Retromancer

by Robert Rankin

  ‘We wanted the whole gang, you see,’ Mr Rune continued. ‘We wanted to know where they went and how they meant to escape.’

  ‘We followed in a submarine,’ said Lord Jason. ‘Mr Rune is a friend of the captain and he let me steer some of the way.’

  ‘They will no doubt be able to rebuild that bridge,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘But to continue: once out at sea the naval chappies decided that the best thing was simply to torpedo the tramp steamer and send all the villains to the bottom of the sea.’

  ‘And me with them,’ I said.

  ‘Hence Lord Jason’s bravery. He swam over, fought off villains and rescued you.’

  ‘Well, thanks very much indeed,’ I said to Lord Jason. ‘And what about the Crown jewels? Did you rescue them too?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Ah.’

  ‘ “Ah”?’ I said. ‘Does that mean “no”?’

  ‘It does mean no,’ said the Perfect Master. ‘The Crown jewels have gone to Davy Jones. But let us not worry for that, they’ll be back on display tomorrow.’

  ‘Davy Jones is going to return them, then, is he?’ I asked. As I tipped more whisky into my mouth.

  ‘Not as such, Rizla. Which is where the matter of me being frank with you must be brought into play. You see, the Crown jewels are not really the Crown jewels, which is to say that they are only reproductions of the real Crown jewels.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I see. The real Crown jewels are in a safe place.’

  ‘No, my dear Rizla, they’re not. The real Crown jewels were broken up and sold at the beginning of the war to raise money for tanks. But this is top secret, so you can’t breathe a word of it.’

  ‘So it was all a waste of time,’ I said. ‘The robbers stealing fake Crown jewels and me getting the hiding of my life for no good reason at all. There really is no justice in this world and I have really had quite enough.’ And I finished my drink. And I put down my glass. And I folded my arms and I sulked.

  ‘Well, I must be toddling along now,’ said Lord Jason. ‘Have a dinner date at my club. The Diogenes. Pop in some time if you’re passing, toodle-oo.’

  And with that he left. Though I thanked him once more as he did so.

  ‘Another small helping of whisky,’ asked Hugo Rune, ‘to warm up those cockles of yours?’

  ‘I am disgusted,’ I said, ‘by the whole thing. There is no justice in this world and everything is evil.’

  ‘There is some justice,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And although unwittingly, you played your part in bringing it to be.’

  ‘How so?’ I asked, for I was baffled by this.

  ‘A small, or rather not so small, matter of a certain ring.’

  ‘A certain ring?’ I said in surprise. ‘And what certain ring would this be?’

  ‘The Ring of Power™, perhaps,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘which now is once more in Purple Fane in the hands of a certain princess.’

  ‘You are telling me that she was real?’ I said. ‘That I did not dream her? That she really exists?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘But I did not wish to discuss the matter in front of Lord Jason. He is a member of the aristocracy, after all. In fact it was one of his ancestors who stole the ring and presented it as a gift to a medieval King of England.’

  ‘Would you mind just explaining a little bit more,’ I said. ‘I really am completely baffled now.’

  ‘The princess came to London to recover the ring, but having visited the treasure house at the Tower, she knew that she could not recover it alone. And so she hired certain East End revolutionaries to make a political statement and send a letter to Lord Jason’s family. I rather suspect that the princess put that idea into their heads - it was a good diversion, as then no one would ever suspect the real reason for the theft.’

  ‘And you reasoned all this out for yourself?’ I said.

  ‘Well, not entirely - the princess did tell me some of it, when I pulled her from the sinking tramp steamer.’

  ‘But you said that she was probably back in her magical kingdom by now.’

  ‘I arranged transportation myself,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘It seemed the just thing to do.’

  ‘The just thing to do?’ And I shrugged as I said it. ‘As in the card I picked, JUSTICE.’

  Hugo Rune nodded. ‘And even though my knighthood must wait until another day, it would seem that all’s well that ends well. Although one thing still remains to be done.’

  ‘And what is that?’ I asked.

  ‘You really need to take a bath, young Rizla. You smell most odiously of horse.’

  19

  THE HANGÈD MAN

  ‘What know you of Bletchley Park?’ asked Hugo Rune one day.

