The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (18 page)

‘Like
some impending natural disaster, do you mean?’

‘That
sort of thing, yes. Although we’re not big on natural disasters in this
country.’

‘A
threat to health then,’ said the wild-eyed young man, with his wild eyes
flashing. ‘A toxic-waste spill or the release of some deadly virus.’

‘Now
you’re cooking with gas. And yes, hang about. I have the very thing.’ The
estate agent swung out a filing draw from his desk and pulled from it a copy of
Property News.

‘Ever
seen one of these before?’ he asked the wild-eyed young man. ‘Naturally. It’s
one of those free property papers that are pushed through people’s doors. They
always have headlines screaming, WHOOPIE THE RECESSION IS OVER. NOW IS THE TIME
TO SELL YOUR HOUSE. And contain about as much truth as
The Weekly World News
or
The National Enquirer.’

‘No
need for that kind of talk. But there’s a little article in this week’s, if I
can find it. Ah yes. Look at this.’

MYSTERIOUS DEATH
AT COLLINS’ FARM. At a coroner’s inquest held last week at Skelington Bay to
investigate the mysterious death of local farmer Andrew Collins, evidence was
put forward that he had fallen victim to the long dreaded crossover of the
cattle disease
Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy.

‘No, no, no,’ said the
wild-eyed one. ‘BSE’s no good. No-one believes it will really cross over to
human beings.’

‘Yes,
but it has, sort of I saw the coroner’s report.’

‘So one
farmer dies of BSE. It’s not a cause for panic exactly, is it?’

‘He
didn’t die of BSE. He died because his tract or had repeatedly driven back and
forwards over him.’

‘I
don’t think I quite understand what you’re saying.’

‘I’m
saying that the fanner never caught BSE. His
tractor
did. The disease
has made the crossover but not to people. To vehicles. If you want to clear
people from Skelington Bay, how better than to spread it about that this very
town is the epicentre of a new and terrible plague?’

‘Which
is what?’

‘MCD,’
said the estate agent. ‘Mad Car Disease.’

21

‘Where is my car?’ asked
Cornelius Murphy.

The two
tanned lovelies in the boob tubes and the white bikini bottoms looked up at
him.

‘I’m
sorry we had to nick it,’ said Thelma, for it was she.

‘But we
couldn’t stick around and wait for the police to arrive,’ explained Louise, for
it was she, also.

‘Ah,’
said Cornelius. ‘It’s like that, is it? So where is my car now? I’d really like
to have it back.’

‘It’s
in the private car-park in front of the Skelington Bay Grande.’ Thelma pointed
towards that once-proud edifice.

‘So
it’s probably been clamped by now. Thanks a lot.’

‘It
hasn’t been clamped, the proprietor—’

‘Kevin,’
said Louise.

‘Yes,
Kevin, he flagged us down when we were passing and asked if we’d like to park
there. Said it would give his car-park a bit of class.’

‘Nice
one. Keys please.’

Thelma
produced the car keys.
From where?
From her shoulder-bag of course.

‘Thank
you,’ said Cornelius. ‘Did you get down here last night then?’

‘No, we
dossed in an abandoned farmhouse.’

‘Coffins’
Farm,’
[17]
said Louise.

‘Do you
have any money?’ Cornelius asked.

‘No,
but I see your little mate has.’

‘I do,’
Tuppe appeared, struggling beneath the weight of coins which filled the straw
hat a lady had lent him to take up the collection. ‘And where is Cornelius’s
car?’ he asked.

Cornelius
jingled the keys. ‘At least we now have somewhere to sleep tonight.’

‘We
certainly do,’ said Tuppe. ‘But it’s not in the car.

‘It’s
not?’

‘It’s
not. Boris and I have been talent-scouted. We met this really nice fellow. He’s
a theatrical agent. We’re going to do a Summer Season. Right here. At the
Skelington Bay Grande.’

‘All
roads lead to the Grande then. Because that’s where Thelma and Louise have
parked the car.’

‘That
is
handy,’ said Tuppe. ‘Because the agent can only get accommodation there for
Boris and I. So you’ll have to sleep in the car. On your own.

