The Curious Quests of Brigadier Ffellowes (22 page)

             
" 'My patience was rewarded. Some
mouthings
of a dying lascar seaman in a den of the vilest description caused me to accept the commission. What the fellow said was vague and in the highest degree inconclusive. Nevertheless, it brought me out here to the East
.
For, in speaking of the very area of coast in which we now find ourselves, he said something of great interest
.

             
" 'Do not go there,' he choked out 'That is the land of Not-men. Men like you and me, we are killed on sight!'

             
" 'So, by strange methods, including enlisting persons so lofty in stature they may not be mentioned on this vessel, through a previous indebtedness to my humble person, I secured the right to anywhere in these islands. And also to ask for the aid of such Dutch naval craft as might be available. In fact, I could tell my colleague here to sink anything he saw moving on this coast
.

             
" 'And so by circuitous means,' continued Verner, 'I came to one Cornelius Van Ouisthoven, the original bad debtor of my employers. The man was presumed dead. Not one
relative in his family had heard from him for many years. But and a large BUT it was he had ordered mining machinery, railway machinery, all sorts of machinery, and had not paid for it, that is, after a certain point in time.

             
" 'I found myself with a curious and unsolvable equation, involving this hitherto unknown Dutch gentleman, whose background I was at some pains to look into. Added to him there was some unpaid-for machinery, and finally, as I drew closer to the area in question, more and more rumors about a land where men were not welcome!

             
" 'So curious were all these circumstances that I felt I must investigate in person. I did so, and the results were as you know. I found myself the prisoner of these creatures the old gentleman chose to call "the Folk."

             
" 'I managed to escape and even flee the harbor in one of the native craft whose previous owners, no doubt innocent fishermen, the Folk had slain. These vessels, which were beyond their management, were left drawn up on the beach.

             
" 'I have not been so fortunate as to secure Van Ouisthoven's notes, but I rather fancy I can piece together the main
membra
.

             
" 'Briefly, the old man was a biologist, and one of extraordinary patience. He bred some native rodent, almost certainly
Rhizomys
sumatrensis
, the local so-called, "bamboo rat" to extraordinary size. In my dissecting days at
Barts
, various genera of the
Rodentia
were exposed to me, and I well remember noting that this particular species had very well-developed paws, quite resembling hands, in fact.

             
" 'Hands come before brains, you know. This is the most recent opinion. Without grasping organs, our peculiar human brains would be worthless. So, the old recluse went on with his work. And, from what you tell me, Ffellowes, he succeeded.

             
" 'Brain is an inevitable increment of size at this rate. These vermin are quite clever enough as it is. Someone at the British Museum has deduced that there are four thousand species of rodents on the planet already. But if we are to be supplanted, let it be in due course. Even the old man agreed with that at the end.'

             
"And there," said Ffellowes, extinguishing his cigar, "my story, or 'tale' if you like, Williams, ends. My father was returned to his own vessel, he continued his cruise through the islands, and no report of any of this exists anywhere, unless it be in some hidden archives of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. That is all."

-

             
There was a longer silence this time. It was broken by the younger member who had brought on the whole business in the first place.

             
"But, Brigadier, with all respect, sir, there is something vaguely familiar about all this.
Who was this man, Verner, or whatever he called himself? He sounds like some creature of fiction himself."

             
Ffellowes' answer was well typical. He stared at the young man coldly, but not in anger.

             
"Possible, no doubt. Since I never read sensational literature, I fear that I am in no position to give an answer. I have nothing to go on, you understand, but my father's unsupported word. I have always felt that sufficient!"

             
After a much longer silence, the brigadier was found to have gone, as silently as always. And, as usual, no one else seemed to have anything to say.

-

             
It was a rather normal day, or actually, afternoon, for New York. In November, that is. Crowds were moving along Fifth Avenue in a cold sleeting rain. Traffic was blaring horns and cab drivers were yelling obscenities at jaywalkers, other hapless motorists and each other.
The brown-uniformed Traffic Police, including a few women, with the aid of the standard men in blue, were trying to make sense out of it all and, true to the reputation of New York's police over the Earth, were doing so, with terse, barking commands of "Move along there" and "Can't you see the color of a stop light,
goddamnit
?"

             
I was standing against the solid stone wall of Central Park, in the low Sixties, which was some protection against the cold wind and wet. The wind was out of the west, over the Hudson River and coming over the few leaves on the park trees with some force. The thin, cold drops of water were apt to be driven down one's neck while walking. Still, I had only two blocks to go. Then the park would end and I could easily cross to my destination.

             
I was looking downtown and about to move on when I was startled by a voice from my other flank.

