18

After leaving Norman’s garage in the early hours of the morning, Pooley found little joy in the comforts of his cosy bed. He had listened with awe and not a little terror to the amazing revelations which Omally had skilfully wrung from the shopkeeper. Although Jim had plaintively reiterated that the Earth-balancing-pyramid theory which Norman had overheard, that lunchtime so long ago, was gleaned from the pages of an old comic book, as usual nobody had listened to him. What small, fitful periods of sleep he had managed were made frightful with dreams of great floating camels, materializing pyramids and invading spacemen.

At around six o’clock Pooley gave the whole thing up as a bad job, dragged on an overcoat, thrust a trilby hat on to his hirsute head, and trudged off round to the Professor’s house.

The old man sat as ever at his desk, studying his books, and no doubt preparing himself for the worst. He waved Pooley to an armchair without looking up and said, “I hope you are not going to tell me that during the few short hours that you have been gone you have solved the thing.”

“Partially,” said Jim without enthusiasm. “But I think John should take full-credit this time.”

The old man shook his head. “Do you ever feel that we are not altogether the masters of our own destinies?” he asked.

“No,” said Jim. “Never.”

“And so, what do you have to tell me?”

“You will not like it.”

“Do I ever?”

Pooley eyed the whisky decanter as a source of inspiration but his stomach made an unspeakable sound.

“Would you care to take breakfast with me, Jim?” the Professor asked. “I generally have a little something at about this time.”

“I would indeed,” said Jim. “Truly I am as ravenous as Ganesha’s rat.”

The Professor tinkled a small Burmese brass bell, and within a few seconds there came a knocking at the study door which announced the arrival of Professor Slocombe’s elderly retainer Gammon, bearing an overlarge butler’s tray loaded to the gunwhales with breakfast for two.

It was Pooley’s turn to shake his head. “How could he possibly know that I was here?”

Professor Slocombe smiled. “You ask me to give away my secrets?” he said, somewhat gaily. “Where would I be if you deny me my mystique?”

“You have mystique enough for twenty,” said Jim.

“Then I will share this one with you, for it is simplicity itself.” He rang the small bell again and Gammon, looking up from the coffee he was pouring into the fine Dresden china cups, said, “Certainly, sir, two lumps it is.”

“It is a code with the bell-ringing,” said the enlightened Jim.

The Professor nodded his old head. “You have found me out,” said he. In reality, of course, Pooley had done nothing of the kind.

Gammon departed at a mental command, closing the door behind him. Pooley set about the demolition of the steaming tray load. Between great chewings and swallowings, he did his best to relate to the Professor all that he had seen and heard that night.

Professor Slocombe picked delicately at his morning repast and listened to it all with the greatest interest. When Pooley had finished his long, rambling, and not a little confused monologue, he rose from his chair and took out a Turkish cigarette from the polished humidor. Lighting this with an ember from the grate, he waggled the thing at Pooley, and spoke through a cloud of steely-blue smoke. “You would not be having one over on me here, would you Pooley?” he asked.

“I swear not.”

“Norman has a camel in his lock-up garage which he teleported from the Nile delta and which openly defies the law of gravity?”

“Not openly. Norman is keeping the matter very much to himself.”

“And he plans to alter the Earth’s axis by teleporting the Great Pyramid of Cheops into Brentford football ground?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

Professor Slocombe fingered the lobe of his left ear. “We live in interesting times,” he said.

Pooley shrugged and pushed a remaining portion of buttered toast into his mouth.

“The idea does have a certain charm, though,” said Professor Slocombe. “I should really have to sit down and work it out with a slide rule. For the moment, however, I feel it would be better if he was dissuaded from going ahead with it. I think we should nip it in the bud.”

“I think John and I can fit that in between engagements,” said Pooley sarcastically. The Professor raised an eyebrow towards him, and he fell back to his toast chewing.

“How near to completion do you believe his project to be?”

Pooley shrugged again. “Days away, by the manner in which he spoke. Omally, using his usual ingenuity, suggested that he might avail himself of any serviceable components from the Captain Laser machine, once he had successfully disabled it. That idea alone was enough to win him over to the cause. What with thinly-veiled threats of exposure and the assurance that his action would not only save mankind as we know it, but also secure him readmission to the Swan in time for the darts tournament, he was putty in Omally’s grubby mitt.”

“It would certainly be nice to clear all this up before darts night,” said the Professor enthusiastically. “I have booked a table at the Swan, I would not care to miss it for the world.”

“Let us pray that none of us do,” said Pooley. “Would there be any chance of a little more toast?” Professor Slocombe reached for his small brass bell. “I know perfectly well that it is not how you do it,” said Jim.

“The toast is on the way,” said Professor Slocombe, smiling broadly.

Neville limped painfully up the stairs to his room, bearing with him the special mid-week edition of the Brentford Mercury, which had flopped unexpectedly through the Swan’s letter-box. Propping it against the marmalade pot, he lowered himself amid much tooth-grinding on to the gaily-coloured bathing ring, which rested somewhat incongruously upon his dining chair.

As he sipped at his coffee he perused the extraordinary news sheet. BRENTFORD HOLOCAUST! screamed the six-inch banner headline with typically restrained conservatism. “Many arrests in Battle of Brentford, rival gangs clash in open street warfare.”

Neville shook his head in wonder at it all. How had the trouble started? It was all a little hazy. That Pooley and Omally were involved, he was certain. He would bar them without further ado.

He groaned dismally and clutched at his tender parts.

He surely could not afford to bar any more clients; something desperate was going to have to be done to persuade Norman to return to the fold. And Old Pete; he was sure he had barred him, but he was equally certain that the old reprobate had been in the night before. Perhaps he hadn’t. He would bar him again just to be on the safe side.

He perused the long columns of journalistic licence which covered the Mercury’s front page. It had been some kind of political rally, so it appeared, the Brownshirts or the League of St George. Apparently these extremists had been drawn into combat with the martial acolytes of the Brentford Temple of Dimac. The police had acted bravely and justly, although greatly outnumbered. There was some talk of decorations at the Palace.

Neville skimmed along the lines of print, seeking to find some reference to the original cause of the incident, but none was forthcoming. The Swan didn’t even get a mention, nor did the names of any of the regulars appear amongst the list of arrested villains destined to go up before the beak this very morning. With the arrival of the boys in blue the Swan’s stalwarts had either melted away into the night or retired to the tranquillity of the saloon-bar to engage in games of darts and dominoes.

He read the final paragraph. The gallant bobbies had, so it was stated, become involved in a hair-raising car chase through Brentford with a black nineteen-fifties Cadillac which had roared away from the scene of the crime during the height of the disturbances. They had pursued it through the maze of backstreets until unaccountably losing it in a cul-de-sac.