Paper Chase

by Bob Cook

  “Yes?” she asked.

  Whoever it was did not reply. The men could hear a strange, feminine gurgling sound.

  “What on earth’s that?” Ogden said.

  “Better take a look,” the Laird suggested.

  As he got to his feet, Sybil was propelled into the drawing-room with considerable force. She crashed into the Laird, and they were both sent sprawling across the carpet. In the doorway stood a large, angry American gentleman, who said in a thunderous voice: “Enter into the rock and hide in the dust from before the terror of the Lord!”

  “By George!” Ogden exclaimed. “It’s the double-glazing salesman.”

  “He’s insane,” Sybil gasped, as she picked herself up off the floor. “Utterly mad!”

  The Vicar nodded thoughtfully.

  “Colonel Kyle, I presume?”

  This greeting did not improve the colonel’s humour. His fists clenched tightly, and several large veins bulged in his forehead.

  “The shatterer has come up against you!” he bawled. “Man the ramparts! Watch the road! Gird up your loins!”

  “All at once?” Ogden said.

  “Careful, Clive,” the Laird warned. “This chap’s completely off his rocker.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” Ogden admitted. “Not exactly a model of restraint, is he?”

  “But now they make sport of me,” Colonel Kyle snarled. “Behold, you scoffers, and wonder, and perish; for I do a deed in your days, a deed you will never believe, if one declares it to you.”

  “Of course you do,” the Vicar said soothingly. “I’m sure you’re a very enterprising fellow.”

  “Perish?” the Laird repeated. “Did he say ‘perish’?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Ogden said, and he blew a large gum-bubble.

  “Oh really, Clive!” Sybil snapped. “Aren’t you going to do something?”

  “What do you suggest?” Ogden retorted. “I left my sub-machine-gun at home this morning.”

  Colonel Kyle’s lip curled in disdain.

  “They are a perverse and crooked generation,” he observed. “You serpents, you brood of vipers! How are you to escape being sentenced to hell?”

  “We had a reasonable chance, until you popped in,” the Vicar replied.

  “Hear this, you aged men!” the colonel yelled. “Which of you is called Fergus Buchanan?”

  “What?” the Laird blinked.

  “Fergus Buchanan,” the colonel repeated.

  Suddenly, Ogden had a bright idea.

  “He’s gone out,” he said quickly. “We’re expecting him back soon.”

  The colonel nodded grimly, and drew out a pistol.

  “The time is near,” he said. “For the great day of wrath has come, and who can stand before it?”

  Chapter Forty-two

  BEAUCHAMP STOPPED THE CAR outside the Vicar’s house and swore. Some character had taken his parking space, and Beauchamp had to find somewhere else. This meant that Sybil would realise that he had borrowed the car, and there would be further consternation in the Croft household.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “And it was all going so well.”

  The instalment was now in the hands of the Baltimore Bugle, and he had been looking forward to a clear afternoon of tea and chatter in the Vicar’s drawing-room. But Sybil’s forthcoming tantrum would put paid to that.

  There was another space about twenty yards up the road. To reach it, Beauchamp had to pass the Vicar’s front door. As he did so, he noticed a most peculiar spectacle in the drawing-room. In fact, it was so extraordinary that Beauchamp was convinced his eyes were playing tricks on him. He braked, and reversed the car so he could take another look.

  Beauchamp had not seen a mirage. There really was a man standing in the doorway with a gun in his hand. And to judge from the expressions on the faces of Ogden, the Vicar, Sybil and the Laird, they were not being shown the latest brand of water-pistol. The gunman seemed deeply upset about something, and the others were not managing to calm him down.

  “Crumbs,” Beauchamp muttered. “Better fetch the police.” He put his foot down on the accelerator and sped away.

  As time passed in the drawing-room, Colonel Kyle was growing restless. Matters were not helped by Sybil, who insisted on telling the colonel precisely what she thought of him.

  “You’re a disgrace to your country,” she said. “You know perfectly well that it was against the law to sell those chemicals to the Iraqis.”

  The colonel was not impressed.

  “Does it not say in the letter of Paul to the Galatians: ‘all who rely on works of law are under a curse’?”

