Flying Dutch

by Tom Holt

  “Certain things, yes,” Vanderdecker said.

  “Oh.” Antonius’s face crumbled. “How do you mean?”

  “For a start,” Vanderdecker said, “more shore leave. Less getting thrown out of pubs. That sort of thing.”

  Antonius’s eyes lit up. “I’d like that,” he said.

  “Would you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Antonius leaned forward on the rail, and Vanderdecker could hear him imagining what it would be like not to be thrown out of pubs. “Antonius,” he said.

  “Yes, captain?”

  “Do you like…Well, all this?”

  “All what, captain?”

  Vanderdecker made a vague, half-hearted attempt at a gesture. “All this being stuck on a ship in the middle of the sea and everything.”

  “I suppose so,” Antonius replied, “I mean, it helps pass the time, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Vanderdecker said, “I suppose it does. Do you know, I’d never looked at it like that before.”

  “Like what, captain?”

  “Like you just said.”

  Antonius turned his head, surprised. “Hadn’t you?” he asked.

  “No,” Vanderdecker replied. “Not exactly like that. Well, thanks a lot, Antonius, you’ve been a great help.” Spurred on by a sudden instinct, Vanderdecker put his hand in the pocket of his reefer jacket. “Have an apple?”

  “Thanks, captain.” Antonius took the apple and studied it carefully, as if weighing up whether to eat it now or wait till it grew into a tree. “I like apples, for a change.”

  “That’s what they’re there for,” Vanderdecker said, and hurried away before the first mate could ask him to enlarge on his last remark. On his way to his cabin, he met Sebastian.

  “Hello there, Sebastian,” he said, “how’s things?” Sebastian frowned. “How do you mean?” he said. Vanderdecker smiled. “You know,” he said. “How are you getting on?”

  “Same as usual, I suppose.” Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at, skip?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Nothing, nothing,” Vanderdecker reassured him. “How have the suicide attempts been going lately? Making any headway?”

  “No,” Sebastian replied.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Stick with it, I’m sure you’ll get there eventually. Not that I want you to, of course. Mind how you go.” Then he slipped past and leaped up the steps to his cabin two at a time. Sebastian stared after him, tapped his head twice, and got on with his work.

  ♦

  Had Danny Bennett been there, he would have sympathised. As it was, he was back down in the cellar, after an entirely fruitless interview with the Professor.

  Once the Professor had gleaned from him that he didn’t actually know the first thing about the Cirencester Group (beyond the fact that it existed and a few fairly fundamental conjectures that a moderately intelligent laboratory rat could work out for itself in about three minutes) he had explained the dilemma he was in. Quite illegally, he had kidnapped a BBC producer and imprisoned him, by force of arms, in a damp cellar with an alleged rat. All he had managed to achieve by this was to reveal to his captive rather more about the deadly secret organisation he had discovered than he knew already. So now either Danny must join the conspiracy and work for it in some undefined but lucrative capacity, or else…well, there wasn’t really an else, since even Danny could see that Montalban wasn’t going to order his cold-blooded execution; and here he was, taking up house-room and needing to be fed and provided with clean laundry. It was all most aggravating, and if Danny hadn’t been in a hurry to get out of there and start filming, he would have quite fancied the idea of staying put for a good long time and making as much of a nuisance of himself as he possibly could.

  He was sitting on the floor thinking this over when Neville, the stockbroker who moonlighted as second murderer, appeared. He was holding his gun, as before, and also a large, scruffy cat. He seemed put out about something.

  “Here you are, then,” said Neville, releasing the cat. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

  Danny stared. “What are you doing?” he said. Although he didn’t know much about torture, he knew that it often happened to prisoners of diabolical conspiracies, and furthermore he didn’t like cats.

  “You said there were mice in this cellar,” Neville explained. “So I was told to bring the cat down here. Satisfied?”

  “Oh,” Danny said. “I see. Thanks,” he added, belatedly. But by that time Neville had gone, leaving the cat.

