Necroscope: The Mobius Murders (8 page)

But his thoughts had wandered, and now he drew them back: to his “superiors” at the University, yes, and one in particular…

Came the time when he had been summoned to the vice-chancellor’s chambers to explain his alleged shortcomings. His students, apparently, were the main complainants! How were they supposed or expected to attain an understanding of higher mathematics when their instructor was wont to stray so far from the subject matter? For instance: what had necromancy, metaphysics, numerology and various other primitive occult and long-rejected theories and obscure studies got to do with algebraic equations or differential and integral calculus?

“Yes, it is true,” he had explained, “that I often refer to an original theory or its source in order to show the evolution of a system. Mathematics has a history no less than every other science. If not for Einstein’s General Relativity, would we now have nuclear power, quantum mechanics or the ongoing search for black holes?”

“Oh, and numerology?” Latimer Calloway, Professor of Anthropology—soon to be Professor Emeritus, since he was then into his last few remaining weeks as vice-chancellor—had been less than impressed; and not at all with Hemmings’ recently and very noticeably enhanced air of superiority.

Hemmings had shrugged. “But man has always associated names with numbers, and has always found them mystical. As an anthropologist you are surely aware of that connection, and as a mathematician I refuse to ignore it! Are you saying you find nothing magical—or let’s say ‘mystical’—about numbers? Let me give you an example of what I am getting at. How can it be that with our ability to reduce numbers, especially where time is concerned, down to billionths and even nanoseconds, we are unable to resolve pi? It’s a so-called irrational number, as are so many others that can’t be pinned down to precise values. Why is the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle invariably five units in length wherever the right-angled sides are three and four such units? There is no explanation, it’s simply so. Or perhaps not so simply.”

“But—”

“Let me continue,” Hemmings had insisted. “I spoke of time. If time is but a fourth dimension of our universe, perhaps the answers to all such questions may be found in a fifth or even a sixth; and many of our supposedly finest theoretical physicists have been at least considering the possibility of just such external or ulterior dimensions for many decades—and right
there
you have a very strong connection at least with metaphysics, if not the other, er, perhaps less acceptable doctrines.”

To which Calloway had replied: “All of which comes close to sophistry!”

“Not so, and I will tell you why. I believe that unless my students become completely immersed in such mysteries—unless I seed in them an absolute fascination with numbers—how then may they aspire to mastery of the subject?”

More sophistry? And for several long moments the vice-chancellor had remained silent, a hand stroking his chin under thin lips and frowning eyes. Until finally he said: “This is not the first time we have heard complaints. We know that you have most recently suffered a bereavement, but since returning from Edinburgh your entire demeanour would seem to have changed. In fact it has even been suggested that you do not so much teach or try to inform your students as convince yourself! That you have become something of a doctrinaire; that you are inclined to carry unorthodox principals to impractical, unworkable extremes! Well if so it simply isn’t good enough, Professor Hemmings.”

Unabashed and on the contrary angered, Hemmings had replied “And as to your own personal opinion?”

“I shall hold that in reserve—for the moment. Suffice it to say that as of now we shall watch how you go, and very carefully.”

Hemmings had taken that not only as his dismissal, but also as an insult and a threat. “We shall watch how you go,” indeed! Well, he would
tell
them where they could go, and how quickly!

And sneering scornfully he’d stalked from the vice-chancellor’s chambers, collected his personal effects—plus a handful of books from certain shelves in the library—and returned at once to Edinburgh.

A brief notice on the university’s information boards a few days later had acknowledged his resignation…

Calloway, that apathetic cretin!…Hemmings now thought as he walked the Kirkaldy esplanade. Ah but then, he had paid for his insouciance in the end! For Professor Emeritus Latimer Calloway had become…what, Hemmings’ second? Well, his true third, if he included his mother. He had yet to make up his mind decisively on that one.

And as for now: now he was seeking his ninth.

Yesterday had been the eighth, and a barely adequate tidbit at that. It concerned the great leech that he felt so hungry so soon. Obviously that limping, down-and-out drug addict had been on his “last legs,” literally! His life-force, or his soul—as the Pythagoreans would doubtless have had it—had already been ebbing when Hemmings took him. He had sufficed, if only for the moment; but now on this desolate strand that moment had passed, and the need inside Hemmings was once again gnawing at him. Oh, he knew he could manage for a while longer, but still he didn’t want to.

On the other hand, perhaps he didn’t have to. For as he was about to turn back and head for the railway station, finally he had found what might well be that ninth victim he was searching for.

Here, midway along the esplanade, in the lee of a sea wall, an open-ended shelter containing a wooden bench provided refuge from inclement weather and a place to rest or simply to sit and gaze out across the sea. Right now it was occupied by a man and his scrawny dog, a young German Shepherd by its looks. Glancing all about and seeing no one else in the vicinity, Hemmings drew closer and stepped into the comparative privacy of the shelter.

The man seated on the bench, where he was eating a sandwich and feeding his dog with dry crusts and scraps from a paper bag on his knees, was exactly the sort of fellow Hemmings had hoped to find: a knight of the road. Short and heavy-set, bearded and weathered to a light mahogany, he was dressed in ancient, badly patched jeans and what looked like a homemade hessian jacket or shirt under an open plastic raincoat. Even more appropriate, he appeared ruddy with health and just the opposite of yesterday’s victim.

