Tom exploded. “The stupid bugger; he can see we’re heading for disaster, and yet he’s carrying on as though nothing’s wrong. The Plank are useless; why don’t they speak up and stop him? They have the power to out-vote him.”
“From what I could see, sir, most of them were asleep or dead.”
“We’re going to have to come up with a new strategy as they haven’t a clue. What can we do about them?”
“Nothing I’m afraid, sir. They do control the company.”
“They need to be over-ridden. We’ll have to check with the lawyers if there is a way they can be removed or reformed.”
“It’s all done by the shareholders, sir.”
“Let’s talk to the shareholders then.”
“You can forget that,” said the Receptionist, eavesdropping on the conversation. “The Nishant Corporation and Datuk Ferdy hold an equal majority.”
“We really can’t do anything here.” Tom let his shoulders sink in defeat. “Vac, you can move your men away from the door…”
“Checking the corridor for unsubs, Sah.”
“Of course. Lead the way when you’re ready.”
* * *
Back at ground level, Tom shook his fist at the top of the tower. “Useless bastards! Oh…” He took a breath as a sheet of white flame enveloped the upper stories of the building.
“In the car, Sah, quickly.” Vac muscled him roughly into the back seat and the cavalcade sped off. The entire structure of the building folded in on itself and crumpled neatly into the ground, filling only a few of the surrounding streets with rubble.
“What happened?” Tom stared at his security chief in bewilderment.
“Special building design, Sah,” explained Vac. “In the event of someone accidentally leaving a couple of packs of high explosive under a receptionist’s desk on a time fuse, the building collapses to ground level; there are specially constructed basements.”
“No I mean, what caused the explosion?”
“Must be unsubs, Sah. Still out to get you!”
“Stop the car, Vac. We must help to rescue the survivors.”
“No survivors, Sah; essential part of building design to reduce to risk to rescue teams; no survivors possible, no heroics.”
Tom regarded the dispassionate expression on Vac’s face. “Did you have anything to do with this?”
“Can’t say, Sah, but I think your problem with the Plank may now have gone away.”
“Is that what they mean by ‘Down-scaling’?”
Flight to Liquidity
W
ith his recovered fortune, the Magus was able to book another flight. At the check-in, the operator peered at a checklist. “Reason for travel?”
“None of your business.”
“I’ll put a tick in ‘Business’ then, and cross it out. That’s about everything. Can I interest you in travel insurance?”
“Why would I need that?”
“Supposing there was a delay in the flight, or a random explosion which blew the ship apart.”
“I suppose that in the event of the former, the money won’t help if I miss my meeting, and if the latter, then I wouldn’t be around to collect any pay-out.”
“Suit yourself, but I have to ask, because I get a commission for selling unwanted and unnecessary insurance to unsuspecting punters, and it helps with my sardine addiction. Could you sign here please?”
“What’s this?”
“A form to say that you have declined being ripped off, and that anything that happens to you while you are travelling is your own responsibility.”
“No problem,” he looked at the man’s name badge, “Albert. Do I know you from somewhere?”
“I don’t think so.”
The Magus shook his head, remembering that as an investigator, he met so many people that eventually everyone looked like somebody else he had met before. He had forgotten the first rule of investigation—coincidences do not happen.
The flight again was going to take a few weeks, so he settled into his seat and found the space-line copy of ‘Peace and more Peace’ by Leo Toystory (the second longest book ever written) in the pocket in front of him, along with the safety instructions and the list of duty-free items. Once space-borne, he was preparing to go into a trance, when the stewardess arrived and offered him one of the stasis beds in the hold, so that he could sleep through the flight. He declined the offer, saying that he wanted to look out of the window. She was not happy because it meant that she would have to keep him stocked with meals and nibbles and alcoholic beverages. He apologised and they agreed between them that she would leave the food and the drinks trolley with him, and that he would serve himself. The Magus thought it was a good compromise; the stewardess did not realise what she had done, and left him with the provisions.
* * *
The Magus was two-thirds of the way through his book, and all the way through the drinks trolley when the ship was rocked by an explosion. The lights went out and he was very glad that he had listened to the safety presentation as he eased his way along the floor to the back of the ship, following the emergency lighting to where he knew the backup drinks trolley was stored. There may have been life pods, but he had not paid attention to that part of the talk. As the emergency trolley key dropped from its compartment, the lights came back on. The captain’s voice announced an apology for the disruption. Apparently there had been a minor incident in the hold. He informed anyone left in the cabin that he was going to proceed to their planned destination for repairs, and that the journey would perhaps take a bit longer because of the reduced speed for safety reasons. Anyone delayed or killed would be advised to apply for compensation through their travel insurance.
The ship eventually docked a few days late and an unsteady Magus was given a fond send-off by the flight crew. “We hope you enjoyed the flight,” said the stewardess. “Thank you for using our space-line and surviving, and perhaps we will see you again sometime.” He was puzzled that there were no other passengers disembarking, until he saw the state of the hold. The ‘minor incident’ had ripped it from the fuselage; he suspected that there would be no survivors. It was probably an accident. How lucky that he had decided to read instead of sleep—most people die in their sleep, he resolved; all other deaths are suspicious.
