The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (24 page)

‘Strange
place to store your wealth,’ said Cornelius. ‘Almost like an exhibit. Perhaps
he likes to sit and gaze at it.’

The
tall boy approached the glass cubical. It was about four feet to a side and
eight in height. One side was slightly ajar, the door obviously. Cornelius
swung it open and stepped in to claim his prize.

Such
was not to be.

Cornelius
found himself confronted by another glass wall. This, however, did not extend
the full width of the cubical and the seeker after wealth was able to squeeze
through the gap remaining and reach forward.

To find
a farther wall of glass at an acute angle blocking his way. Cornelius stared at
the stack of money. A foot or so beyond this second wall, he pressed his hand
to the wall, which swung aside.

Easy-peasy.

Cornelius
now found himself staring into a mirror, the stack of wealth behind him on the
right-hand side. He turned. Another glass wall. He felt along it. Another
opening.

Another
glass wall.

Another
mirror.

‘There’d
be a knack to this,’ said Cornelius, seeking to retrace his footsteps but now
somewhat confused about which way he had come in. ‘I came in through the side
nearest to the window.’

There
seemed to be a mirror on that side.

If it
was
that side.

There
seemed to be mirrors all round now.

No,
there was a glass wall, and beyond it the money.

Cornelius
felt his way along. Discovered an opening and squeezed through it. He reached
towards the money and found his way blocked yet again.

‘I am
perplexed,’ said Cornelius Murphy.

‘What are they doing now?’
asked Louise.

‘Arm
wrestling, by the look of it.’ Thelma shook her golden head. ‘Over bowls of hot
soup, pathetic.’

‘Got you there,’ chortled
Rune as Chunky sucked upon a soupy sleeve. ‘That’s one hundred thousand in gold
you owe me.

‘Double
or quits on something else?’

‘On
what?’

‘Loudest
fart,’ said the Brigadier, making a strained face.

‘Might we join you,
ladies?’

Thelma
looked up into the face of Mr Rodway. Louise looked up into that of Mr Craik.
‘No,’ they agreed.

‘Oh
come on now, don’t be stand-offish,’ Mr Rodway pulled out a chair and sat down
upon it. ‘You girls on holiday, looking for a little fan?’

Mr
Craik seated himself also. ‘Or perhaps here on business?’

‘Go
away, you sad bastards.’

‘No
need to be rude,’ said Mr Rodway. ‘We’re only trying to be friendly.’

‘Would
you like me to call the proprietor and have you thrown out?’ Thelma asked. ‘Or
would you prefer to hear my friend Louise scream, “Let go of me, you pervert,”
at the top of her voice?’

‘We
could do both,’ said Louise.

‘Or you
could shout, “Burglar in Mr Rune’s suite,”’ Mr Craik suggested. ‘I could shout
that for you, if you want.’

The burglar in Mr Rune’s
suite was now in a state of considerable confusion. And obvious captivity. He
drummed his fists against the glassy walls of his prison. Possibly
double-glazed they were.

Seemingly
unbreakable anyway.

He
pulled out the two-way radio set, pressed the ‘speak’ button and shouted
‘Tuppe’
into it.

‘Aaaaagh.
Oh. Help. What?’ came the voice of Tuppe. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m
stuck, I need your help.’

‘Who’s
speaking?’

‘Oh
don’t be so stupid, you know who it is.’

‘Use
your code name.

‘Delta
Force!’

‘Hearing
you loud and clear, Delta Force. What have you to report?’

‘I’m
trapped in Rune’s apartment. Inside the Cabinet of Dr Caligari or something.
Get me out of here.’

‘Do you
wish me to put
Operation Call Room Service
into, er, operation, Delta
Force?’

‘Yes
and make it quick.’

‘Howling
Commando signing off then. Expect me with the champagne. Lie low for now.
Message ends.’

Cornelius
jammed the two-way radio back into his pocket. ‘Now just think calmly,’ he told
himself. ‘If you got yourself in, you can get yourself out.’

‘What exactly have you got
yourself into?’ enquired Mr Rodway.

‘Perhaps
we can help.’

