Flying Dutch

ELEVEN

Not now, Sebastian,” said Vanderdecker, and instinctively ducked. The sound of an invulnerable Dutchman hitting oak planks suggested that Sebastian hadn’t heard him in time.

It’s quite a distinctive sound, and to tell the truth Vanderdecker was heartily sick of it. Day in, day out, the same monotonous clunking. Had he thought about it earlier, Vanderdecker reflected, he could have turned it to some useful purpose. For example, he could have trained Sebastian to make his futile leaps every hour on the hour, and then it wouldn’t matter quite so much when he forgot to wind his watch.

Too late now, however, to make a bad lifetime’s work good. With the sort of deftness that only comes with long practice, he put the irritating thought out of his mind and wondered how Jane was getting on. Had she succeeded in tracking the alchemist down yet? She had thought it would be quite easy, and perhaps it would be; after all, the name Montalban seemed to be familiar to other people beside himself these days. There was the lunatic the crew had fished out of the sea and shown the alchemical plant to, for example; apparently, he’d come up with the same name all of his own accord. Certainly Jane had heard of him. So maybe all she’d have to do would be to look him up in the telephone book. Why didn’t I ever think of that?

So let’s suppose she’s actually managed to deliver the message. What if Montalban wasn’t interested? What if he didn’t come? Come to that, what if he hadn’t actually discovered an antidote to the Smell? That didn’t bear thinking about; nor was it logical. If he was able to pass freely in normal human society, it stood to reason that he’d come up with something that dealt with the problem, even if it was only exceptionally pungent pipe tobacco. Except that they had all tried that, and it was a washout like everything else; and since Matthias had got to like the horrible stuff, there was something else they had all had to learn to put up with.

Now if there’s one other thing we have all had to learn, Vanderdecker said to himself as he leaned on the rail and watched the seagulls veering away in shocked disgust, it’s tolerance. With the exceptions of needled beer and country and western music, we’ve learned to tolerate pretty well everything on the surface of the earth. We don’t mind being spat at, shot at, hosed down with water-cannon, exorcised and thrown out of Berni Inns. We can handle Sebastian’s suicide attempts, Cornelius’s snoring, Johannes’s toenail-clipping, Pieter Pretorius’s whistling, Antonius’s conversation and chess playing, pretty well everything about the cook, with nothing more than a resigned shrug and a little therapeutic muttering. In a world which still hasn’t grown out of killing people for adhering to the wrong religion, political party or football team, this is no small achievement. A bit like Buddhism, Vanderdecker considered, without all that sitting about and humming.

And after all this time, what else would we do? Vanderdecker blew his nose thoughtfully, for this was something he had managed to keep from reflecting on for several centuries. What would it be like not being on this ship, or for that matter not being at all? The second part of that enquiry he could dismiss at once; it’s impossible to imagine not being at all, and probably just as well. But suppose we can somehow get shot of the smell, what would we do?

The Flying Dutchman smiled. It’s typical, of course, he said to himself, that I saw “we” after so many years of all being in the same boat, we poor fools share a collective consciousness that you don’t get anywhere else in the animal kingdom. True, we all dislike each other intensely, or tell ourselves that we do: but the arm probably hates the hand, and no doubt the toes say cutting things about the ankle behind its back. We are the creations, as well as the victims, of our common experience. I can’t see us ever splitting up, or admitting anyone else to our society. Particularly not the latter; by the time we’d all grown used to the newcomer’s own particular habits, he or she would long since have died of old age.

But that’s what I’ve tried to do, Vanderdecker contradicted himself, by enlisting Jane as an ally. Well, someone had to do the job; we can’t and she was prepared to, so don’t knock it. On the other hand, it was no end of a pleasant change to say more than three words together to someone I hadn’t been through the War of the Spanish Succession with. But what about when the novelty wore off? It’s different talking to Antonius; in our various conversations over the years, we must have used every conceivable combination of the few thousand words that make up his simian vocabulary. I can predict exactly what Antonius will say in any given situation, and I have got through the phase of wanting to push him in the sea every time he opens his mouth. Nothing he can say can do more than mildly bewilder me. That’s a rather comforting thought, in a way, and to a greater or lesser extent it goes for everyone else on the ship. Why throw all that away and jeopardise a unique relationship, just for the chance of a chat or two with someone who’ll be dead and gone in another seventy-odd years? Seventy years, after all, is no time at all; it took Antonius longer than that to do his last jigsaw puzzle.

