“I am afraid that we have no choice,” Urban-Smith sighed, returning to his seat and prodding forlornly at his plate. “Once again, we must seek the counsel of Professor Iam De Wolfmann.”
“There is no way on God’s earth that the Professor will consent to meet with us, nor I with him.”
It had been barely more than a fortnight since the Professor had caught the pair of us breaking into his capacious mansion and menaced us at gunpoint. I was loathe to repeat the experience, a sentiment that I expressed in the strongest terms to my landlord and colleague.
“Fear not, Rupert,” said he. “The deal is already done. We are to meet the Professor at his home tomorrow evening at seven o’clock.”
Had I commenced eating again, I would have doubtlessly choked once more, as these words were the last that I expected to hear.
“How in the name of all that is Holy were you able to convince him?” I cried in disbelief.
“It was not I that convinced him. I blackmailed his father into making the arrangement on our behalf. I made it plain that, should he fail to assist, I would inform both the police and his son of his Nazi affiliations. He seemed most eager to comply.”
In the last few weeks, Urban-Smith and I had resorted to theft, burglary, deceit, the buying and selling of illegal narcotics, solicitation, perverting the course of justice and misuse of punctuation, but blackmail….?
I said nothing, but evidently my expression spoke volumes.
“Do not judge me too harshly, Rupert. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“But, Fairfax,” I protested, “surely you go too far?”
He looked me in the eye, purpose and doggedness etched upon his features, and I confess that my resolve began to falter somewhat.
“Perhaps you underestimate the connotations of this case, Rupert. If the Duke of Krill has developed a method to confound a DNA test, it will set back the science of criminal investigation by decades.” He shook his head sternly. “Add to this the certainty that it is only a matter of time until the Fervent Fist penetrates The Apple of Eden, and it becomes clear that this is no time to pull our punches. These are battles that we cannot afford to lose.”
*
That night, I liaised with Nell and Clara at The Blue Belvoir, and returned with them to Clara’s flat, but my passion was tempered. As I lay supine upon the bed, bound, gagged, smothered in baby oil and with my most intimate areas host to an assortment of rubber and leather accessories, Urban-Smith’s words echoed through my mind, and I found myself wondering; to what depths were we to stoop before this vexatious affair had come to its conclusion?
*
5. The Chimera Never Lies
Thurday the 25th
“Rupert. I have a task for you.” Thus did Urban-Smith begin the breakfast conversation the next morning.
It had been well past midnight when I returned to Chuffnell Mews, bruised, beaten and sated. Clara had dominated the proceedings as usual, with Nell and I bound to one another upon the bed, squirming helplessly and we submitted to all manner of delicious torments beneath Clara’s gloved, oily fists.
I staggered downstairs for breakfast at around half past seven, thoroughly pummelled and nursing a deep aching within every nook and cranny of my being.
“I have spoken to Mr Barnabus Hunt, the Duke’s solicitor,” continued Urban-Smith, seemingly immune to my suffering. “The Duke has agreed to a further paternity test. You are to liaise with him at the offices of Hunt and Hunt Solicitors in Golders Green on Saturday morning, where Mr Hunt will act as witness while you collect a DNA specimen from the Duke.”
“Sounds like fun,” I mumbled unenthusiastically. “What time are we meeting him?”
“Not we, Rupert. The Duke does not wish to make my acquaintance. I will, however, be with you in spirit. Additionally, I wish you telephone me as you enter the building and leave your telephone in your breast pocket, so that I may be privy to your conversation.”
“Hmm,” I hmm’d. “Is that strictly legal?”
“I doubt it. Now….” Urban-Smith reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “Here is the information which I require you to extract from Mr Hunt. The Duke will be arriving at ten o’clock. I have arranged for you to arrive a quarter of an hour earlier under the pretence of having to inspect the collection kit and paperwork. On the reverse side are three questions that you must ask the Duke. They must be asked in the order in which I have written them.”