‘Hm,’
said Cornelius. Then, turning an approving eye upon Thelma and Louise who were
wildly applauding the encore of Boris the dancing sheep, he added, ‘I may have
to sleep in the car. But not on my own, if I can help it.’

Tuppe
followed the direction of his best friend’s approving eye-turn and said, ‘Hm,’
also. ‘I think I’ll have to call my agent about this and discuss the matter.’

‘Perhaps
over lunch,’ Cornelius suggested. ‘For us all’

‘Over
lunch at the Grande?’

‘Over
lunch at the Grande.’ So lunch at the Grande it was.

‘We’re all together,’
Tuppe told the waitress in The Manilow Bar, the ‘classy’ cocktail lounge of the
Skelington Bay Grande. ‘We are awaiting the arrival of my theatrical agent, who
is booked in here.’

‘D’ya
wanna order sumfin while ya waitin’?’

‘Certainly
do,’ said Tuppe. ‘Bring us an assortment of cocktails in garish colours, with
little umbrellas and sparklers in the tops. Charge them to my agent, Mr Showstein.’

‘Mr
Showstein?’
Cornelius asked.

‘Sammy
Showstein,’ said Tuppe. ‘Friend to the stars.’

‘Sounds
about right.’

‘Warrabout
the sheep?’ asked the waitress.

‘He’ll
have a cocktail too. Better bring him a straw.’

‘Two
straws,’ said Boris.

‘Two
straws,’ said Tuppe.

‘How
d’ya do that?’ the waitress asked.

Tuppe
scratched his little head. ‘Well, I suppose that instead of bringing just one
straw, you bring another straw as well, and that makes two straws. Of course,
you might have your own preferred method of doing it.’

‘You
takin’ the piss?’ enquired the waitress. ‘I meant how d’ya make the sheep talk
like that?’

‘He’s a
ventriloquist,’ said Cornelius. ‘Could we also have some of those little bowls
of stuff that look like budgie food.’

‘Or
dervs?’

‘Yes,
dews will be fine, if you don’t have the other.’

‘You
two are bleeding mad,’ was the waitress’s conclusion, as she tottered away on
three-inch stiletto heels.

‘Attractive
woman,’ said Cornelius. ‘Very amenable.’

‘Very
long legs,’ said Tuppe. ‘That would be some kind of Playboy bunny costume she’s
wearing, would it?’

‘More
sort of Lola the Showgirl, I think.’

‘We
must introduce her to Mr Showstein then.’

‘Yes,
indeed we must. This is a most unspeakable cocktail lounge, isn’t it?’

And it
was. Those pink mirrors that emphasize a bad complexion. Those precarious bar
stools that emphasize bottom cleavage. Those swirly-whirly carpet tiles again,
which emphasize the purchaser’s love of an all-through-the-hotel,
coordinated-flooring effect.

Those…

‘Here
comes Mr Showstein now,’ said Tuppe.

Cornelius
turned and saw. ‘That’s not “Mr Showstein”, that’s “Mr Justice Wilberforce”, or
rather whoever played him at the County Court.’

‘Kyle
McKintock,’ said Tuppe. ‘But that’s never Kyle McKintock.’

‘I
never said it was.’

‘Mr Showstein’
now caught sight of Cornelius Murphy. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, doing a sharp
about-turn.

‘No you
don’t,’ the tall boy’s long legs carried him across the cocktail lounge at an
easy, loping pace. He caught the bogus magistrate by one padded shoulder of the
rather dazzling suit that now encased his sturdy frame.

‘Mr
Murphy,’ said Mr Showstein, affecting a sickly grin. ‘Fancy seeing you here. I
thought you were all—’

‘Locked
up?’ Cornelius asked. ‘Do come and join us please.’

‘I’d
really rather not. You being here somewhat complicates matters for me. I think
I’d best be going. Hey now, hold on, what are you doing?’

Some
call it ‘frog-marching’, others ‘bums-rushing’. They’re not quite the same,
this was a bit of both. The bogus magistrate, now turned friend to the stars,
found himself deposited between Thelma and Louise (who were apparently sitting
down, perhaps on a sofa or something, although this had not been made clear).