  The cat roamed around for a bit, scratched at the door, mewed querulously, and then went to sleep. It didn’t seem interested in mice, and who could blame it? Danny, being of liberal views, was firmly opposed to racial and sexual stereotyping, and the principle presumably applied to species, too.

  And that was it, for about half an hour. Then there were footsteps on the cellar stairs again, which Danny hoped had something to do with food. He looked round at his camera crew. They were all fast asleep, just like the cat.

  The door opened, and a girl came in. Behind her was Harvey and Harvey’s gun.

  “In there,” Harvey grunted superfluously. The girl gave him an unfriendly look and stepped in.

  It was fairly dark in the cellar, and that would explain why Jane, in normal circumstances a careful person, trod on the cat’s tail. The cat woke up, screeched, and moved. So did Jane. She jumped about three feet in the air, lost her balance, and fell against Harvey. For his part, Harvey reacted according to the instincts of generations of chivalrous ancestors and caught her, in doing so dropping the gun. Please follow what happens next carefully.

  The gun fell on the stone floor, landed on its exposed hammer, and went off, shooting the cat. Danny, hearing the shot, dived for cover, only to find that there wasn’t any. Harvey tried to let go of Jane, but Jane refused to be let go of and grabbed his ears, thereby rendering him helpless for a long enough period of time for Danny to wriggle over, grab the gun with his least trussed hand, and try and cover Harvey with it. Unfortunately, he was too trussed to be able to cover the right person, and Jane, observing yet another perfect stranger pointing a gun at her, shrieked and let go of Harvey’s ears. Harvey stayed exactly where he was. He had had enough of all this fooling about with guns and locked cellars, and was going on strike.

  “Right then, Harvey,” Danny said, “the game’s up.”

  “Oh for crying out loud,” Harvey replied, for he hated clichés. Danny, however, had seen far more spy films than were good for him, and felt sure that he knew what should come next. “Freeze,” he snarled. He enjoyed snarling it, and the fact that he was still pointing the gun at the wrong person was neither here nor there.

  The recent spate of moving about had woken up the camera crew, who opened their eyes, took in what was going on, and started voicing their opinion that it was about time, too. Jane, feeling rather left out, introduced herself.

  “I’m Jane Doland,” she said, “I’m with Moss Berwick, accountants. Who are you, please?”

  “Danny Bennett, BBC Current Affairs,” Danny replied. “Pleased to meet you.” He wriggled his weight onto the funny bone of his left elbow and brought the gun level with Harvey’s lemon socks. That would have to do.

  “Can we go now, do you think?” Jane asked.

  Danny thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said.

  “Oh good,” Jane replied. “Come on, then.”

  Danny remembered something. “Perhaps you could untie me,” he suggested.

  Jane looked at the ropes, and then at her fingernails. She was not a vain person, but they did take an awfully long time to grow if you broke them, and the ropes looked rather solid. “I’m hopeless with knots,” she said. “Perhaps Mr…”

  “Harvey,” Danny said.

  “…Would do it instead. Please?”

  Harvey nodded. “Hold on,” Danny said, “not so fast.” He was secretly pleased to have an opportunity to say that, too, although becaus
e of the angle his body was at he didn’t have enough breath to spare to be able to snarl it. “Here, you take the gun and cover him.”

  With a tremendous effort, he handed Jane the gun, which was heavy and rather oily. She didn’t take to it much. Harvey untied the knots, and Danny got up.

  “Here,” protested the sound recordist, “what about us?”

  Harvey untied them, too, until everyone was completely back to normal and the gathering resembled nothing so much as an unsuccessful drinks party. “Now can we go, please?” Jane said. But Danny had noticed something else.

  “Hey,” he said. “That cat.”

  “Which cat?”

  “The cat you trod on. It’s still alive.”

  Jane frowned at him. “I only trod on its tail,” she said.

  “Yes,” Danny replied, “but when the gun went off just now, I’m sure the bullet hit it.” He stooped down and picked something up.

  “Look,” Jane said, “I’m sure this is all very interesting, but shouldn’t we be getting along?”

