by Adrian Cole
“There would be indications. Usually the effects are unpleasant. Even if he had touched something charged by the lightning, it would have left burns, or other signs. This man appears to have died in his sleep.”
“What did you make of the storm?”
“It seemed unnatural to me, though storms tend to make me uncomfortable. I don’t exactly hide under the stairs, Armand, but I appreciate their power.”
“Unnatural, yes, it was. Supernatural?”
She smiled, getting to her feet, washing her hands in the fountain. “Interesting comment. What makes you say that?”
“I have a nose for such things.”
“And does the Bowman?”
“Ah, yes. Last night, there were very strange forces at work. The men who I believe were involved in this man’s death worked for a certain individual who some of us consider to be the most dangerous criminal known to our world.”
The woman darted him a glance. Neither of them was now smiling. “Is there any proof? Dr. Fung would never allow himself to be implicated in the work of his hirelings.”
“He was behind it. I do not know why he wanted this man. Oh, his servants did not kill him. They wanted him, even in death.”
“What are you going to do with him? I should report this.”
Armand de Gilbert smiled. “Perhaps you could wait a little longer. There are people I need to speak to.”
She gave him a knowing look. “Spare me your Gallic charm, Armand, if only because you know it works. Very well. But I cannot leave it for too long.”
“You have such a strong sense of duty, my dear lady.”
After she had gone, de Gilbert arranged for the body of Bannerman to be removed from the garden and secreted in a secure room under his mansion adjacent to it. In the sumptuous drawing room he sat at his desk and lifted the telephone.
“Bonjour, mon ami,” he said to the voice that answered his call. “This is Armand de Gilbert. Is it possible to speak to Monsieur Riderman? It is a matter of some urgency.”
“I’m very sorry, sir, but Sir Henry is engaged at the moment. It would really be rather awkward to disturb him.”
“I appreciate that, Robbins. Mais, I must insist. If you would be so kind as to tell him that I have something from the Bowman.”
“Of course, sir. If you’d like to wait a moment.”
Several minutes ticked by, but de Gilbert sat back patiently, his mind roving over the events of the pre-dawn encounter with the assassins of Fung Chang. That storm had been the focus of this current stirring of power.
Riderman’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Armand?”
“My dear fellow, I do apologise. But I think this is vital news.”
“Of course. What is it?”
“I have with me the body of a man who, I believe, came here in last night’s storm.”
In his own private room, Riderman ran his hand back through his hair in a gesture of anxiety. “Can you describe the fellow?” As de Gilbert did so, Riderman felt his blood racing. “Yes, I think I know who he is. You must protect him, Armand. For God’s sake, don’t let Fung’s vermin get hold of him.”
“Rest assured, they will not. Though they have tried very hard already.”
“You say he is dead?”
“Oui, it seems certain. Annabella was just here. She was very thorough.”
Riderman felt his spirits sinking even lower. “Annabella! Armand, she may be in danger. You must —”
“It is taken care of, my dear friend. No one will harm a hair of her head, I swear to you,” de Gilbert chuckled. “Shall I join you?”
“Yes, yes I think you had better. But be on your guard, Armand. The Hotel is, I am certain, surrounded. This is no ordinary affair.”
“Vraiment! I will be with you soon.”
Riderman put the phone down slowly and gathered his jarred wits together. Then he reached a private decision and returned to the room he had left. The assembled company all turned to him as he entered.
“Not bad news, I hope?” said Jameson, speaking for all of them.
“I’m afraid it is, Doctor. I’m almost sure we’ve found another victim of the storm. He’s with a trusted friend. But I’m sorry to have to report that he’s dead.”
Dead! thought Mears. Which one? Mire-Beast, the Barbarian, Cyberwolf? That’s impossible. “There must be some mistake,” he said, the words tumbling out almost before he had realised it. Comic book heroes don’t just die, he almost added.
