Snatched

  Indippe bent down and picked up the iron box. ‘I think we have done as much as we can here, George. I guess there has to be a large question mark over the seagull as cause of Flounce’s face scar. We will have to look for other explanations. But that’s scholarship, isn’t it?’ He flung the remains of the sandwiches on to the tip and the birds hurled themselves down at the food.

  Indippe and Lepage began to run over the rubbish in the opposite direction from the advancing men and towards a skimpy, fog-shrouded copse. The main group of birds, seeming to sense that all chance of the food might be leaving with Indippe, zoomed in close again and increased their din. The men approaching seemed satisfied to have shifted Lepage and Indippe off the high point of the tip and towards the trees and exit. The platoon turned back and began to descend.

  Lepage found it hard work running over the old washing machines and discarded carpets and infinitely stained mattresses. Indippe, carrying the box, and hampered by his long coat, began to gasp.

  ‘Take care here,’ Lepage said. They had come to some dumped, rusted coils of old barbed wire.

  Looking at them, Indippe said: ‘It seems so damn appropriate for this tale – reminiscent of the Wall.’

  Lepage put out a hand to help him. Indippe would not have that, or not at first. He staggered slightly, and strands of the wire fixed dedicatedly on to the leg of his drill trousers. Lepage had to crouch down and slowly unhook him. Indippe stood there, like some trapped animal, proud and defiant, but grown sloppy with age. Lepage freed him. They resumed their trek. At a slight downward slope on the very edge of the tip Lepage found what remained of a blue, two-seater Utility settee. ‘We can rest here,’ he said. ‘The pursuit is off, and, in any case, they can’t see us because of the dip.’ They both sat down, Indippe with the box at his feet. His grey hair had been cut ruthlessly en brosse, perhaps to suggest virility and youthful spirit. It wasn’t too bad a try, but the wheezing messed it up.

  For a while he was silent, amassing some breath. Then he said: ‘It was Mrs Cray, in her professional security role, who devised that foully cruel, parody banquet.’

  ‘Banquet? I don’t know of this.’

  ‘Yes, the banquet: simple and barbaric. After Flounce had been starved and questioned for two days in an abortive attempt to make him disclose Koller’s whereabouts, Mrs Cray put on a banquet-stroke-picnic, as if in his honour, but a sardonic, malevolent meal, sort of Dérision sur l’herbe. You never heard of this, and the menu, George?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Really? Fricassee of haversack straps in thick Melba sauce, followed by braised whippet, with a tennis ball in its mouth, all served in a field at Rostock on a vast, brilliant, mocking tablecloth cut from an airfield windsock. Genuine antique fish knives and forks for Flounce, travesty acknowledgements of his top-notch country house breeding.’ An aged but still sticky fly-trap paper covered with corpses that must have lain between the settee cushions fixed itself to the professor’s leather coat and Lepage’s jacket, and, for a time, they fought to unlink themselves, and then to get the remains off their fingers.

  ‘One thing I love is the fucking ivory tower of research,’ Indippe said. ‘Flounce devoured those straps and the whippet, though leaving the tennis ball, and then told Cray to send out for more, especially of the straps. Yes, especially of the straps, my source says. B-M was too much for them, George. I can understand why people want to be like him – why people even imagine they are part of him. As I said, I do myself now and then. The Hulliborn and Britain should be proud, and yet there is argument about a measly commemorative bust. Cray and the others gave up. Flounce was released, but not in time to save Koller.’

  They strolled on again and reached the trees. Lepage found a track and went ahead, looking back occasionally to check that Indippe and the box kept up. The professor waved him forward each time, and seemed to be recovered, though it was hard to see him properly in the gathering shadows. He appeared to grow ghostly, insubstantial, his grey hair merging eerily with the foliage. A piece of the fly-paper still clung to the breast of his coat and caught the occasional, very low sunbeam that made it through the trees, glowing like a distant navigation buoy in harsh seas.