  “Love, fifteen,” Ogden grinned.

  “Besides,” Sybil said, “if you were a religious man, you’d never have done any of those terrible things. Just think, an entire city could be wiped out by those chemicals you sent. That doesn’t sound very religious to me.”

  “Fifteen all,” Ogden said.

  Colonel Kyle shrugged indifferently.

  “Does evil befall a city, unless the Lord has done it?” he quoted.

  “That’s right,” Sybil said heavily. “Put the blame on God. Very responsible, I must say. And I can promise you, colonel, the Church of England’s God doesn’t put up with that sort of thing.”

  “Read the words in Deuteronomy, woman,” Colonel Kyle advised. “The Lord your God is a devouring fire, a jealous God.”

  “Fifteen, thirty,” Ogden said.

  “Oh well,” Sybil said dismissively. “You can prove anything with scripture, I suppose. But where does it mention chemical weapons, eh?”

  “Isaiah!” the colonel bellowed. “Your country lies desolate, your cities are burned with fire.”

  “Fifteen, forty.”

  “Psalms!” Kyle roared. “On the wicked He will rain coals of fire and brimstone; a scorching wind shall be the portion of their cup.”

  “Game to Colonel Kyle,” Ogden observed. “I’d chuck in that line of argument if I were you, old girl. The colonel’s manners aren’t up to much, but he seems to know his Old Testament.”

  The Vicar glanced nervously at his watch.

  “He’s taking his time. I wonder what’s keeping Jere—I mean, Fergus.”

  “Maybe there was a queue,” the Laird said hopefully.

  He looked down beside him, and noticed the Vicar’s walking-stick was leaning against an armchair. Whatever the reason for Beauchamp’s delay, the Laird knew he would be back soon. And at that moment, the carnage would begin. But there was one small possibility, the Laird thought, as he gnawed his pipe. It wasn’t much, but he had no other options. And the walking-stick was perfectly positioned: provided the Laird’s timing was perfect, he could do it in one move…

  “That sounds like Fergus now,” he said, glancing at the window.

  The colonel followed his gaze, and the Laird seized the opportunity. He swept up the walking-stick and knocked the pistol out of Colonel Kyle’s hand. Before the colonel had a chance to react, the Laird cracked the stick across his face.

  “Good man,” Ogden shouted, and he reached down for the gun. But the colonel kicked away his hand, stepped on the gun, and grabbed the other end of the walking-stick before the Laird could land another blow.

  “Fuck it,” Ogden winced. “He’s broken my finger!”

  The colonel jerked hard on the walking-stick, and brought the Laird toppling towards him. With his free hand, the colonel grasped the Laird’s throat and began to squeeze hard.

  “Oh Lord,” the Laird gasped.

  The colonel was extremely powerful, and his fingers bit deep into the old man’s neck. The Laird knew he was dying: the colonel’s face began to swim and blacken before him, and his friends’ cries were growing terribly faint.

  Suddenly, the Laird remembered something. Many years before, he had acquired a black belt in one of the martial arts. Unfortunately, he had forgotten most of the techniques he had learned, but one ploy returned to his mind because he had described it in a
recent instalment of Ogden’s memoirs. It was quite a simple manoeuvre: if a man had his hand round your throat, you grabbed his wrist and twisted it, so that his elbow faced upwards. Then all you had to do was bring your other hand down onto the elbow in a swift chop, and the bone would shatter. At least, that was the theory…

  The Laird gritted his teeth, and took hold of the colonel’s wrist. It turned with surprising ease, and the Laird smashed the colonel’s elbow with all his weight.

  The colonel screamed and leaped back. The Laird hadn’t broken the elbow—his strength was not what it once was—but the colonel was suffering from a nasty sprain, and the Laird was able to pick up the gun. He stepped back a few paces and sighed in relief.

  “End of argument,” he declared. “Lie down on the floor, Kyle.”

  “With your hands behind your head,” the Vicar added.

  “Fergus,” Sybil declared, “you’re marvellous!”

  “Why, thank you, Sybil,” the Laird said graciously. “It wasn’t much. Just an old ju-jitsu stunt—”

  “Fergus?” the colonel repeated. “You—?”