But Riderman shook his head grimly. “I really am sorry, Mr. Mears, but it’s not a mistake.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Five Who Are Six
“That is quite the most remarkable thing I’ve ever heard,” said Reverence, directing his comment to Mears, who had just finished a lengthy exposition in which he had described his experiences in the Athenaeum, the things he had read there and the storm.
“And also the most ludicrous,” grunted Jameson. “Surely, Mr. Mears, you can’t expect us to believe that in your world we only exist as characters in a book!”
Mears shrugged. “What can I say, Doctor? I am as perplexed as you are.”
“Sir Henry,” Reverence said patiently, fixing the novelist with a level gaze. “Might I be permitted to ask you something? Earlier you commented that you were aware of my exploits, although you stated that few others in Pulpworld would be. How is that you know of me?”
Riderman nodded. “Ah, there’s the point, Mr. Reverence. I read the same book that Mr. Mears referred to. I probably see more of Pulpworld than most, as I’m something of an explorer. I’ve travelled extensively here and my research has led me to the weirdest of libraries and bookshops and all that sort of thing. Somewhere in my delvings, I picked up a copy of that book.”
Reverence gave a short bark of laughter, but Jameson looked irritated. “Well, there’s a degree of consistency in that,” nodded the detective. “And you, Mr. Mears, are simply a servant of the public? You have no alter ego, such as you have described in others?”
Mears noticed that Miss Timkins was watching him. He turned away, colouring. “No. I’ve led a pretty quiet sort of life. I’m just a…well, a fan. That is, an aficionado.”
“And how about your companion, Mr. Rocklyn? Obviously you are one of the five who are six. Are we permitted to know which one?”
Rocklyn looked uneasy. “In my world, that’s a tightly guarded secret.”
“Then you do accept that this is not your world?” said Reverence, dropping casually on the statement, though a little smugly.
“Yeah, I guess I accept that. Which is why I’m a little tight-lipped.”
“Mr. Mears knows your other identity, though he’s far too much of a gentleman to have revealed it to us. But I suspect he is the only one that it will mean anything to. That is, unless Sir Henry has uncovered one of these Penny Dreadfuls that Mr. Mears alluded to.”
Rocklyn laughed warmly. “Penny Dreadfuls? Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”
Riderman smiled. “I think not, with all due respect to Mr. Rocklyn. If I had, I would know who Mr. Rocklyn was.”
“Then surely there is no harm in revealing yourself,” Reverence persisted, eyeing the American.
Rocklyn’s smile faded to a cool stare, but after a moment of deliberation, he nodded. After what Mears had told them about the things he had read, it would be an easy matter for someone like this English detective to work out the truth. “I guess we’re all on the same side. My alter ego is Darkwing.”
Reverence studied the faces of the group. None of those present evinced any recognition. “Thank you. Obviously we will respect the confidentiality of that. Very well. Sir Henry, you appear to be well informed about this storm. And, I think, the reasons why we are here. Perhaps you’d be good enough to elucidate.”
He’s taken control, Mears was thinking. Effortlessly and without a murmur of dissent from anyone. More than any of us, he’s simply accepted the situation, like any other puzzle he’s had to solve and he’s add
ressing the business of doing just that!
Riderman nodded. “I have said I am an explorer as well as a novelist. Some years ago, while embarked on a fairly dangerous archaeological expedition, I was in Tibet, and to say the least, was somewhat off the beaten track. It was there that I first encountered the nefarious activities of a certain Chinese villain.”
Reverence could not help but clap his hands together. “I knew it! I do apologise. Pray, do continue.”
Riderman grinned, quite at ease with the detective’s eccentricities. “Dr. Fung Chang. As devious a devil as ever came out of the Orient and with a finger in every crooked pie and corrupt enterprise. He has based himself here in Pulp City. His powers are enormous, his contacts extraordinary. Worlds are no barrier to him. He is behind this, I am certain of it.”
“What about the storm?” said Rocklyn. “Was he responsible?”
