Retromancer

  And Count Otto Black made free with that manic laughing that is always so popular with the supervillain.

  And it crossed my mind that in order to beat a supervillain, the most suitable person to employ for the job would be a superhero. And so, as the count now delved into his sidecar once more and sought to drag out a particularly large killer-bomb-type arrangement, I did a kind of ‘ahem’ which focused his attention.

  ‘What?’ went he, Count Otto Black. ‘What do we have here?’

  And I hovered there above him. There in the pale moonlight.

  ‘I am Captain Brentford,’ I called out. ‘And you are dead, mother-f ***er.’ Which was not perhaps the most appropriate thing to call out, given the period and suchlike, but I was a bit overexcited and it just popped out, so to speak.

  ‘Captain what?’ And Count Otto laughed once more. He laughed once more, then he stopped.

  ‘So how exactly are you hanging up there?’ he asked. And he raised himself from the seat of his hovering motorcycle and tried to reach up to my feet.

  I angled up the Gravitite disc and swung away out of reach.

  ‘A rather natty device,’ said the count, ‘and one, I think, that would certainly further the ends of the Fatherland. What say I offer you one million pounds in exchange for your metallic ride?’

  ‘A million pounds?’ I said. And certain thoughts ran through my head.

  ‘A million pounds. Here, I have a pouch of diamonds in my pocket, kept for such an occasion.’

  ‘A million pounds?’ I said again. And I gazed down at the gaunt figure below me, astride the hovering motorcycle combination. His pinched features were lit by the fires beneath, blazing upon the St Mary’s allotments. Above, the moon and stars; below, this man. This evil man.

  ‘A million pounds,’ he said once more. ‘Down just a bit and it’s yours.’

  And I leaned forwards and dropped down a tad, oh so near to those long, thin fingers.

  ‘Here,’ cried Count Otto Black. ‘See the diamonds. They are for you.’ And he dug into his jacket and then he pulled out—

  A gun.

  And I cried, ‘No, this is for you.’ And I flung down a certain something.

  Mr Rune confessed to me later that he genuinely feared for my life at that moment. He confessed that he had never tested a piece of Gravitite to see whether it could withstand an onslaught of bullets.

  Happily the piece I rode upon could and the bullets fired by the count ricocheted down and bounced about his motorbike causing certain damage.

  But the cry of horror that rose from his thin-lipped mouth, hidden somewhere beneath the great black beard, came not because of ricocheting bullets. It came because of the fact that the motorcycle engine, the inexplicable antigravitational engine, suddenly coughed rather loudly, then faltered, then died, which caused his mount to plummet.

  There were clickings and whooshings and fallings and down went Count Otto Black. His descent arched over the allotments, and over the football ground and over The Purple Princess. And when he finally met terra firma, it was in the Thames.

  We took an evening drink in Fangio’s bar.

  ‘And what in the name of all that slips out of a rear entrance when officials’ backs are turned are you supposed to be?’ he asked me, as Mr Rune and I approached the counter.

  ‘I am Captain Brentford,’ I said. ‘Oh damn, there goes my secret identity.’

  ‘Two pints of Helvetica Narrow please,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And double whisky chasers - Captain Brentford here just struck a mighty blow for freedom.’

  ‘Did too,’ I said. ‘Shot down that mother**—’

  ‘Rizla!’ said Hugo Rune.

  ‘Oh, it’s Rizla, is it?’ said Fangio. ‘I didn’t recognise you. I thought you were a superhero. And we don’t get many of those in this bar. There’s only Rat Boy over there in the corner, gnawing cheese, and Bad Advice Man, who personally advised me to avail myself of a load of boxes of gremlins from Norman at the corner shop. One of which I did notice you slipping into your coat earlier in the day, Mr Rune. And you’re quite welcome to it too, I might say.’

  And I looked at Hugo Rune.

  He looked at me.

  And Hugo Rune said, ‘This very gremlin was indeed that “certain something” that you, Captain Brentford, emptied from its box onto the flying motorcycle’s engine, and it had the desired effect - do you not agree?’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ I agreed. ‘It certainly put paid to his flying chariot.’

  ‘Hey, hold on now for a minute,’ said Fangio. ‘How come that manhole-cover affair that you’ve brought in with you is hovering right there in the air?’

