The Brentford Chainstore Massacre

18

Do dah. Do dah. Do dah. Do dah went the police cars.

And Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Chief Inspector Westlake stood in the Professor’s study. “You are absolutely certain about this?” he asked. “There can be no mistake?”

“Jim?” said the Professor.

“I saw it,” said Jim. “It was real.”

“Absolutely certain,” said Professor Slocombe.

“If it’s true,” said the Chief Inspector, “it will clear up a lot of unsolveds. Not murders, but bodies going missing from morgues. We’ve had eight in the last eight weeks.”

“The chap’s the duty physician at the Cottage Hospital,” said John Omally.

“Dr Malone?” The Chief Inspector shook his head.

“Genetic engineer,” said Professor Slocombe. “I’ve never met the fellow but I know of his work.”

“So do I,” said Jim. “Go and arrest him.”

“All in good time, sir. His house is surrounded. We do things softly softly here.”

“What are they doing now?” asked Clive.

“They’ve got one of those big battering ram things,” said Derek. “I think they’re going to smash down the door.”

“Oh, goody. Do you think it’s all right for us to stay here? We shouldn’t have the chauffeur drive us somewhere else?”

“I just killed the chauffeur,” said Derek. “The bastard was whistling again.”

“Things are working well for us. But what do you think all this police presence is about?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. Ah, here come the louts.”

“You just leave all this to the professionals,” said Chief Inspector Westlake.

“My pleasure,” said the Professor. “My only wish is to recover a casket that I believe is in the doctor’s house.”

“Something of yours, is it?”

“A family heirloom.”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to see one of them. They actually weave real hair, do they?”

“By the yard,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Makes you proud to be English,” said John.

“But you’re…” Professor Slocombe paused. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

“I don’t,” said Jim.

The battering ram didn’t go KNOCK. It went BASH. And then it burst right through. Uniformed constables stormed into Kether House, electric truncheons drawn, hopes of their use growing fiercely.

Constables toppled into the hall, constables rushed into the ground-floor rooms, constables pelted up the stairs. Constables pelted down other stairs. These constables saw things that would later waken them screaming from their sleep. Many of these constables did as Jim had done in the Professor’s rose garden.

Chief Inspector Westlake wiped a handkerchief across his mouth and stared about the basement hell. “Bastard,” he said. “Mad bastard. Where is he?”

“Gone,” said a chalk-faced constable. “No trace. But, Chief Inspector, there’s worse over here. Far worse.”

“What is that, constable?” The Chief Inspector looked.

The constable turned back a length of tarpaulin, exposing four tiny twisted dead things.

Chief Inspector Westlake turned away. “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered.

In the dining room Professor Slocombe patted Jim upon the shoulder. “Well done,” he said.

Jim looked down upon the empty casket. “Are they in there? I still can’t see them.”

“They are there. Well done.”

“I’d like to go now, if you don’t mind. This place turns my stomach. There’s evil here.”

“Yes, there is.” The Professor stroked the Om he wore about his neck. “Great evil, so close to my own home, yet I never knew.”

“How did he get out?” asked John. “This place was completely surrounded.”

“Tunnels, probably. These houses are very old.”

“I’ll have to ask you to clear the house, please, Professor,” said the Chief Inspector, who looked like death. “We’ll need the forensic boys in here. This is very bad, Professor. Very bad indeed.”

“I would like to help you with the forensic examination, if I might.”

“You are eminently qualified. I would appreciate it.”

Professor Slocombe offered the policeman a certain handshake. “Upon the square and beneath the arch,” he said.

“Should we take this back to your place, Professor?” John Omally lifted the casket.

“Best to. I will be along presently.” Professor Slocombe made mystical finger-motions over the casket and spoke certain mystical words.

“Goodbye, then.”

“They’re coming out,” said Derek. “They’ve got the casket. Although it hasn’t got a lid on any more.”

“But the bloody thing’s empty.”

“Are we absolutely sure of that?”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

Jim stopped to take deep breaths. “I can’t believe all that stuff in there,” he said. “What was that all about?”

“Madness,” said John. “Plain and simple.”

“Plain and simple? I don’t think so.”

“Perk up, Jim. You got the scrolls back. You’re a genius, my friend.”

