Retromancer (24 page)

THE MOON

‘You really will have to explain,’ I said, ‘for I am most confused.’

‘Energy fools the magician,’ said Hugo Rune.

‘As an explanation, that fails on so many levels,’ I told the magician, but raised my glass to him all the same as I did so.

We were in the saloon bar of The Four Horsemen, which was under new new management. Jack Lane, former Brentford team captain and centre forward, and the man who hammered in three goals when Brentford won the FA Cup in nineteen twenty-seven, now stood behind the bar. Bald and bandy-legged, he had hardly changed at all since that famous day of glory.

‘My suspicions were originally aroused by the healthsome state of the ghastly Mr McMurdo,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Believe me, Rizla, it would take more than any Harley Street quack has to offer to set that fellow to rights. And then all that nonsense about putting me out to pasture. Me out to pasture? Me?’

‘Quite so,’ I said. ‘Go on,’ I also said.

‘The second exploding cab confirmed my suspicions that something untoward was occurring. One cab, fair enough, Spontaneous Cab Combustion does happen once in a while. But two, I think not. You will note that I repaired to the Gents. Did you not think that was strange?’

‘Well, I thought-Well, never mind,’ I said.

‘I felt that I needed to check the contents of the briefcase and so I slit the bottom and took a little peep inside.’

‘Oh yes?’ I said, intrigued.

‘A bomb, Rizla. Small and of advanced design and timed to go off precisely at three.’

‘To kill you and George Cole, oh no!’

‘Oh yes.’ And Hugo Rune drank ale. ‘It is not altogether unpleasing, this,’ he said. ‘What did you say it was called?’

‘Apple Chancery,’ I said. ‘But as a running gag, having all the beers named after typefaces never really gained its legs at all, did it?’

‘There may be a bit of life left in it. But, as I was saying, a bomb of advanced design. I disarmed it, of course.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘So what about the speech for the prime minister to read out?’

‘I will get to that,’ said the Magus. ‘I had you drive me at speed to Mornington Crescent. There I found what I expected to find: dead and dying, precious files destroyed, computers wrecked, all lost. The Ministry had been infiltrated. My worst fears were founded.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’

‘Quite so.’

‘And then you had me chase after that cab because Count Otto was kidnapping Mr McMurdo.’

‘Count Otto was not kidnapping him. Because that was not McMurdo. I found McMurdo’s body at the Ministry – by the looks of him he had been dead for several days.’

‘You did an awful lot of looking around down there in a very few minutes,’ I said. ‘But tell me please, for I do not understand – the McMurdo who tried to blow you up with a bomb in a briefcase was not the real McMurdo? So was he an actor like the one who plays Winston Churchill?’

‘He was not a man, Rizla. Which was why he would not shake my hand. He was a robot, a construct, a mandroid, call it whatever you like.’

‘Oh come on,’ I said to Hugo Rune. ‘I saw the robot at Bletchley Park, a proper nineteen-forties robot, all rivets and eye slits and clockwork. Nothing like what we saw in that office – a robot that can look and sound so convincingly like a human being – is likely to exist for hundreds of years yet, surely.’

‘It is as I said,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘A great inhuman force is at work here, Rizla. A force far greater than Hitler or the horrible Count Otto Black. And now at last I know what it is. And it is a thing to fear.’

‘Oh come on now,’ I said. ‘ “You ain’t afraid of no man.” ’

‘ “There’s something out there,” ’ said Hugo Rune, ‘ “and it ain’t no man.” ’
[11]

‘A robot?’ I said. ‘A great big robot, just like our Colossus?’

‘A computer,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And one possessed by the spirit of a God.’

I whistled and said, ‘You mean Wotan.’

‘That is entirely correct.’

‘Pardon me for saying this-’ and I took sup at my ale ‘-but this is a very big leap of logic. Do you have any definite proof? Is this not just a theory?’

‘Just a theory?’ Hugo Rune did risings in his seat. ‘When Rune has a theory, it is a theory proven. Am I not Rune, whose eye is in the triangle? Whose nose cleaves the etheric continuum? Whose ears take in the Music of the Spheres?’

