The copperplate letterist, poised over the Brentford annals, stuck his pen back in his pocket, drew up his invoice for waiting-time in ball-point pen and buggered off back home. The bunting hung limp and meaningless, the hot-dog sellers and all their dire ilk slunk away and that, for all it was worth, was very much that.
38
“Let me out!” yelled Jim Pooley with renewed vigour. Outside, in the Professor’s magical garden, bees buzzed amongst the heavy blossoms and dragonflies hung in the air, their wings a blur of rainbow colours. Beyond the gate several members of the Brentford Olympic squad trudged by wearing grim expressions. “The lads” heads were down, Brian. “I think it’s beginning to give,” Jim panted, “lend a hand there.”
“Jim, it is not beginning to give, you will bruise your knuckles.”
Pooley ceased his fruitless beating and examined his skinned fists. “Do something,” he implored, “you are the big magician.”
“Sit down and rest yourself, there is time enough to act.”
Jim slouched over to the fireside chair and dropped into it. “This won’t do for me, Professor, this is no good at all.”
“I have a plan,” said the old man, “if you are interested in hearing it.”
Pooley regarded the ancient with no small degree of bitterness. “I don’t seem to have much else on today.”
“You won’t like it.”
“Now that I do find surprising, as I have loved every minute so far.”
“Jim, there is nothing I can offer you other than my deepest sympathy for your loss. I do not expect you to get over it for some considerable time to come, should you ever truly get over it. However, if you wish to save yourself then I suggest you work with me rather than against me.”
“Save myself from what? I don’t even know what we are supposed to be fighting against anyway.”
“I will tell you all that I know. And tonight we shall put the missing pieces of the puzzle together.”
“Tonight?” and “We?” said Jim, doubtfully.
“Tonight I shall perform a conjuration. It will be a complicated procedure and I shall require your assistance. I mean to conjure our enemy into our presence, constrain him by magic and compel him to furnish us with the necessary wherewithal by which to destroy him.”
“Just like that?”
“Anything but ‘just like that’, it will be extremely dangerous. I doubt that he will come willingly. Alone I may not be able to contain him, will you help me?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“Not really.”
“Then I shall be pleased to. In the meanwhile, how about me telephoning for a couple of strong lads to knock us a hole in the wall? It wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of fresh air, now, would it?”
Jim rose to take up the telephone but the Professor drew it beyond his reach. “I understand that this is something of an unofficial holiday today,” he said. “It would prove difficult to get someone at such short notice.”
“I know lots of likely lads,” said Jim brightly, “and I have nothing else to do. Hand me the telephone, it will be the work of but a minute.”
“I think not, Jim. This is a grade two listed building, we can’t just have holes knocked in it, willy-nilly, now can we?”
“Hm,” said Jim. “It is an emergency after all, perhaps a 999 call then?”
Professor Slocombe shook his head. “Definitely not,” said he. “That is the last thing we want. In fact I have gone to some lengths to see that we shall not be bothered by Inspectre Hovis and his boys in blue.”
“Oh yes?” said Jim, without enthusiasm. “And how is this?”
“A certain chess-playing chum of mine. A Mr Rune.”
“Oh,” said Jim, looking about, “I like a game of chess, I didn’t know you had a board.”
“I don’t.”
“Then you play at your friend’s house?”
“No.” The Professor tapped at his forehead. “Mental chess, Jim, telepathic.”
“But of course,” said Jim Pooley, “how silly of me, now about the phone “No,” said Professor Slocombe.
The constables sat in the briefing room. They’d had a rotten day what with all the disappointment and everything, and if that wasn’t enough, now Hovis had called yet another meeting. They had all slunk away from the last one wondering how they could avoid any further involvement. Fearing, not without good cause, that in such situations as the arrest of gold bullion robbers, “shooters” were likely to be wielded. And the likely wielders would be trigger-happy police officers.
Before them, Hovis perched upon the table, a gaunt bird of prey. “Are we sitting comfortably?” he asked. “Then I’ll begin.”
“Sir?” said Constable Meek.
“Yes, Meek?”
“Sir, about this gasometer business, the lads and I were wondering.”
“Yes, Meek?”
“About the way in, sir? Into the gasometer.”
Hovis took out his “Regal Chimer” and flipped open the cover. “I am expecting a visitor,” said he, “who is going to put you straight on all the details. In fact at any moment now.”
The door of the briefing room swung open to admit the entrance of a curious-looking man. He was well over six feet in height, bald of head, heavy of brow and jowl and somewhat wild of eye. His ample frame was encased in a flowing black robe constrained about the portly waist by a scarlet cummerbund.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Mr Hugo Rune.” The self-styled Perfect Master and Logos of the Aeon bowed towards his doubtful audience.
Constable Meek leapt immediately to his feet. “Hugo Rune, I arrest you in the name of the law. You are not obliged to say anything but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence.”
“Not now, Meek,” said Inspectre Hovis.
“But, sir, this man is wanted in connection with numerous offences in breach of the Fraudulent Mediums Act, the Witchcraft Act of 1307, the … the …”
“Not now, Meek.”
“Sir, it is my bounden duty to arrest this man, he is a charlatan and a con-man.”
“Not now.”
“Sir, we have a file on him a yard wide.”
“Meek, sit down.”
“But, sir …”
“Sit down. Mr Rune has agreed to help us in this most sensitive matter. I have offered him immunity from prosecution in return.”
“A supergrass!” said Meek. “So that’s his game now, is it?”
“Sit down and shut up, Meek.”
“But, sir …”
Rune took a step forward, and stood towering over the young officer. “I can seal your mouth with a single word,” said he, “and you will be forced to sup tea through your nostril.”
“Threatening behaviour. I’ll add that to the charge sheet.”
“Sit down, Meek, Mr Rune is helping us with our inquiries. During this period, he is under my protection.”
“And afterwards?”
Hovis looked at Rune. “We will see.”
“Oh, will we?” said Rune. “And I the only man who can get you into the gasometer!”
“That remains to be seen.”
Hugo Rune drew himself up to his full improbable height. “I am Rune,” quoth he, “Rune whose eye is darkness, Rune whose brain fathoms the impossible conundra. Rune whose soul seeks ever the light of infinite knowledge.”
“That also remains to be seen.”
“Then be it as it will, I shall take my leave now and my chances as they present themselves. Goodbye.” Rune turned upon his heel.
“Not so fast. If you succeed, I will waive any other charges.”
“But, sir!”
“Do shut up, Meek. Rune, kindly tell us what you have to say.”
“Mr Rune,” said Mr Rune.
“Mr Rune then, if you will.”
“All right, you may find it difficult to comprehend, but I will do my best to simplify matters for you.”
Hovis made an exasperated face. “Then kindly do so, we have little enough time to waste.”
“So be it.” Rune clapped his enormous hands together and a shaven-headed acolyte in shabby robes of a saffron hue, entered the room, burdened by the weight of several ancient tomes. He had a small red R tatooed on his forehead. “Master,” he said.