  The day was a Sunday early in April and we were out a-strolling.

  ‘Actually, I know quite a lot,’ I said, in ready reply. But speaking then in muted tones, for walls had ears and we were digging for victory. ‘It was known as Station X and it was there, under the leadership of the now legendary Alan Turing, that a hand-picked team of polyglots were gathered together to crack German codes. Using Enigma machines and an early computer called Colossus, which was designed and built by the gloriously named Tommy Flowers at the Post Office Research Station in Dollis Hill.’ And I did blowings onto my fingernails and mock buffings of these onto my tweedy lapels.

  ‘I assume these blowings and buffings are to signify your smugness at knowing so much,’ observed the all-knowing one.

  ‘I would hesitate to use such an emotive word as “smugness”,’ I declared. ‘But you must be impressed by the extent of my knowledge on this subject.’

  ‘Must I?’ asked Mr Rune. Affecting an attitude of yawning distraction.

  ‘So, are we going there? Is there a case? And will I get to meet the now legendary Mr Turing?’

  ‘Something of a hero to you, is he?’ Mr Rune ceased his strolling and gave me a beaming smile.

  ‘Him and Barnes Wallis,’ I said, ‘the man who invented the bouncing bomb. I would really love to meet him.’

  ‘And so I suspect you shall. But I see that our strollings have brought us into the close proximity of The Purple Princess, so why should we not take ourselves inside for luncheon and libations?’

  This I felt to be a rhetorical question and so I followed Hugo Rune inside.

  I greatly enjoyed our visits to The Purple Princess. It was, after all, and I feel that no harm can now come from me revealing this fact, the very pub where in nineteen sixty-seven I had engaged in my underage drinking. In the pleasant company of my good friends John Omally and Norman Hartnel.

  The Purple Princess stood four-square on the corner of Ealing Road and Brook Road. And as any sporting gentleman will tell you, Brook Road is the road in Brentford. For it is the road where stands Brentford Football Ground.

  The interior of The Purple Princess, then, as now, was, and is, one to inspire confidence in what lies beneath its pump handles: beer of an excellent nature. It plays host to a fine collection of Victorian fixtures and fittings and assembled bar paraphernalia. And has six hand-drawn ales on draft, a selection only bested by The Flying Swan, an establishment noted for its eight fine ales. And which, under the management of Neville the part-time barman, boasted a policy of absolutely no underage drinking.

  And thus and so we took our ale at The Purple Princess.

  The barlord of this drinking man’s Valhalla was a gentleman by the name of Paul, who went, for reasons known only to himself, by the name of Fangio. Fangio combined bar management and black marketeering into a pleasing composition and he, like his bar, stood four-square, prepared to take on all comers.

  On this particular Sunday in April he was placed behind his bar counter, his ample frame housed within a siren suit, his brain-filled bonce shaded beneath the brim of a bowler hat and him holding forth upon the quality of mercy, which in his opinion had to be strained more than once in a while.

  He greeted us with a cheery, ‘Good day there, Mr Rune, Rizla,’ enquired as to our dr
inking tastes, tugged upon the appropriate beer-pull and then asked Mr Rune whether he might ask him a question.

  Mr Rune tasted beer, found it pleasing and nodded his head in the affirmative.

  ‘It is this way, Mr Rune,’ said Fangio. ‘Myself and my colleagues here,’ and he indicated himself, and his colleagues, these being a certain Old Pete and a certain Squadron Leader Lancaster, who had happened by on the off chance of an off chance, or some other reason beyond my understanding but which probably involved buying nylons for ladies, ‘have been discussing whether the dog is really Man’s best friend. Old Pete here says yes that it is. But the squadron leader says no that it isn’t and that a good woman can be a man’s best friend and a better thing to cuddle up to on a dark and stormy night. And he has a wife and a dog. And so we would be grateful if you would offer a casting vote. You being all so all-knowing and suchlike.’

  And Hugo Rune nodded once more. And then spoke words of wisdom. ‘It is the way with me,’ he said, ‘never to take any given proposition at face value. One must test a proposition in order to see whether it is to be found wanting. Do you agree?’

