The Quick Brown Fox

by Stan Mason

‘‘I’ve arranged for him to undergo cosmetic surgery and some psychotherapy. Maybe it’s my good deed for the year.’

  ‘Didn’t he just want money?’

  ‘He wasn’t the slightest bit interested.

  ‘He is a sad case,’ returned Mr. G. with a note of sadness in his voice. ‘I’ve never met anyone who’s not interested in money. He should be mentioned in the Guinness Book of Records.’

  ‘Anyway, the cost is very minimal. The cosmetic surgery’s being done by a surgeon who was struck off the books five years ago and the psychotherapist is a Chinese woman who was refused entry into the country. Whatever the outcome, Don Wise is our man with his finger on the button and he belongs to us.’

  ‘Well thank you for telling me,’ responded the entrepreneur sarcastically. ‘It’s so nice to know how you tied it all up.’ He poured himself a glass of Jack Daniels but failed to offer any to the other man. ‘Have a word with him and find out the answers to the questions if you can. Give me something to work with because, I can tell you candidly, I can’t go ahead with only the formula and the notes.’

  ‘As usual I’ll do the best I can,’ returned Jake easily. ‘Give me a few days to find out.’

  Mr. G. sat back in his chair contemplating the situation. It was beginning to bug him that his way ahead was blocked and he was not in control of it. If the potential hadn’t been so enormous, he would have dropped the project like a hot brick and moved on to something else. But it was huge and he knew that he couldn’t let it go.

  ‘Is that all you wanted to ask me?’ requested Jake, in a hurry to leave because he had urgent work waiting for him. There were a number of debtors he had to visit before the day ended and his henchman was waiting patiently for him outside.

  ‘No, it isn’t!’ replied the entrepreneur. ‘I have something else I want you to do.’ He paused to gather his thoughts before continuing. ‘There’s a patent agent by the name of Baker working in the City of London.’ He leaned forward, placed his cigar in a ash-tray and picked up the piece of paper with the information he had obtained from Igor Strongonff. He passed it over to the other man who took it and glanced at the details. ‘This man apparently has the formula and the notes of the heating process. I’ve a good idea how he managed to get hold of it but he’s turned turtle, trying to sell it to the Russian government.’

  ‘Really!’ retorted Jake in surprise. He had so much trouble in getting the details of the process yet someone else had it presented to them on a plate. ‘I should imagine he’s the patent agent employed by Universal Energy. The rotten crook! He’s decided to try to make money out of it for himself. ‘

  ‘He sent two men to the Russian embassy to screw them but they were turned away. See what you can make of it.’

  The ex-convict stood up and nodded. ‘I sure will,’ he responded sharply. ‘That’s the problem with greed. I should know it having been an ex-gambler. You’d sell your soul to win money. But these patent guys are under a strict code. They not supposed to steal ideas from the companies who use them to safeguard their patents.’

  ‘Let me know what happens,’ said Mr. G. finally, picking up his cigar again and puffing on it.

  ‘I certainly will,’ returned Jake positively as he walked to the door before turning to make a final comment. ‘You can bet your life on it!’

  He left and a smile appeared on the entrepreneur’s face. Jake was a good man to have on the team. He was efficient and effective... no fuss... no problems! It was always satisfying to know that one had a person like that to rely on.

  ***

  The following morning, Jake went to the office of the Baker Patent Agency. He introduced himself and Alan Baker offered him a set in his office.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ asked Baker, believing his visitor to be another client.

  ‘I’m come here about a patent in your possession,’ stated Jake bluntly.

  ‘What patent are you talking about?’

  ‘The heating process currently being tested at Universal Energy,’ rattled Jake, watching the man’s expression with great care.

  Baker’s face went white and his body stiffened at the other man’s reply. He could almost feel an accusation in the wings and his mind flirted with a dozen visions to determine where he might have made a mistake by trying to sell the idea. ‘I’m not sure I know what you mean,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Come on, Mr. Baker!’ exclaimed Jake politely. ‘We both know what we’re talking about. You used two men to try to sell the project to the Russian embassy. Don’t try to tell me you know nothing about it. If so, you’d better have a serious word with your staff.’

