As with other conspiracy theories, including alien abduction, Nazis on the moon and creatures from the Black Lagoon, I quickly relegated the Illuminati to the status of fiction, but felt satisfied that I had given the matter my fullest attention. Of The Fervent Fist and Dr Saxon Schwarzkröte, the internet yielded nothing.
Urban-Smith returned to number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews a little after four, and I steered him into the kitchen for tea and conversation.
It was early days in the police investigation, and poor Detective Sergeant McKendal was almost drowning in interview transcriptions and witness statements. One ray of sunshine was the return to consciousness of the stricken Officer Kent Gribble, although he remained in the Intensive Care Unit.
“The prognosis is reportedly excellent,” Urban-Smith assured me.
“Do we have any suspects other than Metal Mickey and the ostensible Dr Schwarzkröte?” I enquired.
“Not yet, Rupert; and Saxon Schwarzkröte is not ostensible. He is ubiquitous and all-too real.”
“Then tell me all. I know a little of these Illuminati that you mentioned this morning.” I outlined for Urban-Smith my findings.
“The original Illuminati (meaning the illuminated ones),” he replied, “are as you rightly say, defunct, disbanded two centuries ago. It is no longer a single organisation, but a syndicate of secret societies with one goal in mind; the rise of the New World Order. Their network comprises many groups, all co-ordinated through a series of hubs, one in each major city. The London hub is known as The Fervent Fist, and it is this branch over which Doctor Schwarzkröte currently presides.”
“I searched for information about Schwarzkröte this afternoon, but I drew a blank.”
Urban-Smith arched an eyebrow and regarded me as if I had reported that there was water in the ocean. “These are not the sort of people who bleat on Twitbook, Rupert. Even the paranorums have precious little to offer.”
“Ah yes, the paranorums.”
Urban-Smith had introduced me to the delights of the members-only paranormal discussion forums. A meeting of minds for those who appeared to have lost theirs, it seemed to attract lunatics, psychopaths and the demented in equal proportions. I put this opinion to Urban-Smith.
“You cannot just condemn a group of people because you happen not to share their beliefs,” he chastised.
“Come now, Fairfax,” I snorted, “there is a whole forum dedicated to those who believe that The Vatican is breeding dinosaurs to devour Europe’s homeless.”
Urban-Smith shrugged non-committally. “I admit that some of the theories expounded need to be digested cum grano salis, but the beauty of the paranorums is that they allow exploration and discussion of ideas that cannot be expressed elsewhere. It is a source of quite singular information.”
I remained unconverted. “Singular it may be, but is any of it credible? Everything I read on there seems to be straight out of The X-Files.”
“There can be no smoke without mirrors, Rupert. But we digress; you wished to know more of The Fervent Fist?”
“If you think it may be pertinent.”
“Oh, indeed it is, Rupert, for The Fervent Fist wields a powerful and dangerous influence throughout the country. The FF has its filthy fingers in every pie, a knuckle in every sandwich, and a nail in every coffin. It operates via the infiltration of its affiliated organisations, lobby groups and businesses into key areas, and advances its agendas through political and social manipulation.
“Their methods are plain to see, if only one knows to look. It is always the same with problem-reaction-solution. Their agenda is currently unknown, but the LOL deaths that we have seen are the appetiser. The main course shall surely follow, maybe a higher profile target or even multiple targets; something sure to bring about public shock and outrage.
“The next step is to implicate a scapegoat, perhaps Bin Laden or Gaddafi or some other pantomime villain. You will see the miraculous discovery of some crucial evidence, such as a pair of discarded underpants with the suspect’s name sewn in or details of the plot scribbled on the back of a signed photograph of Kim Jong-il.
“The last stage is the introduction of the solution to the problem, be it a foreign invasion, a contract to rebuild a bombed city, or what-have-you.”
“This all sounds rather far-fetched,” I said.
“Mark my words, Rupert. If London is indeed in the grip of The Fervent Fist, then events will unfold as I say.”