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘It is an optical illusion. Now two more beers and chasers please, and two packets of those new potato-flavoured crisps. The ones with added Kryptonite.’

  29

  THE HIGH PRIESTESS

  ‘But is he dead?’ I asked of Hugo Rune.

  ‘Of course he isn’t,’ Hugo Rune replied. ‘He noodled about on that sky-bike of his merely to taunt me. And flaunt the superior technology of his fascist cronies. But you put a spanner in his works.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘And I have been thinking about that. I reckon Captain Brentford should take to the skies on a regular basis. Knock those German Blitz-planes for six. Save the day generally and indeed things of that nature. What do you think?’

  ‘I think that you have been drinking,’ said the Perfect Master. ‘I know that I have and I am beginning to feel the benefit.’

  For indeed we had been drinking at The Purple Princess. It was another Sunday afternoon and this one in June, as it happened, and we were celebrating something or other, which, in the midst of all the celebrating, had somehow, now, been forgotten.

  ‘So what do you think?’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘Should Captain Brentford take to the skies once more?’

  ‘Not at present, Rizla. I think our next case will be strictly ground-level. ’

  ‘Oh,’ went I. ‘We have a new case, do we? This is new, as it were.’

  ‘I am weighing up the pros and cons,’ said Mr Rune, ‘in order to see whether I can fit it in.’

  And I made laughter at this. ‘We have not done anything for the last three weeks,’ I said, laughing still as I said it.

  ‘You have done nothing,’ quoth the mage, ‘but Rune’s mind never sleeps. I cogitate, Rizla. I tread the interdimensional landscapes of the id.’

  ‘And you dine,’ I added. ‘And smoke cigars and drink the finest wines. Not bad during a period of national austerity and rationing.’

  ‘You wish me to starve like an anchorite?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ I said. ‘I love the dining out. But tell me about this possible case that you are weighing up the pros and cons of.’

  ‘Do you recall our first case? Regarding the tragic demise of Professor Campbell?’

  ‘I doubt I will ever forget it,’ I said. ‘I had nightmares for weeks.’

  ‘Well, I have received yet another telegram from the egregious Mr McMurdo at the Ministry of Serendipity. More problems with their boffins, it appears.’ And Mr Rune tugged a crumpled telegram from his waistcoat pocket and flung it in my direction.

  I lowered my pint of Times Roman and took up the telegram from where it had fallen into the leavings of my bread and butter pudding. I viewed this missive and read from it aloud.

  EMERGENCY STOP COME TO MINISTRY AT ONCE STOP PROJECT BBT IN DANGER STOP NEED YOUR HELP NOW STOP

  ‘Golly and gosh,’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘This does sound a bit urgent. Did this arrive today?’ And I examined the crumpled paper.

  ‘Last week, actually.’ The Magus yawned. ‘But it’s all such a fag. Project BBT is always in danger. And always on the verge of a breakthrough. But never actually makes a breakthrough. I tire of it, truly, Rizla, I do.’

  ‘Might I ask what Project BBT is?’ I enquired.

  ‘You might,’ Himself replied.

  ‘And would there be any likelihood of yo
u telling me, do you think?’

  Hugo Rune made louder yawns. ‘Get the drinks in, then, and I will,’ he said.

  ‘I have no money,’ I replied. ‘You never pay me any money at all.’

  ‘I said get the drinks in, Rizla. I do not recall telling you to pay for them.’

  ‘Quite so,’ I said and I toddled off to the bar.

  Fangio was holding forth to all and sundry upon the subject of dogs.

  ‘Dogs again, is it?’ I enquired as I ordered two more pints of Times. ‘I recall that chat about Man’s best friend.’

  Fangio laughed and handed me the Sunday paper.

  SQUADRON LEADER JAILED IN WIFE-IN-BOOT SCANDAL

  ‘Oh, jolly good,’ I said. ‘That will amuse Mr Rune. So what is it about dogs today then, Fange?’

  ‘It’s not dogs in general,’ said the barlord, ‘but rather one in particular. Did you ever hear the story of the Devil Dog of Mons?’

  ‘No I did not,’ I said, ‘but I certainly like the sound of it.’ And I sipped at my newly drawn ale, ignoring Mr Rune’s frantic beckonings to bring his over.