* * *
The Magus stood in a small odorous group of soaked doku in the rain outside the spaceport. “Where do I go now?” he wondered as he tried to shoo them away. To his surprise no helpful taxi drivers arrived to take him to solve his mission, no mysterious snipers attempted to end his life, in fact nobody even offered to polish his shoes. At least he took comfort in the fact that it was raining, so it must be the right place; it was always raining in films when you were close to mission end. If it had been a bright sunny day, he would have been confused. He went back into the terminal and showed his newspaper to the man at the information point. The man laughed uncontrollably until the Magus pointed out that he was reading the wrong headline; the article about the ‘Dokuvirus’ causing excessive hair growth was not the one he was referring to. He wanted to know if this man had seen the lady in the picture.
The man eventually managed to control himself and pointed to a large poster on the wall behind him. “You and everybody else.”
The poster said, “Have you seen this woman? Anthea Raindeer, wanted for the smuggling of illegal miniature handball shirts and armed robbery.”
“Miniature handball shirts?”
“Apparently they were supposed to be air fresheners to be hung up in the back of cars.”
“Why?”
“So that drivers behind keep their distance to avoid jettisoned lager cans and cigarette butts.”
“I see, and how does that affect Anthea?”
“I believe she has been supplying real shirts with instructions as to how to wash them to make them shrink. As you can see from the weather, the moment they’re worn outside, the
buyers are seriously incapacitated. It’s then that her gang move in and relieve them of their valuables.”
The Magus scratched his chest. “How do they know these punters will have valuables?”
“With the gate prices at matches these days, only people with plenty of cash can afford to go.”
“So she’s performing a service of a sort? Saving people from standing in the rain for over ninety minutes, watching a load of vastly overpaid hippies rolling round in the mud pretending to be hurt, only to have their hopes dashed to the ground when their team loses.”
“Ah, but sometimes their teams do win.”
“And then what do the victims do.”
“They go and get drunk in celebration of course, and then get beaten up by the fans of the losing side who are trying to make themselves feel better.”
“So, she is performing a service of a sort.”
“Now you come to mention it, yes.”
“Sounds like my Rannie; all heart, with a bit of mischief. I’m going to miss her.”
“You just did.”
“Excuse me?”
“Granted. Don’t do it again.”
“No, I mean, did you say you’d seen her recently?”
“Yes, she was through here yesterday.”
“Rannie, so she’s not dead then?” The Magus’ hopes and confusion soared. He had seen her die, so how could she be here?
“Didn’t appear to be, although under all that make-up, who can tell?”
“Make-up, she never wears make-up, but why wasn’t she arrested straight away?”
“The amusement value. It’s pretty dull round here, and her escapades make the newspapers. Am I to understand that you know her?”
“I thought I did… assuming it is her.” He regarded the picture on the poster; Rannie in a necklace of miniature shirts, blowing a kiss.
“If you do know her, it would be your duty to keep quiet about it.”
“I will, don’t worry. Any idea where I might find her?”
“Of course not, more than my job’s worth, but you could try the ‘Pink Parrot’; she’s always there at this time of day… I expect.” He paused. “Not that I’d know of course.”
“Of course. In fact, if I’d have looked closely at your desk, I’d have spotted the book of matches from the ‘Pink Parrot’, and recognised the lipstick on it.”
“There’s no lipstick on it.”
“No, quite right; she doesn’t wear any. Thank you for your assistance.”
The Magus checked the gun in his coat, the gun in his shoulder holster, the gun in the back of his belt that was not there now because it had been discovered at Customs and confiscated, and the new knife in his boot. He settled his hat at precisely the right angle and strolled outside into the rain; still no taxis, but even more Doku. He went back inside to the information desk. “Can you call me a taxi, please.”
“I’m not even going to dignify that with the usual chirpy chappy retort. Where did you want to go?”
“I was here a minute ago, the ‘Pink Parrot’ of course.”
“Ah, yes. I see so many people, I forget faces.”
The Magus looked up and down the deserted concourse. “Not exactly busy today are we?”
“Public holiday for the Gondwanaday celebrations. That’s why there are no taxis outside. I’ll try for you.” He picked the phone up and then put it down immediately. “Sixty minutes, sir.”
“What? I could walk it in that time.”
“Yes, you could, sir. Turn right out of the terminal, down the hill 200 metres and it’s on the other side of the road.”
“Oh, then why didn’t you say?”
“You asked me for a taxi, sir.”
“Thank you again for your help.”
“That’s what I’m here for, sir.”
