The Parodies Collection

by Adam Roberts

  ‘It’s not a pretty sight, is it, sir,’ said the Sergeant, grimly.

  ‘It is a sight for sore eyes,’ said Robert. ‘It makes my eyes sore, seeing the sight. This is a sight that sores up the old eyes and no mistake.’

  Jacques Sauna-Lurker was lying on his back on the polished floor of the room. The ceiling lights glared at their reflections directly beneath them, and gave the large, dark pool of blood a plasticky brightness.

  The blood had spread in two butterflywing patterns from either side of Sauna-Lurker’s head. Tash, observing the direction of Donglan’s gaze, said: ‘That blood, it’s from two cuts made in the sides of the victim’s neck, running from just beneath his ears down to his neck.’

  ‘Ouch,’ said Donglan.

  ‘They were not fatal, these cuts; although they produced, as you can see, a good deal of blood.’

  ‘But if the cuts did not kill him – what did?’

  ‘There is,’ said Tash, speaking slowly, ‘a three-foot-long cod-fish stuffed into his windpipe.’

  ‘By golly so there is,’ said Donglan, taking one step forward. ‘I didn’t notice it before.’

  ‘Didn’t notice it? Ten inches of fat codfish tail is poking out of his mouth.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Donglan. ‘That’s right. I did notice that. Just checking. I was. So he aspixilated, did he?’

  The policeman narrowed his eyes and looked at Donglan. ‘You mean asphyxiated?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘You said “aspixilated”.’

  ‘No,’ said Donglan, walking slowly around the corpse and giving it a long look. ‘That’s not a word. I definitely said “aspixilated”.’

  ‘You said it again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said “aspixilated” instead of “asphyxiated”.’

  ‘Come now,’ said Donglan, condescendingly. ‘I think I know what I said. Why didn’t he just pull the codfish out?’

  ‘It’s wedged in. The scales, you see, allow relatively smooth passage down the throat, but dig into the flesh of the trachea if one attempts to pull it upwards.’

  ‘Down,’ said Donglan. ‘Up. I see.’

  ‘He knew he was dying, choking, unable to breathe,’ said Tash. ‘And he knew there was nothing he could do – that he had only a few minutes of life left to him—’

  ‘Aha!’ interrupted Donglan. ‘But if the victim was aspixilated with the codfish then why did the murderer make the two cuts to the side of his head?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a ritual act,’ offered the policeman.

  ‘And by ritual, you mean . . . ?’

  ‘The dictionary definition of ritual.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’m not a ritualism-ist. A ritist. An expert in rituals. I am an annagrammotologist – I decipher and study the codic possibilities of anagrams. Messages, words, clues, that sort of thing.’

  Mutely Tash pointed at the museum wall. In his own blood, the dying man had written a single sentence in splashy, red letters. It was very much a red letter statement:

  THE CHATHOLIC CURCH HAD ME MURDERED!

  For long seconds Donglan stared at the mysterious message. ‘That, Dr Donglan,’ said Tash, ‘is why we have called you in at this time. That mysterious message.’

  ‘It may,’ said Robert, ‘be an anagram.’

  ‘We wondered about that,’ said Tash. ‘Can you decipher it?’

  Donglan smiled. ‘Of course. It is my speciality,’ he said. He tried to add ‘I am an anagram master’, but instead said ‘I amanana manna’ and ‘I am anamanna’ and stopped. He smiled at the two policemen. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, ‘whilst I work this out.’ He pulled out a small notepad from his jacket pocket and extricated a felt-tip pen from the row of wire hoops that held the pages together. In minutes he had worked through the possibilities and turned to the inspector. ‘I think the curator was trying to tell us this.’ He held his notebook up. On the leading page he had written:

  H! THE ‘CCC’ COME HARD, HURDLE A COLT

  The policeman looked at this tantalising sentence for a very long time. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘What do you think it means?’

  ‘We need to find out who “CCC” are – or is,’ said Donglan. ‘And establish whether the reference is to an actual colt, or a metaphorical colt.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the policeman, nodding slowly, ‘a gun.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Or a horse?’