‘Pardon
me, dear ladies,’ said Mr Showstein, straightening the lapels of his dazzling suit:
a sort of blue lurex with a noisy pink check.

‘Are
your shoes waterproof?’ Thelma asked.

‘I
expect so, why?’

‘Because
that suit’s a real pisser.’

‘Ho,
hm. Most amusing. Showstein’s the name, Samuel Showstein. My card.’

‘Mr
Showstein’ produced his card and handed it to Louise. (Probably so she might
have something to say.)

‘Thanks,’
said Louise, which wasn’t much, but it was something.

Cornelius
glared down at Mr Showstein. ‘You froze my assets,’ he said.

There
was a moment’s silence. Which was tribute to the street credibility of Thelma
and Louise.

‘It
wasn’t my fault. I was hired to do it. I told you, I needed the wages to pay
for my wife’s hip replacement.’

‘Who
paid you? Who has control of my money now?’

‘I
mustn’t say. I really mustn’t.’

‘You
really must.’ Cornelius raised a fist.

‘Cornelius,’
said Tuppe.

‘Tuppe?’
said Cornelius.

‘Cornelius,
I’ll bet if you just gave this a moment’s thought, you could narrow down the
suspects in the case of your frozen assets to one single fellow. One perhaps
who has a great love of money and has now acquired yours. One who wanted you
locked up and out of the way so you would not interfere with whatever
diabolical scheme he is presently engaged upon.

‘Isn’t
that
two
suspects?’ asked Mr Showstein.

‘No,
it’s just the one and Cornelius knows exactly who that one is.’

‘Hugo
Rune,’ said Cornelius Murphy, in a tone that lacked not for bitterness.

‘I
never said that,’ Mr Showstein got a serious shake on.
‘I
never
gave his name away. It wasn’t
me.’

‘Where
is he?’ Cornelius waggled his fist beneath Mr Showstein’s nose.

‘I
couldn’t say. I really couldn’t say.’

‘Er,
Cornelius.’

‘Yes,
Tuppe?’

‘Cornelius,
I don’t wish to come on as Mr Smarty-pants here, but we did know that Rune was
on his way to Skelington Bay, and this is the poshest hotel in Skelington Bay
and Rune is a man who likes his creature comforts and—’

‘Yes,
OK, Tuppe. I get the picture.’ Cornelius waggled his fist once more. ‘What is
Rune up to?’ he enquired this time.

‘I
don’t know. Honest I don’t. My job was to play the part of the magistrate, get
you locked away and have all your money transferred into Mr Rune’s account. Mr
Rune set the whole thing up, even the policemen arresting you; he hired the
County Court for the trial, told the Council he was shooting a movie there.’

‘But
you were sending me down for twenty-thee years.’

‘Not
really. Just for two weeks. Locked up in the cell beneath the County Court,
while Mr Rune completed the project that he needed your money to help finance.
He didn’t want you getting in the way. But now you are going to get in the way.
And I’ll be blamed for it and, oh dear, oh dear.’ Mr Showstein began to
blubber.

Thelma
offered him a Kleenex tissue.

‘Does
this mean my summer season with Boris is cancelled?’ Tuppe asked.

Blubber
and sob, went Mr Showstein.

‘Was
that a yes or a no?’

‘It was
a no,’ said Cornelius. ‘Mr Showstein here will see to it that all the necessary
contracts are drawn up and signed. Then, if he has any wisdom at all, he will
leave Skelington Bay on the first available train and flee to distant parts.’

‘Yes,’
blubbered Mr Showstein. ‘In fact, I have the contracts right here. Take them, I
shall pack my bags at once.

And
with no further words said, Mr Showstein drew the contracts from the inner
pocket of his violent suit, pressed them into Tuppe’s hands, patted Boris on
the head and made a most speedy departure.

The
waitress, now returning with a tray of coloured cocktails watched him scurry
from The Manilow. ‘Wot’s up wiv Mr Webley?’ she asked.