The Mechanical Messiah and Other Marvels of the Modern Age

by Robert Rankin

Colonel Katterfelto wrung his ageing hands.

  Darwin the monkey trembled.

  The Mechanical Messiah opened its eyes.

  51

  ameron Bell had not been entirely honest with Sergeant Case. It was not just the matter of Cameron’s overvaluation of the uncut diamond. It was also the method by which the private detective meant to bring one of the criminals to justice. It was not a method that Sergeant Case would have approved of and so Cameron Bell had not mentioned it.

  He had, however, agreed to officially give himself up to Sergeant Case at five o’clock this very evening. At Scotland Yard. This would give Cameron Bell time to make certain important preparations and Sergeant Case sufficient time to rally Fleet Street’s finest journalists to Scotland Yard for a press conference at five fifteen. Which meant that the six o’clock evening papers could splash Cameron’s capture all over their front pages.

  If all goes well, thought Cameron Bell, I really will be able to bring this entire dire business to an end before tomorrow morning. Assuming nothing untoward occurs to complicate matters.

  The doorman of the Ritz had a piece of paper in his gloved hand. He was discussing what was printed upon it with the driver of a hansom cab that stood waiting before the marvellous hotel.

  ‘Says she’s a princess,’ said the doorman to the driver. ‘And true as true she’s all dressed up in velvet with the swarthy looks of a Jo any Foreigner.’

  The driver nodded. As yet, though, he had nothing to say.

  ‘But it’s all those kiwi birds,’ continued the doorman. ‘There must be two dozen of them. I had to herd them into the lift.’

  The driver still had nothing to say.

  ‘So what I’m thinking,’ the doorman went on, ‘is what if she isn’t an Indian princess at all? What if she’s the EVIL KIWI GIRL on this here poster?’ He waggled the poster. ‘In disguise, you see.

  The driver continued with his silence.

  ‘There’s only one way to be sure,’ said the doorman. ‘I am going to call Scotland Yard. Have them send down one of their sergeants. Then if she is the EVIL KIWI GIRL I will get the reward and give up door-keeping and retire to the Sussex Downs to keep bees instead. What do you think?’

  The driver looked towards the doorman. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about a fare what I just dropped at Scotland Yard. I know as ‘ow ‘e looked familiar and stone me if I don’t now remember just who the blighter is.

  ‘Speak,’ said Colonel Katterfelto, down upon his knees.

  ‘Speak to us, O Lord. Let the world know who you are.’

  The Mechanical Messiah stood motionless, but for a gentle blinking of its eyes. These eyes were of the palest blue, crafted from turquoise and glass. They slowly moved from side to side then focused on the kneeling figure of Colonel Katterfelto. The fingers of the brass hands twitched, closed upon the metal palms, unclosed. The shoulders flexed, the head moved on its stately neck. The mouth opened slightly exposing more of the pure white ivory teeth.

  And then the being spoke.

  The Book of Revelation speaks of angels with the voices of trumpets and so was this voice. Gently though the words were spoken, and pure the tone that came not out of any human throat. The trumpet horns of Heaven given speech.

  ‘Who am I?’ asked the being formed of brass. The Mechanical Messiah stared blankly into space.

  Darwin crept from his hiding place and approached the brazen figure. Colonel Katterfelto was climbing to his feet.

  ‘He doesn’t know,’ the colonel puffed, his knee joints clicking noisily. ‘He doesn’t know who He is.’

  Darwin looked up at the beautiful creation. ‘Perhaps you have to tell Him,’ said the monkey.

  ‘Tell Him, you think?’ The colonel peered at the face, which shone as polished gold. The expression was completely blank.

  ‘Who am I?’ the figure asked once more.

  The colonel looked down towards Darwin.

  ‘You have to tell Him,’ said the monkey. ‘You have brought life to Him. The Magoniam has energised Him. But you must explain to Him what He is.’

  ‘Hmph.’ The colonel cleared his throat. ‘Think I know what you’re saying. I have brought Him life. But He must bring the spirit into Himself.’

  ‘His soul,’ said Darwin. ‘His holy soul. And then He will truly be what He should be.’