“Almost certainly,” Riderman nodded. “His scientists stop at nothing to experiment with the very fabric of space and time and whatever other dimensions it pleases them to interfere with. I believe that Fung’s creatures created that storm, or whatever it was, for it was no natural force, and used it to draw the five who are six, plus the unfortunate Mr. Mears, into Pulpworld. You, Mr. Mears, are here, I think, in error. But, ironically, that is something very much to our advantage. You probably know more about the others collectively than anyone else.”
“With the greatest of respect,” interrupted Reverence, “I suggest it is no coincidence that Mr. Mears is here at all. On the contrary, I would be greatly surprised if it were not Dr. Fung who had brought him here.”
Mears drew out the note signed by Guy Abbot, the archivist. “I forgot to mention this,” he said, with a wry grin of embarrassment.
Reverence took it and read it with a satisfied glance, handing it over to Riderman.
“Well, well,” said the novelist. “This is interesting. And it comes as something of a relief. I’ll come back to this, if I may. Where was I? Ah, yes. The storm. So, Dr. Fung has selected his victims and brought them here.”
“You were aware that we were here?” commented Jameson. “You knew about the poor fellow who is dead?”
Riderman nodded. “Yes. That’s where my good friend Grimsfeather comes in.” He nodded at the small figure, which had withdrawn in silence to a quiet corner of the room, though his ears missed nothing of the discussion. “He’s a hugely modest fellow, but his services are utterly invaluable to us. He has psychic abilities second to none.”
Again Reverence’s expression was one of deep interest. He glanced at Jameson, who scowled back at him.
“Grimsfeather was acutely aware of the storm, the psychic energies at its heart. Emanating from Fung’s retreat. And Grimsfeather it was who identified what was happening. Getting the entry points, so to speak, has been more difficult. So we knew seven of you had come here, and how you had been brought, but not why.”
“And do you have a theory?” said Reverence.
“I do, though I would rather it was pure fantasy. However, some of the things that Mr. Mears has told us about the five who are six have rather fuelled my theory. Perhaps if I could just ask you a few questions before I go on, Mr. Mears?”
“Of course,” said Mears, oddly excited by the bizarre turn of events.
“I think I know why Fung selected his six victims. I also think that all of those victims have had contact with either Fung or his minions in their respective worlds. You, for example, Mr. Reverence, have had direct contact.”
Reverence nodded. “We have crossed paths more than once. In my world, he is very real.”
“In Mr. Rocklyn’s world, Fung may not be so evident. But the assassins that you were hunting down were Orientals, were they not? Part of a terrorist organisation?”
“Run by Dr. Fung?” said Rocklyn. “Very likely. Someone was at the heart of things and if it was Fung, it’d be no surprise.”
“Mr. Mears, when you told us about the Cyberwolf story, he had been abducted by men who were controlled by a character called Sung. Again, I would suspect him of being an agent of Dr. Fung.”
Mears was nodding. “Yes, and the Barbarian fought the Dragon King and his sorcerers. That must be a connection. What about the Mire-Beast?”
“You told us that some kind of business deal appeared to be in the offing. The Mire-Beast had been brought to England. Perhaps the next step would have been his sale to an interested foreign party?”
“I am sure you have it in a nutshell,” said Riderman.
Reverence appeared not to have heard, his eyes fixed on a distant point. “Fung’s network spreads far further than even I had imagined. And the reason you believe he abducted us, Sir Henry?”
Riderman smiled. “I am sure, Mr. Reverence, with your renowned powers of deduction, you have already established the motive firmly in your own mind.”
Reverence nodded politely. “Fung has chosen an exceptionally powerful team. One way or another, he intends to pervert this team and coerce it to act on his behalf.”
“Mr. Mears,” said Riderman, his brow knitting in a frown of deep concern. “This is where we need your knowledge. With all due regard to Mr. Rocklyn, Mr. Reverence and the good Doctor, could you tell us a little more about the five who are six?”
“The Barbarian is probably as powerful and as efficient a fighter that’s ever graced a novel,” said Mears. “In his adventures, he faces all manner of powers — whole armies, sorcery, monsters of every conceivable shape and size, from this dimension and the next. You name it, he faces it and triumphs. Superhuman power.