  When they had been traipsing for about ten minutes, Lepage glanced behind again and could not spot Bernard at all. Lepage listened and then called, but there was no sight of him and no sound of footsteps on soil. The fly-paper’s gleam had passed away. For a tiny part of a second, and for no reason he could pinpoint, Lepage recalled that line in a radio broadcast just before the war: ‘The lights are going out over Europe.’ As he emerged from the little wood and made for the road, the gulls clustered above him, perhaps thinking that on his own he could be bullied more efficiently. They restarted their hullabaloo, and a few swooped down towards him, beaks fierce-looking, their brilliant white bellies plump with tip spoils, almost certainly in some cases Indippe’s sandwiches. ‘Get lost,’ he yelled. ‘Not me, you sods, not me. Do you hear? I’m not the one who wants to be the new Flounce.’

  In the night at home, Lepage had another phone call, this time from the police. He was sleeping well and, for a few seconds, had difficulty taking in the message. When he could, he did not feel much happier. ‘Director, we wondered whether you’d mind going up to Lady Butler-Minton’s property. One of our patrols has run into a situation there.’

  ‘Situation?’

  ‘Yes, sir, what does seem to amount to a situation.’

  ‘Now? What time is it?’ He saw Julia was not home yet, but that didn’t tell him much.

  ‘It’s one fifty a.m., sir.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘People acting in suspicious fashion, Director. Two have mentioned your name as a sort of reference.’

  ‘Two? Who? How many are there altogether, then?’

  ‘We don’t like giving personal details over the telephone, sir. But I see no harm in telling you that at least three people are involved. That’s our present knowledge. The patrol is still dealing with the matter, sir. It can’t leave at this stage. This is why we’d be so grateful if you could go. It might be of great assistance in clearing things up.’

  ‘I’m thinking of getting right out of this fucking job, you know.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘OK, I’ll go.’ He dressed and drove out to Penelope’s. A uniformed constable met him at the gates of the drive. Indippe stood near him, looking delighted.

  ‘This American gentleman gave your name, sir,’ the constable said, when Lepage came from the car.

  ‘What the hell’s been happening to him? Have you people roughed him up?’ Lepage replied. ‘This is a professor and distinguished archivist from a country which is one of our closest allies. Do you realize that?’

  ‘He was attacked by a cat in the dark, sir.’

  ‘George, look at it,’ Indippe cried, pushing his wounded head rapturously towards Lepage. ‘Enteritis did this.’

  ‘Pardon me, sir,’ the constable said, ‘but you don’t get a deep facial cut like that from enteritis.’

  ‘You see the significance, George?’ Indippe demanded joyfully. ‘I simply tried to befriend that cat in the garden, and it flew at me, entirely unprovoked. As one scholar to another, do you think we can say after this we have a workable hypothesis – I put it no stronger for now – we have a workable hypothesis that Flounce’s scar was, indeed, the—’

  ‘Your headquarters said two people had given my name, constable,’ Lepage replied.

  ‘Yes, sir. Perhaps you could accompany me.’

  The three of them walked across the lawn, Lepage and Indippe following the officer. ‘This will about wrap up my researches, George. Closed book.’

  ‘Where did you disappear to after the tip?’ Lepage asked. ‘I was worried.’

  ‘I had an experience.’

  ‘Yes? What kind, Bernard?’ Lepage had the feeling it would turn out to be at least mystical, and possibly magical.

  ‘I thought I saw someone ahead.’
br />   ‘You did. Me.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so, George. It wasn’t like you.’

  ‘Oh? Who was it like?’ He knew the answer. Yes, mystical or magical or hogwash.

  ‘George, it could have been Flounce, dressed in the robes and large academic hat of the degree ceremony in Africa. It’s so crazy, I know – so disgracefully irrational, so occult.’

  ‘How did he manage with that headgear among all the branches?’ Lepage replied.

  ‘I wanted to get close to him. I left the path.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No, I didn’t get close. Well, no, of course not. A delusion, obviously. And I found I’m very unfit and failed to keep up – I mean, if he’d actually been there to keep up with.’

  ‘Carrying the box would slow you.’

  ‘I have to look after it. I’ve left it in my hotel’s safe for now.’

  ‘Your notes?’