  The sunlight fell through the stained-glass windows onto the man-made God. A God of brass that shone as holy gold.

  ‘My God!’ cried Constable Gates, punching the crime engine. ‘You useless heap of brass.’

  A cleaning lady in a straw hat who was passing by asked, ‘Have you tried turning it off and then on again?’

  A bell began to ring.

  ‘At least that is working,’ said Constable Gates, tugging the brand-new nice brass Mark One Ferris Telephonicon towards him and bringing the handset to his ear.

  ‘Scotland Yard,’ he said.

  Words were issued to him via the earpiece.

  ‘The EVIL KIWI GIRL?’ he continued. ‘Are you sure?’

  More words entered his ear.

  Constable Gates was an ambitious young policeman and not one to turn a blind eye to a fast-track promotion when one was staring him right in the face. Or in this case, right in the ear. Thoughts now entered the constable’s head, although where they entered from, even he could not say.

  ‘Could you just hold on for a moment?’ said Constable Gates. ‘While I have a word with my superior officer.’ And then he did what future generations would learn to do. He put his hand over the mouthpiece of the Telephonicon, and in this case counted up to fifty.

  ‘Hello?’ he said, removing his hand. ‘My sergeant says that I am to deal with this personally. I will gather up a few constables and we will be over to the Ritz directly. Please keep a close watch upon the hotel room of the EVIL KIWI GIRL until I get there. Do you understand?’

  ‘Do you understand what I am saying?’ asked the colonel.

  ‘I understand you,’ said the figure of brass.

  ‘But you do not know who you are?’

  ‘I know not.’

  ‘Darwin.’ The colonel glanced down at his simian friend.

  ‘Darwin, go and look for a Bible. This is a chapel, there must be one somewhere. Perhaps if I read that to Him.’

  The bandaged detective read the sign.

  FOR SALE

  it said, in letters big and red.

  Cameron Bell paid off the driver of another hansom cab and looked up at the façade of the Electric Alhambra. It did not sparkle quite as much as it used to. Pigeons roosted amongst the gold-plated letters above. The capital E had fallen from Electric.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Cameron Bell, trying one of the entrance doors and finding that it opened. The foyer was no longer lit by its thousands of vacuum bulbs. A few candles served to light upon a cleaning lady in a straw hat (this the sister of the cleaning lady at Scotland Yard, as it happened, proving once more the smallness of the world). This lady pushed a broom about with no particular interest, but smiled upon Mr Bell as he approached.

  ‘Are you a buyer?’ she asked.

  ‘A buyer?’ asked Cameron Bell.

  ‘Come to buy the Alhambra, of course.

  ‘Well, actually, yes,’ the detective lied. ‘It has all gone a bit downhill.’

  ‘After poor Makepiece Scribbens got all roasted in his shell, the owner decided to put it up for sale. He still holds his private meetings here, of course.’

  ‘At midnight?’ asked the private detective.

  ‘So you know of them.’

  ‘Shall we say I suspected something of the sort? Is Lord Andrew in his office?’

  ‘Where else would he be?’ asked the cleaning lady. ‘He thought he was moving up in the world, that he would manage the Music Hall at the Crystal Palace. But on the opening night there it burned down and he got sent back here. Months went by while Commander Case mucked about, then the theatre reopened with Master
Makepiece Scribbens topping the bill.’

  ‘And the rest is history,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But thank you for sharing that with me. Does the lift still work?’

  The cleaning lady shook her hatted head.

  ‘Then I will take the stairs.’

  Cameron Bell had a fine sweat on by the time he tapped upon the door of Lord Andrew’s lofty suite of rooms.

  After some time the door swung partially open and a bleary-eyed face peered out at Cameron Bell.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Lord Andrew Ditchfield. ‘I am your salvation,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.

  The being who might be the world’s salvation sat upon the stack of box bits under the stained-glass window. He stared into nothingness and His jaw moved up and down.

  The colonel sat on the floor before Him and so did Darwin the monkey. Darwin was holding a battered Bible, which he passed to the colonel.

  ‘Read to Him about Noah,’ said Darwin. ‘I do love all of those animals.’