‘You are indeed,’ I said and I raised my glass to him. ‘And it is a joy to see you once more on top form. For indeed you are THE MAGICIAN.’

We did not take too many beers. In fact we were quite restrained. I drove the taxi back to the manse, picking up fish and chips on the way that we might enjoy for some dinner.

And fish and chips in the paper, on your knee in a cosy chair, by the wireless set, is as English as English can be. And I switched on the wireless set to listen to the news. And perhaps catch some popular dance band music of the day. But probably not one led by Liam Proven.

‘This is the voice of Free Radio Brentford,’ came a crackling voice. And that voice seemed to me to be the voice of my friend Lad Nicholson.

‘I did not know that Free Radio Brentford was about during the Second World War,’ I said to Hugo Rune. The Magus leaned over and filched away one of my chips.

‘And on the world stage today,’ continued the voice that seemed to be that of Lad Nicholson, ‘the long-awaited three-fifteen speech from the prime minister turned out to be something of a surprise. It stated, and I quote: “That for his services to the British Nation, Hugo Rune be awarded its highest honour and a state pension. And that from this day forth he must be addressed as either ‘sir’ or ‘your lordship’ by all and sundry and-” ’

‘And?’ I said. And I turned to Mr Rune.

The Magus continued to munch on his dinner. ‘It was all I had time to write on that piece of toilet paper in the Gents at Broadcasting House,’ he explained. ‘After I had disabled the bomb that was meant to kill myself and the mighty George Cole. I expect it is what the real Mr McMurdo would have wanted, don’t you?’

And I just nodded my head.

Having dined, we then got down to work. We packed our clothes into steamer trunks and loaded them into the cab.

Then Mr Rune put out the rubbish, switched off the lights and closed up the manse.

‘I really liked living there,’ I told him. ‘I think I will quite miss it. Along with the mysterious unnamed and unmentioned cook who always provided our breakfasts.’

‘We have more adventures lying ahead,’ said the Perfect Master. ‘Now drive us to the allotments – I have items to collect from my workshop.’

At Mr Rune’s behest I loaded all manner of interesting things into more steamer trunks, swung each aboard the Gravitite disc and nudged them into the lift. Once topside, all went into the cab and then we upped and left.

‘I wonder how far we can get in this cab before it runs out of fuel,’ I said to Hugo Rune. ‘Because neither of us has a ration book, so I do not see how we will buy petrol.’

‘Fear not for that, young Rizla,’ called Hugo Rune, as he mixed himself a cocktail. ‘ London cabs never have and never will run on petrol. They run on tap water, taking advantage of the MacGreggor Mather’s Water Car Patent, which is otherwise kept secret from the public and the motor industry.’

‘There are so many legitimate reasons for hating cabbies, are there not?’ I said. And I saw Mr Rune’s head nod in the driving mirror.

I drove for many hours. Because we were driving to Liverpool and Liverpool is a goodly drive from Brentford, especially in a taxi with a top speed of sixty-five miles per hour.

‘Tell me about the liner we are travelling on,’ I said. ‘Will it be luxurious?’

‘Extremely,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘It is the RMS Olympic.’

‘Hold on there,’ I said in return. ‘The Olympic was a sister ship to the Titanic and it ceased to ply the waters back in the nineteen thirties.’

‘Well, you know best, young Rizla.’

‘So it is still in service?’ I said.

‘It is a luxury liner, top class in all departments. And it is neutral. Like Switzerland.’

‘You cannot have a neutral ship, can you?’ I asked.

‘You have to have at least one. Otherwise how are the rich supposed to take their cruises during wartime?’

‘That is surely outrageous.’

‘You won’t say that when you are aboard.’

But I did say that when I was aboard. I was somewhat appalled. There were folk of every nation on board that magical liner. Rich folk all and all as friendly as can be. And there were military folk also. Those of the highest ranks. SS officers were clinking glasses with martial toffs from Eton. All around and about the world was in the grip of a terrible war that would leave millions homeless, wounded or dead, and here the swells were having it large and dancing the night away.

