“You cannot, Rupert.” His voice was tinged with compassion, yet there was a determination there, a resolve that I no longer shared, or cared to. “I promise you that this whole vexatious business will soon be at an end, but until then, you must endure. You simply must.”
I turned my head to look at him. He had dropped to one knee, and his hand rested upon my side, but I could not see his face, for the window was at his back, silhouetting his head against the morning light.
“Tell me why, Fairfax,” I pleaded. “Tell me why I should not simply lay down and allow myself to bleed away against the fire?”
“For one reason, and one reason alone; you are an Englishman, and England expects that every man shall do his duty.” His voice was soft, but his words came to me clear and strong as a fanfare, resonating with their honesty and truth. “It shall not do to step aside and allow our enemies to prevail, for it is a far, far better thing to have fallen in battle, than to have laid down and been trampled underfoot.”
I looked up through tear-stained eyes, my mouth agape and my breath caught like shrapnel in my chest. “For Queen and country?” I whispered.
He nodded. “Yes, Rupert. For Queen and country.” He reached out his hand, I rolled over slightly to meet his grasp, and he hauled me to my feet. I lurched and rocked, but did not topple.
“Thank you, Fairfax.” I brushed myself down and wiped the tears from my face. “I shall join you presently.”
“Do you intend to shave before breakfast?”
My mouth dropped open. “Of course I intend to shave.” I was positively scandalised. “Do you think me lapsed into barbarism?”
“My apologies, Rupert.” He backed out of the bathroom, closing the door on his way out. I took a few moments to recover myself, then turned on the hot tap.
Did I intend to shave? What a question. One might as well ask if I intended to eat my breakfast from a plate, as opposed to eating it directly from the floor. I shook my head in disbelief as I reached for the shaving cream and razor.
*
I descended to the kitchen and collapsed onto one of the chairs, but something had caught my eye. I turned my head, and there it was by the door; a small brown suitcase.
“Going somewhere, Fairfax?”
“As a matter of fact,” said he, lowering himself onto the chair opposite, “I have been invited to deliver a lecture at the University of Salzburg on the subject of cephalopodomancy.”
“What in blue blazes is cephalo-whatever-you-said?” I enquired, not unreasonably.
“Cephalopodomancy is the use of squid or octopodes to predict the outcome of future events.”
“Is there much call for that sort of thing?”
“Oh, absolutely.” He reached across the table for the toast rack, “I have published several monographs on the subject.”
“So, allow me to clarify,” said I, passing the jam, “if one were to obtain an octopus, one could use it to foretell, for example, the outcome of an international football match.”
“I suppose so,” he replied, with a look of distaste, “although it would rather demean the craft to apply it to so trifling a matter.”
I groaned wearily. “It is preposterous, Fairfax. No one can predict the future, least of all an octopus.”
“Mark my words, Rupert,” he replied, “I guarantee that within two years, you shall read of this in the popular press.”
“Why octopodes and squid? What makes them so prescient?” I nodded gratefully to Mrs Denford as she handed me a cup of strong coffee. “Why not otters or anteaters?”
“It is the shape.” He paused to take a bite of his toast. “When viewed from above or below, the octopus resembles an eight-sided Sun, which is the symbol of Shamash, the Mesopotamian Sun God. The Mesopotamians believed the octopus to be Shamash’s Earthly form, offering a vessel through which they could gaze upon the heavens without being blinded by his brilliance. Over time, the squid and cuttlefish were also encompassed in this belief.
“The practice is not confined to the cephalopods. There are many examples of other animals being exploited as tools of divination. Frogs, horses, snakes, the movement of cats, and even the howling of dogs; all these have been used, and it does not end with animals. Man has turned to all manner of bizarre and disparate methods in his bid to command his destiny. Tyromancy, for example, is the practice of divination using cheese.”
“Which cheese?”
“I think it falls to the preference of the user.”
I eyed him curiously. “Is it mere coincidence that your invitation is taking you to the vicinity of Henry Muntjac’s accident?”
