“That will not be necessary.” Wellington Bellis quaffed the beer that he wouldn’t be paying for, because chief inspectors never have to, which is a tradition, or an old charter, or something, no matter where you might happen to be in the known, or indeed the unknown Universe.
Along Tinto’s bar counter, laughing policemen laughed amongst themselves, poked with their truncheons at things they shouldn’t be poking at and laughed some more when these things fell to the floor and broke.
“And I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop them doing that,” said Tinto to Bellis.
“So you’re telling me,” said Wellington Bellis, “that you put a lot of ideas into the head of this wayward bear?”
“More than a lot,” said Tinto. “Most.”
“You are the source of inspiration to him, as it were?”
“Yes, you might say that.”
“Same again,” said Wellington Bellis, offering up his empty glass.
Tinto hastened without haste to oblige.
“You see,” said Bellis as Tinto did so, “we have a positive ID on the mass-murderer who did for the orchestra at the Opera House. The backstage doorman identified him.”
“Then you arrest the blighter,” said Tinto, “and do so with my blessings. If you need them, which in my opinion you probably will, as I am lately informed by the vicar of the local Church of Mechanology that The End Times are imminent.”
“Yes,” said Bellis, “word of such seems to be reaching me from all sides of late. But let us apply ourselves to the matter presently in hand.”
“The mass-murderer,” said Tinto.
“That very fellow. You see, it is my theory that he is not working alone. In fact I suspect he is an evil cat’s-paw working on behalf of some supercriminal. A sinister mastermind behind his vile doings.”
Tinto nodded thoughtfully, though his printed face smiled on.
“A criminal mastermind who put ideas into the head of this monster. Who is the source of his inspiration, as it were. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Well,” said Tinto. “Ah, excuse me, please, I have to serve this lady.”
The lady in question was Amelie, the long-legged dolly from Nadine’s Diner. The dolly well known to Jack.
Bellis looked on approvingly and made a wistful face. Now there was a good-looking dolly, he thought. A dolly who could certainly bring a fellow such as himself a great deal of pleasure. And solace, too, of course, because Chief Inspector Bellis was, in his special way, a police chief. And so he was, as with all police chiefs, having a rough one today. What with all the pressure being put upon him from his superiors to get results. And his wife in the process of divorcing him and everything. And him trying to give up drinking, and everything. And his India rubber self now being so perished that bits and bobs of him kept regularly dropping off. And everything.
“Bring me something long and cold with plenty of alcohol in it,” said Amelie to Tinto.
“I don’t think my wife’s available,” said Tinto.[44]
“Just get me the drink, you clockwork clown.”
Tinto did as he was bid, chuckling as he did so.
Amelie turned to Chief Inspector Bellis. “And have you done anything?” she asked.
“I’ve done all manner of things.”
“About my boyfriend. I reported him missing. The gormsters on your front desk just laughed and looked down the front of my frock.”
Bellis, doing likewise, ceased this doing. “We’re on the case, madam,” he said.
“Well, you’d better get a move on. I’ve just come from a chapter meeting and from what I’ve heard there’s not going to be much time left to do anything.”
Tinto placed Amelie’s drink before her. It was short and warm, but it did have plenty of alcohol in it.
“Chapter meeting?” said Bellis to Amelie, averting his eyes from her breasts and straying them down to her legs.
“Chapter meeting, you dirty old pervert, I am a member of The Daughters of the Unseeable Upness.”
“Ah,” said Bellis, “one of those.”
“And according to our Chapter Mother, tonight is the night of the Big Closing. After tonight there will be no more nights, ever.”
“Really?” said Bellis. “And you personally hold to this belief?”
“I do,” said Amelie. “Which is why I intend to get very, very drunk tonight and, if given the opportunity, fulfil my wildest fantasies.”
“Really?” said Bellis. “And might these fantasies include having sex with a hero?”
“Women’s fantasies generally do. When they don’t include having sex with an absolute villain.”
“Interesting,” said Bellis. “So would these fantasies include having sex with a police hero? One who brought to book the evil mastermind, the source of inspiration who puts ideas into the head of a mass-murderer?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Amelie, tipping her drink down her throat. “Well …” said Wellington Bellis.
And, “Well,” said the other Eddie to his failing counterpart. “As time is now rapidly running out for you and the chickens are on a tight schedule, we’d better let you say hello to Her Madge, eh?”
“That would be nice,” said Eddie, tottering somewhat as he did so. “Then I could wish her well and everything.”
“You are such a well-adjusted bear,” said Eddie’s other self.
“I try my best,” said Eddie. “Oh, and might I ask you something?”
“Indeed, my friend, you might.”
“Well, I was just wondering – what would happen if something were to happen to Her Majesty?”
“Happen?” said the other Eddie.
“Something bad,” said Eddie. “Some accident or something.”
“That is not going to happen. Believe me, it is not.”
“No,” said Eddie, “of course not. But say it did. Say the unthinkable occurred, something that you were unable to prevent. Some tragedy, resulting in Her Majesty’s untimely demise.”
“Such is unthinkable, of course.”
“But imagine if you did think it. How would it affect the chickens’ plans for inter-world domination?”
“Rather hugely, I imagine.” And the other Eddie laughed. “You see, there is no royal line of succession in the chicken queendom. Too many princesses, you see. The chicken queendom is a matriarchy, democratically elected. But a queen will live for hundreds of years – chickens do if they’re not interfered with. But it is the tradition that a new queen will overthrow and reverse all the policies made by a previous queen.”
“And why is that?” asked Eddie.
“It’s a tradition,” said the other Eddie. “It is, of course, the tradition everywhere amongst politicians. Here, for instance, in the USA, each new candidate for the presidency promises the people that should he gain the position of power, he will dump all his predecessor’s policies and begin anew. And if the population believe him, they vote him in.”
“And so he does what he says?” said Eddie.
“No,” said the other one. “He does nothing of the kind. Because he lied to the people. The problem with this world is that everyone lies to everyone else. Nobody tells the truth. Nobody. That’s another reason why things are in such a mess. But chickens cannot lie. They always tell the truth. Should this Queen die, the new Queen would reverse everything. Not because she wanted to, but because it is tradition. Which is why it’s a very good thing that chicken queens live for such a long time, or there would be no progress.”
“Interesting,” said Eddie Bear. “So can I meet the Queen now, please?”
“Now, I’m saying please,” said Samuel J. Maggott, Police Chief of LAPD, “because I’m such a nice man, and because I bear you no malice for the mayhem you wrought upon the personnel of this precinct.”
“Really?” said the other Jack. “That’s nice all round then, isn’t it?”
They were in Sam’s office, the other Jack handcuffed to the visitors’ chair, a goodly number of knocked-about-looking officers standing around looking “useful”. A troubled young detective smoking a cigarette. A feisty young female officer paring her fingernails with a bowie knife.