A seaman chappy in an immaculate white uniform showed us to our staterooms. And yes, they were POSH – port out, starboard home, Posh with a capital P.

I entered the suite of Hugo Rune, who was bouncing on his double bunk.

‘Now this, young Rizla,’ he said to me, ‘really is the life.’

‘This is shameful,’ I said. ‘Awful. With all the misery of this hideous war, the rich and privileged live like kings aboard this floating palace and have not a care in the world.’

‘Oh, they have their cares,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Which tie to wear for dinner. The jewelled coronet or the diamond pendant.’

‘It is disgusting,’ I said. ‘And you should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘Me?’ said Hugo Rune, with outrage in his voice.

‘You condone it. You revel in it-’

‘Rizla.’ And Hugo Rune ceased all his bouncing. ‘You and I are on a mission to alter the course of this war. To save millions from nuclear death. Do you not feel that we deserve three square meals a day and a decent nest to curl up in come nightfall, whilst journeying forth on this noble quest?’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘If you put it like that. But the rest of these people-’

‘Their lives are not ours. Their morals are not ours. Do you not think that I hold them in contempt? Do you think that I lack all morality and sensibility?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Of course not.’

‘In that case, Rizla, I suggest we don our dinner suits and make our way to the bar. The Olympic sails at sunrise and I would recommend that you view this event from the top deck, with a gin and tonic in your hand. What say you to this matter?’

And I said Yes to it.

A regular pair of toffs we looked, as we sauntered down to the bar. This was the first time I had actually worn my dinner suit. Mr Rune had had it made to measure for me at a fashionable tailor shop in Piccadilly. Regarding the payment of the bill?

I had no regard for that.

The sheer scale of the RMS Olympic was daunting. The decks dwindled with perspective seemingly to infinity and the bar was nearly the size of a football pitch. It was all early neon, chrome and black, with elegant statuary of the art deco persuasion. All topless sylphlike females with slender bums and breasts.

Behind the bar counter were more colourful drinks than I had ever imagined existed. They covered the spectrum and went beyond and I looked on in awe. Behind the counter, before these bottles, stood a noble barman. A modish figure in a rapscallion jacket and feta-cheese-style pantaloons, he wore a jaunty little sailor’s cap and a flower in his buttonhole. And he greeted our approach to his counter with a, ‘Welcome aboard.’

‘Pleased to be here,’ I said with a smile. And then I said, ‘Hold on.’ And I gazed hard at that barman and I said, ‘Fangio?’

‘None other,’ said he. ‘But we’ll keep that just between the three of us, if you don’t mind. Or four, if you want to count my pet monkey Clarence here in his natty waistcoat and fez.’

I tipped a wink at Clarence and he raised his fez to me.

‘What a joy to see you both here,’ said Fangio. ‘I had to, how shall I put this, make myself scarce, as it were. The customs men and the rozzers were hard at my heels. And although I hated like Satan’s saucepan-full of collywobbles to have to run off before entering the Inter-Pub Lookalike Competition, I felt it best to sign on for a one-way passage to the home of the brave and the land of the free rather than stay behind and face the music. As it were.’

‘Well, that makes everything clear,’ I said. ‘Except for Satan’s saucepan.’

‘Ah,’ said Fangio. ‘I’m experimenting with new terms of expression. Lord Cardigan welt me with a kipper if I’m telling you a lie.’

‘I think it might need working on,’ I said. ‘But there is running-gag potential for sure, so work at it.’

‘And what are you and Mr Rune doing here?’ said Fangio. ‘Having a bit of a holiday, is it now?’

‘On the contrary,’ said Hugo Rune, pointing to this bottle and that in the hope that Fangio might combine their contents into an interesting cocktail. ‘We are here strictly on business. Undercover, as it were.’

‘Well, it’s my good fortune to run into you again. I have your bill for your outstanding account at The Purple Princess in my cabin.’