  ‘I think we will start with the New Testament,’ said the colonel. ‘And I am thinking the Book of Revelation.’

  Cameron Bell could offer no revelations. He entered Lord Andrew’s suite of rooms and was appalled by the mess. Empty bottles and discarded cartons littered the floor. Cameron stopped and picked up one of the cartons. He peered at it and said, ‘A pot of noodles.’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Lord Andrew Ditchfield. ‘And why are you all bandaged up like that? Another letter didn’t fall off the front of the building and hit you on the head, did it?’

  Cameron shook his bandaged head. And then took off the bandages.

  ‘Oh no!’ screamed Lord Andrew Ditchfield. ‘It is you. The murderer. The assassin. The incendiary. Destroyer of my life.’

  Cameron Bell turned a deaf ear to this.

  Twice in one day was really too much.

  ‘I am your salvation,’ he said once again.

  Lord Andrew Ditchfield had taken to flapping his hands and spinning around in small circles. Cameron Bell drew him smartly to a halt and gave him a smack on the face.

  ‘You have come to murder me, too.’ His lordship all but fainted away.

  ‘I have come to save the day,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Well, to save tomorrow, shall we say. How would you feel about reopening the Electric Alhambra tomorrow?’

  ‘You are mad! Quite mad!’ Lord Andrew took once more to spinning. Cameron slapped him again.

  ‘And I’m not paying you,’ said Lord Andrew, rubbing sulkily at his cheek. ‘I’m not paying you a penny. If you’ve come here for money you won’t get it. Oh, please don’t kill me.’ And then he burst into tears.

  Cameron helped him onto the casting chaise, which had known no action for many months. ‘Just listen to what I have to say,’ he said, ‘and if you let me do what I need to do, I promise you, you will reopen for business tomorrow night.’

  Lord Andrew Ditchfield did little sobbings. ‘As if that were possible,’ he sniffed.

  ‘It is possible,’ said Cameron. ‘It will happen.’

  ‘But even if I could reopen — who would top the bill?’

  Cameron Bell beamed hugely. ‘Alice Lovell and her Acrobatic Kiwi Birds,’ he said.

  ‘She’s still in there and I can hear the kiwi birds tearing things to pieces,’ the doorman of the Ritz whispered to Constable Gates. They stood upon the second floor of the hotel, just along from Major Tinker’s room.

  The major had gone off to Hatton Garden.

  Alice was all alone with her kiwi birds.

  Constable Gates had a service revolver, as only senior ranks were issued with ray guns. He pulled this revolver from its holster and signalled his fellow constables, four in number, to gather behind him, with their pistols drawn also.

  ‘You have a spare room key?’ he whispered to the doorman.

  The doorman nodded and waggled the key on a chain.

  ‘Then you quietly open the door. And we—’ he indicated himself and his fellow officers, ‘—will go in shooting.’

  ‘She’s a woman,’ said the doorman. ‘A pretty woman, too. Are you sure you want to shoot her?’

  ‘She’s a fiend in human form, half-woman, half-kiwi, I’ve heard. She and her evil flock prey upon the young women of Sydenham. Those kiwis will rip your throat out soon as look at you.’

  The constables moved uncomfortably. All took to cocking their pistols.

  ‘On the count of three,’ whispered Constable Gates, as the doorman placed the key in the lock and with a trembling hand began to turn it.

  ‘One.’

  The constables pointed their pistols at the door and from beyond came sounds of bumbling kiwis.

  ‘Two.’

  The constables’ fingers tightened on their triggers. Alice’s voice came to them saying,’ Oh, you naughty birds.’

  ‘Three!’

  The doorman twisted key and handle and pushed the door open, ducking aside as the constables rushed forwards, firing their guns as they did so.

  They fired and they fired and they fired and they fired. The doorman burst into tears.

  52

  moke shrouded the hotel room and nothing remained alive there but for five young constables clicking upon the triggers of empty pistols.

  Lord Andrew Ditchfield flicked at his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

  ‘You are surely insane,’ he said to Cameron Bell. ‘THE EVIL KIWI GIRL? You think I would want her to top my bill?’