  ‘Go on then, Fange,’ I said. ‘I have a moment or two spare before I have to swing off on a new case.’

  ‘Right then,’ said the barlord. ‘It is this way. During the First World War, the Allied soldiers inhabiting their trenches at Mons swore that they saw at night the shape of a huge hound that roamed no-man’s-land feasting upon the corpses of the newly slain.’

  ‘How absolutely horrid,’ I said. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Well then,’ Fangio continued, ‘many folk didn’t believe this tale. They said it was hysteria or shell shock or suchlike. But after the war, a hospital nearby on the German side of the enemy lines was liberated and it turned out that an evil doctor called Baron von Bacon had been performing terrible experiments there. With dogs and men.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said. And I turned my back on the flapping Mr Rune.

  ‘It seems,’ said Fangio, ‘that Baron von Bacon had taken the brain from a dying German soldier and transplanted it into a German wolfhound. And that was the creature that roamed no-man’s-land.’

  ‘And did they ever find this monstrous hound?’ I asked.

  ‘Never,’ said Fangio. ‘Nor indeed any trace of Baron von Bacon. Well, not perhaps until now.’

  ‘Oooooh!’ I said and I made a scaredy face.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter,’ said Fangio. ‘Recall that enemy bombing of the St Mary’s allotments a few weeks back?’

  I did indeed, but I had not divulged the extent of my knowledge to Fangio.

  ‘Well, something odd got uncovered on Old Pete’s plot. Thrown up by the explosions. A big coffin-type box it was. But by the time Old Pete got to it, it had been busted open. Inside the coffin-type box he found lots of screwed-up German newspapers that dated back to the end of the First World War. At that time the allotments were briefly used as a prisoner-of-war-camp. All kinds of odd stuff was said to have been moved in and out of those allotments around then. Old Pete talks about antique brass machinery and stuff that had found its way back to England after being “liberated” by the Allies. It went onto the allotments, but no one ever saw it leave. Anyway, this German newspaper seemed to have been used to pack two things, because although the things were gone, their shapes were left behind.’

  ‘And let me guess,’ I said. ‘The shapes were of a man and a gigantic dog.’

  ‘You have it in one,’ said Fangio the landlord. ‘Or two, if your counting is precise.’

  ‘And does Old Pete still have this coffin-type box?’

  ‘Chopped it up for firewood, I believe.’

  ‘And so no actual proof exists at all?’

  ‘Not of the coffin-type box, no.’

  ‘Nor that it contained Baron von Bacon and his Hellish Man-Hound. ’

  ‘But for these,’ said Fangio, and he handed me—

  ‘Dog tags,’ I said. And I read the name on them. ‘Baron von Bacon,’ I said. And I was truly impressed. ‘Are you selling these?’ I asked the barlord.

  ‘If the price is right,’ he said.

  I shook my head and returned with my pints to Hugo Rune.

  ‘Jaw jaw jaw,’ said the guru’s guru, ‘and my ale growing warm whilst you do so.’

  ‘But you will notice that I did not actually pay for the beers,’ I said, placing same on the table.

  ‘Buff your fingernails upon your lapel and feel the weight of my stout stick,’ said Hugo Rune, tasting and approving of the ale.

  ‘Fangio just told me a really creepy story,’ I said.

  ‘Baron von Bacon’s Hell Hound, I suppose.’

  ‘It might be running loose on the allotments - what do you think?’

  ‘I would not totally pooh-pooh the idea. I recall that back in the nineteen twenties I visited a freak show at Blackpool Tower Circus. And there I viewed a most extraordinary exhibit. I remain uncertain even to this day as to whether it was simply a poor imbecile that was being displayed, or, as the showman claimed, the Man with the Brain of a Dog.’

  ‘It was a two-way transplant?’ I managed to say. ‘Now that is really horrid.’

  Hugo Rune just shrugged and said, ‘So, would you care to hear something about our potential case now? Or would you prefer me to spin you a few more horror stories? I can far outrank anything Fangio might have in his repertoire.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt,’ I said. ‘So please tell me of Project BBT.’

  Hugo Rune sipped from his glass then told his tale to me.