“Alright then,” I said. “Let us accept that there is a secret syndicate operating in London, pushing us step-by-step towards this New World Order; what resources do they have to achieve this? Who is financing all this miscreancy?”
“The Illuminati syndicate is not something that I have much knowledge of, so I took the liberty of e-mailing an associate, Kenneth Badgerton, who has a keen interest in all antisocial media and clandestine confabs. He has been kind enough to send me an arachnotabula of Illuminati controlled or affiliated UK businesses. Let me fire up my laptop while you make some tea.”
I brewed a pot of English breakfast (even though it was almost teatime) and was adding the milk and two as he returned, laptop in hand.
He pushed his computer across to me, and I made my inspection. At the centre of the screen was an apple sporting an ear, which is the logo of Boom-Banga Bank (‘the attentive bank,’ according to their adverts). Boom-Banga Bank, as I am sure you will recall, is the bank that nearly collapsed after losing half a billion pounds through the ill-advised dealings of a rouge trader (a rouge trader differing from a rogue one in that the employer is left somewhat red-faced by the culprit’s unauthorised trades).
Returning to the arachnotabula, around the Boom-Banga Bank logo sat the names of several well-known national and multinational corporations. Although I recognised most of the companies, it was the apple which immediately captured my attention.
“I’ve seen this symbol before,” I said. “I don’t just mean on the adverts. Yes, it definitely rings a bell, but I cannot place it right now.” I took a gulp of tea. “I’m sure it will come to me.”
“The all-hearing apple,” explained Urban-Smith, “a.k.a the apple of knowledge, is a lesser-known symbol of the Freemasons. It is at the centre of this diagram because it handles the revenue of all these companies. And this is just the tip of the iceberg; these are merely those which have come to Kenneth’s attention.
“These companies are household names,” I observed. “A group that controlled all of them would wield massive influence.”
“Look how they seek to control the flow of information.” Urban-Smith jabbed at the screen. “They control advertising for their own companies, huge swathes of the media via Multimegamedia, and even the information available to the younger generation through internet-filtering software like Web Despot.”
“Could one or more of these companies have a hand in this LOL curse?” I asked.
“I believe we will find out in the next few weeks. Let us see who steps up with a handy solution to the problem.”
“I have it,” I exclaimed. “I know where I have seen that symbol. There is a new dancer at The Blue Belvoir; Clara she calls herself. This symbol is tattooed upon her left thigh; an apple with an ear.”
“Are you sure, Rupert?”
“Oh, yes. I was admiring it just this week.”
He leaned forward excitedly. “You must learn more. You need to woo her somehow and find out what she knows of the all-hearing apple. Has she merely chosen it for its aesthetic value, or does she have some connection to The Fervent Fist?”
“Woo her?” I shook my head. “I have a date tomorrow. I cannot be seen to be wooing dancing girls at the club.”
“It never bothered you previously.”
I sniffed disdainfully and folded my arms. “Those were purely business transactions; wooing is another matter entirely.”
Urban-Smith started to protest, but I cut him off with a gesture.
“I am sorry, Fairfax, but I must insist. You will
have to woo her yourself.”
◆◆◆
16. THE MELTING LOTUS
Saturday 11th November
Urban-Smith scowled at me throughout breakfast. He had taken my refusal to seduce The Blue Belvoir’s latest employee as a gross dereliction of my responsibilities. However, I was not willing to scupper my fledgling relationship with a potential nymphomaniac for anything as trivial as loyalty, duty or public safety.
I spent the morning scouring the internet for successful dating tips before taking a light lunch. By mid-afternoon, I was in too great an anticipation of the coming evening to concentrate on either reading or browsing, and so took an invigorating stroll to Regent’s Park to enjoy the mulchy London air.
At around four, I stopped for tiffin at a tea shop on The Spawn, then headed back to number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews a little after sunset to shave, shower and dress for dinner.