“Indeed not. I had already arranged to meet Gruppeninspektor Rolph Heilig of the Salzburg State Police, who was the officer in charge of the investigation. It so happens that I decided to use the opportunity to meet up with an old friend, Professor Karl Gruppel. He convinced me to visit the university and deliver my lecture while I was in the area.”
“Will you be lecturing in German, or Bavarian?”
He gaped at me incredulously. “I shall be speaking in English, of course.” He sniffed haughtily. “It is the same in Austria as in all civilised countries; if I speak loudly and slowly, there should be no reason not to understand me quite adequately.”
“True enough,” I concurred. “Regarding your meeting with Reichsführer Heilig….”
“Gruppeninspektor,” he corrected. “Sergeant, if you prefer.”
“Regarding your meeting with Sergeant Heilig,” I continued, “what do you hope to discover that was not in the official police report?”
“There may be some considerable discrepancy between what somebody reveals in confidence and what they are willing to commit to an official document. I want to know whether he was aware of any peculiarities or inconsistencies in the Duke’s or Duchess’ demeanour or statements.”
Mrs Denford deposited our cooked breakfasts before us, thus terminating the conversation. For the next ten minutes, Urban-Smith turned his attention to his copy of The Scrump, and I pushed my breakfast to and fro upon my plate until it was time for him to take his leave.
“I shall be gone until Saturday morning,” he announced. “I suggest that you spend the time recovering from your injuries, both physical and emotional, for upon my return, I shall require your further assistance with my enquiries. I fear that there may be worse to come, and I need your resolve, Rupert. We must not falter.”
And with these ominous words, he was gone.
*
Over the next two days, I took Urban-Smith’s advice, and spent most of my time sleeping, reading or watching daytime television. I had struck upon the idea of storing my underpants in the freezer, and by Saturday morning, I had noticed a significant reduction in both pain and swelling to my unmentionables. Inside, however, I was a broken man. My mood surged from despair to anger, and my dark mutterings seemed to come from another Rupert Harker, one whose rage and bitterness threatened to burst forth at any moment. Had I been pushed too far? Would my Tourette’s once again rear its ugly head to bicker and snarl and spit and curse until I no longer had any place amongst civilised men, forced to live alone, bereft; an outcast in a bubble of blue expletives, bobbing hither and thither about the peripheries of society?
No. I would not allow it to come to that. We Harkers are made of sterner stuff. I had healed before and I would heal again, for in the words of Friedrich Nietzsche, that which does not kill us only serves to makes us stronger, and it was with this resolve that I greeted Urban-Smith as he crossed the threshold just before noon.
“Rupert!” he cried. “How are you?”
“A little better, thank you. How was Salzburg?”
“Splendid, splendid! Put the kettle on and I shall tell you all about it.”
I made tea, and we retired to the living room, where he spoke of his lecture and the rapturous reception that he had received. It transpired that the University of Düsseldorf had formed a partnership with the Oberhausen Sea-Life Centre wit
h the aim of breeding precognitive octopuses.
“The future beckons, Rupert,” he said excitedly. “Very soon, wars will be fought and won, not on the battlefield, but from within an aquarium.”
Unfortunately, his meeting with Sergeant Heilig of the Salzburg Police had been less productive, with the Sergeant having little to add beyond that in the official police report. Despite this, Urban-Smith was remarkably upbeat.
“Sometimes a negative finding can reveal as much as a positive one.” He rubbed his hands gleefully. “I have a glad feeling, Rupert. I feel that our labours will soon bear fruit. To that end, I propose that we journey to Dragon Tattoos on Braxton Street to confront the eponymous Dragon.”
“Is that prudent?” I asked nervously.
“It is necessary, Rupert, and for now, that shall suffice.”
*
21. The Dwagon’s Den
After lunch, Urban-Smith telephoned for a taxicab, and by one o’clock, we were hurtling across town, our carriage rolling and keening as we swerved in and out between the slower vehicles. Our Polish cabman whistled along to the radio and rolled a cigarette on his lap, steering with his knees. I clutched at the door of the taxi in fear and desperation while Urban-Smith gazed quietly out of the window, his mind clearly elsewhere.
