East of Ealing (6 page)

The two were now nearly amongst the gables of the great house, and the final staircase debouched into an extraordinary room, perfectly round, and some ten or twelve feet in diameter. It was bare of furniture save for a large, circular table with a white marble top which stood at its centre and an assortment of cranks and pulleys which hung above it. The walls were painted the darkest of blacks and there was not a window to be seen. Holmes nodded approvingly, and the Professor said, “Of course, a camera obscura. This simple device enables me to keep a close eye upon most of the parish without the trouble of leaving my house. Would you be so kind as to close the door?”

Holmes did so, and the room plunged into darkness. There was a sharp click, followed by the sound of moving pulleys, and clattering chains. A blurred image appeared upon the table-top, cast down through the system of prisms linked to the uppermost lens mounted upon the Professor’s roof. Slowly the image was brought into focus: it was a bird’s-eye view of the Memorial Library. Before this, draped across the bench, lay Jim Pooley, evidently fast asleep. The Professor cranked away and the rooftop lens turned, the image upon the table swam up towards the High Street. It passed over Norman’s corner-shop and the two observers were momentarily stunned by the sight of the shopkeeper alone in his backyard, apparently breaking up paving-stones with his bare hands.

“Most probably Dimac,” Professor Slocombe explained. “It has come to be something of the vogue in Brentford.”

“I favour Barritso, as you well know,” said Holmes.

“Now,” said Professor Slocombe, as he swung the lens up to its highest mounting and passed the image along the borders of the Brentford Triangle, “what do you see?”

Holmes cradled his chin in his right hand and watched the moving picture with great interest. “Some trick of the light, surely?”

“But what do you see?”

Holmes plucked at a neat sideburn. “I see a faint curtain of light enclosing the parish boundaries.”

“And what do you take it to be?”

Holmes shook his head. “Some natural phenomenon perhaps? Something akin to the aurora borealis?”

“I think not.” The Professor closed the rooftop aperture and the room fell once more into darkness. Holmes heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, and a thin line of wan light spread into the room from a previously concealed doorway. “This is a somewhat private chamber,” the Professor whispered as he led the detective through the opening and into a gabled gallery set in the very eaves of the roof. What light there was entered through chinks between the slates. The old man struck flame to an enamelled oil-lamp, and the golden light threw a long and cluttered garret into perspective. It was lined on either side with tall, dark filing cabinets. Bundles of bound documents, some evidently of great age, were stacked upon and about these, or spilled out from half-opened drawers.

“As you can observe, I have been following the course of this particular investigation for a good many years.”

Holmes ran his finger lightly over the waxen paper of a crumbling document exposing a seal imprinted with the date 1703. “And all this has been amassed to the furtherance of one single goal?”

The Professor nodded. “It is the product of many lifetimes’ work and yet now, with all this behind me, I am still lost for a solution to the matter now closely pressing upon us.”

“But what is it, Professor? What have you found and what do you yet seek? Tell me how I might aid you, you have but to ask.”

“What I have here is evidence. But it is evidence of a most unique nature, for it is evidence of a crime which is yet to be committed; the greatest crime of them all. I have my case together and I can predict fairly accurately as to what will occur and when, but I have yet to come up with a solution as to a way that I might prevent it happening.”

“But what is it?”

“Armageddon. The apocalypse,” said Professor Slocombe. “The coming of the millennium. Did you think that I would have gone to all this trouble for anything less?”

Sherlock Holmes shook his head slowly. “I suppose not,” said he.

Norman’s automaton had finished breaking up the stones and resurfacing the shopkeeper’s backyard. Now he smacked the dust from his duro-flesh palms and returned to the kitchenette to brew up some tea for his living double. Norman watched his approach through the grimy rear window. He was doing very well now, he thought. There were no more signs of violent temperament now that his circuitry had been appropriately readjusted. He would give the creation a couple of days to redecorate the premises then, if all seemed sound, get him back on shop work. Although things had got off to a poor start, Norman was certain that the future looked promising, and that he would soon be able to dedicate all his time to his greatest project yet.