Thelma
offered the bald estate agent a withering glance. ‘Who are
you?’
she
asked.

‘Businessmen.

‘Oh
shit,’ said Mr Craik.

‘What’s
the problem?’

‘It’s
Mr Rune, he’s seen me. He’s calling me over.

‘Well
go and pass the time of day. Tell him all about our plans for the
MCD.
Impress
him. I will entertain the ladies in your absence.’

‘Oh
shit,’ said Mr Craik once more.

‘Go on.
Don’t keep him waiting. For God’s sake don’t do that.’

‘No, no
indeed.’ Mr Craik jumped up and took his leave. ‘You called?’ said he,
a-trembling at the table of Hugo Rune. ‘Who’s this cove?’ asked the Brigadier.
‘Shifty eyes. One of your bods, Rune? Take a stick to the blighter and send him
on his way.

Hugo
Rune stilled the volatile Brig with a single, though mysterioso, gesture of his
left hand. ‘Be seated,’ said Rune to Mr Craik.

Mr
Craik drew out a chair.

‘Floor,’
said Hugo Rune. ‘And kneel with it.’ Stephen Craik knelt down.

Thelma
watched this. As did Louise. ‘Shit,’ said Mr Rodway, watching also.

‘Dining
with friends?’ Rune asked. ‘Two ripe-looking youngsters. Who’s the bald git?’

Mr
Craik’s wild-again eyes flashed up at Rune’s shaven dome. ‘That’s Mr Rodway,’
he ventured. ‘The estate agent.’

‘The
born-again Cardinal, oh yes. ‘The
who,
I’m sorry?’

‘Never
you mind. How are you progressing with the task I set you?’

‘Very
well, Mr Rune. We’ve—’

‘Not
now,’ said Rune, putting a fat finger to his lips. ‘Later, in my suite. But why
not bring your friends over to join us?’

‘Oh no,
I don’t think—’

‘At
once,’ said Rune. ‘And please don’t make me ask you twice.’

‘And a couple of packets
of flavoured crisps,’ said Tuppe into a courtesy phone. ‘And as quick as
possible. It’s a surprise, just let yourself in with the pass key and leave the
drink by the bed. Who should you charge it to? Mr Rune’s account, of course.
It’s a surprise by him, for someone else. Me? I’m his chauffeur, calling from
the car phone. Must go now, the lights have turned green. Goodbye.’ Tuppe
replaced the telephone. ‘Howling Commando to Delta Force,’ he called into his
two-way radio. ‘We have a green light on
Operation Call Room Service,
lie
low in your cabinet and await extraction.’

Hugo Rune stared hard into
the face of Thelma who was now seated opposite him. ‘You have an upper-left
molar that would do well for extraction,’ said he. ‘Although it might be
saved.’

Thelma
fingered her jaw. ‘How do you know that?’

Rune
smiled. ‘Champagne?’ he asked, dipping his hand into the Thirties-revival
cooler.

‘Yes
please, that would be nice.’ Thelma looked at Louise. And Louise looked at
Thelma. Both felt decidedly uncomfortable.

‘You
know who I am, of course,’ said Rune.

Louise
opened her mouth to say no. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Yes,
but of course you do,’ Rune filled a champagne flute and handed it to Louise.
She took it in uneasy fingers. Rune’s large hand closed about hers.

‘Ah,’
said Rune, releasing it. ‘Ah yes, I see.’

‘What
do you see?’

‘I see
all,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And most of the rest. Do you know that if you put one
grain of rice on the first square of a chessboard, two grains on the next, four
on the next, eight on the next and keep on doubling, that when you reached the
final square, you would end up with 264-1 grains of rice, enough to bury
England and Wales and all their population?’

‘Have
to be a bloody big chessboard then,’ said Chunky. ‘Need a white king the size
of your arse, Rune.’

Hugo
Rune smiled warmly upon his old chum. ‘Back to your billet now,’ said he.
‘There’s a good fellow.’

‘Do us
a favour, Rune, haven’t even got stuck into the nosebag yet.’ Hugo Rune leaned
over to the Brig. He whispered words into his ear.

