“No, you wouldn’t. He’s a nutter. Lives in a world of fantasy.”
“Unlike us,” said Johnny Boy.
“Exactly,” said Icarus Smith. “But he’s one of the reasons that we have to get out of here fast. Cormerant has my address; he’ll go there to get the luggage locker key. I don’t want any harm to come to my family.”
“Shame,” said a voice.
“Oh dear,” said Johnny Boy.
“Just put your hands up,” said the voice. It was the voice of the chauffeur.
Icarus raised his hands and turned around. Johnny Boy did likewise.
“You’re very nifty with locks, aren’t you?” said the chauffeur. “I just missed you. Happily I heard your little mate’s heels clicking down the corridor.”
“Sorry,” said Johnny Boy.
“Never mind,” said Icarus.
“Yeah well, never mind,” said the chauffeur. “I wasn’t coming to bring you your breakfast, or anything. I was coming to put a bullet through each of your heads. And I can do it as easily here as back in the cell.” The chauffeur raised his gun and pointed it at the head of Icarus Smith.
“No,” said Icarus, “don’t. You don’t understand what’s going on here. You don’t understand who you’re working for. What you’re working for. Cormerant isn’t a human, he’s a—”
“Forget it,” said the chauffeur. “You’re dead, the two of you.”
And he cocked his pistol and squeezed the trigger.
“No, please …” Icarus covered his face. “No, please don’t …”
But.
There was a flash and a bang.
Icarus gasped and clutched at his head.
And then he heard the screaming.
His eyes, which had been tightly closed, flashed open.
To see before him a terrifying sight.
The chauffeur was squirming, his arms flailing and his head twisting backwards on his neck. From his chest projected a golden crescent. His feet were some twelve inches from the flagstoned floor and kicking violently. The chauffeur contorted in a paroxysm of pain and then went limp and sagged like a broken doll.
The golden crescent swished away. The chauffeur fell to the floor and lay there dead.
And then Icarus saw him. The man who now stood over the chauffeur’s body. The man who had driven the blade through his body and lifted him off his feet. The man just stood there, calmly sheathing his golden blade. He was a man, but he was more than a man. A golden aura glowed about him. Bright white light was haloed all around his head.
Icarus stared at the glowing man, then down at the lifeless carcass of the chauffeur and then Icarus did what any reasonable man would do.
He was violently sick.
“How are you feeling now?” asked the saviour of Icarus Smith when the lad had recovered what senses he had.
“Not good,” said Icarus, “but you. I know you, don’t I?”
“You saw me today and I saw you. We were both after the same thing. The briefcase. I’ve been following you ever since. I hid in the boot of the long dark automobile.”
“In the barber’s shop,” said Icarus. “I saw you in Stravino’s barber’s shop.”
“Captain Ian Drayton, at your service.” The captain saluted.
“But you’re …”
“Don’t say the word,” said Captain Ian.
“Angel,” said Johnny Boy. “He’s an angel. Only the third one I’ve ever seen.”
“So both of you know. You’ve both taken the professor’s drug.”
“You know all about that, do you?” said Johnny Boy.
“We’ve had this place under surveillance for a very long time. We know most of what goes on in here.”
“The professor’s dead,” said Johnny Boy. “They killed him.”
“I feared as much.”
“Hold on,” said Icarus. “I want to know what is going on here.”
“There’s no time now,” said Captain Ian. “But I’ll tell you everything you need to know. There is someone else I have to rescue first. I was hoping that you might assist me in this.”
“I think we owe you one,” said Icarus. “Who needs rescuing?”
“A detective,” said Captain Ian. “A very famous detective.”
“Sherlock Holmes?” said Johnny Boy.
“Lazlo Woodbine,” said Captain Ian.
“Lazlo Woodbine?” Johnny Boy scratched at his little dolly head. “Lazlo Woodbine is here?”
“He was brought in unconscious this evening. They’re holding him in the medical facility. There’s a doctor interviewing him now.”
“I don’t like the way you said doctor,” said Johnny Boy.
“The doctor is, as you might say, a wrong’un.”
“Hold on,” said Icarus. “This Woodbine character. How was he dressed? Was he wearing his now legendary trenchcoat and a fedora?”
“No, actually he was wearing an old tweed jacket.”
Icarus let out a plaintive sigh.
“That was one hell of a plaintive sigh,” said Johnny Boy. “Why did you let that out?”
“Because of the old tweed jacket. That’s the disguise he likes to wear. He believes that it fools people into believing he’s a reporter for the Brentford Mercury.”
“I didn’t know Lazlo Woodbine ever wore a disguise,” said Johnny Boy.
“He doesn’t,” said Icarus. “Because the man who is here is not the real Lazlo Woodbine. The man who is here is my barking mad brother.”
“What?” went Johnny Boy.
“My brother,” said Icarus. “The one with the smouldering socks. The one who I told you was a nutter. The one who lives in a world of fantasy. The one who believes that he’s Lazlo Woodbine. That’s not the real Lazlo Woodbine they’ve brought in here. That’s my lunatic brother.”
12
Now, I’m an only child. They broke the mould before they made me. And being an only child means that you’re a loner. You don’t have any big brothers to get you out of sticky situations. You have to learn to deal with things yourself. To think on your feet, or even when you’re off them.
And, like I’ve told you before, I work only the four locations. My office, the bar, the alleyway and the rooftop. No great detective ever needs more. So, when I awoke after falling into that deep dark whirling pit of oblivion, to find myself in a fifth and unscheduled location, I had to think on my feet, or in this case, off them.
Yes siree.
By golly.
“Open your eyes, Woodpecker.” I heard the voice of Sam Maggot, but I wasn’t opening my eyes.
“Come on, you son of a bitch, we know you’re awake.”
“OK,” I said. “I’m awake already. But I’m not opening my eyes.”
“Oh please do,” said Sam in a voice like syrup. “There’s something I want you to see.”
“What’s that?”
“A little piece of video footage.”
“Oh, fine,” I said. “I’ll watch that. Would you mind turning all the lights out, so I can see the screen clearly?”
“You’re wacko, Woodpecker. But OK.”
Now Sam had a sidekick. Guys like Sam always have a sidekick. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something. I’ve never had a sidekick myself, because, like I say, I’m a loner. Sam’s sidekick switched the lights off and I opened my eyes. The room was in darkness, and hey, darkness is darkness, right? I could have been in any darkness. In the darkness of my office, or wherever.
“Just watch the screen,” said Sam and a television screen lit up, as the eyes of a beautiful babe will do when she sees me coming out of the shower.
“Alleyway behind the Crimson Teacup,” said the voice of Sam. “Closed-circuit surveillance footage. This evening, eight thirty p.m.”
I cast a steely peeper at the footage. There was the alleyway, and there was me, busting the back door. And there were the two guys standing at the end of the alleyway talking. And there was me, ducking back, unholstering the trusty Smith and West End Girls and then leaping out and gunning the two of them down and …
“Hold it right there,” I shouted. “Play that footage again.”