“I suppose the Professor wouldn’t mind if we had a drink or two at his expense while we were waiting, to celebrate as it were.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t.”

“Good. Because I certainly need some.”

The limousine backed up really fast. An electrically driven window drove down and a hand reached out to snatch the casket.

“We’ll take that,” said a voice behind the hand.

“No you bloody well won’t.” Jim drew back.

“Run,” was John Omally’s advice.

And Jim took it.

“After them,” shouted Derek.

“No need to shout,” shouted Clive. “Which way are they going? How could the bloody chauffeur see through this tinted windscreen?”

“I think he wore dark glasses.”

“Oh, that would be it, then.”

“Run, Jim.”

“I’m running. I’m running.”

“Take the scrolls out of the casket. It’s less to carry.”

“I can’t see them.”

“You can feel them, though.”

“That’s right.” Jim groped in the casket. Drew out the invisible scrolls, which reappeared as he did so. “Clever,” said Jim. “Very clever.”

“Run,” said John.

“Way ahead of you.”

“Up that way.”

“I can see them. I’ve got the glasses on now.” Derek had a great big gun on his lap. He began to push great big shells into the breech. “Nine-gauge auto-loader,” he said.

“Phase plasma rifle in a forty-watt range?”

“Only what you see on the shelves, buddy.”

“God, I love those movies.”

“They’re running that way. After them!”

“I’m on it.”

“Are we going to make for the canal again?” Pooley puffed.

“No, you can only pull off a trick like that just the once. Down here.” Omally ducked into an alleyway.

Jim joined him, huffing now, as well as puffing. “Well, they can’t drive down here.”

“You can’t drive down there,” shouted Derek. “Stop the car, we’ll chase them on foot.”

“In the movies they turn the car on its side to go down alleyways.”

“Yeah!” said Derek. “They do, don’t they?”

“Aaaaaagh!” went Jim, as the limo swerved onto its side and shot along the alley, making glorious showers of sparks.

“Run faster.”

“I’m running. I’m running.”

“You know,” said Clive, as he clung to the wheel, “I much prefer this kind of job to all that farting around in the Corridors of Power.”

“Oh yeah.” Derek fed another shell into his gun. “This definitely has the edge on accountancy.”

“We’re coming to the end of the alleyway now. When I bump the limo back down onto its wheels, what say you lean out of the window and let off a few rounds?”

“Spot on.”

John and Jim ran out into Moby Dick Terrace.

“John,” Jim huffed and puffed and gruffed, “pardon me for asking a really stupid question, but why didn’t we just run back into Dr Malone’s house, where we would have been surrounded by policemen?”

John said nothing and the two ran on.

The limo smashed down into the terrace and Derek bashed out a back window with his gun butt. “You only had to press the button, Derek.”

“Yeah, but it’s much more exciting this way.”

Now, you’d have thought that there would have been someone around. Someone, or lots of someones, what with the army cordoning off streets and setting up border posts and everything. But there wasn’t, because the army had, as usual, ballsed it all up. They had cordoned off a road here and there, and set up a border post here and there, but the plucky Brentfordians, rather than engage in another riot, had simply decided to ignore them. They had taken to skirting the roadblocks by going down alleyways, or through people’s houses and out of their back gates. And as few folk in the borough actually drove motor cars, there weren’t any traffic build-ups either.

So that explains that, really. In case you were wondering.

They were not making particularly good progress up Moby Dick Terrace. Dustin Hoffman may have done all that stuff in Marathon Man, but this is John and Jim here. The limo soon caught up and cruised in pace with the pavement runners. Derek stuck his head out of the shattered window. And he stuck his gun out also.

“Do you want to stop?” he called to Jim. “Or should I just shoot your face off?”

Jim clutched the scrolls to his bosom. “All right. All right,” he gasped. “I give up, don’t shoot.”

“You too, asshole.”

“Me too,” said John.

“OK, now get into the car.”

Derek moved across the back seat as John and Jim climbed in beside him. “Close the door,” said Derek. John closed the door.

Clive struck a match on the dead chauffeur’s head and lit up a Zigger cigar. “Where to?” he asked.

“Round to Fred’s,” said Derek. “And burn a bit of rubber on the way.”