes get banged up in the cells with much time to muse upon error of ways?”
“Point taken,” said Paul.
“So what news?”
“Much news,” Paul continued, “lorries you enquire about held up for an hour by traffic jam. Traffic jam caused by road-works in High Street. Road-works fracture gas main, all vehicles have to be abandoned while gas mains fixed for fear of explosion.”
“Yes,” said Hovis, “I know as much.”
“Ah,” said Paul, “but not know that it not Gas Board van that come out to fix leak.”
Hovis nodded thoughtfully. “Tell me more.”
“Look like Gas Board van,” Paul continued, “ID of driver seem genuine, driver spend much time chatting with policeman on duty at site while work done. But Gas Board deny all knowledge of either gas leak or call-out.”
Hovis nodded once more. “Very clever,” said he, “very clever, indeed.”
“Criminals cunning as desert dingo, but not too cunning for braves.”
“Go on then.”
“And how,” said Paul. “Now come clever bit that earn braves big kudos. We follow great white brother’s method and have pow-wow with constable who on duty at roadworks. Tell him perhaps he make a big mistake and you wear his wedding tackle on watch-chain when you find out. Him eager to oblige and tell us all he know.”
“Very good indeed, go on.”
Paul grinned. “Constable tell us that he actually escort Gas Board van through traffic jam from High Street on his bike. See van enter grounds of great gasometer, driver even bung him price of drink for his trouble.”
The Inspectre’s face fell. “Then it was a real Gas Board van after all!” he cried.
Paul shook his head, smirking mightily. “Nothing of sort,” said he. “Braves think things not add up so check with Gas Board again. Gas Board tells us they not own gasometer in Brentford, deny all knowledge. In fact, they tell us they never own gasometer in Brentford. There is no gasometer in Brentford.”
“What?” Inspectre Hovis scratched at his snowy pelt of hair. “But it’s there for all the world to see!”
“All world may see it, but it not bloody gasometer, that for certain.”
“Then what?”
“Braves suggest it headquarters of international crime syndicate.”
Inspectre Hovis wiped away the goodly amount of perspiration that now clung to his noble brow. “We get stuck into firewater now,” he said.
32
Omally was in a state of near exhaustion. Both mental and physical. He leant Marchant against Jennifer’s front fence and made what efforts he could to straighten his necktie and slick down his hair over the bald spot at the back. He shook the wrinkles from his trousers and gathered up what serviceable lilies remained into a pleasing composition. With unconvincing nonchalance, he pushed open the front gate, walked up the short path and rapped upon the front door. All looked the very picture of normality. Porsche in the garage, downstairs lights on. Presently, in response to his knockings, sounds issued from within, footsteps upon the parquet floor, bolts being drawn.
The front door opened on the chain and Jennifer looked out, cool, sophisticated, composed. “John Omally,” she said in a toneless voice, “I was expecting you.”
Indeed, thought John, as she dropped the chain and reopened the door. “I’ve brought you some flowers.”
Jennifer took the lilies and stared down at them with a face of pity. “They are dying,” she said, “how sad.” This was an unusual feminine response to a present of flowers and one quite new to Omally’s experience. “You’d best come in.” Omally did so, closing the front door behind him. “You would care for a drink I believe.” Jennifer laid the flowers carefully upon the hall table and led John towards the living-room.
He followed with some trepidation, giving the place a thorough scrutiny. Happily, of homicidal packages it was the nursery cupboard of Lafayette Ron’s mother. But it gave him little peace of mind. Something was wrong, although he couldn’t put a name to quite what.
“Do sit down.” Omally sat down. He watched Jennifer from the corner of his eye. She appeared to be having some difficulty locating the drink. She opened the doors of the television cabinet and shook her beautiful head.
“Is everything all right?” John asked. “Can I help at all?”
Jennifer turned upon him with unnatural speed. “Everything is just as it should be,” she said in an icy voice.
“You seem a little, well, lost.”
Jennifer Naylor smiled broadly, but it was a smile equally lacking in warmth. “I am just a little tired, perhaps you would …?”
“But of course, how ungallant of me.” Omally took himself over to the drinks cupboard, and extracted bottle and glasses with slow deliberation. Jennifer stood like a statue in the middle of the room, staring into space. John did not like the look of her one bit. It was more than possible that she was in a state of shock. Whatever she had seen in the gasometer had unhinged that brilliant mind. He would have to tread a very wary path. He decanted two professional Scotches and topped them up with ice. “Here you go then,” he said, approaching cautiously, “gold ones on the rocks.”
Jennifer took her glass and stared into it, rattling the ice cubes. “What do you want here?” she asked.
“A social call,” John lied, “nothing more. It’s a while since I’ve seen you. Here, come and sit with me on the sofa.” He took Jennifer gently by the arm, but she resisted and remained firmly rooted to the spot.