  ‘I can’t discuss privileged information with you,’ countered the patent attorney. ‘You must realise that.’

  ‘Please!’ retorted Jake. ‘Don’t come the old soldier with me! I didn’t come down in the last shower!’

  ‘I don’t know what you expect me to say!’ retorted Baker angrily,

  ‘This is not a game!’ snapped the other man with a serious expressio0n on his face.

  The patent agent decided that the best thing to do was to bluff his way out of the situation before it got worse. ‘I don’t think you should be in this office asking such questions,’ he said irately. ‘Would you mind leaving, sir! Go now before I call the police.!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, man!’ challenged Jake bluntly. ‘What are you going to tell them? That you’re perpetrating a crime? That you’re undertaking a theft in your capacity as a patent agent? Don’t worry... I’ve been there and bought the T-Shirt. I was once in your position but no one let me off the hook. I paid the price for the error of my ways.’ He paused hoping that the man would be more reasonably and lowered his voice. ‘Look... this isn’t going to go away. You’re interfering with the operations of someone else in the field and they don’t like it.’

  ‘How’s it possible they know of the process? I’m the only one in position to have it... other than the executives of Universal Energy.’

  ‘Come on, Baker. Get real!’

  ‘I’m asking you,’ he persisted. ‘How did they get hold of the information? That’s all I want to know!’

  ‘I’m the one asking the questions, pal!’ snarled the ex-convict trying to move the conversation forward. ‘Will you stop interfering and stay out of it? I’m giving you this one last chance to redeem the situation. Keep your staff in line!’

  ‘My brothers... ’ began Baker before being rudely interrupted,.

  ‘So it’s your brothers in it with you!’ exclaimed Jake shaking his head slowly. ‘Well that makes your family complicit in this affair. I could report you to the Patent Authority and have your struck off the list but that’s not my style. I’m simply asking you to stay out of it. Do we understand each other.?’

  ‘You can’t threaten me!’ declared the patent attorney adamantly.

  ‘Why not?’ returned Jake sharply. ‘You’re doing something illegal and stepping on someone else’s toes.’

  ‘I asked you to leave,’ came the response. ‘If you don’t, I’ll call security!’

  ‘Okay,’ retorted the ex-convict finally. ‘Have it your way. But you’ll be sorry. Very sorry!’

  He left the office and met his henchman downstairs in the hallway, They walked to the car park where the henchman took out a bunch of keys and began to open the doors of the cars. He searched through the glove compartment of each of them until coming to one where the details matched.

  ‘This one belongs to Alan Baker the patent agent,’ he told the other man.

  ‘Okay,’ returned Jake slowly. ‘Do what you need to do,’

  The henchman looked around the car part to check whether anyone else was watching and he took an iron bar from his back pocket and slid under the car. A few moments later, there was a loud bang and he emerged with oil on his hands.

 
‘There you go!’ he said calmly. ‘I’ve busted his brake line.’

  ‘Let’s hope he takes heed of the warning or we’ll be back again,’ uttered Jake solemnly.

  An hour later, Baker left his office and went to his vehicle in the car park. He failed to notice the element of an oil slip creeping out of the underside of his car. He climbed in and started the engine driving off swiftly without securing his seat-belt. Racing through the City of London, he drove to the outskirts at speed. Everything was going well until he suddenly came across a traffic jam. As he neared it, he pressed his foot on the brake but it failed to respond, the pedal going right down to the floor. He pressed it twice more to achieve the same effect and within seconds he had crashed head-on into the rear of a large lorry, Without the use of his seat-belt, his head went forward and struck the dashboard, He never knew what had happened as the police recorded that he had failed to stop in time and died by smashing his forehead in the crash,

  Jake learned about the man’s death a few days later and he shrugged his shoulders aimlessly. Technically the situation was beyond his control... at least that’s what he told himself. But one thing was certain... Baker would no longer interfere with Mr. G’s agenda, No longer!