  ‘Mine, and some from my sources and contacts.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Here we are, gentlemen,’ the constable said. They entered the gymnasium. A couple of police sergeants were talking through a steam cloud to Nev Falldew, seated naked in the sauna, a piece of wood that looked like a rough, improvised paddle in his hands. As Lepage and Indippe went nearer, the conversation with the two sergeants ended and Falldew began to sing, or rather chant, an extremely high-pitched number, its words unintelligible and probably not English, or any known language.

  ‘Ah,’ Indippe declared ecstatically. ‘Communion with Flounce.’

  ‘Dr Falldew said you could vouch for him,’ the constable told Lepage.

  ‘Certainly,’ he answered.

  Falldew broke off from the music for a second: ‘Now, altogether in the chorus!’ he shouted at the police and resumed his anti-melody. The officers didn’t seem to respond, but Indippe, quickly taking off his clothes, joined Falldew on the sauna bench and, smiling blissfully, tried to pick up what there was of the tune. For a while, the steam aggravated Indippe’s wound, and the sauna, already a bit bloody, became extra bloody. But then clotting stopped the flow.

  ‘Flounce brought back ditties from Egyptian boatmen, didn’t he?’ Indippe said. ‘I’ve heard of this, but never expected to be able to participate. Such good fortune!’

  ‘We understand Dr Falldew has a key to the gym while Her Ladyship is away,’ a sergeant said.

  ‘Quite possibly,’ Lepage said. ‘So there’ll be no evidence of a break-in – no crime involved.’

  ‘Not at the gymnasium. It’s the house. Someone’s in there. Through a forced window, we think.’

  ‘A burglar? Did he give my name, too?’

  ‘No, sir. We haven’t got him yet. But we will. We think it’s someone we’ve been waiting for for years. Known as Nothing Known, to date. It would not be proper for me to give his true name at this juncture. We’ve got a cordon all round. He can’t do a bunk this time.’

  Indippe seemed to resent that Lepage had switched his interest from the professor to the sergeant. Indippe stopped singing and turned to Lepage. ‘George,’ he said. ‘The box.’

  ‘The one you were carrying?’ Lepage asked. He felt guilty about being clothed, like someone in a suit on a nudist beach.

  ‘As you’d expect, I’ve been in touch with friends and colleagues of Uwe Koller, as crucial to my researches,’ Indippe said.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘One such colleague had been asked by Koller to look after a manuscript he was working on up until his attempted escape – too bulky to carry when he did his run. The plan was that it should be brought out to him once he’d made it to the West. It was to do with the provenance – the authenticity – of certain famous works of art.’

  ‘Yes?’ Lepage said. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I knew you’d be interested. I asked if I could photocopy the El Greco pages.’

  ‘Yes?’ Lepage said. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Of course, they were written a long time before the present controversy to do with the Youde purchases. In my view, that makes these pages more, not less, valuable as statements. Koller didn’t have to take sides, put a slant on things, because at the time there were no sides.’

  ‘No,’ Lepage said. ‘No.’

  ‘On those pages, Koller, in considerable checkable detail, gives the established, verified, separate provenances of The Stricken Fig Tree, Vision of Malachi and The Awakening. No lacunae, no guesses, no speculation, only meticulous, thorough documentation.’

  ‘They’re the real thing?’ Lepage whooped.

  ‘Nobody has ever challenged the scholarship of Koller. Certainly, I would not.’

  Another constable came in hurriedly and said to Lepage: ‘We’ve picked up a lady in the grounds, sir. She gave your name.’

  ‘Of course she fucking did. Who?’

  A policewoman came into the gymnasium with Julia. One of the sergeants closed the sauna door on the two naked men, Indippe duetting again now with Nev. Julia looked very upset and ashamed. He put an arm around her. ‘What is it, darling?’

  ‘I saw your car leaving as I came home from Spud-O’-My-Life,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘I couldn’t understand where you could be going so late, so I followed. You know what jealousy can do, George. Out-of-hours calls at the Hulliborn, for example. I’ve been on edge a little. Now, I find from the police that you have enough trouble here, without my bringing extra. What the hell’s that filthy screaming noise?’ She stared at the sauna door.