The
face of Chunky Wilberforce lost all of its ruddy hue. It whitened. Became
albinotic, leucondermatous, eburnean.

Things
of a thesaurusian nature.

‘Ah,
now, well, I, ah. Sorry to run and all that. But pressing business elsewhere.
Say ta-ta for now then. Toodly-pip.’

And, at
a speed quite unbecoming for one of his advanced years, Brigadier Algenon
‘Chunky’ Wilberforce made his departure.

‘And
so,’ said Rune, forming ship-ribs with his fingers and pressing his thumbs to
his forehead, ‘now we are five. Unlucky number five. Who shall we lose?’

His
haunting eyes fanned over the sitters. Each of whom looked extremely eager to
be lost.

‘You,’
said Rune to Mr Rodway. ‘Bald git. On your bike. Take a powder. Scram. Vamoose.
Hit the road.’

‘What?’
This wasn’t how Mr Rodway had planned things to be. Since leaving the seaside
bar, his thoughts had been moving towards the applied blackmail of Thelma and
Louise. Payoffs of a sexual nature had featured in his projected evening
curriculum.

Rune
gazed hard at Mr Rodway.
Through
Mr Rodway.

‘Yes,’
said Mr Rodway, rising from his chair. ‘Well, I’ll keep in touch. Mr Craik will
fill you in on all the details. Yes. Goodbye then.’

And, with
that said, off he jolly well went. At the trot.

‘Isn’t
this nice?’ said Hugo Rune, pouring farther champagne.

Thelma
and Louise managed very thin smiles.

The
eyes of Mr Craik looked wilder than ever.

And growing ever nearer,
although not heard of for some time, the dead boy with the Beatle cut streaked
on through the cosmos.

‘So,’ said Rune. ‘I would
say “isn’t this pleasant”, but facetiousness is not one of my failings. What
exactly are you two young women up to?’

‘I,
er,’ Louise clamped her jaws. The compulsion to answer this man’s questions
with only the truth was almost a physical thing.

‘Come
on now,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Certainly I am possessed of major charisma, but your
eyes have scarcely left my person since I entered the room. And I feel that you
overheard every word of my conversation with dear Chunky.’

The
deadly eyes turned upon Mr Craik. ‘What are your thoughts concerning this?’

‘I?
Oh?’ Mr Craik’s wild eyes crossed and he fainted dead away, face down into his
bowl of Brown Windsor.

‘Hm,’
said Rune.

‘Scuze
me,’ said Lola, limping up to the table. ‘But d’ya wanna sign fer this?’

‘What
is it?’ Rune took the little chitty from the manicured fingers.

‘It’s
yer bill for the champagne wot’s juss bin d’livered to yer room.

‘And
who ordered this?’

‘Well
yew
did, dincha? The waiter said yore little kiddie was waitin’ outside yer
room, so ‘e let ‘im in.’

‘What?’
Rune rose to his impressive height and glared upon
Thelma and Louise. ‘So,’ said he. ‘All things become clear. Villainy is afoot.’

‘Yew
wan’ me to call security for yer, or somefin?’

‘Ah,
no,’ said Rune hastily. The mental image of the defunct Mr Showstein, now
trussed up and stashed in the wardrobe, filled an area of Rune’s brain that was
not reserved for genius. ‘I shall deal with this.
Mr Craik.’

‘Clunk!’
went Mr Craik’s chin on the table, as Rune kicked
his chair from under him. And
‘Clonk!’
went the back of his head on the
floor (cushioned from
CRACK!
by the rich pile of the swirly-whirly
carpet tiles).

‘Oh my
God! Aaaaagh!’ Mr Craik awoke with a start. Started up in a fluster and
flustered about in a panic. Louise helped him back onto his chair.

‘Follow
me,’ cried Rune, marching from the dining-suite.

‘He
meant
you!’
agreed Thelma and Louise, as Mr Craik sat wondering which
direction panic should now take him.

‘Yes,
master, coming.’ Up and stumble and off.

‘Time
we were off.’ Thelma rose to run.