  ‘Exactly. Whatever it is, it is clearly the key to this murder.’

  ‘What’s “H!”?’ Tash asked.

  ‘I’d surmise,’ said Donglan, ‘that it is a variant of “shh!”, possibly a Milanese variant. Or Lyonese. It’s simply Sauna-Lurker’s way of getting our attention. More important is that “CCC” – sounds to me like a top secret organisation.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said the policeman, looking sage, ‘Russian? Former communists perhaps?’

  ‘It seems clear to me,’ said Donglan, ‘that a sinister organisation of former communists murdered Sauna-Lurker, their motives being somehow tied up with a colt, possibly something called Project Colt, or something else along those lines. Inspector, I’d suggest you concentrate your investigation in that area.’

  ‘Dr Donglan,’ said the policeman. ‘Your help has been invaluable—’

  At that precise moment, a woman called out in the gallery, her voice travelling at exactly 331.29 metres per second, which is the speed of sound. In air, I mean. In Helium the speed of sound is 965 metres per second, and in Carbon Dioxide it is considerably slower, being 259 metres per second. But since the inside of the London Gallery of Fine Paintings was filled with air, her words travelled the few metres between her and the others at 331.29 metres per second.

  ‘Wait!’ she said.

  Donglan and Tash turned to face her.

  2

  The two men were looking at an extremely attractive young woman.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Tash.

  ‘My name,’ she said, stepping forward, ‘is Sophie Nudivue. I am attached to the French embassy here in London – from the Sûrité, which is a specialist branch of the French police.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Tash.

  ‘I have been seconded to the world famous Department of Cryptology at the world famous Royal Holloway, University of London, which is a department that is not only world famous but also exists, in a very real and existent sense.’

  She turned to Donglan, and spoke to him in her native tongue, which was French. Rather than English. Which she also spoke. Although, obviously, not on this particular occasion. ‘You are,’ she said in French ‘an academic at the University of London, and I assume that therefore you speak French. Is this so?’

  Donglan, though surprised, replied in the affirmative. ‘Yes I speak the French very well – yes. Good surely, it is yes.’ He had ordered many coffee-with-milks and half-litre-of-beers in France.

  ‘Good,’ said Sophie, in French. ‘I am also going to assume that this flatfoot policeman is ignorant of the French tongue, for he is, after all, only a London policeman and not a university educated individual such as yourself. Therefore I can use my own language as an, as it were, code – for there is something I wish to say to you that I do not desire him to overhear. Dr Donglan! You are in terrible danger! You have been tricked, set-up, stitched up like a kipper. It is imperative that you listen very carefully to what I say, for I shall not say it twice. Inspector Tash will arrest you once he has finished utilising your special code-breaking skills. He believes you guilty of this murder. But I can help you escape this terrible fate.’

  ‘Formidable,’ replied Donglan, in French. ‘I think I understand of the words. But I not understand the words in the middle, step, which you to speak. Perhaps – little more softly, no, that is irregular word, I say, but, slowly, yes, excuse me, little more slowly and the words of the French are more comprehendingable at me.’

/>   He smiled at her, rather pleased with himself.

  Sophie looked at him in silence for several seconds. ‘Good,’ she said, still in French, although articulating her words more carefully. ‘OK.’

  ‘OK?’ repeated Donglan, adding, in English, ‘are we speaking English now?’

  Tash looked from Donglan to Sophie.

  ‘No,’ she replied, in French. ‘It just so happens that “OK” is the same in French as in English.’

  Tash looked from Sophie back to Donglan.

  ‘I comprehend,’ said Donglan also in French, nodding vigorously. ‘Like it is “the weekend” and “the to know what to do”.’

  ‘The “to know what to do”,’ said Sophie, rather crossly, in French, ‘is a French phrase in the first place. But please, let’s not get bogged down in such discussion. It is imperative that I communicate certain things to you without Inspector Tash here understanding. He has affixed a tracking device to your back. The exits and entrances are guarded. He intends to take you directly to the police cells, where you will be tried for this crime, and almost certainly put in prison for many decades. But I can help you. In five minutes I shall pretend to leave, and at that point you must insist upon going to the gentleman’s toilet, located on this floor. I will meet you there. Do you understand?’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Donglan, slowly. ‘It is to speak of the toilet, which is not the toilet at you, but is the toilet at me. I shall have been returning to the toilet after you to go at the toilet, and meeting of you in the toilet, yes?’