  ‘A little celebration. A get-together: Nev, an American professor, and Flounce. Please, Julia, don’t blame yourself for tonight. It must have appeared as if I—’

  The main door of the gym burst open, and a young, clearly desperate man dashed in carrying a distinguished-looking vase. He had short, peroxide-assisted blond hair and a long, sad, saintlike face. Lepage was still holding Julia and felt her grow almost unbelievably tense as she gazed at this man. And the man stared at her for a moment and stood still. He seemed on the point of speaking but then recovered himself. Glancing about wildly he saw the group of police and spun around as if contemplating retreat back into the grounds. But from out there came the sound of police whistles and snarling dogs.

  The man suddenly flung himself at the sauna door, perhaps thinking this was an alternative way out. Steam and the non-music rolled forward and enveloped him. He ran ahead, apparently still unaware that this was not an exit but a cubicle. More police arrived at the gymnasium door, some with dogs. They closed around the sauna entrance. Escape for the man with the vase was impossible. Now, it was much more reminiscent of a Devil’s Island chase and recapture.

  ‘Oh my God, my God,’ Julia muttered, freeing herself from Lepage’s arms.

  ‘Don’t be upset, darling,’ he said. ‘It’s a burglar, that’s all. He’s still carrying some of the stuff.’

  One of the police sergeants entered the sauna and after a few minutes came out with the young man handcuffed to him. In his free hand, the sergeant carried the vase. A constable handcuffed himself to the man’s other wrist.

  Again, Lepage saw him stare at Julia, then possibly half smile and shrug. She was weeping. The sergeant said: ‘You’re going to have to change your nickname, Nothing Known, because something will be.’

  ‘Will be what?’ Lepage asked.

  ‘Known,’ the sergeant said.

  From the sauna came the sound of the would-be song getting under way again after the interruptions, louder and less catchy than ever.

  Lepage said: ‘Julia, you think you know this crooked intruder? It was almost as though he and you—’

  ‘Altogether in the chorus!’ Nev and Bernard yelled as one.

  Twenty-Five

  The wedding of Falldew and Ursula Wex turned into nothing less than a full-scale festival, their own ceremony serving as a starting point for this general Hulliborn day of glorious jubilee. As was so often the case, Dr Kanda put things admirably. He told Lepage: ‘This is like the highly meaningful end of many, if not all, Shakespearean comed
ies, such as A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I would say, in which the main protagonists are married; this happy bonding also typifying restoration of general social order after prolonged chaos, with all-round reconciliation of previously antipathetic elements.’

  ‘Ghost of F.R. Leavis, thank you,’ Dr Itagaki said.

  Just the same, Kanda was right. Urse and Nev held their reception in the Hulliborn main hall and everyone came, including Sam Vaux, the Minister, and his wife, and H. de T. (Gadarene) Timberlake, chairman of the Museum’s Board and Mrs Timberlake. Her thin body was so plank-like that Lepage wondered sometimes whether H. de T. had married her to suit his surname. Itagaki and Kanda had some Japanese embassy people with them, eager to see how the medical exhibition would be housed, now choice of the Hulliborn had been confirmed. Most of the museum staff were also invited, plus relatives and many local dignitaries.

  Lady Butler-Minton did not attend, but remained in Jimma with Trudy; apparently they were very content with each other. There’d been hints that Quent Youde might go out there to reclaim Penny, but he seemed to have abandoned that plan. Vaux told Lepage: ‘You’ll recall I sent my bag man, Lionel Clode, to see Penelope. He’s the one who reports their rhapsodical state and good relations with the locals, although older people remember Flounce and call Penny Sir Lady Butler-Minton, which annoys her. Surprisingly effective though he might be, Clode failed to get the tapes. Perhaps anyone would have failed. But the tapes are not important any longer, are they? After all, Penny and Trudy have given up any idea of writing their scurrilous material about Flounce, in view of what everyone now knows Bernard Indippe discovered re Butler-Minton’s courage and competence: the tapes, I gather, endorse this favourable version. Given the universal esteem now attaching to Flounce’s name, Penny has withdrawn her objections to a memorial. Or memorials. Perhaps we should think of a bust of dear Bernard next! Maybe once in a while or less – oh, yes, less – American scholarship is not such a fart-arseing joke. Did I hear that scratch from Enteritis went septic and could affect the sight of one eye?