“Captain.” Talk of the Devil. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Good for you, Antonius. How do you like it?”

Antonius looked at him. “Like what, captain?”

“Thinking.”

The great brows furrowed, the massive boom of the beam-engine slowly began to move. “How do you mean, captain?”

“Nothing, Antonius,” Vanderdecker said. “Forget I spoke. What were you going to say?”

“Well,” said the first mate diffidently, “me and the lads were asking ourselves, what’s going to happen? If that Montalban actually has invented something. I mean, what do we all do then?”

Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, muttered the Eying Dutchman to himself, not to mention idiots. “That’s a very good question, Antonius,” he replied, “a very good question indeed.”

“Is it?” Antonius looked pleased. “Well, what is going to happen, then?”

“Has it occurred to you,” Vanderdecker said, “that I don’t know?”

“No,” Antonius replied, and Vanderdecker believed him. He discovered a lump in his throat that hadn’t been there before. “I mean,” said Antonius, “it isn’t going to change things, is it?”

“Certain things, yes,” Vanderdecker said.

“Oh.” Antonius’s face crumbled. “How do you mean?”

“For a start,” Vanderdecker said, “more shore leave. Less getting thrown out of pubs. That sort of thing.”

Antonius’s eyes lit up. “I’d like that,” he said.

“Would you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Antonius leaned forward on the rail, and Vanderdecker could hear him imagining what it would be like not to be thrown out of pubs. “Antonius,” he said.

“Yes, captain?”

“Do you like…Well, all this?”

“All what, captain?”

Vanderdecker made a vague, half-hearted attempt at a gesture. “All this being stuck on a ship in the middle of the sea and everything.”

“I suppose so,” Antonius replied, “I mean, it helps pass the time, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Vanderdecker said, “I suppose it does. Do you know, I’d never looked at it like that before.”

“Like what, captain?”

“Like you just said.”

Antonius turned his head, surprised. “Hadn’t you?” he asked.

“No,” Vanderdecker replied. “Not exactly like that. Well, thanks a lot, Antonius, you’ve been a great help.” Spurred on by a sudden instinct, Vanderdecker put his hand in the pocket of his reefer jacket. “Have an apple?”

“Thanks, captain.” Antonius took the apple and studied it carefully, as if weighing up whether to eat it now or wait till it grew into a tree. “I like apples, for a change.”

“That’s what they’re there for,” Vanderdecker said, and hurried away before the first mate could ask him to enlarge on his last remark. On his way to his cabin, he met Sebastian.

“Hello there, Sebastian,” he said, “how’s things?” Sebastian frowned. “How do you mean?” he said. Vanderdecker smiled. “You know,” he said. “How are you getting on?”

“Same as usual, I suppose.” Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at, skip?” he asked suspiciously.

“Nothing, nothing,” Vanderdecker reassured him. “How have the suicide attempts been going lately? Making any headway?”

“No,” Sebastian replied.

“Never mind,” he said. “Stick with it, I’m sure you’ll get there eventually. Not that I want you to, of course. Mind how you go.” Then he slipped past and leaped up the steps to his cabin two at a time. Sebastian stared after him, tapped his head twice, and got on with his work.

Had Danny Bennett been there, he would have sympathised. As it was, he was back down in the cellar, after an entirely fruitless interview with the Professor.

Once the Professor had gleaned from him that he didn’t actually know the first thing about the Cirencester Group (beyond the fact that it existed and a few fairly fundamental conjectures that a moderately intelligent laboratory rat could work out for itself in about three minutes) he had explained the dilemma he was in. Quite illegally, he had kidnapped a BBC producer and imprisoned him, by force of arms, in a damp cellar with an alleged rat. All he had managed to achieve by this was to reveal to his captive rather more about the deadly secret organisation he had discovered than he knew already. So now either Danny must join the conspiracy and work for it in some undefined but lucrative capacity, or else…well, there wasn’t really an else, since even Danny could see that Montalban wasn’t going to order his cold-blooded execution; and here he was, taking up house-room and needing to be fed and provided with clean laundry. It was all most aggravating, and if Danny hadn’t been in a hurry to get out of there and start filming, he would have quite fancied the idea of staying put for a good long time and making as much of a nuisance of himself as he possibly could.