We reached Braxton Street in short order, and it was with the utmost relief that I climbed gingerly from the taxicab and paid the cabman, who pumped his fist in victory before sending his taxicab roaring away with a song upon his lips.
The frontage of Dragon Tattoos was narrow but surprisingly well kempt. The inside of the window was decorated with photographs of various tattooed arms, backs, ankles and chests, presumably examples of Dragon’s handiwork, alongside some beautiful hand-drawn designs depicting various skulls, naked women and mythical beasts. Beyond the window, the shop had been partitioned in order to protect the modesty of any partially-disrobed clients.
“They perform body piercings too,” observed Urban-Smith, perusing the price list. “What is a Prince Albert?”
“You would do well to remain ignorant,” I advised.
“It sounds very regal.”
“Trust me; it is not.”
“Very well.” He opened the door and held it open for me. “Shall we?”
Inside, we were greeted by a sullen, pale young woman in a loose, tie-dyed T-shirt, black denim drainpipe trousers and purple combat-boots. Lank, dark hair fell to her shoulders, and her face was almost translucent white with makeup, except for her purple lips and the thick circle of black eyeliner around each eye. Through each of her nostrils, her upper lip, both earlobes and her left eyebrow she sported a whole assortment of metal hoops, studs and bars.
Urban-Smith leaned over and whispered into my ear. “Zombie-Panda meets plumber’s toolbox.”
“Do you want a tattoo?” asked Zombie-Panda, coming straight to the point.
“We are here to see Dragon,” said Urban-Smith.
“He’s with a customer.”
“We shall wait.”
She indicated some chairs in the corner. “Would you like tea or coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
We sat quietly and patiently for about half an hour, until two men appeared from behind the screens. One was a tall, lanky youth with arms like pipe cleaners, against one of which he was clutching a white, slightly bloody rag. He thanked the other man profusely, then turned his attention to Zombie-Panda, who rang up his purchase upon her till.
The other gentleman was enormous in both build and belly, standing well over six feet, with great shoulders like bowling balls, brawny arms, and a chest almost as wide as I am tall. He sported a long greying beard, but his head was shaven, glinting under the shop lights. Tattoos adorned both of his arms from shoulder to wrist, and upon the left side of his neck there was depicted a snarling Chinese dragon with blood dripping from its teeth and claws.
This then was the man known as Dragon. His expression was neutral, but it was clear that this was a man not to be trifled with. His knuckles were scarred from years of unscheduled fisticuffs, and there was a livid scar across his left cheek, the product of some barroom brawl or another. Even with Urban-Smith’s reassuring physical presence, I felt most unsettled by the man.
“Are you here for a tattoo?” he growled.
“No, thank you,” replied Urban-Smith rising from his chair. “Are you Dragon?”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name is Fairfax Urban-Smith.” He inclined his chin slightly for emphasis. “You may have heard of me.”
“Yeah.” He nodded warily. “I’ve heard of you. What do you want?”
“It is a delicate matter.” Urban-Smith looked pointedly towards Zombie-Panda and the bloodied youth at the cash register. “Is there somewhere that we may speak in private?”
Dragon’s eyes narrowed and he took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring and his lip twitching as he considered his situation.
“Tasha,” he muttered, “I’m going out the back. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Zombie-Panda grunted in acknowledgement, and Dragon led us through a door marked, ‘private,’ and down a narrow corridor to his office at the rear of the property. Dragon squeezed his great bulk through the office door, followed by Urban-Smith, with myself bringing up the rear.
The room was modest, with an old, scratched desk littered with sketches and doodles, and a battered leather swivel chair. Amongst the debris upon the desktop I spied a laptop computer and various teacups, dirty plates and improvised ashtrays; clearly the epicentre of the business.
“Get to it,” he demanded, “I’m busy. What do you want?”
“We are here to talk to you about Sir Godfrey Pingum.”
Dragon reared back as if stung. “What do you mean?” he said, suspicion etched upon his bushy features.
“You heard of his murder, I assume.”
Dragon’s breathing became rapid, and a crimson flush spread from his chest to his neck. Some torrid emotion was clearly coming to the fore, and I began to fear for our safety.