  “The bullet,” Danny said, displaying it on the palm of his hand. “This bullet hit that cat.”

  “Really? How interesting.”

  “Look at it, will you?”

  When people are being tiresome, Jane’s mother always told her, it’s usually easiest just to agree. She looked at the bullet. Its nose had been flattened, as if it had hit a wall or something.

  “Maybe it hit the wall,” Jane suggested.

  “No,” Danny said, “it definitely hit the cat. Like the cat’s…invulnerable, or something.” Like the Professor was, in fact, he remembered.

  Jane remembered where they were. “It probably is,” she said. “Look, I promise I’ll explain, but I really do think we ought to be going. Otherwise…” She recollected that she was holding the gun, and she turned and jabbed Harvey with it. “Move,” she said firmly.

  Now this is all very well; but what about the sound of the shot? Didn’t Neville come running as soon as he heard it, with Montalban at his heels clutching a baffle-axe and Mrs Carmody bringing up the rear with ropes and chloroform? Not quite. Neville, it seems, was outside checking the oil and tyres of his car when the gun went off, and didn’t hear it. Professor Montalban heard it, but took it for a door slamming and dismissed it from his mind. What Mrs Carmody made of it is not known, but since no action on her part is recorded, we can forget all about her. Mrs Carmody is supremely unimportant.

  So when Jane pushed Harvey up the stairs back into the scullery, there was no-one waiting for her. There was no-one in the hallway, either.

  She asked Harvey to open the front door and go through it, and then she followed him. All clear so far. Then she caught sight of Neville, bending over the open bonnet of his car and wiping the dipstick on a piece of paper towel. She cleared her throat.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  Neville looked up and saw the gun. He registered faint surprise.

  “Would you please put your hands up?” Jane asked. “Thanks.” No-one asked him to, but Danny went and relieved Neville of his gun, which he found wedged rather inextricably in Neville’s jacket pocket. The hammer had got caught up in the lining, and he had rather a job getting it out. Danny felt ever so slightly foolish.

  “Right,” he said. “Now let’s get out of here.”

  “What a perfectly splendid idea,” Jane said, “why didn’t I think of that? My car’s just down the drive.” She prodded Harvey again, but he refused to move.

  “You don’t need me for anything now, do you?” he said.

  “Look, chum,” Danny snarled, but Jane pointed out that there wouldn’t actually be room for all of them plus Harvey as well in her car without someone getting in the boot, and then she thanked Harvey for his help and said good-bye, firmly. Harvey smiled thinly and walked back to the house.

  “What the hell did you do that for?” Danny asked furiously. “Oh do be quiet,” Jane replied. “And put that thing away.” Danny looked terribly hurt and Jane felt embarrassed at being so uncharacteristically rude. It wasn’t like her at all, but he really was getting on her nerves.

  “And anyway,” Danny said, “where are we going? Shouldn’t we hold them here until the police come?”

  Jane’s guilt evaporated. “Blow the police,” she replied sternly. “We don’t want to go bothering them, do we?”

  Danny looked at her. “Why not?”

  “Because…” Because if Montalban is arrested and sent to prison it will complicate things terribly, but I can’t possibly explain all that now. “Oh never mind,” she said. “Are you coming or aren’t you?”

  “We’re coming,” said the sound recordist. “Can you give us a lift to the nearest station?”

  They were still standing there when the door of the house opened and the Professor came out, followed by his two sheepish-looking henchmen. They all had their hands in the air, which made them look like plain-clothes morris dancers.

  “Hold it right there,” Danny snapped, and waved his gun. Even if nobody else was going to take this seriously, he was. They ignored him. It wasn’t fair.

  “Miss Doland,” said the Professor, “before you go, would you like some tea?”

  “Tea?”

  “Or coffee,” said the Professor. “And if you could spare the time, there is a message I’d be grateful if you would take to Mr Vanderdecker.”

  Jane frowned. “I thought you couldn’t make any sense of what I told you,” she said.