I briefly inspected the list. “Hmm,” I hmm’d again. “Of all the questions that you should wish me to ask, why should the answer to these be of any interest whatsoever?”
“They aren’t. All that interests me is the Duke’s reaction to the third.” He leaned forward eagerly. “Now pay attention, Rupert, for this is critical. When you ask the third question, you must pay close attention to the Duke’s hands, not his words, for a man’s mouth is too easily mastered. I need to know what path his hands take; do they remain clenched at his sides, or fly to his face? If they fly, does he attempt to cover the action, perhaps by pretending to scratch his nose or smooth his hair?
I indicated my understanding. “I shall do as you ask, Fairfax.”
“You must, Rupert, you must,” he insisted. “I cannot accompany you. You must be my eyes at this meeting. We shall only have the one chance to catch the Duke off guard.”
We paused to accept our breakfast from Mrs Denford.
“There is one more thing, Rupert. Are you able to secure a copy of Henry Muntjac’s autopsy report and photographs?”
“I should think so,” said I confidently. “Do we happen to know where it was performed?”
“At the Altenmarkt Hospital, Salzburg, according to the police report.”
“Police report? How on Earth did you manage to get hold of that?”
“I was able to procure a copy through a contact who works at the British Embassy in Vienna. Several years ago, I assisted her in the matter of a pair of poisoned lederhosen. Perhaps you read of it?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Fascinating case.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “It is only due to the intended victim’s habit of wearing impermeable underwear that he was spared grave injury.”
“It seems rather odd that your contact was not also able to procure a copy of the autopsy report,” I observed.
“Nothing odd about it,” he snorted. “She was hamstrung by bureaucracy.” Urban-Smith gnashed his teeth. “Bureaucracy!” He spat the word out as if it were a mouthful of poison. “It is the dullard’s way of confounding his intellectual superiors. They bind us with their red tape until we know not up from down. My brother, Ulysses often laments that I could have made a fine barrister, but I have no tolerance for such pedantry; this bylaw, that regulation, such-and-such statute. It would drive me to insanity.”
“Relax, dear friend,” I said soothingly. “One e-mail from Beefy, and the report should be in my in-tray within the hour.”
“Good chap, Beefy.” The mention of the name seemed to restore his good spirits. “Had I mentioned that he is an old Etonian?”
“Many times, Fairfax. Many times.”
“Remind me, Rupert; which school did you attend?”
“Scruff’s Hill Grammar at Earls Brufton.” I shuddered at the memory.
“Ah yes.” Urban-Smith nodded sagely. “Our school motto was Floreat Etona (May Eton prosper). What was the Scruff’s Hill school motto?”
“Quid spectatis, deformis? (What are you looking at, ugly?)”
*
At Urban-Smith’s insistence, I finished work early and was waiting for him on the platform at Kings Cross station at the agreed time.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked anxiously as we boarded the train.
“Fear not, Rupert. I have spoken to the Professor’s butler, Bricker, and he assures me that he will keep any firearms or sharp objects out of the Professor’s reach.”
We boarded the
second-class carriage and made our way along the aisle until we located a pair of vacant seats, and there we sat quietly, gazing out of the window at the crowds milling by on the platform, hurrying here and there on their way to the bank or the office or whatever destination demanded their presence.
“Look at them,” murmured Urban-Smith, as if reading my thoughts. “Who knows what dreadful secrets each or any of them may harbour? That gentleman there, hurrying past, clutching his briefcase and umbrella. Why does he hurry so? Has he perhaps murdered a prostitute in some flea-ridden hovel by the Thames, her butchered corpse now in a dozen pieces beneath the stained wooden bedstead? Or that young lady in her business suit. Could she be an agent of terror, on her way to unleash some grievous horror upon the citizens of this great city?”
I shook my head in sympathy.
“Fairfax, you are truly the most bizarre and disturbed individual I have ever had the pleasure of lodging with. You see menace and iniquity at every turn, upon every street corner. It truly puzzles me.”