The scientific shopkeeper grinned lop-sidedly and struck up a bit more whistling. He sought about on his shelves for a chocolate bar which was still in date to munch upon. Through the open shop-doorway he spied another whistler. Jim Pooley was striding by at a jaunty pace en route to Bob the bookie. Here Jim would lay on one of the most extraordinary and ill-conceived Super-Yankee accumulators ever recorded in the annals of bookmaking history.

Norman gave up his futile search, made a mental observation that when the great day dawned and all his wares were computer-coded he would have no need to bother with such trifles as actually ordering new stock, and repaired to the kitchenette for a cuppa.

Jim Pooley pushed open Bob’s armoured-glass door and entered the betting shop. As is well known, to any follower of the sport of kings, the interior of such establishments vary by but the merest detail, be they based upon some busy thoroughfare in John O’Groats or down a back alley in Penge. The betting shop is always instantly recognizable to be the thing of beauty that it is: the grey, fag-scarred linoleum floor, and the ticker-tape welcome of slip stubs; the heavily-barred counter, twelve-inch black and white tellies; the rarely-scrubbed blackboards, displaying hieroglyphics that even the now legendary Champollion would find himself hard-pressed to decipher.

Jim squinted through the blue fog of Havana cigar smoke towards its source. Behind the portcullis, pulling upon his torpedo, sat Bob the bookie.

“In for another hiding?” the millionaire enquired.

Jim smiled and waggled his betting-slip. “Today is the day,” quoth he.

Bob stifled a yawn and rubbed a newly-purchased diamond ring upon the lapel of his smoking-jacket. The Koh-i-Noor glittered flawlessly in its setting as Jim slid his slip beneath the titanium security bars of the counter fortress. Bob held the crumpled thing at arm’s length and examined it with passing interest. “I have a new pocket calculator,” he told Pooley.

“Personalized for you by Cartiers of Paris, no doubt,” said Jim. “Wrought in platinum and fashioned into the likeness of a golden calf. Your initials in jade?”

“Something of the sort.”

“I have no wish to see it, but should it give you some small pleasure, I suppose I owe it to you. Times are, I see, as ever against you.”

“It is a hard life.”

“Oh, is it now? To tell you the truth, spending so much of my time, as I do, in the sensual pleasures of unashamed luxury, I rarely have time to notice.”

“It is electric,” Bob continued, “solar-powered in fact. It will work for a thousand years without maintenance.”

“Handy,” said Jim.

“But nevertheless useless.”

“Oh dear, and why might that be?”

“Well, for all the wondrous ingenuity of its creators, the lads have overlooked one small detail, and have denied it the facility to calculate any sum greater than nine hundred and ninety-nine million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine pounds.”

“The fools,” said Jim.

“My sentiments entirely. Now should your selection,” he waved Pooley’s betting-slip sadly before him, “come up at the predicted odds, I feel that my calculator will find itself many zeros below the mark.”

“Don’t worry,” said Pooley sympathetically, “I have already worked it out in my head. I’ll have just the pound on it please, Bob.”

“As you wish, and shall you pay the tax?”

“Oh yes, I have no wish to upset the country’s economy. Such is not fair to the Government.”

“As you will then.” Bob pushed Pooley’s slip into the machine, and Jim passed him the exact amount in pennies and halfpennies. “I’ll be back around five to settle up,” said he.

Bob nodded and tinkered with his watch. “Video roulette,” he said. “The latest thing from Lateinos and Romiith.”

“A pox on those two lads,” said Pooley. “And good-day.”

Jim folded his betting-slip into his breast-pocket, left the fog-bound bookie, and strolled off along the Ealing Road. He had not gone but fifty yards when he found himself confronted by a most extraordinary little scene. A group of onlookers was gathered in a tight knot about the pavement doors of the Swan’s cellar. Pooley craned his head above the assembled throng and was more than a little surprised at what he saw.