  “I looked up some old records,” the Professor replied. “So, if it wouldn’t put you out too much…”

  “Thank you,” Jane said, putting her gun in her pocket as if it were a powder compact. “Two sugars, please.”

  TWELVE

  This,” said the Professor, “is my computer.”

  Danny, balancing his gun and a plate on his knee while he ate a sticky bun, looked up. Montalban was pointing at the harpsichord.

  “Of course,” the Professor went on, “it’s rather an old–fashioned design. In particular, it has no screen; instead it prints out simultaneously.” He picked up what Jane had taken to be the sheet music and pointed to it. “You see,” he said, “when I first invented the computer in seventeen—sixteen ninety-four, the nearest approximation to a letter-free system of abstract notation was written music, and I adapted the principle for my own purposes. Minims, crotchets and quavers each have their own quantitative value in Base Seven, and as it happens it’s an extremely powerful and flexible system: much better than the binary systems that I used in the first commercial models. Since I’d got used to it over the years, I never bothered to transcribe all my data resources into the new computer languages that have since been developed; I’ve simply tinkered with my original design as and when I needed to. So now my system is entirely sufficient for my needs, with the added advantage that nobody else in the world can understand it. Complete secrecy and immunity from the attention of…Hackers, I think they’re called.”

  “That’s right,” Jane said. “That’s very impressive.”

  “Is it?” The Professor was mildly surprised. “I certainly don’t aim to impress. For virtually the whole of my working life, I’ve sought to do the opposite; to keep out of the limelight, so to speak. Absolutely essential, if I’m to be able to get on with my work in peace and quiet. Which is why I formed the Cirencester Group.”

  “Ah,” said Danny.

  “I originally founded it,” Montalban said, “in seventeen—when was it, now? It was just after the collapse of the South Sea Company. Have some more tea, and I’ll tell you about that.”

  The tea was cold, but nobody mentioned it. Danny had put his plate and gun on the floor by now, and was taking notes.

  “The South Sea Bubble,” said the Professor, “was my doing. I needed an economic collapse, you see.”

  “You needed one?” Danny said.

  “Does that make me sound terribly selfish?” the Professor said. “Well, perhaps I am. In order to get the resources I requir
ed, I had to get control of large financial and mercantile institutions. The best way to get control is to buy when prices are cheap, following a slump. I couldn’t afford to wait for a slump, so I created one. First I built up a bubble and then I pricked it. It wasn’t hard; I engineered certain changes in the national economy, by introducing new technology and new industrial processes. I put the capital I had built up by the practice of alchemy into the bubble, and the bubble grew; then I pricked it, as I said. The computer was invaluable, of course.”

  “I see,” Jane said. “And then?”

  “And then I got on with my work, and left all that side of things to the computer. I had programmed it to handle the economies of the developed nations, and that’s what it did. That, in fact, is what it still does.”

  This time it was Neville’s turn to look shocked. “You never told me,” he said.

  “I know,” said the Professor, “and I do apologise. But if you’d known, I’m afraid you couldn’t have resisted the chance to make very substantial sums of money for yourself. Instead, you have helped me, and by so doing merely made substantial sums of money. I think you have been reasonably treated, all in all.”

  “Just a moment,” Jane said. “This work of yours. What exactly is it?”

  “Very simple,” said the Professor. “You asked me if I smelled. I do not. That is my work.”

  “But you don’t,” Jane said. “Have you finished, then?”

  “Nearly,” the Professor said, “but not quite. I discovered that the elixir which Captain Vanderdecker and I both drank fundamentally altered our molecular structures. The change was similar to the effect of bombardment with intense radiation—we had become, if you like, isotopes of ourselves. I hope I’m not being too technical.”

  “You are a bit,” Jane said, “but please go on.”

  “Thank you. Recently, about sixty years ago, I discovered that intense radiation bombardment can partially reverse the effects of the elixir. Since then, I have been trying to construct a sufficiently powerful atomic generator to provide enough radiation for my purposes. Hence, I’m afraid, the nuclear industry. I must apologise for it, but there was no other way.”