He was sitting on the floor thinking this over when Neville, the stockbroker who moonlighted as second murderer, appeared. He was holding his gun, as before, and also a large, scruffy cat. He seemed put out about something.

“Here you are, then,” said Neville, releasing the cat. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

Danny stared. “What are you doing?” he said. Although he didn’t know much about torture, he knew that it often happened to prisoners of diabolical conspiracies, and furthermore he didn’t like cats.

“You said there were mice in this cellar,” Neville explained. “So I was told to bring the cat down here. Satisfied?”

“Oh,” Danny said. “I see. Thanks,” he added, belatedly. But by that time Neville had gone, leaving the cat.

The cat roamed around for a bit, scratched at the door, mewed querulously, and then went to sleep. It didn’t seem interested in mice, and who could blame it? Danny, being of liberal views, was firmly opposed to racial and sexual stereotyping, and the principle presumably applied to species, too.

And that was it, for about half an hour. Then there were footsteps on the cellar stairs again, which Danny hoped had something to do with food. He looked round at his camera crew. They were all fast asleep, just like the cat.

The door opened, and a girl came in. Behind her was Harvey and Harvey’s gun.

“In there,” Harvey grunted superfluously. The girl gave him an unfriendly look and stepped in.

It was fairly dark in the cellar, and that would explain why Jane, in normal circumstances a careful person, trod on the cat’s tail. The cat woke up, screeched, and moved. So did Jane. She jumped about three feet in the air, lost her balance, and fell against Harvey. For his part, Harvey reacted according to the instincts of generations of chivalrous ancestors and caught her, in doing so dropping the gun. Please follow what happens next carefully.

The gun fell on the stone floor, landed on its exposed hammer, and went off, shooting the cat. Danny, hearing the shot, dived for cover, only to find that there wasn’t any. Harvey tried to let go of Jane, but Jane refused to be let go of and grabbed his ears, thereby rendering him helpless for a long enough period of time for Danny to wriggle over, grab the gun with his least trussed hand, and try and cover Harvey with it. Unfortunately, he was too trussed to be able to cover the right person, and Jane, observing yet another perfect stranger pointing a gun at her, shrieked and let go of Harvey’s ears. Harvey stayed exactly where he was. He had had enough of all this fooling about with guns and locked cellars, and was going on strike.

“Right then, Harvey,” Danny said, “the game’s up.”

“Oh for crying out loud,” Harvey replied, for he hated clichés. Danny, however, had seen far more spy films than were good for him, and felt sure that he knew what should come next. “Freeze,” he snarled. He enjoyed snarling it, and the fact that he was still pointing the gun at the wrong person was neither here nor there.

The recent spate of moving about had woken up the camera crew, who opened their eyes, took in what was going on, and started voicing their opinion that it was about time, too. Jane, feeling rather left out, introduced herself.

“I’m Jane Doland,” she said, “I’m with Moss Berwick, accountants. Who are you, please?”

“Danny Bennett, BBC Current Affairs,” Danny replied. “Pleased to meet you.” He wriggled his weight onto the funny bone of his left elbow and brought the gun level with Harvey’s lemon socks. That would have to do.

“Can we go now, do you think?” Jane asked.

Danny thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said.

“Oh good,” Jane replied. “Come on, then.”

Danny remembered something. “Perhaps you could untie me,” he suggested.

Jane looked at the ropes, and then at her fingernails. She was not a vain person, but they did take an awfully long time to grow if you broke them, and the ropes looked rather solid. “I’m hopeless with knots,” she said. “Perhaps Mr…”

“Harvey,” Danny said.

“…Would do it instead. Please?”

Harvey nodded. “Hold on,” Danny said, “not so fast.” He was secretly pleased to have an opportunity to say that, too, although because of the angle his body was at he didn’t have enough breath to spare to be able to snarl it. “Here, you take the gun and cover him.”

With a tremendous effort, he handed Jane the gun, which was heavy and rather oily. She didn’t take to it much. Harvey untied the knots, and Danny got up.

“Here,” protested the sound recordist, “what about us?”

Harvey untied them, too, until everyone was completely back to normal and the gathering resembled nothing so much as an unsuccessful drinks party. “Now can we go, please?” Jane said. But Danny had noticed something else.

“Hey,” he said. “That cat.”

“Which cat?”

“The cat you trod on. It’s still alive.”

