Part 24 (1/2)

'Stuff you,' said Arthur.

'If you'd be so kind. Yes please.'

'What are you doing here in my office anyway? You retrieved the diamonds. What do you want?'

'I want my money.'

'Money? What money?'

'My time and a half for after midnight. And there were some out-of-pocket expenses. I've filled in a chitty.'

'Filled in a chitty? Have you gone stark raving mad? You don't get any time and a half after mid-night. You're a conjuration. Moulded from etheric s.p.a.ce by a process of controlled resonance, involving the use of certain restricted words of power. Imbued with a rudimentary intelligence and the physical wherewithal to achieve a certain end. To wit, the reclamation of the diamonds. This you have achieved. Hence, your work is done.'

'You're making me redundant,' complained the wrinkly heap of skin.

'You are redundant,' said Arthur Kobold.'Then I want my redundancy money.

'I don't think I'm making myself clear.' Arthur rose from his chair, plodded around his desk, plucked up the swathe of skin, tucked it to his chest, folded it once, folded it twice, smoothed out the wrinkles and folded it a third time. Then he went over to his filing cabinet, opened the top drawer, dropped the neatly folded redundant conjuration into a vacant file and slammed shut the drawer.

'Get the picture?' he asked.

'Let me out,' cried a m.u.f.fled voice. 'Unfold me at once, you fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Let me out, I say.'

Arthur Kobold returned to his chair. 'Put a sock in it,' he said. 'Or it's the paper shredder for you.'

Inspectre Hovis was in the Portakabin. He was shredding paper, loads and loads of paper. He had already shredded the important case notes for no less than twenty-three big unsolveds. Not to mention a quant.i.ty of vital doc.u.ments, bound for the desk of Chief Inspector Lytton, which had turned up on his by accident.

Hovis was thoroughly enjoying himself When the telephone began to ring, he had considerable diffi-culty in finding it.

But when he had, he picked up the receiver and said, 'Inspectre Hovis speaking,' the way that only he could say it.

'Sherringford, my dear fellow,' said a voice. 'None the worse for your regrettable wetting, I trust.'

'Who is this speaking?'

'It is I. Rune.'

'Rune? I don't believe I know any Rune.' Hovis floundered frantically amongst the shreddings. He had to find another phone, get this call traced. 'Rune, you say. How do you spell that please?'

'As in Rune, you buffoon. You know me well enough. My file lies before you. Somewhere beneath the shreddings, I have no doubt.'

'I do believe your name rings a small bell.' Hovis ceased his foolish flounderings. The Portakabin did not possess, amongst its many hidden charms, another telephone.

'A small bell?' roared the voice of Rune. 'How dare you, sir. My name is a clarion call. A mighty chime of hope, issuing from the tower of Ultimate Truth. For such as was, is now, and shall be ever more.

'Quite so,' said Hovis. 'How may I help you?'

'Help me? Help me? You think that you can help the man who has brought succour to the crowned heads of Europe? The man who taught the Dalai Lama to play darts? The man who shared his sleeping-bag with Rasputin, J. Edgar Hoover and Sandra Dee? The man who once scaled the Eiffel Tower in fisherman's waders, to win a bet with Charles de Gaulle?'

'What do you want, Rune?' asked Inspectre Hovis.

'Do you still have my diamonds?' Rune enquired.

'What diamonds are you referring to?'

'Oh wake up, Hovis, do. The G.o.dolphins. I sprayed the d.a.m.n street with them. At no small risk to my health and well being. Thought they might stir up your interest. Tickle your fancy. Do you still have them?'

'No,' said Hovis. 'I don't.'

'Nabbed by the blighter who reduced you to your underwear. Am I right?'

'You are.'

'Of course I am. I always am. You will meet me this afternoon. Three of the post meridian clock.

At The Wife's Legs Cafe, Brentford. There we shall discuss matters and you will stand me a b.u.t.tered m.u.f.fin and a pot of Lapsang. Come alone and unarmed. Your knighthood depends on it.' And then the phone went dead.

Hovis thrashed shreddings from his chair and flopped into it. This was a turn up for the book and no mistake. Rune calling him. This put the cat amongst the pigeons and the n.i.g.g.e.r in the woodpile. It was a fine kettle of fish.

Hovis took out a small greasy clay pipe, filled it with opium and rolled plug tobacco and lit it with alucifer. This was a regular three-pipe problem and no mistake.

He tossed the match carelessly aside and it fell into a waste-paper basket. Here, in the final moments of its short, yet brilliant career, that match pa.s.sed on that thing which Prometheus stole from Olympus, to a screwed up Kleenex tissue.

This tissue would smoulder gently away for quite some time. And it would be several hours before the fire began in earnest (not to be confused with the other Earnest). But when this fire did get started, it would rip through the Portakabin, reducing it to blackened ruination, in less than ten minutes.

Sadly, Inspectre Hovis would not be around to enjoy the conflagration. He would be in Brent-ford.

In The Wife's Legs Cafe, drinking Chateau La Swasantnerf and listening to the words of Hugo Rune.

Mad and mysterious be the ways of fate that shape our ends. Yet the veil that covers the future's face may well be woven by the hand of mercy.

Some say.

...and the minister denied that recent allegations of s.e.xual misconduct, illegal appropriation of Govern-ment funds and direct involvement in the sale of nuclear weapons to a Third-World power, had any-thing to do with his resignation. He merely wished to spend more time with his wife and children.

Dreaming about trains.

'Upwards of twenty-three thousand travellers are expected to attend the summer solstice festival in Gunnersbury Park on the border of Brentford tomorrow, where world-famous rock band Gandhi's Hairdryer will be performing. Lord Crawford, whose family have owned historic Gunnersbury House and its landscaped grounds for the last two hundred and thirty years, said that he hoped everyone would have a jolly good time and that if anyone got caught short, it was OK for them to use his toilet.'

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks switched off the radio set. 'There you go, he said.

Tuppe bounced up and down. 'I'm trying to follow this. The festival is not really going to be in Gunners-bury Park.'

'No. That's to fool the police. The festival is on Star Hill. We know this because Bone is a friend of the Gandhi's drummer and he heard about it months ago.

'Whacky stuff,' said Tuppe. 'I love it.' Cornelius came b.u.mbling down the bus. 'Watcha,' said the small fellow. 'Finally broken surface?'

'Yes thanks. Did I just hear that the gig's been moved to Gunnersbury Park?'

Tuppe tapped his nose. 'It's all a secret. I'll tell you later.'