‘Hold all calls,’ he barked into the intercom, ‘and cancel all my appointments for the day. Something’s come up.’
‘Well?’ Julian demanded.
‘Nearly finished,’ Eugene replied, his mouth full of bolts. ‘Just got to tighten up this last nut and… There, all done. What d’you think?’
Julian looked up and saw a dear little cottage, with roses around the door and chocolate-box windows curtained in flowery chintz, suspended twenty feet in the air from the belly of a huge balloon. ‘I see the logic behind it,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m just not sure about how you’ve put it into practice.’
‘What’s there to see?’ Eugene shouted back. ‘It’s pretty simple, really. The next time the bastard starts huffing and puffing, all we do is cut the anchor cable and then just ride out the blast. Okay, so perhaps we end up a hundred miles away, but I’ve fitted a couple of rocket-powered motors, so we’ll be back home within the hour. It’d damn well better work,’ he added with feeling. ‘I got a carrier pigeon from the insurance company while you were out, and they’re not happy. Somehow I feel that threatening to take our business elsewhere isn’t keeping them awake at nights any more.’
‘Come down,’ Julian said. ‘Sorry to sound downbeat, but I don’t think that thing’s safe.’
Eugene gazed up at the balloon. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘But I’m coming down anyway. Press that red button on the instrument panel, would you? It works the elevator.’
‘Which red button? There’s two of them.’
Far away in the distance a dish and a spoon, each carrying two suitcases, a flight bag and a yellow duty-free carrier that clinked as they moved, paused to look up at the strange grey sausage that seemed to have a house hanging from it. A passing cat started to play ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ on the violin.
‘The one marked Lift,’ Eugene shouted back.
‘Lift-off?’
‘No, Liiiiiift!’
‘Sorry,’ Julian yelled, as the balloon abruptly tore away from its moorings, wrenched loose by the explosive force of the rocket motors. ‘I think I may have pressed the wrong button.’
On the distant hillside, the cat lifted the bow clear of the strings and corrugated her brows into a pensive frown. ‘I thought it was meant to be a cow,’ she said.
“Scuse me?’
‘Taking part in the moon shot,’ the cat explained. ‘I read about it in the paper, Daisy Set To Be First Cow In Space. And that thing hanging out of the upstairs window is either a very small pink cow, or it’s a pig.’
‘Don’t ask us,’ replied the spoon, ‘we’re tableware.’
Snow White threw open the quaint old leaded window of her bedroom, leaned out over the sill, took a deep breath of crisp morning air and thought, Yes!
Most of the time, life’s hard for a girl living on her wits in the Big Forest. The dividing line between predator and prey blurs. Wolves wear sheepskin, fashionable sheep wouldn’t be seen dead in anything but one hundred per cent pure wolf, three quarters of the lucky breaks turn out to be menacing cracks, and come Happy-Ever-After time, you’re only ever as good as your last scam.
Not this time, Snow White reflected, giving thanks to the patron goddess of her vocation. Just this once, she’d fallen on her feet instead of her head or her butt. She had the house, in a neighbourhood where there was no chance of bumping into any of her old associates. She had the story, perfect in every detail. Most of all, she had the marks; a prime set, all complete, first editions, collector’s items every one. Seven dreamy otherworldly Orientals, gentlemen and scholars all, already eating out of her hand and doing precisely what they were told, automatically and without question. It went without saying that they were wealthy; all Japanese were. Give it just a few weeks more, time enough to reel them in without any risk of arousing the slightest suspicion, and then it’d be time for the first fleeting hints about the gold mine her poor dead uncle had just left to her and the wonderful investment opportunity it offered. Hell, fish in a barrel were the Viet Cong compared to these poor fools. It was perfect; raining Schrodinger’s cats and Pavlov’s dogs.
She left the window, with its heart-stoppingly lovely view of the glade, the clearing and the mist-wrapped treetops, and inspected the contents of her wardrobe. There was the plain white frock, the homely cute gingham with the designer patch on the left knee, the blouse-bodice-skirt combo she’d arrived in and the black leather jumpsuit that represented the last resort when the going got really tough. Not going to need that on this job, she reassured herself smugly, which was good; it was hot as hell in that thing, and wearing it always made her feel like toothpaste in a hostile tube.
She decided on the gingham, as being most appropriate for what was on the day’s agenda. So far she’d won their sympathy, their trust and their affection; now she had to launch Phase II and convert that useful groundwork into the fierce avuncular protectiveness that experience had taught her was the best preparation for the sting. When they’ve rescued you from death and Fates Worse Than a couple of times, hung around your bedside waiting for you to open your pretty little eyes and look up at them with love and trust, all that really remains is to administer the final coup de gráce while making shortlists of what to spend the money on.
She adjusted the dress in front of the mirror, straightened the neckline, lifted her skirt and tucked into her garter elastic the dainty little nickel-plated.25 automatic that had more than once proved to be a girl’s best friend in a tight spot. Not that she saw herself having any need of it here; God, but these marks were a joy to work with, so much easier than the riverboat gamblers and treacle miners she’d cut her teeth on back in the old days…
She frowned. She could remember the old days quite vividly, but only as a sort of big screen memory, all perfectly lit, beautifully framed and in needle-sharp focus. It was almost too vivid to be real, because surely memory doesn’t work that way, in sweeping panoramic shots of atmospheric saloons and archetypal levees beside a cobalt blue river. Too perfect, too perfect by half. She had the feeling that if she were to be fatally injured and have her past life flash before her eyes, there’d be an usherette with a torch to show her to her seat.
She unclenched the muscles that shaped the frown and ordered herself to quit being so damn paranoid. Everything was going to be just fine; fairytale ending.
There was a knock at her door. Quickly she shut the wardrobe, checked the line of her skirt, knocked her voice back into little-girl mode and chirped, ‘Come in.’
She relaxed. It was only nice Mr Akira, with her breakfast tray: toasted muffins, fresh milk, apple, this morning’s Financial Times. She smiled; he blushed, bowed low, nutted himself on the rustic latch and withdrew.
Once she’d had something to eat and had run her eye down the closing prices, she composed her thoughts and began to formulate her plan. In order to tighten her grip the last few essential degrees, she needed to be saved by the marks from some awful fate, preferably an aggressive act by an outside agency. Rescued from wolves? Worth a try, except that she’d never had much luck with wolves in the past; they tended to steer clear of her, though whether from fear or professional courtesy she’d never worked out. A human assailant would be better, if she could find one. Wicked stepmother? Jealous rival?
Wicked queen…
Perfect. Just the right overtones of sex and politics. No bother at all to cook up a tale about being a dispossessed orphan princess on the lam; it’d appeal to the rich vein of aristocratic snobbery that these great feudal lords undoubtedly indulged towards mere parvenu royalty. All that remained was to find one at short notice. That might present problems; wicked queens aren’t something you can express-order from the Innovations catalogue. But in a place like this, there was bound to be one within a small radius. At least one; which meant she’d be able to take advantage of good healthy commercial competition and shop around for the best deal. Even at the best of times, the wicked queen racket’s a cut-throat business.