  ‘Je vous voudrais dire,’ said Tash, ‘que je parle français, moi-aussi, et je vous comprends tres bien ça que vous dites.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Ah,’ said Sophie, in French. Or perhaps she was speaking in English. It’s difficult to tell.

  ‘Oh,’ said Donglan, in English.

  ‘Mademoiselle Nudivue,’ said Tash, in English. ‘Might I ask to see your accreditation?’

  ‘You have no reason to accuse Dr Donglan of this murder!’ Sophie squealed. ‘It is an outrage. It out-outrages outrage! He is innocent. There is no evidence to connect him to this crime.’

  ‘Mademoiselle,’ said Tash. ‘Earlier this evening we took a number of scales from the murder-fish.’

  ‘You took some scales?’ repeated Donglan.

  ‘Twenty or so, from that portion of the fish that still extrudes from the Professor’s throat. They’ve been analysed in our labs. Every single scale has Dr Donglan’s fingerprints upon it. It’s quite remarkable actually – we’re usually lucky if we get one or two usable prints from a murder weapon. But this murder-fish seems to have Dr Donglan’s prints on every single one of its scales. You must,’ Tash said, turning to Robert, ‘have handled this fish a great deal before using it to kill Professor Sauna-Lurker. I mean, handled it a great deal.’

  Robert swallowed. He turned to Sophie Nudivue.

  ‘Sophie’ he said to her, in English. ‘I want you to believe me when I say I’ve never before seen this fish. I didn’t murder Professor Sauna-Lurker, and I never so much as touched this fish. I certainly didn’t – handle – it, certainly didn’t paw it over and over,’ he shuddered, ‘like some disgusting fish-pervert, like somebody who couldn’t help himself, who just had to press his fingers into the soggy, firm, cod-smelling flesh again and again, as if he were kneading bread, touching it, caressing it, forcing it through my fingers like a potter moulding clay, throttling its silvery-shiny wetness, its fishy firmness, pressing it again and again and again, slapping it, faster and faster shouting out “bad fish! bad fish!” at the top of my voice, until losing myself in a foul conniptian fit of ecstasy.’ He wiped a small quantity of spittle from the edge of his mouth with his sleeve. ‘I didn’t do anything like that. I hope you believe me?’

  Sophie was looking at him intently.

  As was Inspector Tash.

  ‘I concede,’ said Donglan, becoming a little nervous, ‘that I do know a little about fish. Yes. I have had some experience with fish, yes. My job requires it. But I did not murder Professor Sauna-Lurker, and I never touched that fish.’

  ‘In that case perhaps you might suggest,’ said the policeman, who had taken a small single backward step, ‘how your fingerprints come to be impressed upon each of the fish’s scales?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Donglan, simply. ‘I must assume I am being framed.’

  ‘It’s a pretty elaborate frame-up,’ suggested the policeman.

  ‘Sophie,’ Donglan urged. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘Robert,’ said Sophie, utilising his forename for the first time, her violet eyes connecting with his, their gazes locking significantly. ‘I believe you. There is something else.’

  ‘Something else? What?’

  The woman nudged closer to Robert, as if preparing to whisper something in his ear. Not wishing to be excluded, and feeling himself entitled to overhear anything spoken to his prime suspect for murder, Inspector Tash leant in.

  ‘Run!’ Sophie yelled. As Tash reeled, clutching his ears, and Robert jumped with shock, Sophie grabbed his arm and hauled him away down the gallery.

  ‘Stop!’ yelled Tash. But fear gave wings to Robert’s heels. Not actual wings, obviously; metaphorical wings. He ran quickly. Sophie, also, demonstrated an impressive rush of speed.