  Chapter Twelve

  The thought of undergoing cosmetic surgery was anathema to the scientist. He knew there would be pain and discomfort but there was no alternative if he intended to go through with the plan. He returned to Limehouse and entered Dr. Sinclair’s room where the surgeon had installed an operating table similar to those used in hospital theatres. There were a number of medical instruments set out on a separate table and Don screwed up his face in anticipation of a very undesirable experience, The only consolation was that people who wanted to have their noses altered had to pay handsomely for it to be done whereby it was costing him nothing.

  Sinclair produced a book of photographs with a variety of nose-shapes and Don selected a suitable one which was much smaller and had less of a bulge than the one he sported at present. He tried to envisage what he would look like when the surgery was completed for the improvement to his features was the only singular thing that stopped him from fleeing the building to escape the premeditated torture which went through his mind.

  The surgeon invited him to lay down on the operating table and he placed a white gown over him.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself,’ he told the patient. ‘All the instruments have been sterilized. There is practically no danger of infection. You won’t feel anything because you’ll be unconscious under an anaesthetic. When you awake, there’ll be some discomfort and your face will be heavily bandaged. It must remain as such for a minimum of ten days. Is that clear?’

  Don made the noise of a bumbling sound which the surgeon took to be his agreement and understanding. Then he produced a hypodermic needle, pressed it into a tube, to withdraw a liquid into its hull, before gently pressing it into the scientist’s arm. There was a long period of silence and then Don closed his eyes as though in a trance. When that happened, the surgeon pushed the patient’s chin gently to check that he was asleep. Following that, he carried out the operation using an instrument to break the scientist’s nose and manoeuvred it with another to move it into the shape that had been chosen. When he had finished, he bandaged the face leaving a small space for the nostrils and a wider one for the eyes. At least that part of the reconstruction had been completed. The changes to be made to the cheeks, the lips, the ears and the cheekbones would be carried out in due course.

  After the anaesthetic had worn off, Don felt an excess of pain and he was handed some pain-killing tablets which he swallowed immediately. He then asked to look at himself in a mirror, which was a pointless activity for all he could see was a plethora of bandages covering his face. He tried to imagine what he would look like but the vision didn’t come to him easily. He watched the surgeon put away the medical instruments and he sat up on the operating table feeling a little woozy from the anaesthetic.

  ‘I imagine I look like the Man in the Iron Mask,’ he muttered, gently touching the bandages on his face. ‘How long was I out for?’ he asked, swaying from side to side as he tried to regain his balance

  ‘What difference does it make?’ came the answer. ‘That part of the surgery is over. You’ll just need some time to recover. I think you may be surprised at the result. Next time I shall operate on your lips. After that, I shall draw those giant teeth at the rear sides of your mouth at the top, and remove the fatty tissue on your cheeks. Only then will you start to see any difference although you won’t because of the bandages covering your face. Once it’s all over, you can choose a proper hair style instead of the awful one your sport now. You’ll look entirely different.’

  ‘I can’t wait’ uttered the scientist, noticing that he no longer stuttered.

  These people were doing excellent work on reconstructing him. The most difficult part would be for them to teach him how not to get tongue-tied when he met a woman and the things he needed to say. No doubt the new teacher, Mr. Griffiths would come into his own in relation to that labour.