Accordingly, I went through my wardrobe with a fine-toothed comb, selecting the outfit which would best convey the impression of a mature, fun, outgoing, modest, upwardly mobile yet down-to-Earth, sophisticated, Bohemian love-god.
I settled for my grey drainpipe trousers, a pale-green checked shirt, a tie with cartoon pigs on it, and my herringbone tweed jacket with a scarlet handkerchief poking jauntily from the breast pocket.
I encountered Urban-Smith in the hallway just before six.
“How do I look?” I asked, giving him a quick twirl.
“You look like you have bathed in glue and ran through a jumble sale.”
*
I had arranged to meet Nell at six-thirty for dinner before heading to the Criterion Theatre for the eight o’clock performance. As I cantered down Regent Street, I was in an optimistic mood; there was a spring in my step, a shine on my shoes, and my pockets were fairly bulging with protectives of all different flavours and textures.
Nell was waiting for me outside The Melting Lotus, a Japanese, surrealist sushi restaurant just a few minutes’ walk from the theatre. She looked splendid, her slender frame draped in a blue and white, floral, knee-length frock, and her firm calves sheathed in black, high-heeled boots. The weather was unseasonably clement, and she carried her suede jacket over one arm, with her bag slung across the opposite shoulder. Her brown hair was in a short bob, and her bare shoulders were shapely and strong. I greeted her with a peck on the cheek and opened the door to guide her inside.
The décor was surprisingly conventional, considering the theme, with tasteful flock paper on the walls and traditional Japanese music issuing from recessed speakers about the room. Although early, the restaurant was already full, and it was several minutes before we were shown to our table. Our waitress, a young Japanese woman dressed as a banana, laid a violin on the table and tapped it three times with a mallet before taking our drinks order, which we delivered through a megaphone.
Nell was delighted. “I’ve heard about this place,” she enthused. “Have you eaten here before?”
“Once or twice, yes.”
“My sister sometimes eats at the French, existential, nihilistic bistro round the corner.”
“Le Mal de Vivre.” I was familiar with it. “I was going to book a table there for tonight, but there just seemed no purpose to it.”
The waiter, a slim gentleman sporting a handlebar moustache and wearing a tutu, brought each of us a child’s ballet shoe filled with saké and took our meal orders, which we had to convey through mime.
Nell and I toasted our good fortune in having been flung together, and presently our meals arrived, a hatful of octopus balls and a whisk for me, and chicken in fruit sauce on a tambourine and spanner for Nell.
We spoke of this and that while we manipulated our food and drank saké. I learned that Nell had grown up in Plymouth, but moved to London to take up secretarial work for Italian fashion house, Trasandato Come L’inferno whilst endeavouring to save enough money to enrol at morticians’ school. She had a sister and a brother, and enjoyed exercising and reading. She was fascinated to discover that my landlord was the celebrated paranormal researcher and investigator, Fairfax Urban-Smith, and I promised to introduce her at some unspecified point in the future.
We had time for another saké before the show started, and managed a couple of brandies each during intermission, then one for the road and then another for luck. As a result, we were each a little squiffy when we arrived by taxi at Saville Towers, the block of flats which Nell called her home.
I frowned at the hulking, grey monolith. “Not the sort of place to bring small children.”
Nell took my hand.
“It’s much nicer on the inside,” she assured me. “Would you like to come up for a coffee?”
“Rather!”
As promised, Saville Towers displayed far greater salubrity within than without. Nell and I held hands as we climbed the concrete stairwell to the fourth floor. She led me along the hall to number thirty-seven and one-handedly fumbled her keys from her handbag and into the lock.
“Welcome to Chez Nell.”
The flat, like Nell, was bright, colourful and cheerful, with light-green walls and a pale-yellow carpet. We removed our shoes at the door and moved through to the kitchen which, like myself, was small, functional and clean. As Nell filled the kettle, I admired her rear elevation, and now that she had removed her boots, I could see that she had a tattoo on her left ankle. I squinted hard, but the writing was too small for me to decipher.