Looking up as something of the great leech’s shadow fell on him, the tramp seemed momentarily surprised—not everyone felt inclined to approach him this closely. And: “A very good day to you, sir!” he said in a guttural yet oddly cultured voice as he brushed crumbs from his knees, crumpled the paper bag and stuffed it into a pocket.

“Indeed it is,” Hemmings replied. “But the nights will soon be drawing in. Still, I can see that you’re a man of all weathers.”

The other nodded. “I am, though some weathers are less kind than others. But the dog will keep me warm, as I shall keep him warm, though soon I’ll have to do something about his small inhabitants.”

“Ah!” said Hemmings, reaching in his pocket. “Would a pound buy you some of the required pills or powders, perhaps?”

“Oh, indeed!” The tramp quickly, eagerly stood up.

“In which case a fiver would probably feed you for a day or two, as well?” And Hemmings proffered a five-pound note.

“Why, bless you!” The other’s hand started to tremble where it reached for the money. “You are my benefactor, sir!”

No
, thought Hemmings,
but you will certainly be mine!

Before the tramp’s shaky hand could take hold of the note, Hemmings said, “Ah!”—and as if by accident let it slip from his fingers. The other at once stooped to recover it.

Instantly the ex-Professor pictured an explosion of hugely intricate symbols—numbers, equations, and cabbalistic calculi—letting this seeming chaos warp momentarily on the screen of his mind, then freezing it at the required evolution: the junction between physical and metaphysical universes. And behind the stooping tramp the air rippled where a door formed in otherwise empty space.

Except for a faint shimmer the door was invisible, yet the mutant Hemmings sensed it there and leaned his bulk forward until his fat hands could grip the bowed man’s shoulders and hold him down; and as the other shrank down more yet under the great leech’s weight and magnetic influence, so the transfer ran its course.

The tramp cried out; he grew suddenly weak and flailed useless arms; his dog yelped and, perhaps sensing the unknown with its animal instinct, sat back on its haunches and hauled on the leash that was wrapped about its master’s right hand and wrist. Which was when the murderer pushed with all his
and
the other’s stolen strength, causing the tramp to topple over backwards and disappear through the door. The Alsatian yelped again, skidding on a leash as taut as a bowstring; until Hemmings put a foot on its backside, cursing as he gave it a vicious shove. And as the frantic animal jerked forward and passed only
halfway
from view…then the monster collapsed his door!

Slopping blood and guts from a middle sliced through as if by the keenest guillotine blade, the rear half of the dog fell over on its side, kicking its hind legs spastically just twice. Its escaping fluids slimed the concrete paved floor in an uneven, darkly expanding circle; which caused ex-Professor Hemmings to step lively to avoid fouling his shoes.

And without further pause, his hideous hunger satisfied, it was time he was on his way to the railway station; and glancing up and down the esplanade and beach as he went, reassuring himself that his actions and even his presence had gone unobserved the great leech set off back the way he had come.

Pleased with the way things had gone, he knew that his fat face, which for the moment was ruddy with his victim’s colour, would soon return to a more accustomed hue. As for his repast: rarely had he indulged himself so gratifyingly and so cheaply. But what a pity that the tramp had claimed his fiver before the door claimed him.

And one other thing. Before voiding the door, for a single instant Hemmings had caught himself peering half fearfully into the darkness beyond it. But there’d been nothing there. So perhaps that other thing—that yesterday thing—perhaps that had been his imagination…his conscience?
But no
, he thought and shook his head,
hardly that!
And grinning, with a spring in his step, he carried on walking…

Early that same evening, as the Necroscope Harry Keogh tried to relax in an easy chair in his rather dusty but comfortably familiar living room—as he sat there pondering this strange new case, this murder whose author used the Möbius Continuum as his weapon—he was startled from uneasy thoughts that were slowly but surely deepening into the reverie which in him usually preceeded sleep, by the sudden purring of his telephone.

It was B.J. Mirlu, enquiring: “Harry,
mah wee man
—are ye all right? Ah was expectin’ yere call—which didnae come. Now why is that, Ah wonder?”

Mah wee man! Those three small words of evocation which the Necroscope couldn’t ignore even if he fought them with his last breath; that post hypnotic-command that B.J. had anchored irremovably in his mind. If she were to call for him now that would mean the end of his investigations, at least for the time being. But well aware of the constraint, the imposition she had placed upon him, still Harry was largely in possession of his own mind and perfectly able to answer her, albeit carefully:

“I’ve been busy, Bonnie Jean, and it’s not over yet because I’m still trying to work something out. I was going to call you but you’ve beaten me to it! So…are
you
okay?”

“Oh, Ah’m fine, Harry. It’s just that Ah like tae hear yere voice now and then. Ye ken how Ah get out o’ sorts when Ah dinnae hear from ye.”

“But it’s only been a day, B.J.!”

She chuckled huskily. “So then, ye’ve no found someone else tae take mah place?”

“Is that likely?” He gave a derisive snort, then continued: “Now, what’s the
real
reason for your call?”

“Oh, aye?” she replied. “So it’s straight tae the point, is it? Well so be it! And maybe it’s just as well ye’re still busy wi’ whatever…so long as its no another woman!” She chuckled once again, then dropped the accent and quickly continued: