The Mechanical Messiah (29 page)

Cameron Bell took the ray gun. ‘I am so sorry,’ said he.

‘Nothing to apologise for, guv’nor.’ The driver pocketed Cameron’s watch, grinning as he did so.

‘I regret that there is.’ Cameron Bell turned the ray gun on the driver. ‘This is a highway robbery,’ he said. ‘Please hand over your money and return to me my watch.’

After the sulking driver had driven away at speed, Cameron Bell approached the palace of glass. He was aware of how rough he must look, his clothes as bespoiled as a beggar’s. But he was also aware that
this
was the Music Hall, where
all
were welcome, as long as they could furnish the price of admission.

The grand entrance hall, a beautiful gallery, was made even more gorgeous by the pleasing arrangement of elegant naked statuary. Each carved from silica mined from Earth’s moon. The moon now named Victoria. Sounds of singing echoed from the great auditorium beyond. Of the Travelling Formbys crooning the plaintive feline ballad ‘Your Pussy Still Reminds Me of My Grandma’s Ginger Beard’.

The box office, a glittering booth modelled after the style of the Taj Mahal, was manned by a swarthy son of the Empire, mightily bearded and sporting a jewel-speckled turban.

‘The best seat you have in the house,’ said Cameron Bell. The gentleman of swarthiness viewed the potential purchaser of the best seat in the house as he might a pigeon poo that had fallen onto his diamond-spattered headwear.

‘Most amusing,’ said he.

‘Judge me not upon these rags,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I am a man of substance. I was attacked and brutalised.’

‘You have the voice of a gentleman,’ said the swarthily complexioned seller of tickets, shaking his turbaned head. ‘But regrettably, at the Crystal Palace we enforce a strict code of dress in the exclusive boxes. Sir has no hat, no tie, no gloves, no tailcoat — no—’ And then, ‘No!’ he said, much louder.

Cameron pointed the ray gun at the turbaned head. He flung all the money he had taken from the driver across the ticket counter.

‘I am a desperate man,’ he said. ‘Hand me the ticket and keep the change, or I will shoot you dead.’

The son of Empire stared at Cameron Bell. ‘Sir has given me sufficient money not only to purchase the best seat in the house, but also to rent the appropriate apparel. Take your ticket and
this—’
he displayed a special voucher to Cameron Bell, ‘—to the booth yonder and you will be fitted out at no further expense.

‘Thank you,’ said Cameron Bell, taking both ticket and voucher. ‘And I apologise for
this,’
and he returned his ray gun to his trouser pocket.

It was the work of moments. The measurings up, the selection of clothes. Discarding the old and slipping on the new. ‘Burn those,’ said Cameron Bell to the fitter as he transferred his pocket watch, the last remaining symbol of his former life, to the silver-fabricked waistcoat of the smart dress suit.

‘You must return the suit at the end of the performance, ‘said the fitter.

Cameron toyed with his ray gun.

‘I will close up the booth and depart for home now,’ said the fitter. ‘I do hope that sir enjoys the performance. I am told that Alice Lovell—’ And he made a lewd expression.

Mr Bell raised high the ray gun and struck the fitter down.

The best seat in the house — the best
remaining
seat — was on the second tier above the one reserved for royalty. Cameron Bell squinted at his ticket, but he knew the way well enough. He had attended concerts here before, classical concerts. He had seen Mrs Norman Nerruda, the greatest violinist of the day, perform Paganini.

Cameron crossed to the ornate staircase that led to the boxes, gained the first landing and then the second. Edged along the corridor alone with brooding thoughts. Applause reached him. He drew out his watch, squinted once more at the dial. It was well after eleven, the show was running late. But he had not missed Alice. She would be on next. The very top of the bill.

Cameron was approaching the door to his box when he heard the laughter. Not the laughter of the crowd, but of a single fellow, a high and horrible laughter, this. It brought Mr Bell to a halt. The private detective leaned towards the do or of a box and pressed his ear against it. Further laughter and other sounds reached him. Curious sounds that he could not identify. But that laughter— Cameron Bell drew out his ray gun once more. Held it high in his right hand and with his left gently turned the handle of the door. It clicked, the door opened slightly, Cameron put his shoulder to it and pushed.

The curtains were drawn upon the box, shielding it from the gaze of those filling the auditorium. The lights were dim but of what was to be seen there could be no doubt at all.

The eyes of Cameron Bell fell upon a naked man, engaged in filthy congress with what looked to be two Limehouse prostitutes and a plucked but lively chicken. The naked fellow looked up from his dirty doings. ‘Why, Bell,’ he said. ‘Would you care to join in? There is always room for one more.

Cameron Bell entered the box, closing the door behind him. ‘Well,’ he said, displaying his ray gun. ‘We meet again, Mr Crowley.’

ery nice,’ said Aleister Crowley, viewing Cameron’s ray gun. ‘Is that one of those new surgical appliances whose healthy vibrations alleviate female hysteria?’

‘A little ray gun called the Educator,’ said Mr Bell. ‘It has educated several this evening. It will now teach you its cruellest lesson, I am thinking.’

‘Hold hard.’ Mr Crowley rolled aside an enormous East end slosh pot. ‘No need for any violence. I merely took what you promised me. A little early, perhaps, but I damaged none of your precious things. You do write the most personal accounts in your diary, do you not?’

Cameron Bell ignored this unpleasant remark. ‘My world is in ruination,’ he said. ‘Everything that I held dear is gone. And
you
are partially to blame for this. Had you not stolen the ring, the creature that destroyed my house searching for it might have spared at least some of my belongings.’

‘This is all very sad,’ said Mr Crowley, pulling up his long johns as he did so. ‘Your library and your curiosa, too?’

‘All gone,’ said Mr Bell. ‘My house as well, destroyed by fire.’