“Fairfax,” I whispered, but he paid me no heed.
“I understand,” Urban-Smith continued, “that you and Sir Godfrey were intimate acquaintances.”
“Who told you that?” he snarled.
“Why, it is common knowledge amongst the patrons of The Silver Dragon.”
“What if it is?” he snapped. Dragon stepped up to Urban-Smith, his fists balled at his sides. “What’s it to do with you? Are you with the police?”
“No, Mr Dragon. We are working for Sir Godfrey.”
“You work for Sir Godfrey?” he repeated.
“Yes. It was Dr Harker and I who discovered Sir Godfrey’s body. He left us a message. That is what has led us to you.”
Dragon’s expression changed from one of anger and suspicion to one of curiosity. “What was the message?”
“One word, and one word alone.” Urban-Smith squinted at Dragon through narrowed eyes, like an eagle sizing up its prey. “Dwagon.”
“Dwagon?” gasped Dragon. “That was the message?”
“Yes. Scrawled upon the floor in his own blood as he lay dying.” Urban-Smith puffed out his chest in triumph. “Now, why should he, in his final moments, choose that as his swan-song?”
Dragon turned away from us, swaying upon his heels. He clutched at his desk for support, then collapsed into his swivel chair, tremulous and ashen. Urban-Smith stalked him, leaning over the huge man as he sat panting.
“Dwagon. Your name, Sir. What have you to say?”
Dragon’s lip quivered and his mouth opened and closed several times. Good Lord! I thought, the man’s going to confess.
“My name,” he gasped. “My name.” Colour flooded Dragon’s cheeks, his lower lip quivered and a fat tear rolled down his cheek. “Oh, my God. Poor Pingy!”
He clutched his hands to his face and his whole body shuddered and heaved as he began to sob. His shoulders rose and fell until he collapsed forward onto
the desk, howling in his grief. “Oh my God!” he repeated. “Poor Pingy. Poor, poor Pingy.”
Urban-Smith and I stared at one another in amazement.
“Pingy?” mouthed Urban-Smith silently.
“Go on,” I whispered, indicating Dragon with my head. “Do something.”
“Erm…” muttered Urban-Smith quietly, laying a hand on Dragon’s meaty shoulder. “There, there.”
Dragon hauled his shiny head from the desk with his eyes bloodshot and his nose streaming. I stepped forward to offer him my handkerchief.
“I can’t believe it. Me! Of all the friends and lovers he had, he was thinking of me.” The tears started again, and he covered his eyes once more. “My little dwagon,” he wailed. “When we made love, that’s what he used to call me; his little dwagon.”
He sprawled upon the desktop, and there was nothing that Urban-Smith and I could do but wait until he had regained his composure. Eventually, he was able to master himself, and lifted his puffy red face from the desktop. Tears and mucous had matted his beard, and I grimaced as he blew his nose into my handkerchief, then cast it aside and rose slowly from his chair.
“Thank you.” He extended his hand, which Urban-Smith accepted cautiously. With a tug, Dragon hauled Urban-Smith close and threw his arms around him in a powerful hug, sinking his head onto Urban-Smith’s shoulder. “Thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me,” he sniffed.
“You’re welcome,” mumbled Urban-Smith. “We are glad to have been of service.”
Dragon cast Urban-Smith aside and stepped towards me. I held out my hand, hoping for a simple handshake, but I too had to endure several hundred pounds per square inch of crushing gratitude before I was allowed to leave the Dragon’s den. He was sobbing at his desk once more as we closed the office door behind us and made our way back through the shop and onto Braxton Street.
We hailed a taxicab and were surprised to be collected by the same Polish gentleman who had dropped us there not half an hour before.
“Boże miłosierny! Wielkie kule ognia! (Goodness gracious! Great balls of fire!) he roared through his enormous black beard, practically dragging us into the back of his taxicab. We instructed him to head for Chuffnell Mews, and with a cheerful bellow, he sent the vehicle hurtling into the oncoming traffic like an enormous steel salmon spawning its way upstream.
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