Somehow, inexplicably jammed into the four-foot opening, was Neville the part-time barman.

“Someone get me out,” wailed this man, his voice soaring in pitch and volume above that of the rumbling spectators. “By the gods somebody, please!”

Pooley rubbed at his eyes. This was an impossibility surely? Thin man trapped in fat opening; such things could not be reasonably expected to occur. But strange as strange, here they were doing that very thing. Neville spied out Pooley’s face bobbing amongst the sea of others. “Jim,” he shouted. “Help me out will you?”

Pooley hastened to oblige. “Stand back now, ladies and gents,” he said. “Give the man some air now, please.”

“On your bike, Pooley,” said Old Pete, who had a particularly good place near the front. “We’re not going to miss any of this.”

“Be fair,” Jim pleaded. “You can see he’s in a bad way, give the lad a break.”

“How do you suppose it’s done, then?” said Old Pete. “Mirrors, do you think?”

Pooley shook his head. “I’ve really no idea, might it be what they call a shared vision? I’ve read of such things.”

“Possibly that. When I was in the East, a lad in the regiment took us to see the Indian rope trick. We saw the whole thing. Magician throws up a rope, it hangs in the air, he climbs up then vanishes, then he climbs down, the whole thing.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, well a bloke with us took pictures and when we got them back, what did they show?”

“Tell me.”

“They showed a mendicant standing beside a coil of rope. Every picture the same. Now what lied, the camera’s eye, or our own?”

Neville, whose face had deepened in colour by several shades during the course of this fascinating conversation, let out a great and terrible scream.

“Keep it down, Neville,” said Old Pete. “Can’t you see we are trying to apply ourselves to the situation.”

“Oh, so sorry,” said the bunged-up barman.

“We are doing our best,” Pooley assured him. “It is just, well, the situation has some rather unique qualities, too hasty a decision could result in disaster. ”

“Tell you what,” said Old Pete, “I’ll go through the bar and into the cellar; I’ll pull and you push.” Pete scuttled away through the saloon-bar door.

“There,” said Pooley. “Help is at hand, do not worry.”

“I’m running out of breath,” mumbled the barman. “I’ll die here in full public gaze. The humiliation, the shame. What a way to go.”

“Come on now,” said Jim, doing his best to usher away the crowd which now spilled out into the Ealing Road. “Be off about your business, please.” He shouted down towards the cellar, “Pete, are you there?” But there was no reply. “Now what is he playing at?” asked Pooley. “I’ll slip inside and see if he’s all right.” Jim slipped into the bar, leaving the mob to close in about the howling barman. He joined Old Pete up at the bar.

“Took your time, didn’t you?” the elder enquired. “Losing your grip then, is it? Here, have one on the house.” He poured Jim a large whisky from the barman’s reserve stock. “Cheers,” he said.

“Down the hatch,” Pooley replied. “No offence meant, Neville.”

“So,” Old Pete continued, “what do you take it to be, publicity stunt do you think?”

Jim shrugged hugely. “You’ve got me. I can’t see how it works, but he does appear to be wedged in solid.”

“Nah, he’s probably up on blocks. No doubt the brewery are planning a Billy Bunter night or some such abomination.”

“Perish the thought.” Jim Pooley crossed himself and tossed back his scotch. “Any more left in that bottle?” he asked.

Outside, exciting things were about to happen. Leo Felix, Brentford’s Rastafarian used-car dealer, had been passing by in his tow-truck; seeing the crowd gathered outside the Swan, the free-ale sign had flashed up in his colourful head. Now, he decided, might be a good time to make his peace with Neville, who had but recently barred him, once more, for life. Even as Pete and Pooley chit-chatted in the bar, Leo, dreadlocks a-dangle, was busily engaged in hooking Neville up to the winch on the back of his truck. “I and I soon have you back on your feet,” he assured Neville. The part-time barman seemed strangely reticent about accepting this particular offer of help, and while the crowd applauded and offered encouragement, he shrieked and wriggled and invoked the aid of his pagan gods. The way things were going he felt that he would soon be getting the opportunity to address them face to face.

