Commander West stood in the now empty Ealing Road wondering where Armageddon just went.

“Shall I cancel the reinforcements?” asked Constable Briant.

In the teepee at the bottom of the garden, Paul Geronimo said, “It is done, the gods are happy, and now we smoke many pipes.”

“And possibly get some kip,” his brother suggested.

Neville turned once more in his sleep. “Alison,” he said, “you naughty girl.”

Inspectre Hovis struggled towards the hastily commandeered ice-cream van with an arm load of gold bars. “Keep sticking them in,” he told Hugo Rune, “there’s plenty of room in the back.”

“Do I understand that you are taking an early retirement?” the mystic asked.

Professor Slocombe turned his face towards the heavens. “It is done, I so believe,” said he, “it is done.”

“Does this mean I am a millionaire?” asked Jim Pooley.

Chapter the Last

A beaming face beamed out across the world. “This is the London Olympics.”

In the stadium flags flew, athletes marched and the cheering of a million voices rose towards the summer sky, like a prayer of thanks.

In the Professor’s study Jim popped the cork from a bottle of champagne. “Easy does it, Jim,” said the old man. “That’s a hundred-year-old vintage.”

“Put it on the slate,” the lad replied, distributing large libations. “In five minutes the games begin, in six John and I take a stroll down to Bob’s, in the company of the local constabulary. In an hour we shall be gloriously drunk.”

“I will drink to that,” said Omally. “A toast to the Brentford Olympics.”

“To the games,” said Jim. “Although not to their founder.”

“Hm.” John sipped champagne. “That blaggard, what was he, Professor, was he a man or a devil or what?”

“I am not certain even Kaleton knew that. He loathed mankind because he was not of man, thus he had to prove he was greater than man. His character, if indeed he possessed one in the true sense of the word, was one of constant turmoil, a torment of raw conflicts. He was ego, power, good and evil by degree. He denied all human emotion but he was subject to it nevertheless. Egoism, pride, monomania, he craved recognition for his own mad genius.”

“The stadium,” said John.

“Indeed yes, the stadium was to be his apotheosis. I believe that had the stadium taken life it would have been literally unstoppable.”

“Then why didn’t he set the thing off last night?”

“His super-ego would not allow it. He wanted the whole world watching when he demonstrated his power. I had to count on this ‘human’ weakness, it was all I had.”

“You took a bit of a chance then,” said Omally.

“I took a good many chances — that Norman’s car would work, that you would be in the right place at the right time with your suitcases.”

Pooley looked long and hard at the old man. “There has been something of a run on happy coincidence lately,” he observed.

Professor Slocombe winked. “I don’t happen to believe in it myself. Drink up, Jim, I’ll open another bottle.”

Pooley peered into his glass. “So Kaleton was not the Soul of the World then?” he asked in a tone which almost amounted to disappointment. Omally gazed at him strangely.

“No, Jim,” said the Professor, dusting off another antique bottle, “I refuse to believe that. Kaleton was composed of a chaos of organisms, you saw that for yourself. For him to maintain human form, or any other form for that matter, became more and more difficult for him. He knew his time was running out. I believe that Kaleton was somehow a product of the very pollution and decay he loathed so much. The product of many centuries’ festering evil made flesh.”

“I hate to say anything in his favour,” Pooley replied, “but there was a lot of truth in what he said. Great wrong has been done to the planet. Entropy is the order of the day. We’ve all been part of it, but we’ve never paid attention. Now no-one will know what he said, nor, I suspect, do anything about it if they did.”

“Good bloody riddance to him,” said Omally.

Pooley shook his head, “But someone should do something, John, the world is going down the plug-hole, I realize that now. My eyes have been well and truly opened. What if Kaleton was the first of a coming race? He’s been a warning. Men must change their ways or pay a high price.”

Professor Slocombe nodded. “A man of independent means might dedicate himself to such a cause,” he suggested.

“What do you say, Jim?”

Pooley smiled, patted his million-pound pocket and raised his glass for a refill. “I say yes, Professor. I have much to be thankful for, I say yes.”

“You are a good man, Jim. Perhaps the future will find you to be a great one, although.”

“Although what, Professor?”

“Well,” said the old man, thoughtfully, “I feel that somewhere there is a loose end. That somehow I have missed something obvious. There are still a lot of unanswered questions.”

“TEMPORA PATET OCCULTA VERITAS,” said John.

“Eh?”

“In time the hidden truth will out,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Perk up,” said Omally, sticking his head out through the french windows. “Sounds like they’re on the starting-blocks.”

High above Brentford the stadium was hushed, upon the rostrum the master of ceremonies raised his starting pistol to begin the first race. All over the world men drew closer to their television sets and held their breath.

“They’re under starter’s orders,” cried Jim. “I am rich!”

Abacus paperback ending:

The barrel of the gun pointed towards the summer sky, a finger pulled upon the trigger. It was a curious finger. And then a great shot rang out across the universe.

“Oh dear,” said Jim Pooley. “Watchamate God.”

Corgi paperback ending:

There’s never a policeman around when you need one. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something. The sign on the door of the Brentford nick read “GONE TO THE GAMES”. And that was that.

“Bloody typical.” Champagne Pooley levelled his boot at the constabulary door, setting off the alarm. But nobody came. The streets were deserted. Everybody had gone to the games.

“Come on,” said Omally. “Let’s get this done. If Bob gives you any trouble, he’ll have me to settle with.”

“Well said, that man.”

The two turned away from the abandoned police station and made off up the abandoned Albany Road. They were just passing the abandoned recreation ground when a terrible thought struck them in anything but an abandoned manner.

“Could it just be possible?” asked this thought. “That Bob the Bookie might choose, rather than pay Jim his winnings, to make away to distant parts, leaving naught behind him but an evil memory?”

Pooley and Omally stopped short in mid stride. John looked at Jim and Jim looked at John.

“Oh no,” gasped Jim. “Say it isn’t so.”

“It isn’t so.” Omally broke into a run. Pooley was already way ahead of him.

As they neared Bob’s shop on the corner of the Ealing Road, they saw to their shared horror that things were not as they should have been in that particular neck of the Brentford woods.

Several large vans were drawn up outside the bookies. Men in grey overalls were going in and coming out. They were going in empty-handed, but that wasn’t the way they were coming out.

“Oh no!” A breathless Pooley skidded to a halt, Omally hard upon his Blakey-sparking heels. A surly-looking gent in a dapper business suit, armed with a clipboard and pen, was supervising the goings-in and comings-out. He offered Pooley a brief and disparaging glance. “Do you work here?” he asked.

Jim shook his head.

“Then bugger off because I am.”

“You what?” Jim drew back his cuffs and knotted his fists. Omally held him back. “Where is the proprietor?” he enquired.