  ‘She is innocent of all charges,’ replied Mr Bell. ‘And if all goes as I am planning tonight, this will be proved beyond doubt and the publicity will make her the most longed-to-see Music Hall act in the world.’

  ‘In the world?’ mused Lord Andrew Ditchfield. ‘Undoubtedly,’ the detective said. ‘But I need you to do several things for me in order for me to bring this all about.’

  ‘You expect me to trust you, after all that has happened?’

  ‘You will prosper if you do so. And what in truth do you have to lose?’

  ‘I could hand you in to the authorities and claim the reward,’ said his lordship.

  Cameron Bell squared up before the titled manager. He could look quite menacing when he really wanted to. This was one of those occasions when he really wanted to.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Lord Andrew, getting a fine shake on.

  ‘Three things,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Firstly, I wish you to switch on the electrical system for the entire theatre.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Lord Andrew Ditchfield.

  ‘Because I need to test a proposition. It is most important.’

  ‘And secondly?’ his lordship asked.

  ‘Secondly, the actual testing. I need half an hour alone in the Electric Alhambra, with every door opened to me. Every door, do you understand?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Lord Andrew. ‘And thirdly?’

  ‘I need the loan of three hundred guineas.’

  Lord Andrew Ditchfield sighed. ‘I am a broken man, sighed he. ‘I had such great ambitions.’

  ‘And they will be realised.’ Cameron Bell became thoughtful. ‘I too have ambitions,’ he said, ‘both professional and romantically inclined. If you put your trust in me I promise it will not be ill-founded. What do you say?’

  The detective offered his hand to be shaken.

  Lord Andrew Ditchfield paused.

  ‘The most longed-for Music Hall star in the world and she will be all yours.’

  Lord Andrew Ditchfield shook the hand of Mr Cameron Bell.

  ‘Where is she?’ a constable asked, fanning smoke from his face. ‘Where did she go and where are the kiwi birds?’

  Constable Gates flapped at the thinning smoke. ‘We saw her,’ he said. ‘We heard her and her birds before we rushed in. And we saw her. I saw her. Sitting on the bed in a blue dress with white puffed shoulders.’

  ‘I saw her too,’ agreed a constable. ‘And all the birds.’ The constables nodded their helmeted heads. They had all seen all of the birds.r />
  ‘But when we fired …’ Constable Gates’ voice trailed off and there was a bit of a silence.

  ‘She vanished,’ said one of the constables. ‘She and her birds just vanished away.

  ‘No no no.’ Constable Gates was now shaking his head, and his helmet almost fell off ‘She cannot just have vanished. She must be hiding. And her birds. Guard the door, then, one of you and all the rest search with me.

  And so they searched.

  And searched.

  And searched a little more.

  ‘She has gone,’ said a nameless constable. ‘She and her birds, they simply vanished away.

  The constables nodded once again.

  ‘She vanished in front of our eyes,’ they all agreed.

  Constable Gates did further head shakings, but he in truth had seen her vanish, too. One moment she had been there and in the next just gone.

  ‘It must be magic,’ said Constable Gates, with wonder in his voice.

  The colonel’s reading voice lacked somewhat when trying to express the wonder of the Book of Revelation. He droned on a bit, did the colonel. He huffed and puffed, but he veritably droned.

  ‘Let me help you,’ said Darwin. ‘I would be pleased to read.’

  The glass and turquoise eyes of the Mechanical Messiah moved, focusing upon the man and then upon the monkey. ‘Are you brothers?’ he asked.

  ‘Brothers?’ asked the colonel, and looked down upon his friend.

  Darwin looked up at the colonel.

  ‘In a manner, yes,’ said Colonel Katterfelto.

  Darwin the monkey grinned.

  ‘I’ll pop out and get a glass of water,’ said the colonel. ‘You read some more Revelation.’

  The colonel sought a tap and cup, and Darwin read from the Bible.

  ‘—and they worshipped the beast,

  saying who is like unto the beast?

  Who is able to make war with him?’

  ‘But what does it mean?’ asked the Mechanical Messiah.