Mr Rune pointed with greater urgency and the matter of the outstanding account was never mentioned again.

‘Tell you what though,’ said Fangio in a confidential kind of a way, ‘they’re an odd old bunch, aren’t they, the rich?’

He shook Hugo Rune’s concoction and then poured it into a glass. The Magus downed this in one and swiftly ordered another.

And then he said, ‘Odd? In what way?’

‘They just look odd,’ said Fangio. ‘Especially the old ones – and there are some really old ones on board. Ancient dowagers and countesses. Eastern European nannas with unpronounceable names.’

‘I fail to see what is so odd about that,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And while you’re at it, please pop in two of those olives and a squirt of mescaline.’

‘Well, perhaps it’s just me, then,’ said Fangio. ‘I can be all step-and-fetch-it-Barney-on-me-way-to-the-local-zoo at times, and don’t go flattering me by telling me otherwise.’

‘Forget what I said earlier,’ I said. ‘And how about serving me a drink?’

We spent the time until dawn in cocktail experimentation and succeeded in creating a number of drinks of such extreme unlikeliness as to baffle even ourselves. But then the dawn came up like thunder, as it sometimes does from Rangoon across the bay, and Mr Rune and I tottered topside to enjoy the leaving of port.

And it was a sight to remember, the lowering of the gangways, the belaying in and heaving to, some late and complicated pipings aboard, followed by lines being slipped and forecastles trimmed and things of that nature nautically.

And off slid the liner out into the sea and we were off on our way.

And I did yawnings and Hugo Rune did too and then we went off to our bunks.

I arose at three the following afternoon, bathed, dressed and went for a stroll on the promenade deck. It was late September now
[12]
and the sun was low in the sky, throwing long shadows and making the grandeur seem somehow even more grand. I tipped the brim of my panama to passing ladies and wished that I had a dandy cane to twirl between my fingers. This was the life, there was no mistake about it. And though it was all so terribly wrong, it still felt marvellous.

I had wandered about a half a mile along the portside deck when I spied the first of them. And with this spying I realised why Fangio had used the word odd to describe them. The first of the Eastern European nannas.

She was a tiny wrinkled thing with a face like a pickled prune and she was all swaddled up in numerous furs and seated in an old-fashioned wicker bath chair. A gentleman of military appearance with spectacular mustachios steered this chair along. Several children fussed about the prunish nanna, offering her sweeties and dabbing at her mouth with dainty handkerchiefs. Their costumes put me in mind of a photograph I had seen of the Czar and his family, shortly before they came to their terrible end in that cellar at Yekaterinburg in nineteen eighteen.

I offered that nanna a brim-tip and smile, but she returned this pleasantry with such a bitter-eyed look of pure loathing that it quite put the wind up me.

I decided to cease my stroll and find myself some breakfast.

There was seating in the First Class Diner for eighteen hundred people. The tablecloths were of Irish linen, the knives and forks of silver. The head waiter asked for my stateroom number and then led me to my table. Where, sitting squarely, his napkin tucked beneath his chin, Himself was already tucking in to kedgeree and pickled peacock eggs
[13]
and lapsang souchong tea.

‘Good afternoon to you, Rizla,’ he called. ‘The same again for my young companion, if you will,’ he said to the head waiter, who departed after clickings of the heels.

I sat myself in a comfy chair and accepted a cup of tea.

‘How goes it, Rizla?’ asked Hugo Rune. ‘No seasickness setting in? All shipshape and Bristol fashion?’

‘Never better,’ I said, sipping tea. ‘Although I saw one of those odd old women that Fangio mentioned. And I can confirm that they are very odd and really rather scary.’

‘I think Bavarian beldames are the least of our concerns. But there are certainly some notable personages about this vessel. From the vantage point of this dining chair alone, I can see six high-ranking SS officers, who hopefully will be gracing Mr Pierrepoint’s noose at Nuremberg come the war’s conclusion. Two spies, two of America’s Most Wanteds, three Mafia dons, a defrocked bishop and a shady lady with a crazy baby and a taste for tights and chicken bites and stalactites and troglodytes.’

