Part 24 (2/2)
Podmore smiled unpleasantly.
By now people at adjoining tables were glancing over with curiosity and whispering.
Podmore dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. Then he smiled at Arthur and asked, ”Is your friend Martin well?”
”I expect so,” Arthur said.
”Hmm,” Podmore said. ”I must say, you're in good spirits, Mr Shaw. The last time we spoke you seemed rather-frankly, rather timid. Now here you are, barging into the Savoy, dressed like a savage, ordering Mr Weston and Mr Frisch and what's-his-name away from the table.”
Snaith flinched.
”I confess,” Podmore said, ”I'd like to know what you think you have up your sleeve.”
”All right,” Frisch said. ”Okay, gentlemen. That's enough beating about the bush. Is this business, or is this personal? What's going on here?”
”I'm here to make a proposal,” Arthur said.
Podmore put his napkin down. ”Well, let's hear it.”
”I want you to give me Josephine, and Gracewell, without further unpleasantness.”
Podmore laughed. Snaith-clearly a born toady-laughed too. Oh G.o.d, George said, putting his head in his hands. Neither Arthur nor Podmore listened to him. Podmore stopped laughing, stroked his beard, and stared with sudden ferocity into Arthur's eyes. It was all Arthur could do not to fall out of his chair. His skin p.r.i.c.kled; he felt shame, terror, despair, humiliation. He was worthless, lower than a worm, a ridiculous scarecrow of a man.... He buckled under Podmore's telepathic broadside, under the thunder of psychic cannon. Podmore's eyes had become very large and round, and they seemed to s.h.i.+ne with a horrible black light. Sweat trickled down Arthur's brow. His hand shook, and the veins beneath his skin seemed to bulge and writhe disgustingly-he was a loathsome, decaying creature. He felt a terrible urge to get up and run. He didn't. He'd survived Gracewell's Engine. Lesser men had gone mad. He knew what discipline was. He clutched his napkin-ring so tightly that his knuckles hurt. He silently recalled the symbols of the Engine, and recited the names and mystical properties of the planets, and the stations of the Underground, and some fragments of Josephine's poetry that he knew by heart, and some bits of d.i.c.kens, and whatever else he happened to have in his head.
A waiter approached the table bearing a silver tray, but stumbled as if he'd been struck in the head, and fell to his knees, spilling hot borscht all over the floor. Frisch ran to check his pulse and help him back to his feet.
Podmore looked down at the waiter. ”Oh dear,” he said. ”Poor fellow.”
Arthur took a deep breath. He felt as if he'd been beaten, but Podmore was sweating too. Podmore looked surprised-not afraid, by any means, but at least annoyed.
Podmore leaned forward, and whispered, ”Is Atwood here? Sun? The women? Any of your colleagues?”
Arthur shook his head.
”No,” Podmore said. ”No. I would know ... But you're not alone, are you, Shaw?”
”Oh G.o.d,” George said. ”Oh G.o.d, Arthur. You should go home-you're not well.”
”Go away, George, please-it's better if you hear none of this.”
”Arthur believes me to be a magician,” Podmore said. ”Of notorious reputation. He thinks I stole his fiancee. And he blames me for the burning of his friend Atwood's house-certainly an unfortunate incident. I hear that one Sergeant Jessop, a policeman, died in the fire.”
George went pale.
”I'm sorry to hear that,” Arthur said. ”I liked Jessop. He was a good man.”
”Well,” Podmore snapped, ”he shouldn't have worked for Atwood, then.”
George sputtered. ”Burning? Dead policemen?” He threw down his napkin and stood, with an expression on his face that suggested he was going to try to summon the authorities, if only he could think of the proper authority to call. Podmore barked no and he sat back down.
Podmore picked up his fork and stood it on its end. Snaith stood, stepped over to the shelf behind Arthur's head, and picked up a sharp knife. Moving by instinct, Arthur reached out and knocked over Snaith's wine-gla.s.s. Snaith slipped on spilled borscht. He lay on his back looking confused, as if he had no idea what had just happened or why he'd stood up in the first place.
They had by now attracted the attention of every other table in the restaurant. People were turning to stare.
A waiter approached, bearing another tray of soup. He trembled as he served them, then fled-rejoining a long row of waiters who stood by the wall, watching anxiously.
Arthur said, ”George-I'm sorry.”
He snapped the stem of his wine-gla.s.s, causing the leg of George's chair to snap so that he fell on the floor and hit his head on the chair behind him. The dowager dame who'd been sitting in that chair gave a little shriek, then got to her feet and left, taking her party with her. A couple of waiters quickly came and led George off, bleeding from the head, in search of first aid.
Podmore pushed his soup to one side. ”Very well. Frisch-go. Snaith-go.”
Both men stood at once, with the quick obedience of well-drilled soldiers, and left without a word. Frisch wore an expression of mild confusion; Snaith, relief.
”Well, Shaw. I see Atwood has taught you a trick or two.”
”Give me Josephine, Your Lords.h.i.+p; Josephine and Gracewell.”
”Did you come here to threaten me? I am tremendously insulted-not to mention inconvenienced-by this display. I doubt Mr Frisch will do business with me in future. People will talk-”
He looked around the restaurant, observed that he had an audience, and sighed. ”I'll return your woman to you. I don't need her any more.”
”And Gracewell?”
”I don't want to hurt you, Shaw. Every act of violence is a stain on the soul. It weakens; it corrupts. I do not want to go to war. I do not want to conduct myself in this unpleasant way. You may find this hard to believe, but I did not become a magician out of greed, or anger, or to play stupid tricks, but to purify my soul; and I still hold out hope of Heaven when I die. I will ascend then among the spheres in the usual orderly fas.h.i.+on.” He sipped his wine.
”I've seen your thugs,” Arthur said. ”I know what they are.”
”Do you? A necessity, that's what they are. A regrettable necessity. Because of people like Atwood.”
”A regrettable necessity,” Arthur said. ”Quite.” He glanced at the entrance to the restaurant, and shook his head. ”I didn't come alone, Your Lords.h.i.+p.”
Podmore slowly put his gla.s.s down, and turned his head. ”Oh, good G.o.d.”
He stood, resting his hands on the table.
Mrs Archer entered the restaurant, hanging off her great mute son's arm, breezing past anxious waiters, s.n.a.t.c.hing a peach off a stranger's table.
Arthur glanced at his watch. She'd promised him half an hour to get George out of the way and attempt to negotiate. She was a little early. Eager, no doubt. Keen to see who was stronger, her or Podmore. She bit cheerfully into the peach.
They stared at each other across the restaurant. Podmore swayed a little, his knuckles whitening on the table-top. Mrs Archer stepped forward, leaning, as if into a high wind. In the straight line across the Savoy restaurant between the two of them, people flinched, choked on their wine, or suddenly found reason to wipe their mouths, check their watches, and head for the exits. Waiters bearing trays declined to cross that line, turning back towards the kitchen.
Podmore muttered under his breath, invoking names that Arthur had never heard before, even in Atwood's books. A phalanx of white-ap.r.o.ned waiters formed and marched across the restaurant towards Archer, with the apparent intention of forcibly removing her. Her son stepped forward, scowling, to block their path.
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