             
"Like the thunder of the city, old chap?" A man stood beside me, his Burberry belted and his slouch hat, some natty Italian make, maybe a
Borsalino
, slanted over one blue eye. A grin cut across the ruddy, smooth-shaven face, and I wondered again at the absence of lines on it
.
The Brigadier, as Ffellowes preferred to be called, had been everywhere in the world and not only done most known things, but seemed to have been mixed up in a whole bunch of things no one else had not only never done, most people had never
conceived of them being remotely possible. His years of service to the British Crown had dumped him in every branch of their army I had ever heard of, and then some! If he's truthful, and I think he is, it would hardly take me by surprise to have him state calmly that he had commanded a battle-cruiser at Jutland or been leader of the much later air strike on Dresden. What a man, and how quie
tl
y and unobtrusively he could move! A long period in some intelligence branch or branches, that had taught him this trick, or so he claimed. Now he spoke again, the clipped, even tones cutting through street noise like a knife through butter.

             
"Don't recognize the quote, do you?" His smile broadened. "It was said to, or thought by, a hero, if you like. Fictional, I'm afraid." He saw from my puzzled look that I had no idea what he was talking about, which was not rare, and went on with his joke. "It was said about this town to one Simon Templar. That ring a bell? Said by or inspired by a lovely girl though, not an aging hack of the Empire."

             
My memory raced and finally came up with reading long past but still memorable. "For Christ's sake! The Saint! Didn't know you liked that kind of thing, Brigadier. What's the story called?"

             
"If my recollection serves, very simple. The Saint in New York, by that chap, Leslie
Charteris
. Damned good book, too. You ought to try it
.
Maybe it's in the club library, hmm?"

             
"Let's go and look. I was headed there anyway. There's no sun, to put it mildly, and it's getting dark. This park has muggers, you know."

             
My answer didn't make him turn a hair. As a matter of fact, I would have feared for any mugger who tried on Ffellowes, unless he had a team headed by a large tank, to help him.

             
He was going to the same place I was, and we strolled quickly along the rain-swept street in the growing dark, chatting away together. In no time we were in our club and had shucked our coats and settled down with drinks in the
library. He had, not tea, which might have been what he was raised on, but a large cup of black coffee, fresh-ground as the club does it.

             
There were three or four of our acquaintances in the big room, and they quickly stopped whatever they were gabbing about and drew near to us and around the fire. I knew what they were hoping for, but I could hardly blame them. Any time I got Ffellowes at his ease by a fire, or just relaxed, I hoped for one of his incredible stories. They were rare but fantastic. We all felt the same way, but none of us wanted to beg or put the man at a disadvantage. If we had, we all felt, he might stop coming around at all. Better an occasional tale from the Brigadier, than none at all.

             
We were simply having a chat, about nothing in particular though, and I was about to give up hope of any of his bizarre reminiscences, when we were saved and by a most unlikely person, not to say an improbable one.

             
A voice like a rusty foghorn sounded from the stairs, and the sound of heavy, clumping shoes. We all straightened in our chairs and even Ffellowes stopped talking. "This
Godawful
town! I ought to go down to Florida and check on my horses at that stud place, north of Tampa. I got a lot of dough in them things, and IRS ought to be easy on my trips down there. Nobody knows what a real horse-lover has to put out and the work he's got to do. Besides, any excuse to get the hell outta this shit-hole of a town and this weather, will do me." Mason Williams was in full cry and sounded as unpleasant as ever. So much for peace and quiet in the library, was my thought as I watched his bulky shape thudding over our way, red face and bulbous nose under a thinning mop of greying hair. I had forgot our secret weapon, and the incisive syllables stirred me as they always did.

             
"You seem a trifle out of shape, Williams. Going to put in some time as an exercise-boy? Nothing like it for a horse
-
lover such as yourself, is there?"

             
Williams' nasty face turned an even redder hue and
verged on the purple in places. He hated Ffellowes anyway and was maddened by the cold contempt which was all he ever got from him. The Englishman fascinated him, more or less the way a cobra is supposed to petrify a bird, though, and he could never stay away from those cold eyes and the gelid tones, when they were about
.
Now he slouched into one vacant leather armchair and scowled in anger.

             
"I suppose you British know all about horses, pal," was his opening gun. "No crummy Yank can hold a candle to you jerks and your
Grando
National jazz. Jeez, why don't you give us a break,
Genarul
(he knew well that Ffellowes did not care for this title) and let the
Amurrican
peasants play with their toys in a back room, huh?"

             
As often he had done before, Brigadier Ffellowes smiled politely. It might have been a parrot squawking or a dog yapping at him. Williams could say nothing that even slightly ruffled him, then or ever. But the next words made us all, and that includes the unspeakable Williams, sit up straighter and also, shut up.

             
"Why I'm only a fair rider, old man. Hardly know one end of a filly from another. Equine, that is." He smiled gently, and I cast my mind back to other stories which gave the lie to this statement
.
I held my breath.

             
"Frankly, I think there may be too much trouble, hunting for horses, you know. Can be fraught with peril and all that sort of thing. To say nothing of experiences that one really doesn't care to recall. I remember the banks of the Danube in '45, now. Very odd and, d'you know, men, rather unsettling. Not at this time of year but just this sort of weather. Colder perhaps. No heat pipes running along the
Donau
banks, though once there was some decent heating. In
Palaestrum
, that is. Any of you know it?"