He eyed me strangely. “It puzzles me that you are unable to see it. When I think of all the evil and travesty that you and I have faced in the last few weeks, I fail to fathom how you can continue to turn a blind eye to the danger that lurks right beneath your very nose.”
“You speak of the Fervent Fist?”
“Not only them, but the FSB also. They dog our every move.” He glanced furtively about the carriage.
“Let them,” I huffed, folding my arms with indignation, “I shall not allow myself to be cowed as I go about my business.”
“Ha!” he cried, slapping me upon the knee. “Of all the stiff upper lips that I have encountered, none are as rigid as yours, my feisty friend. I applaud the heavens for throwing us together.”
Urban-Smith fell into a silent reverie, and I stared at my reflection in the window, pondering the strange events to which Urban-Smith had alluded. I had to concede that, over the preceding month or so, I had borne witness to circumstance the existence of which I would have scoffed at only a few months earlier.
I thought of the diabolical KGB weapons programme that had resulted in an apparatus that could collapse buildings or vibrate a man’s brain until he haemorrhaged to death. I thought of the Nazi scientists attempting to resurrect their fallen comrades by harvesting souls from the victims of the gas chambers. I thought of the thousands who died in the twin towers of the World Trade Centre, reduced to rubble by The Fervent fist in their search for Hitler’s secret archive. All those evil deeds, all that misery and suffering perpetrated against our fellow men, and to what end? Patriotism? Nationalism? The advancement of a political agenda?
I removed my spectacles and rubbed my eyes, suddenly weary with the grimness of it all.
“Are you alright, Rupert?”
“I’m fine. Just a little fatigued.”
“Is Nell wearing you out?”
“Perhaps a little.”
“How goes it in that department? Is your relationship in good working order?”
For a moment, I was rather taken aback. Although I considered Urban-Smith to be a close friend, the subject of my love life was rarely, if ever, discussed. Any attempt on my part to broach the subject would invariably result in a swift chastisement and refusal to engage further.
“It is going very nicely, thank you. We are adapting well to the current situation.”
“Current situation?” Urban-Smith was intrigued. “Pray tell.”
“Our couple has become a trio. Clara has now entered into the equation.”
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “No wonder you are fatigued. Clara is indeed a vigorous young lady. If Nell has even half of her vitality, then you should need the stamina of a prize fighter.”
“One has to stop and rehydrate at regular intervals.” I leaned forward, eager to exploit this rare opportunity to explore my friend’s deeper recesses. “But what of you, Fairfax? Have you no romantic inclinations?”
“Heavens, no,” he scoffed. “I crave only mental stimulation. My mind is a finely honed blade, a polished rapier. Physical intimacy can only serve to tarnish it.”
“Are you saying that my mind is tarnished?” I bristled.
“I am saying that my intellect is akin to the scalpel with which you dissect your clientele; it cannot function unless it is sharp. Your mind is more of a blunt instrument; it cannot be easily deflected.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but I was unable to decide whether I had been insulted or complemented.
“You are gazing wistfully, Rupert. Do you wish me to throw a stick for you?”
Before I could answer, we were interrupted by the howling of a wolf, heralding an incoming call on Urban-Smith’s mobile telephone, and I gnashed my teeth in annoyance. Following my recent ordeal in Wottenham Wood, the wolf’s howl had come to signify the presence of impending danger, and now the sound of it would render me (not unlike Pavlov’s dogs) a slave to conditioning; my heart would pound, my hands would sweat, and my mouth would become dry and barren.
“I do wish you would change that blasted ringtone,” I cursed.
He mouthed a silent apology and raised the telephone to his ear. He uh-huh’d, and mm’d a few times, then returned the handset to his jacket pocket. “That was Professor de Wolfmann’s butler, Bricker. He will meet us at the station and drive us to our meeting.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank heavens it’s not that vile chef, Laratte.”