  The next day, after his session with Mai Wan where she tried to get him to rid himself of the bad images that rested in his sub-conscious mind accompanied by a session where she attempted to stop him from becoming tongue-tied, he was taken to the next house where Hywel Griffiths lived. The man had been a teacher in South Wales for forty-three years and had retired with a reasonable pension. However the Cosmic Joker decided to ruin his life, firstly by allowing his wife to die from breast cancer which sent the teacher completely off the rails, He had expected to share the rest of his life with her and suddenly after a very brief illness she was gone. Secondly, in his grief, he started to gamble and the obsession began to climb to impossible proportions. He sold his house and all his possessions to pay for his gambling debts and borrowed even more money from loan sharks which, in the end, proved to be his downfall. When he failed to pay the amount he owed, they hunted him down to extract repayment of the debt but he had nothing more left to give them. Ultimately, after a series of serious threats, he decided to escape to London to hide in the capital where they couldn’t find him. Limehouse was an ideal place for him to be free of them and, as far as he was concerned, he had succeeded albeit he was forced to live in a slum area for the rest of his life. He didn’t mind too much feeling that he was really in the wrong. The problem had been to shift the great debt that he owed off his shoulders He may have to live a menial life but it was better than ending up dead. Limehouse was perfect because it was off the beaten track. With regard to his present situation, Mai Wan had helped him out with some money for a while until he managed to claim benefits from the Government and, occasionally, one or two delinquent pupils found their way to his home for additional lessons to supplement their studies.

  As a neighbour to Dr. Sinclair, he came into contact with Jake but, until now, he had never been asked to do any work for him. With Don Wise, appearing on the scene, he was faced with a blank canvas on which to paint anything he wished. The scientist entered the building wondering what the teacher could possibly do to help him. He doubted that anything he was told would assist him at this stage of his development,. In fact he couldn’t believe anything more could be done by his mentors but they clearly knew better than he did and it was in his interest to follow their advice.

  ‘Take a seat, Mr. Wise,’ greeted the teacher with a strong Welsh accent. ‘What’s the range of your knowledge?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ countered the scientist blankly.

  ‘Tell me of your interest in the arts, literature, history... anything!’

  ‘I don’t have any,’ came the reply. ‘I’m a scientist. I know all there is to know about physics and science but nothing about the things you mentioned.’

  Griffiths paused to think for a moment with an element of disbelief. ‘Are you saying you know nothing about history?�
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  Don stared at him bleakly. ‘I know there were two world wars,’ he returned softly, as though ashamed that he should have known more.’

  ‘In art, have you not heard of the Impressionists and the Pre-Raphaelites?’ There was silence as Don simply shook his head. They could have been gangs in New York for all he knew. ‘Never heard of Manet, Monet, Renoir, Pisarro, Matisse... of Holman-Hunt or Daniel Gabriel Rosetti?’

  The scientist merely shrugged his shoulders aimlessly. The names were lost to him. He had never heard them before.

  ‘What about Shakespeare, Dickens, James Joyce, Oscar Wilde, Aldous Huxley, F. Scott Fitzgerald?’

  ‘Ah... I’ve heard of the first two... Shakespeare and Dickens,’ muttered the pupil brightening a little, although his expression could not be seen through the bandages around his face. ‘But I’ve never heard of Scott Fitz... thingy.’

  ‘Scott Fitzgerald,’ repeated the teacher firmly. ‘He wrote The Great Gatsby and other works. He was a high-flyer party-goer, with his wife Zelda.’

  ‘Zelda!’ echoed Don loudly. ‘Did you say Zelda?’

  ‘Yes, she was his wife,’ replied Griffith a little surprised at the animation which seemed to spur the other man.

  ‘Zelda!’ repeated the scientist as the image of his old school friend came to mind. ‘She couldn’t have been his wife because she went to school with me,’ he elaborated.

  ‘I don’t think we’re talking of the same woman,’ laughed the teacher harshly, ‘She died about seventy years ago. Why do you think she’s still alive?’

  Don hung his head sheepishly. ‘I didn’t think there could be two women with the same name like that,’ he replied slowly. ‘There is a woman... ’ he tailed off and changed the subject quickly believing that he had made a fool of himself. ‘Why do I have to learn all this art and literature stuff?’

  ‘I understand you get tongue-tied when you meet a woman, You don’t know what to say to them. The reason for that is your mind is empty to most subjects of importance to people. You know nothing of art, or literature, or history and God knows what else. There’s nothing for you to say because you have nothing on which to draw.’