  “Yes, me,” the Laird chuckled. “Hard lines, old man.”

  The door bell rang, and Sybil rushed out to answer it.

  “Are you all right, Clive?” the Vicar asked anxiously.

  Ogden clutched his hand and nodded.

  “I think so. He may not have broken anything, after all. Just a nasty knock.”

  He blew a nonchalant gum-bubble, and flexed his fingers reassuringly. Then Sybil returned with Beauchamp and a couple of policemen.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “Jeremy saw us outside. That’s your man, officer.”

  The policeman looked around them in astonishment. “What the bloody hell’s been happening?” one of them asked.

  “Fergus overpowered him,” Sybil said proudly. “Isn’t he absolutely wonderful?”

  Colonel Kyle was handcuffed and told to stand up. But he did not give up hope of a miracle rescue.

  “Arise, O Lord!” he yelled. “Forget not the afflicted! Confront them, overthrow them! Deliver my life from the wicked by Thy sword!”

  “Too late, old chap,” the Vicar said.

  The colonel did not agree.

  “For the Lord will vindicate His people, and have compassion on His servants, when he sees that their power is gone.”

  “Don’t bank on it,” Ogden advised.

  Colonel Kyle looked at the grinning policemen, and began to realise that Ogden had a point. He lowered his head mournfully, and recalled a more apposite line of scripture: “And the Philistines seized him and gouged out his eyes, and brought him down to Gaza.”

  “He thinks he’s Samson,” the Laird said.

  “Well, it makes a change from Napoleon,” Ogden laughed.

  “Don’t worry, colonel. I’m sure they’ll find you a nice, clean cell.”

  “And you’ll be in the one next door,” said a familiar voice. Ogden turned in surprise, and exclaimed: “Swinger!”

  “The very same,” Stringer nodded. “Only the name’s Stringer, as you know full well, you stupid old fart.”

  “Delicate as ever,” Ogden smiled. “Who are your friends, Slinger?”

  He pointed to two men in suits who were standing behind the MI5 man.

  “They’re from the Special Branch,” Stringer said. “I thought I’d come along and watch them do their job.”

  “You’re too late,” Beauchamp said. “These other policemen got here first.”

  Stringer glanced indifferently at Colonel Kyle.

  “You mean this freak?”

  “Yes. Colonel Kyle.”

  Stringer gave a surprised jolt.

  “That’s Kyle? Well, well.”

  “If you haven’t come for him,” asked the Laird, “what are you doing here?”

  “You,” Stringer said brightly. “I’m doing you here. Or, more precisely, these guys are doing you here.”

  “What on earth for?” the Vicar said.

  “Impersonating Her Majesty’s servants,” Stringer said. “Interfering with the interception of telephone communications. And a whole string of related offences.”

  Ogden & Co. looked at each other in dismay.

  “I thought that would wipe the grins off your ugly old faces,” Stringer smirked. “You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been waiting for this moment. You just wouldn’t believe it.”

  “This must be a mistake,” the Laird said.

  “A clerical cock-up,” Beauchamp agreed.

  “Are you sure about this, Springer old boy?” Ogden said.

  “Oh quite sure, old boy,” Stringer said firmly. “We’ve got the witnesses. We’ve got the van. We’ve got everything we need to give you miserable, smelly, incontinent old lepers fifteen years each. Merry Christmas!”

  Chapter Forty-three

  THE FRIENDS WERE KEPT in separate cells at the police station. Ogden spent two hours on his own. He had nothing to read and nothing to do except chew bubble-gum and wonder how the others were getting on. Finally, the cell door opened and a policeman stepped in.

  “Your turn,” he said briskly.

  “Time for the third degree, what?” Ogden grinned.

  The policeman smiled and took Ogden up to the interview room, where Stringer was waiting in a cloud of cigarette smoke. His ashtray was full, and the paper on his desk was blank, suggesting that the earlier interviews had not been particularly fruitful.

  “Sorry about the delay,” Stringer said, as Ogden took a chair. “But I decided to save you until last.”