With a pneumatic hiss, the train jerked into motion, and Urban-Smith turned to gaze out of the window again. “A good sort, that Bricker,” he ruminated, “though liable to be a little tardy.”
*
Our train arrived at Cambridge station at a little before six, but it was not until almost half past when the man, Bricker, hove into view. It was a chill evening, and he wore a long dark raincoat buttoned up over his tailcoat. Bricker was portly and greying, yet he carried himself with a dignity and bearing that did both him and his employer proud.
“Good evening, gentlemen. “ He greeted us without shaking hands, as is the butler’s way. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, but at the allotted time, one was returning Poseidon to the deep. Please step this way.”
Bricker led us to Professor de Wolfmann’s black Bentley and held the door open for us as we climbed into the back seat. It was a brief journey through Cambridge, and thence onwards to de Wolfmann Manor, a substantial Tudor mansion nestling snugly on the edge of Wottenham Wood.
As we pulled up to the gates, I was seized with trepidation, for our last visit had been not as guests, but as intruders, having forced a window and crept into the Professor’s basement laboratory as part of our investigation into the violent deaths that had made national headlines at the end of last year. Despite my reticence, however, I understood Urban-Smith’s eagerness to seek Professor de Wolfmann’s counsel, his pioneering work on the expression of recessive genes having earned him a place in the history books.
Each and every one of us inherits two sets of genes, one from each parent. It is these genes that determine our configuration and performance, for example, our height, physique, hair colour and so forth. Some of these genetic traits exert their influence more powerfully than others, and those less dominant (or recessive) traits will only manifest in the absence of a more dominant gene. Professor de Wolfmann had developed technology that was capable of bringing these less influential genes to the fore (albeit temporarily), and if anybody could fathom a way to transiently alter one’s genetic code, it was he.
Although it was still before seven when we pulled up to the gates of De Wolfmann Manor, the night already had us in its frosty grip, the only sources of light within fifty yards being the Bentley’s headlights and the soft glow of the digital numeric keypad upon the gatepost.
Bricker left the car momentarily to open the gates, then drove us along the wide paved driveway to the front door. He parked the Bentley to one side, then scampered around the side of the car to hold the door open for us.
We were led through the front door, down the dimly lit entrance hall and into the living room.
The room was much as I remembered it, a room for relaxation or conversation, furnished with three leather settees about the perimeter and, in the centre, a circular, glass-topped table with four wicker chairs around it, in one of which the Professor sat, awaiting our arrival. It was evident from his expression that he was less than enthused about our visit. He waved us irritably into our chairs.
“Will there be anything else, Sir?” asked Bricker.
“No, thank you, Bricker.”
“Very good, Sir.”
Professor Iam de Wolfmann watched the butler withdraw, then turned his disapproving gaze upon us.
“Before we continue, gentlemen, I must make it clear that it is only through the earnest entreatment of my father, and against my better judgement, that you are in my house today. I do not forgive you for your previous trespass.”
“We had reason to believe that you were in possession of information pertaining to the tragic and violent death of Mr Vic Timone not one mile from this very house,” replied Urban-Smith evenly. “In the same circumstances, I would not hesitate to do the same again.”
“Pah!” snorted the Professor. “It seems to me that you use your reputation as a criminal investigator to justify your own criminal activities.”
Before Urban-Smith could respond, I decided to intervene.
“In any event,” said I, “we are indeed grateful to you for agreeing to speak to us today, Professor. We are, once again, in dire need of your expertise.”
“Hmm,” he muttered, appearing to soften slightly at this flattery. “Kindly make it brief. I am a busy man.”
“Professor,” I continued, “we would like to know if it is possible for a person to manipulate their genes in order to confound a DNA paternity test.”
“To alter one’s own DNA on the molecular level?”
“Precisely.”
Professor de Wolfmann rubbed his chin thoughtfully and gazed into a far corner of the room. He sat like this for some considerable time, plumbing the depths of his knowledge and experience, formulating a possible scenario, before turning his gaze back to me.
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