“What does the tattoo say?” I enquired.
“Heavens above.”
I looked her up and down.
“Indeed it is,” I agreed.
She blushed and giggled, and I went to her and delivered a soft kiss upon her cheek.
Nell excused herself to hang up her jacket and retouch her makeup whilst I prepared two mugs. The kitchen was too small to accommodate a table or chairs, so I leant nonchalantly against the counter top and waited for the water to boil. As I raised the kettle, I heard a movement behind me.
“Kettle’s just boiled,” I said. “How do you take it?”
I turned around and was a little surprised to see Nell standing naked in the doorway.
“Bent over the kitchen counter, please.”
“Heavens above!”
◆◆◆
17. PUSHING UP DAYZEE
Sunday 12th November
Dawn came hurtling through Nell’s bedroom window like a brick, the sunlight and birdsong mingling in a blazing cacophony of morning. I sat up gingerly and tried to remain upright while the unfamiliar room billowed and swayed about me. There was a groan beside me, and Nell’s hand brushed my thigh.
“Is that you, Grandma?”
I wracked my brains, trying to remember last night’s acrobatics which seemed to have displaced every article in the room, and prayed that at no point did her grandmother enter into the proceedings.
Nell rolled over and eyed me fixedly, clearly rifling through her memory banks for some relevant data. Presently she broke into a wide grin. “Rupert!”
“Yes, that’s right. Good morning, Nell. Are you okay?”
She rubbed her head. “I think I’m still a little drunk. Fancy some breakfast?”
My stomach growled in the affirmative, and she crawled out of bed and stumbled from the bedroom to boil some water. I found my way to the bathroom and washed my face thoroughly, feeling the veil start to lift slightly as Nell called my name from the kitchen.
She had prepared weak coffee and burnt toast which I shovelled down like a pig whilst she nibbled delicately at hers. We showered together and parted company at around ten, vowing to call each other later that day.
It was a little after eleven when I crossed the threshold of number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews, having elected to wait for the bus rather than make conversation with a local taximan. I headed for the stairway, but as I placed my hand upon the bannister, I spied a movement in the front room, the door to which had been propped open. Being of a curious disposition, I approached cautiously and was surpris
ed to be greeted by what I can only describe as a scruffily dressed ruffian. He was lurking in a well-practised manner, and sneered at me in a most objectionable fashion as I entered.
He wore a pair of colourful training shoes, ill-fitting jeans that looked as though they could have accommodated several bags of shopping, and a black and red top, fastened to the neck with a zipper and with a soft hood hanging down at the back. His dark hair was flattened against the sides of his head, and his fringe hung low over his brow. The whole grisly ensemble was topped off with a checked baseball cap, which had been turned around so that the peak was facing to his rear.
I did not like the cut of the man’s jib in the slightest.
“And who might you be?” I asked sternly.
“I am waiting for a geezer by the name of Urban-Smith. Could you kindly apprise me of his current whereabouts, innit?”
“Evidently he is elsewhere. Perhaps it would be best if you returned later,” I suggested.
“Nah, guy. I will just chill until he deigns to grace us with his presence.”
“You intend to wait here for him?”
“For real.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I would prefer you to leave.”
In response, he curled his lip and tossed his head. “No way, muppet.”
And with this, the scoundrel turned away and strolled to the window to stare out into the garden.
Muppet? My mouth became dry and my heart began to pound. The nerve of the fellow!
“My God, Sir!” I bellowed. “You’ve a brass neck addressing me in that fashion.” I stood with my fists clenched at my sides and waited for his response.
“Now-now, Rupert. Surely there’s no need to become so warm.”
I was astounded. “Fairfax?”
He turned around and removed his hat with a flourish. “The very same.”
“Good heavens,” I cried. “What a transformation. I’ll wager that not even your own mother would have recognised you.”
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