  “Thought you might,” Ogden nodded. “Keep ’em waiting, eh? Let ’em sweat it out. Good thinking, Stinger.”

  Stringer shook his head wearily.

  “Look, Ogden. Get this straight: you are in deep shit. The deepest. So stop acting like a fourth-former, and start facing up to facts. You are going to go down, so you might as well do it quickly and gently.”

  “In other words, co-operate fully.”

  “You’ve got it,” Stringer agreed.

  “Just like my friends.”

  “No,” Stringer said. “Not like them, as you know bloody well. They all refused to talk.”

  “Quite right too,” Ogden chuckled.

  “They all referred me to you,” Stringer said. “I suppose that means you’ve planned it in advance.”

  “That’s very observant of you,” Ogden said. “I always thought you were a smart chap, Springer.”

  “Don’t be a prick, Ogden,” Stringer urged. “This boy-scout-code-of-honour bullshit won’t get you anywhere. If you take my advice, you’ll cut the crap and give me a full, detailed, written confession now.”

  “Confession of what?”

  “I want your version of how you switched the tap on Blake’s phone. I know Croft did the job, but I’d like to hear your account.”

  “I bet you would,” Ogden laughed. “But tell me, Flinger old boy, aren’t you supposed to offer me a lawyer before you start grilling me? I’m a bit hazy on the law, but I thought that was the done thing.”

  “It is,” Stringer admitted. “And we will get you one. But I thought you’d prefer to talk to me first.”

  “Really?” Ogden blinked. “Why on earth should I do anything so stupid?”

  “You’d be doing yourself a favour,” Stringer replied. “Give me a full confession, followed by a guilty plea in court, and we can have a word with the judge. You’ll get a lighter sentence, remission, and you’ll probably serve your time in one of those nice, comfy open prisons. You’ll have your own garden to grow spuds in, and they’ll give you an easy job in the prison library. Doesn’t sound too bad, does it?”

  “Oh, heavenly,” Ogden sighed. “And the alternative?”

  “The full sentence,” Stringer said, “to be served in the hardest, dampest, most overcrowded nick we can find. Fancy fifteen years’ worth of slopping out your own shit every morning? Twenty-three hours a day in a sweaty little cell with three or four murderers
and an armed robber? And one of them will probably be bent, Ogden, and he’ll ram his dick up your shrivelled old arse every night. Fifteen years of it, Ogden—you wouldn’t last fifteen minutes.”

  “Probably not,” Ogden agreed.

  “So give yourself a chance. Tell me everything I want to hear, and I promise I’ll do what I can.”

  Ogden’s reply consisted of a large magenta gum-bubble which burst inches away from Stringer’s face. Stringer drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk.

  “I’ll only ask you once more,” he said.

  “Don’t bother,” Ogden advised. “It was jolly boring the first time.”

  “Now listen—”

  “No,” Ogden broke in, “you listen, Sprinkler. You’ve had your say, and pretty damned tedious it was too. Now it’s my turn. If I were you, Slinger, I’d get the D-G in here pronto.”

  “The D-G?” Stringer repeated. “Are you off your head?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “The D-G’s a busy man, Ogden. He doesn’t waste his time on rubbish like you.”

  “No?” Ogden said. “I bet he’s been spending weeks of his time on me recently. And I’ve got something rather important to tell him.”

  “Sure you have.”

  “Please yourself,” Ogden shrugged. “But I warn you: he’s going to find out about this whatever happens. And it would be better for your sake if he found out from me.”

  “Are you making some kind of threat?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Ogden nodded, and with a mischievous grin, he added: “So stop acting like a fourth-former, Stinger, and start facing up to facts. You are going to be made to feel like a complete idiot, so you might as well do it quickly and gently.”

  For a second, Ogden thought he was going to be struck in the face. But Stringer remained calm, and said nothing for a while. Then he made up his mind and said, “All right. I’ll get the D-G.”

  He left his desk and went over to the door. Before leaving, he turned round and leered nastily.

  “I think I’m going to enjoy this.”

  “I rather doubt it,” Ogden said.

  Stringer left the room, and a policeman came in to keep watch on the detainee. About twenty minutes later, Stringer returned with an irritated D-G.