‘You may lodge with me,’ said the Great Beast, beaming hugely. ‘I inhabit superior rooms at the Savoy now. ‘Tis the balance of equipoise, I suppose. My fortunes have risen, as yours have fallen.’

‘Return the ring to me,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘That I regret I cannot do,’ said Mr Aleister Crowley.

‘Then before I shoot you dead and take it from your cold and lifeless finger, tell me this. If it was not
you
consumed by fire in your lodgings, then who?’

‘Just a whore,’ said the Logos of the Aeon. ‘She had the gall to doubt my powers as a magician. I wore the Ring of Moses. She warmed to my skills most colourfully.’ Crowley’s voice took on a sinister and insinuating tone, his eyes fixed once again upon a spot to the rear of Cameron’s head. ‘But my dear Bell,’ said he, ‘you believed
me
to be dead. How touching. Or not, as the case may be. For I saw no notification of my death in the obituary column of
The Times
newspaper. No words of regret, penned by yourself, for the loss of England’s greatest poet and holy guru. No eulogy, no—’

‘Cease,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘The ring, or I shoot you where you stand. And the whores, too, for an encore. Found dead in your underpants in such unexalted company. I will be happy to write
that
up for
The Times.
Does the chicken have a name?’

‘My dear Bell—’

‘The ring and now.’

‘But you do not understand its power. Or how to wield its power.’ The Beast of the Apocalypse raised his left hand and displayed the Ring of Moses on his finger. ‘By the power—’ he began.

But, ‘No!’ cried Mr Bell and he shot Mr Crowley in the foot.

The ray gun made no sound at all and nor indeed did Mr Crowley. With his mouth wide open and eyes somewhat crossed, he fainted and fell in a heap. The slosh pots opened
their
mouths to scream, but the detective waggled a cautionary finger.

‘Ladies, leave,’ he said. ‘And do take the chicken with you.’

And making haste and donning clothes, the ladies took their leave. In company of fowl.

Mr Bell approached the fallen mystic, knelt, removed the Ring of Moses from his hand, slipped it onto his own finger. The holy guru stirred and mumbled. Cameron Bell put the ray gun to his temple— ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ came the voice of Tony Spaloney (the King of the Old Baloney). ‘Tonight for your delirious delectation—’ the crowd made cheerings ‘—the lovely lady whose feathered frolics gain a
standing ovation
from all the gentlemen. She’s
here,
she’s
dear
and her birds are rather
queer.
The beautiful Alice Lovell and her Acrobatic Kiwis.’

Aleister Crowley made groaning sounds.

Cameron Bell clunked him hard upon the head.

Then eased the curtains open a crack and peered into the splendid auditorium.

It was a sight that had hitherto never failed to inspire Mr Cameron Bell. Seating for ten thousand folk beneath a spreading canopy of glass. To either side the tiers of exclusive boxes rose, enclosed by cast-iron trelliswork, a confusion of intricate scrollings and traceries. Everywhere lit to perfection by modern electric.

The stage itself resembled the exposed interior of some grossly magnified Bedouin tent. Precious linens, cloths of gold framed it to a nicety. Above, the masks of Comedy and Tragedy were picked out in silver upon an enamelled entablature, richly smothered all about by luscious velvets that tumbled above and below.

There upon that stage stood Alice Lovell. And she had never looked more lovely in her life. She wore tonight a ringmaster’s coat in silver brocade and a tiny matching top hat. A brass corset with copper filigree and mock rose-petal-work clenched her slender waist. Bright blue bloomers, sleek white stockings and high-heeled patent button-boots completed the prettiest of pictures.

The crowd erupted into near-frantic cheerings; gentlemen cast their hats into the air. The clockwork orchestra whirred and clicked and cranked out that ever popular Music Hall standard:

TREACLE SPONGE BASTARD FOR ME

And as Alice put the kiwis through their acrobatic routines, the crowd sang along with the orchestra, as would a mighty choir.

And this is what they sang:

Oh, treacle sponge bastard for me, please.

I’ll have a bite of that now.

I don’t want carrots and cheese, please,

I don’t want slices of cow.

I don’t want doughnuts or doorsteps of bread.

I don’t want cabbages, big as my head.

I don’t want mushrooms you grew in your shed.

I want treacle sponge bastard for me—

and so on—

Cameron Bell looked longingly at Alice. The most beautiful creature that he ever had seen. He rooted in the clothing of the Beast, located Aleister Crowley’s paisley purse and took out a threepenny piece. This he dropped into a slot, activating the mechanism that released a pair of opera glasses. Cameron Bell raised these to his eyes, adjusted them and gazed awhile at Alice.

Her kiwis formed pyramids and played at leapfrog. Then cricket.

The private detective turned his opera glasses towards the exclusive boxes on the other side of the stage. Espied Mr Oscar Wilde in the company of Max Beerbohm and Aubrey Beardsley. A group of Venusians, their golden eyes trained upon the stage. Members of the aristocracy, sporting false moustaches. Here a foreign potentate. There a manufacturer of brass goggles to the gentrified classes. There— Cameron Bell caught air in his throat. Refocused his opera glasses. There, almost directly opposite him, in the box below the Venusians, sat a single figure. Lean, gaunt-featured, all in black. The monster in human form.

Cameron Bell raised his ray gun, gripped it in a trembling hand. It would surely be but the work of a moment. A well-aimed charge of deadly energy. From between the scarcely open curtains. No one would even see him. He could slip away quietly once the deed was done. It was murder, of course. But then was it murder if what you killed was not a man? Interplanetary agreements decreed that within the boundaries of the British Empire, all men, be they of Earth, or Venus, or Jupiter, were equal in the eyes of the law. And entitled to the protection of the law. But was this fiend Venusian? Or was he something other?