“It’s contagious then?” somebody asked.

“Contagious?” Omally gave a stage laugh. “Contagious… worse than the Black Death. We’ll have to go into quarantine. Bar the door Neville.”

Neville strode to the door and threw the brass bolts.

“But how long?” asked a patron whose wife had the dinner on.

Omally looked at Neville. “Two days?” he asked.

“Twenty-four hours,” said Neville. “Twelve if the weather keeps up.”

“Still,” Omally grinned, “you’ve got to look on the bright side. He’s certainly keeping the bar cool, like having the fridge door open.”

“Oh good,” said Neville unenthusiastically, “better put up a sign in the window, ‘The Flying Swan Welcomes You, Relax in the Corpse-Cool Atmosphere of the Saloon Bar’.”

Omally examined the tip of his prodding finger. It had a nasty blister on it which the Irishman recognized as frostbite. “If he gets much colder, we should be able to smash him up with a hammer and sweep the pieces into the street.”

The Swan’s patrons, some ten in all, who with the addition of Omally, Norman, who had hardly spoken a word since he entered the bar, and Neville, made up a most undesirable figure, were beginning to press themselves against the walls and into obscure corners. Most were examining their fingers and blowing upon them, some had already begun to shiver. Omally knew how easily mass hysteria can begin and he wondered now whether he had been wise in his yarn-spinning. But what had happened to the Captain? Clearly this was no natural ailment, it had to be the work of the villain calling himself Pope Alexander VI. Obviously his power could extend itself over a considerable distance.

Neville had fetched a white tablecloth and covered the Captain with it. There he stood in the very middle of the bar like some dummy in a store window awaiting a change of clothes. “If you’d let me throw him out none of us would be in this mess,” said Neville.

Omally rattled his glass on the bar. “I shall have to apply myself to this matter, I am sure that in some way we can save the situation, it is a thirsty business but.”

Neville snatched away the empty glass and refilled it. “If you can get me out of this,” he said, “I might be amenable to extending some credit to you in the future.”

Omally raised his swarthy eyebrows. “I will give this matter my undivided attention,” said he, retiring to a side table.

Time passed. The corpse, for all his unwelcome presence, did add a pleasantly soothing coolness to the atmosphere within the bar, not that anyone appreciated it. By closing time at three the bar had become perilously silent. At intervals one or two of the quarantined patrons would come to the bar, taking great care to avoid the Captain, and order the drinks which they felt were their basic human right. Neville, though a man greatly averse to after-hours drinking, could do little but accede to their demands.

There were a few vain attempts to get a bit of community singing going but Neville nipped that in the bud for fear of beat-wandering policemen. Two stalwarts began a game of darts. There had been a few movements towards the pub telephone, but Neville had vetoed the use of that instrument on the grounds that careless talk costs lives. “Have you come up with anything yet, John?” he asked, bringing the Irishman another pint.

“I am wondering whether we might saw out the section of floor on which he is standing and despatch him into the cellar, at least then if we can’t get rid of him he will be out of the way, and if he remains preserved indefinitely in his icy cocoon he will do wonders for your reserve stock.”

Neville shook his head. “Absolutely not, I have no wish to confront him every time I go down to change a barrel.”

“All right, it was just a suggestion.”

By nine o’clock the mob, by now extremely drunk and ravenously hungry, began to grow a little surly. There were murmurings that the whole business was a put-up job and that Omally and Neville were in cahoots to con the punters out of their hard-earned pennies. In the corner, a couple of ex-Colditz types were forming an escape committee.

Then, a little after ten, one of the prisoners went over the wall. He had been out in the gents for more than his allotted two minutes, and when Neville went to investigate, there was no sign of him. “Legged it across the bog roof,” the part-time barman said breathlessly as he returned to the saloon, “dropped down into the alley and away.”

“Who was it?” asked Omally.

“Reg Wattis from the Co-op.”

“Don’t worry, then.”

“Don’t worry? You must be joking.”

“Listen,” said Omally, “I know his wife and if he tries to give her any excuses about frozen corpses in the Flying Swan he will get very short shrift from that good woman. It occurs to me that we might let them escape. If they talk nobody will believe them anyway.”

“They can always come back here to prove it.”

“Not much chance of that, is there?”

“So what do we do?”

“I suggest that you and I withdraw to your rooms and gave them an opportunity to make their getaways.”

“I hope you know what you are doing.” Neville struck the bar counter with his knobkerry. “Omally and I have some pressing business upstairs,” he announced. “We will not be long and I am putting you all on your honour not to leave.” Conversation ceased and the eyes of the patrons flickered from Omally to Neville and on to the bolted door and back to Neville again. “We swear,” they said amid a flurry of heartcrossing and scoutish saluting.

Omally beckoned to Norman. “You might as well come too, you overheard everything.” The three men left the bar and trudged up the stairs to Neville’s bedroom.

“So what now?” asked the part-time barman.

“We sit it out. Do you still keep that supply of scotch in your wardrobe?”

Neville nodded wearily. “You don’t let much get by you, do you, John?”

Below in the saloon bar there came the sudden sound of bolts being thrown, followed by a rush of scurrying footsteps. Neville, who had brought out his bottle, replaced the cap. “Well, we won’t be needing this now, will we?”

Omally raised his eyebrows. “And why not?”

“Well, they’ve gone, haven’t they?”

“Yes, so?”

“So, we go down and dispose of the Captain.”

“Oh, and how do we do that?”

Neville, who had been sitting on the edge of his bed, rose brandishing the whisky bottle. “So it’s treachery is it, Omally?” he roared. “You had no intention of getting rid of him.”

“Me? No.” Omally wore a quizzical expression, mingled with outraged innocence. “There is nothing we can do, he is welded to the floor in a most unmovable manner. If I was a man with a leaning towards science fiction I would say that an alien force field surrounded him.”

Neville waggled his bottle at Omally. “Don’t give me any of that rubbish, I demand that you act now, do something.”

“If you will give me a minute or two to explain matters I would greatly appreciate it.”

Neville took out his hunter. “Two minutes,” said he, “then I waste this bottle over your head.”

“I deplore such wastage,” said John, “so I will endeavour to speak quickly.”

“One minute fifty-three seconds,” said Neville.

John composed himself and said, “As we both observed what happened to the Captain I do not propose to lecture you upon the sheer inexplicable anomaly of it. It was clearly the work of no mortal man, nor was it any natural catastrophe, or at least none that I have ever heard of.”

“It’s Reekie’s Syndrome,” said Norman.

“Shut up Norman,” said Neville.

“It was caused,” said Omally, “I believe, to shut the Captain up. He was about to spill the beans over what was going on at the Mission and so he was silenced.”

Neville scratched his Brylcreemed scalp. “All right,” said he, “but what do we do about him, we can’t let him stay there indefinitely.”