‘Right,’ I said, nodding. ‘And you must point out the last one to me.’

So Mr Rune pointed.

And I said, ‘Oh yes.’

And presently my breakfast arrived.

Because one of the joys of being rich, and there are many, is that you can take your breakfast at any time of the day or night. And no one will call you a slob.

I got involved with my pickled eggs and said nothing more for a while.

‘We will fall into a torpor on this voyage,’ said Mr Rune, with a sudden sadness. ‘We will need something to occupy our minds or we shall surely succumb to boredom and ennui.’

‘I think we can afford to give it a couple of days,’ I said, dipping a toast soldier into some kind of dip. ‘There are many more combinations of cocktails that need trying and I have yet to know the joys of dinnertime.’

‘Nevertheless, you have the remaining tarot cards?’

‘There’s only four left now,’ I said. And I named them: ‘THE MOON, THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE, THE TOWER and DEATH itself.’

‘Ah yes, DEATH,’ said the Magus. ‘That would be the card onto which you pasted a bit of sticking plaster, so as to distinguish it from the rest when I ask you to pick one out face down at random.’

‘Can you blame me?’ I said. ‘Who would want to pick that card?’

‘More tea?’ asked Hugo Rune, and he poured it. ‘Pick us another then, do.’

And so I chose THE MOON. ‘It looks harmless,’ I explained. ‘And there was a lovely moon last night. THE MOON shall be our talisman, as it were.’

‘Have a care, Rizla,’ said the guru’s guru. ‘You are beginning to think in the manner of a magician. And little good ever came from that!’ And then he popped one of my pickled eggs into his mouth and challenged me to a game of leapfrog on the poop deck.

When done with that, we dabbled in deck quoits, a chukka of cabin-boy polo, kept our hands in at korfball and waterskied a while behind the liner. And as the sun sank slowly in the west, we returned to our staterooms and dolled ourselves up for dinner.

My suit was laid out on my bunk before me, neatly pressed and made fragrant with what I supposed to be an expensive cologne. My shirt too was laundered and luxuriated within a cellophane sleeve. I unfolded this shirt and gave it a sniff and it too smelled most sweetly.

‘I could really get used to this,’ I said, for such treatment merits such clichés. And so I bathed and dried and gave myself a good all-over spraying with the complimentary bottle that held a prominent position on my toiletry table.

I then togged up in my finery and, growing just a tad dizzy from all the stuff I had sprayed on myself and others had sprayed on my clothes, I tottered out of my stateroom and went in search of dinner.

As Hugo Rune had yet to arrive, I seated myself in my reserved and comfy dining chair, ordered something preposterous from the drinks menu and wondered how many master forgers or post-modernist mistresses I could spy out amongst the gorgeously attired and moneyed classes.

They came and went before me, a cavalcade of opulence, the jeunesse dorée and the nouveau riche rubbing padded shoulders with nabobs and Plutocrats, patricians, princes and panjandrums. And would not you know it, or would not you not, they turned up their noses to me. In fact those that drew near to myself became decidedly sniffy. They dabbed at their upraised nostrils with initialled handkerchiefs and nosegays, made haughty disapproving sounds and hurried on their way.

I took a tentative sniff at myself, which caused my eyes to smart. ‘Note to self,’ I noted to myself. ‘Do not go so heavy on the free smelly stuff in future.’

My drink arrived and I sipped at it and wondered where Mr Rune was. The last thing he had said to me before we went our separate ways was, ‘Dinner promptly at eight, young Rizla.’

So what had become of him? I glanced down at my wristlet watch, and it was eight twenty-five.

At eight twenty-eight a bellboy appeared clasping a note in gloved fingers.

I unfolded this note and read the words on it. And at these my blood ran cold.

Please come at once

to the Stateroom Suite of

Lord Hugo Rune

read this note,

for he has been taken gravely ill

and may not survive until morning.