  3

  The two of them clattered down the great hall of the National Gallery

  ‘Down here!’ Sophie cried, and jinked left. Beautiful images flashed past them on every side. Established by the British government in 1824, the National Gallery was moved to its current Trafalgar Square location in 1838 - a Neoclassical building designed by the architect William Wilkins. Within its walls are some 2,000 works, much of its collection having been moved to other, later-built, London Galleries, amongst them the National Portrait Gallery next door, and the Tate Britain up the river. But even with relatively few paintings, compared with some other galleries, it is regarded by many experts as one of the best samplings of European painting anywhere in the world. Particularly known for its collection of Italian Renaissance paintings, it also has extensive holdings by Northern European and Spanish artists from the 15th to the 19th centuries. Among its artists are Leonardo, Raphael, and Vermeer. It also has excellent cloakroom facilities, and a very pleasant if slightly expensive coffee shop, which has provided many tourists with an agreeable way of passing the afternoon until it is time for the theatre performance for which they have purchased tickets to begin. But neither Sophie nor Robert were interested in the coffee shop.

  Instead Sophie pushed through a small door and pulled Robert down a narrow flight of stairs. Down they rushed, half stepping and half tumbling down the dark stairwell. They emerged into a dim hall, below the exhibition space, from where a number of doors led to the offices of the senior staff of the institution. There was no illumination except for a single lime-green glowing sign that said FIRE EXIT.

  Sophie finally stopped, and Robert – not a fit man – almost collapsed with gratitude.

  They were standing next to a door marked JACQUES SAUNA-LURKER.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ gasped Robert. ‘How could my fingerprints be on that fish? On every single scale?’

  ‘You were right on the badge, I fear,’ said Sophie.

  ‘On the badge? What do you mean?’

  ‘Is that not the correct phrase? Right on the button – is that it?’

  ‘Button?’

  ‘What I mean is that you were correct in your supposition. You are being framed.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Somebody has murdered Monsieur Sauna-Lurker, in a very public and symbolic way. Yet, at the same time, whoever is responsible for the murder wishes to remain hidden, secret, in the shadows, down, down, deeper and down. Therefore they need somebody to be punished, a scape-goat.’

  ‘A scape-goat?’ echoed Robert, horrified. ‘Me?’

  ‘There is a deep conspiracy here, Dr Donglan. A conspiracy that has deep roots. Deeply hid
den.’

  ‘Deep,’ said Robert. ‘I see.’

  ‘Deep,’ confirmed Sophie. ‘Not on the surface, but rather reaching deep below the surface, deep into the hidden recesses of Western culture and history.’

  ‘Yes, I take the force of the whole deepness thing.’

  ‘Everything that has happened here tonight is fraught with significance. Everything is a symbol. Those that have eyes will see. Everybody else will be satisfied that the police have caught the culprit in you . . . do you see?’

  ‘A scape-goat,’ said Robert, miserably.

  ‘But, with my help, perhaps we can make you not scape-goat but an escape-goat.’ She smiled. Then she said: ‘I have made a joke. Do you see?’

  ‘You mean,’ said Robert, slightly puzzled, ‘that you’re going to help me escape?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It might be easier just to say that,’ said Robert. ‘I mean, just for the sake of easy communication.’

  ‘Very well. We must get out of this gallery before the police apprehend us. And then we must locate the true murderer – or murderers. We must bring to light the truth of this terrible act, and thereby clear your name.’

  ‘Well that would be wonderful, obviously. It’s awfully kind of you to help me like this,’ said Robert, sincerely. ‘Although I’m sure I don’t see how we can.’

  ‘Monsieur Sauna-Lurker left one clue beside his murdered body. I believe he may have left other ones. This is his office. Perhaps there is something here that will help us. But we must hurry. The police will follow us down very soon.’

  ‘It’s a bit dark to be looking for clues . . .’ Robert pointed out.

  Tutting, or tch-ing, or perhaps making a noise halfway between the two, Sophie flipped on the electric light switch. Electricity, the fluid action of movement of electrons from nucleus to nucleus, cascaded along wires, governed by the equation (for current i) i = [dQ/dt] = nevA, where dQ is the amount of charge that crosses the plane in a time interval dt for n units of free charge passing along a wire with diameter A. Light filled the hallway.