  ‘BBT, young Rizla, stands for “Big Band Theory”. A little touch of humour there from the Ministry, I believe. It is all to do with sound and the influence of sound. A top-secret scientific team is working upon musical weaponry. Music, Rizla. Music that when played will influence the hearer to take certain actions.’

  ‘Such as dance?’ I suggested. ‘I think that is called Dance Music. It works, that one, I can vouch for it.’

  ‘Not dance, Rizla. Go into trance. Become susceptible to instructions, to orders. Music that, when you listen to it, puts you into a receptive frame of mind. Imagine it, Rizla - you fly over the enemy lines in a helicopter with the music playing from loudspeakers, the enemy soldiers become entranced, then you order them to surrender and they do. War over, no more shots fired.’

  ‘Excellent stuff,’ I said. ‘Just what the War Effort needs. So how is it coming along? Have they got it perfected yet?’

  Hugo Rune did raisings of the eyebrows. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘I think perhaps not,’ I said. ‘Which is why you said that they are always on the verge of a breakthrough, but they never actually have a breakthrough.’

  Hugo Rune nodded, slowly. ‘But they do play a lot of music,’ he said. ‘And really really bad music, Rizla. The Big Band that they have, that plays the music they write for it, well, Rizla, frankly, they’re rubbish!’

  ‘Perhaps the theory might be put into practice if they got a better band,’ I suggested.

  ‘Brilliant deduction, Rizla. I have been suggesting that for the last four years. I suggested Lew Stone and his Orchestra, with Nat Gonella on vocals.’

  ‘And they did not listen?’

  Hugo Rune shook his head. ‘And now some kind of disaster has struck them, probably of their own silly making, and I am expected to drop everything, rush along and sort it out.’

  ‘Or perhaps lay aside your pint pot and gently stroll along after a hearty lunch,’ I said.

  And Hugo Rune sighed most deeply.

  ‘Come on then, Rizla,’ he said as he sighed. ‘Let us away to the Ministry.’

  30

  Mr McMurdo did not seem happy to see Mr Rune. But I was rather heartened to see that Mr McMurdo appeared to be his normal size once more.

  Hugo Rune smiled upon Mr McMurdo and said, ‘Jolly spiffing to see you returned to your old self again, M. Those magic coffee beans I sent you got the job jobbed then, it would appear.’

  ‘It would ap
pear so, would it?’ And Mr McMurdo turned sideways and would not you know it, or would not you not, he all but entirely vanished. Because although he looked normal and man-sized from straight on, turned sideways he was no thicker than a piece of paper.

  ‘Ah,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘You’d better not go out then on a windy day.’

  ‘Windy day? I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’ And Mr McMurdo flapped his papery arms.

  ‘But look on the bright side,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘If you ever forget your house key, you can simply slip yourself under the front door.’

  And Mr McMurdo let out a terrible howl.

  ‘But enough of such larks,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I am confident that I will be able to sort you out eventually. Let us speak of more important matters. Those pertaining to Project BBT, for instance. Tell me, exactly what is the problem this time?’

  ‘The problem, Rune, is that half of the team are now dead. No one knows how they died. Post-mortem examinations suggest the possibility of a viral infection.’

  ‘Germ warfare?’ I said.

  ‘I’m talking to the organ grinder,’ said Mr McMurdo, ‘not the—’

  But he did not finish that bitter sentence. Because Hugo Rune suddenly sneezed. And the force of his sneeze propelled the wafer-thin Ministry man away to the room’s far corner, where he fluttered to rest beside a brass coffee table that was shaped like the Sloop John B.

  ‘Bless you,’ I said.

  And Hugo Rune grinned.

  And Mr McMurdo went spare.

  ‘Don’t get yourself all in a flap,’ said Hugo Rune, hastening in a most leisurely fashion to help up the flimsy fallen fellow. ‘But do answer my acolyte’s most pertinent question. Do you suspect germ warfare?’

  ‘We cannot tell. Hey, put me down.’ For Hugo Rune was now rolling up Mr McMurdo.

  ‘Oh do pardon me,’ said Himself. ‘I was going to pack you away for safety inside a cardboard tube. Would you prefer me to place you back upon your chair?’

  The exasperated sounds that issued from the lips of Mr McMurdo suggested that indeed this would be his place of preference. And also that he dearly wished to wreak a terrible revenge upon his tormentor.