  And Fangio’s head bobbed up and down, taking its bowler hat with it. And Old Pete nodded his snowy scalp and the squadron leader said, ‘Tally-ho.’ And twiddled his ample moustaches.

  ‘This said,’ continued Mr Rune, ‘my suggestion would be that the squadron leader should test out the proposition himself.’

  ‘How so?’ asked the squadron leader, now twiddling his chin.

  ‘Lock both your wife and your dog in the boot of your car for an hour. Then open up the boot and see which one is the most pleased to see you.’

  It was at moments like this that I understood just how Hugo Rune’s clear and uncluttered reasoning raised him that extra head and shoulders above the common man.

  We left the gentlemen at the bar counter to nod their heads and comment upon Mr Rune’s genius and took ourselves off to the corner booth that was permanently reserved for the Magus, lowered our bottoms onto comfy chairs and took to tasting ale.

  ‘That was very impressive,’ I said to Hugo Rune.

  ‘A simple enough test, I would have thought,’ Himself replied.

  ‘No, not the boot-business,’ I said. ‘That was an appalling idea. I am talking of course about the way that by saying what you did in the way that you did, you somehow managed once again to avail us of two beers without paying for them.’

  ‘Sssh!’ went Mr Rune, pressing a finger to his lips. ‘Let us not forget the matter of the walls having ears.’

  ‘It is never far from my thoughts,’ I assured him. ‘But speak to me now of Bletchley Park. Are we going there?’

  ‘We are indeed,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘This telegram arrived this very morning. Kindly give it your perusal, then feel free to flesh out a sentence or two with some ill-conceived theorising.’

  ‘Hm,’ went I and I accepted the telegram.

  It read:

  MURDER AT STATION X STOP

  FEAR AREA COMPROMISED STOP

  REQUEST YOUR IMMEDIATE ATTENTION STOP

  M STOP

  I handed back the telegram and took to twiddling my chin. And further tasting of my ale. And twiddling my chin once more.

  ‘It would appear,’ said I, ‘that there has been a murder at Station X and Mr McMurdo fears that the area has been compromised and is requesting your immediate attention. So, in my opinion, I—’

  ‘And have to stop you there,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘But it would appear that this is to be our next case. Do you have the remaining tarot cards upon your person?’

  ‘I always carry them with me,’ I said.

  ‘Then whip them out and pluck one from the deck.’

  I dug into my inside jacket pocket, where I kept the cards, which were already growing somewhat dog-eared at the edges. ‘I really do not see the purpose in me doing this,’ I complained. ‘If you have the case, why do you need me to pick a card?’

  ‘Because it is how business is done, Rizla. Have I taught you nothing? Pick a card and no more of your stuff and nonsense.’

  And so I picked a card at random and the card I picked was THE HANGÈD MAN.

  ‘That’s a particularly gloomy-looking card,’ I observed. ‘I do hope that it will not mean either you or I having an early-morning appointment with Mr Pierrepoint.’

  ‘You know the hangman’s name?’ said Mr Rune.

  ‘Another of my heroes, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But not one I hope you’ll be meeting. But it is an intriguing card and one that will no doubt have a certain resonance. We will need transportation to Bletchley Park. I have retained the keys to Lord Jason’s Rolls-Royce, but I don’t think you’ll be up to driving.’

  ‘I have only had one beer,’ I protested. ‘I will be fine.’

  ‘We have lunch to take,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And I observed two guest ales on the hand pumps.’

  ‘Hm,’ went I, once more. ‘It is always a shame to pass up a guest ale.’

  ‘My opinion entirely. I think we should presume upon the squadron leader to provide us with transportation.’

  And so we did.

  We took a suitably heroic luncheon, which included a haunch of venison, which had apparently ‘fallen off the back of a Harrods van’. A selection of vegetables which had, we were given to understand, ‘fallen off the back of an ENSA catering truck’. And a bottle of Château Lafitte, which had taken a similar tumble from the rear of yet another carelessly secured vehicle, but had landed safely and softly in the hands of Fangio.