* * *
The Magus stood outside the ‘Pink Parrot’. It appeared to be one of those sleazy drinking joints you get downtown in most cities. Observing the garish neon lights and the peeling paintwork, he knew this was the right cliché. He pushed the door open and entered a dark room, heady with smoke and cheap perfume, and filled with the sound of a honky-tonk piano playing a medley of progressive hip-hop numbers. On a low stage, half-hearted dancing girls performed for one bald old man, who appeared to be asleep. The doku crowded in behind him. He sniffed again. Was that really cheap perfume or… shower gel? He marched up to the bar. A man with a few day’s stubble on his chin regarded him suspiciously. “You want to speak with Anthea?”
“Might do. Don’t I know you from somewhere? You look rather like one guy who tried to sell me travel insurance, and another who tried to kill me…”
“Not me, guv.”
“Anyway, can I speak to Anthea?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“Me of course; I’m a private investigator.”
“I could tell that by the hat. She ain’t here, if I’d ever heard of her that is.”
“I’ll ask the bartender.”
“I said, she ain’t here.” The man had him by the throat. The Magus eased his coat gun out and put it to the side of the man’s head.”
“Sorry, boss.” The grip was released, and the man made a show of brushing imaginary dirt of the Magus’ coat. “I thought you was playin’ at being a dick. If you’re serious about meetin’ the dame I’ll give her a shout.” He cleared his throat. “Diddy?”
The Magus felt the barrels of a shotgun pressed to the back of his head. “I say old boy. I thought you were a stiff… twice. You really are most persistent. Now do put the gun away and let’s have a chat.”
“Not you again.” The Magus put his hands up. “Don’t shoot me here; you’ll make a right mess of the bar.” He looked to the bartender for help, but the man was watching a handball match on television, and absently polishing extra dirt on to the glasses with a grubby cloth.
“I’m going have to make a better job of it this time, old chap. Prepare to meet your creator…”
“Arthur!” The Magus gaped as Rannie appeared from the back room, very much alive and looking ravishing.
“Madam?” Arthur looked embarrassed.
“How many times have I told you not to point your guns at people?”
“But it is him, madam, the guy you didn’t want to see.”
“For Phoist’s sake, I keep telling you that I don’t want him dead, and what do you do? First of all you send a guy to bang him on the head and then bury him…”
“For the sake of theatre, madam.” Arthur opened the shotgun and cradled it on his arm.
“Then you ambush him in our safe house and try to fill him full of holes… despite the fact I told you to give him a cup of tea, deny all knowledge of ever seeing me and then send him on his way.”
“It seemed a better choice at the time, madam.”
“Rannie!” The Magus recovered and started to climb over the bar.
“Stop right there.” She held up her hand and the scruffy man took him by the shoulders. “You can go away now you’ve found me. Are you satisfied?”
“But what does it all mean?” The Magus stuttered.
“It means you’ve found me and you can now go away and leave me in peace. It’s over. I tried to break it to you gently by staging my own horrible death, but you don’t seem to be able to take that as an answer.”
“I love you Rannie. I need you.”
“Tough. I put up with your absences, your ale fixation, your incompetent investigations and your general irritation,” she noted him scratching himself, “for long enough. I have other things to do. It was time to leave, and for you it is time to leave my club. Go away or I’ll ask Arthur to show you the door.”
“Oh jolly good show.” Arthur clicked the shotgun shut again.
There was the crunch of breaking tables and Rannie noticed the Magus’ hairy companions for the first time. “What are those animals doing in here?”
“They f
ollow me,” said the Magus defiantly. “And I’m not going anywhere until you give me a better explanation.” More sounds of breaking glass came out of the gloom.
Rannie slumped, beaten. “Oh go on then; for old time’s sake. Arthur, put the gun away and show the Magus through to my office.”
“Oh good, the knives instead.”
“No, really. When can you get it into your head that I’m not talking in gangster code?”
“But all crooks talk in gangster code, madam. When you say make him an offer… you mean give him a choice between giving us something… or dying, like last week.”
“No, that guy on the pavement stall would have sold for a discount if you’d given him a chance.”
“He wanted money for those sunglasses madam. Anyway, so are you saying that the ‘tea’ was not code for ‘kill him horribly’, and that phrase, ‘cut his legs off and bury the guy in cement’ really meant something else?”
“No, I did mean that last one—he was a car clamper after all.”
“It’s very confusing, madam.”
“Not really. See this man here…” Arthur peered at the Magus. “You are not to harm him under any circumstance, do you understand.”
“Yes madam.” Albert grinned and the monocle dropped from his eye. “I’ll make sure the body is never found.”
“Give me strength. Come through to my office, M. I think I have some explaining to do.”
* * *
In the back room, the Magus found his voice at last. “So what the feck have you been doing?”
“Have a drink? It’s probably your favourite, ‘Old Shag up the Wall’, whatever that means.”
“Yes, so called because it’s brewed in the kilns where they used to hang up the tobacco leaves to dry. It gives it that nice smoky flavour.”
“I’ll be able to sleep at nights now.”
“It’s not poisoned is it?” The Magus sniffed suspiciously. “You know the first rule of investigation—never accept a drink off a dame; it always has a mickey-finn in it.”
Into the Fourth Universe Page 21