Leo was by now up in his cab. “Jah, Jah Willing,” he said as he revved the engine and ram-jammed his thumb down on the hoist button. The cheering crowd parted as the hoist took up the slack.

“Oooooooooh,” went Neville as the improvised harness tightened beneath his armpits.

“Quite mild for the time of year,” said Jim as he poured two more drinks.

“Fair,” said Pete. “I’ve seen better.”

Young Chips pricked up his ears as outside the barman’s scream rose to a frequency beyond human register. Sickening, bone-crunching sounds were emanating from the barman’s middle regions and the cement about the cellar door’s metal frame was splitting and shivering. The crowd drew back in sudden alarm; this was no laughing matter. “Switch your winch off, Leo,” shouted somebody. “You’ll pull him in half.” Leo thumbed the button. He had been meaning to have it fixed for some time. The thing popped out from the dashboard and fell into his upturned palm. “Haile Selassie!” said Leo Felix.

“,” went Neville the part-time barman.

“Back your truck up then for God’s sake,” shouted another somebody, “we’ll try and get the cable off him.”

Leo hastened into the driving seat and stuck the customized Bedford into reverse. Gear cogs ground together adding further screams of distress to those already being loudly voiced.

He had been meaning to get the reverse fixed for some time.

With an almighty clunk the gear found its housing, and lodged into it as firmly as a barman in a beer cellar. Leo clawed at the gear-stick but it would not shift by an inch. His knackered tow-truck, sick to the worn treads with its constant bad treatment, had chosen this of all times to exact revenge upon its Caribbean tormentor. Tearing his keys from the dash, Leo Felix leapt pale-faced from the cab. The malevolent tow-truck rolled relentlessly backwards, bound for the crowd and the struggling barman.

As the unstoppable vehicle gathered speed, those free to do so hastily took to their heels. Neville stared up, his good eye starting from its socket. The acrid smell of exhaust fumes filled his brain, and a rear number-plate which read NEM 1515 began to engulf his world.

It looked very much like strawberry jam time for Neville the part-time barman. The truck’s engine roared like some beast loosed from the bottomless pit, and ground upon its hellish course. With one final despairing gasp Neville passed from consciousness, which as it happened was quite a shame because he missed the very best bit.

As the crowd burst asunder in a screaming panic-torn explosion, a heroic figure leapt into the fray. He plunged through the mass of fleeing humankind and took up a stance between the comatose barman and the roaring instrument of doom. The feet of this titan were firmly rooted upon the pavement and his face was a cold mask of determination. His eyes shone with a strange inner light. With a single sudden lunge forward, he grasped the tailgate of the wheel-screeching vehicle and stopped it dead in its tracks. The tyres squealed upon the pavement, raising black clouds of tread. With superhuman effort Neville’s deliverer dragged it up from the ground. The engine whined into overdrive and exhaust smoke enveloped him in a great monoxide cloud of death. Struggling beneath the weight of the possessed vehicle, he bore it aloft, and held it high above his head. The truck rocked and shuddered, howling like a banshee, but in a moment he had done with it.

Brentford’s St George cast down the mechanical dragon, bursting out its tyres, scrambling its axles, and driving its engine to ruination upon the cold stones of the pavement. As the smoke cleared, small knots of the cowardly crowd stared back in wonder. The hero calmly knotted the slackened hoist cable about his hand and tore it from its mountings. He turned slowly towards Neville and, freeing him from his hangman’s harness, stooped and carefully drew him up to pavement level, where he laid him gently to rest.

Before the crowd could arouse itself from its slack-jawed wonderment, engulf the hero, and raise him shoulder-high, Norman silently turned away from the scene of his glory and strode back to his corner-shop.