  Waistcoat buttons were once more undone. Cigars (we did not ask) we secured from Fangio. These cigars were then smoked, in the company of brandy. And, after a little snooze, Hugo Rune announced that it was time to go and that I should cease my slacking, as work of National Importance awaited us.

  He then awakened the squadron leader, who was taking a similar snooze. Although his was punctuated by various mutterings and mumblings, of the, ‘Good Lord, woman, it’s the size that matters,’ and, ‘Take tea with the parson? Not with my back,’ persuasion. And told him that we must requisition the squadron leader’s mode of transport as the fate of the nation depended upon it.

  ‘Need to get back to Ruislip by sparrow-fart though,’ said the squadron leader. ‘Think you can do that? Can I come along for the ride?’

  Hugo Rune nodded that this was acceptable. Told me to expect a long, but exciting, night and told me also, as I kept asking more than just once—

  That yes I would be meeting Alan Turing.

  20

  We travelled in an Armstrong Hepworth-Stapleford RAF staff car. And it was not the most enjoyable ride of my life. It is a long haul from Brentford to Bletchley Park and more than once the air-raid sirens screamed.

  And we moved on as the bombs rained down and the sounds and the sights were terrible. The mindless destruction sickened me and made me fierce and angry. The Allies would win this war, right would prevail against wrong and I would do all that I could to aid Hugo Rune in whatever it took to achieve this end.

  It was late in the evening when we finally arrived and what with the blackout and everything, I would not have been able to discern much of the mansion itself had it not been for the fine full moon that swam in the cloudless heavens.

  This was a wonderful Victorian pile and as a great fan of Victorian architecture, I was thrilled at the prospect of going inside. But even more thrilled at the prospect of meeting Mr Turing.

  I have always had this thing about back-room boffins. Other boys at my junior school chose more obvious heroes to emulate and praise. Douglas Bader with his tin legs. And curiously now as I now remember it, Lord Jason Lark-Rising, who performed great feats of valour. But as I never saw myself as ever likely to be any kind of a hero, in the sense that, in all truth, I would probably never actually have the guts to do anything really brave, I liked to read of those other heroes who worked quietly away cracking codes, inventing marvellous weapons and ‘being-the-brains-behind�
��.

  I always fancied ‘being-the-brains-behind’.

  ‘Pacy-pacy, Rizla,’ called Hugo Rune to me as he stepped from the staff car and onto the gravel drive. ‘When attacked by a grand piano, you had better not play for time.’

  And I marvelled at the brains behind that.

  Squadron Leader Lancaster bumbled along in the wake of Hugo Rune. And I wondered whether indeed he was a hero. Had he shot down Heinkels and Messerschmitts? Did he have any artificial body parts?

  Would they make a film about him after the war, with Kenneth More or David Niven in the starring role?

  Hugo Rune rapped upon the big front door with the pommel of his stout stick. Then called, ‘Open up there,’ through the letterbox. But nothing stirred. All was silent. Silent, that is, but for the muffled sounds of distant bombing. And the call of a nearby owl.

  ‘Most curious,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And most alarming also.’

  ‘Perhaps they are having an early night,’ I suggested. ‘After all, they did work very hard. Well, do work very hard. Or perhaps they’ve taken to the shelters and not heard the all clear?’

  Hugo Rune did shakings of the head. ‘They work around the clock,’ he said. ‘And do you see that window up there?’

  ‘Top floor, beneath the copper dome?’ I asked.

  ‘That very one. That is Winston Churchill’s room. He spends a great deal of time here. And he should be here tonight.’

  ‘Winston Churchill,’ I said. And I whistled as one would. I mean, Winston Churchill. ‘Will I get to meet him?’ I asked. As Hugo Rune struck the door once more.

  ‘Hopefully not,’ replied the Magus. ‘I don’t think you’d take to him at all. And he certainly would not take to you.’

  I opened my mouth to protest at this, but instead said, ‘There is an open window.’

  And Hugo Rune asked where and I told him.

  ‘Up there, on the first floor. I could perhaps—’

  ‘You could indeed.’ And with a single, and might I say violent, motion, Hugo Rune hoiked me from my feet and propelled me skywards. And I made the wailing, as of a lost soul, and floundered about with my hands in the hope of gaining some purchase.