Jane frowned at him. “I only trod on its tail,” she said.

“Yes,” Danny replied, “but when the gun went off just now, I’m sure the bullet hit it.” He stooped down and picked something up.

“Look,” Jane said, “I’m sure this is all very interesting, but shouldn’t we be getting along?”

“The bullet,” Danny said, displaying it on the palm of his hand. “This bullet hit that cat.”

“Really? How interesting.”

“Look at it, will you?”

When people are being tiresome, Jane’s mother always told her, it’s usually easiest just to agree. She looked at the bullet. Its nose had been flattened, as if it had hit a wall or something.

“Maybe it hit the wall,” Jane suggested.

“No,” Danny said, “it definitely hit the cat. Like the cat’s…invulnerable, or something.” Like the Professor was, in fact, he remembered.

Jane remembered where they were. “It probably is,” she said. “Look, I promise I’ll explain, but I really do think we ought to be going. Otherwise…” She recollected that she was holding the gun, and she turned and jabbed Harvey with it. “Move,” she said firmly.

Now this is all very well; but what about the sound of the shot? Didn’t Neville come running as soon as he heard it, with Montalban at his heels clutching a baffle-axe and Mrs Carmody bringing up the rear with ropes and chloroform? Not quite. Neville, it seems, was outside checking the oil and tyres of his car when the gun went off, and didn’t hear it. Professor Montalban heard it, but took it for a door slamming and dismissed it from his mind. What Mrs Carmody made of it is not known, but since no action on her part is recorded, we can forget all about her. Mrs Carmody is supremely unimportant.

So when Jane pushed Harvey up the stairs back into the scullery, there was no-one waiting for her. There was no-one in the hallway, either.

She asked Harvey to open the front door and go through it, and then she followed him. All clear so far. Then she caught sight of Neville, bending over the open bonnet of his car and wiping the dipstick on a piece of paper towel. She cleared her throat.

“Excuse me,” she said.

Neville looked up and saw the gun. He registered faint surprise.

“Would you please put your hands up?” Jane asked. “Thanks.” No-one asked him to, but Danny went and relieved Neville of his gun, which he found wedged rather inextricably in Neville’s jacket pocket. The hammer had got caught up in the lining, and he had rather a job getting it out. Danny felt ever so slightly foolish.

“Right,” he said. “Now let’s get out of here.”

“What a perfectly splendid idea,” Jane said, “why didn’t I think of that? My car’s just down the drive.” She prodded Harvey again, but he refused to move.

“You don’t need me for anything now, do you?” he said.

“Look, chum,” Danny snarled, but Jane pointed out that there wouldn’t actually be room for all of them plus Harvey as well in her car without someone getting in the boot, and then she thanked Harvey for his help and said good-bye, firmly. Harvey smiled thinly and walked back to the house.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Danny asked furiously. “Oh do be quiet,” Jane replied. “And put that thing away.” Danny looked terribly hurt and Jane felt embarrassed at being so uncharacteristically rude. It wasn’t like her at all, but he really was getting on her nerves.

“And anyway,” Danny said, “where are we going? Shouldn’t we hold them here until the police come?”

Jane’s guilt evaporated. “Blow the police,” she replied sternly. “We don’t want to go bothering them, do we?”

Danny looked at her. “Why not?”

“Because…” Because if Montalban is arrested and sent to prison it will complicate things terribly, but I can’t possibly explain all that now. “Oh never mind,” she said. “Are you coming or aren’t you?”

“We’re coming,” said the sound recordist. “Can you give us a lift to the nearest station?”

They were still standing there when the door of the house opened and the Professor came out, followed by his two sheepish-looking henchmen. They all had their hands in the air, which made them look like plain-clothes morris dancers.

“Hold it right there,” Danny snapped, and waved his gun. Even if nobody else was going to take this seriously, he was. They ignored him. It wasn’t fair.

“Miss Doland,” said the Professor, “before you go, would you like some tea?”

“Tea?”

“Or coffee,” said the Professor. “And if you could spare the time, there is a message I’d be grateful if you would take to Mr Vanderdecker.”

Jane frowned. “I thought you couldn’t make any sense of what I told you,” she said.

“I looked up some old records,” the Professor replied. “So, if it wouldn’t put you out too much…”

“Thank you,” Jane said, putting her gun in her pocket as if it were a powder compact. “Two sugars, please.”