“The Mire-Beast is similarly indestructible. Again, superhuman power, with the ability to travel anywhere, underwater, through mires, swamps, the very earth. And if you damage him, he rebuilds himself. He has trans-morphic powers, if you follow me.
“Cyberwolf is also able to transform. He can shape-change into the Cyberwolf, which is as indestructible as the Mire-Beast and has the additional ability to link into cyberspace. Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Reverence, that will need some explaining —”
Reverence waved a hand airily.
“Darkwing,” Mears went on, with a nervous glance at Rocklyn, who nodded for him to continue, “is almost invisible at night and moves at speeds that defy the eye. He travels with equal facility through the air as he does on the ground.”
“Add to that extraordinary mixture the greatest intellect alive,” said Reverence with absolute conviction, “and you have a devastatingly powerful force.”
“Where do I come into this?” said Jameson. “Given that I have no superhuman powers whatsoever.” He favoured his companion with a slightly reproving look.
Reverence laughed, the short bark. “My dear Jameson, not only are you my right arm, you’re half of my brain, at least.”
“Nonsense —”
“Pah, you’re as modest as our friend Grimsfeather! Palgrave Reverence without James Jameson would be as ineffective as a carriage without a horse.”
James looked mildly embarrassed, but could not suppress a grin.
“So you see,” cut in Riderman, “Dr. Fung has chosen well. No wonder he is so anxious to get his hands on you all.”
“I would suggest,” said Reverence, “that if we could combine against him, we would afford him a very potent Nemesis. Although, it seems that we have already been reduced by one. Do we know which?”
Riderman turned to Grimsfeather. “Any word?”
Grimsfeather cleared his throat and puckered up his already wrinkled face in a scowl. “Two of the company are in Meridian Park. Together. I think it is the one you call the Barbarian and with him, the Mire-Beast.”
There was a knock at the door and in a moment the tall figure of Armand de Gilbert entered, bowing gracefully. Riderman introduced him to the company.
Mears studied him discreetly, trying to place him, but he was not at all familiar, either from his real world or the world of pulp and comic fiction.
“Is there any news on the man you have
?” said Riderman.
De Gilbert took out his wallet and pulled from it a photograph. It was of a body stretched out under a blanket, the head and shoulders clearly revealed, the face serene in death. Riderman took the picture and handed it to Mears.
God, thought Mears. This is Bannerman, the Cyberwolf. I can’t believe he’s dead. These guys never get killed, not in their worlds. “It’s Bannerman,” he said, shaking his head. “How did it happen?”
“Fung’s people,” said de Gilbert. “The Black Bowman found them. I think he was dead before they got to him. The Bowman drove them off, but there was nothing that could be done for this man. I am sorry, mon ami,” he said to Mears. “We could do no more.”
Reverence looked at the photograph. He did not recognise the face. “Monsieur de Gilbert,” he said bluntly, “I am intrigued by the reference to a Bowman.”
“Perhaps I should explain,” said Riderman. “In Pulpworld, as in some of your worlds at least, there are men and women committed to, shall we say, just causes. The sort of people that Mr. Mears is only used to meeting through the medium of books and other journals. Some of these people will be working with us against Dr, Fung. One of them you have already met.”
“Nick Nightmare,” said Rocklyn. “Private Eye, Public Fist.”
“You know him?” said Riderman, surprised.
Rocklyn laughed softly. “Let’s say I read about him.”
“Ah, yes. Well, another is the Black Bowman. A third would be Shadow Woman.”
Rocklyn was nodding, about to comment, but Reverence cut in. “And who, may I ask, is the curious Guy Abbot, who appears to have guided our Mr. Mears into this drama?”
Riderman and de Gilbert exchanged glances, but de Gilbert smiled. “You are a perceptive man, Monsieur Reverence. Sir Guy is something of a legend in this world. His history dates back to the Crusades. Pardon, I should explain that certain events are common to many worlds, although their courses may differ in each. Here in Pulpworld, the Crusades gave birth to an Order of Knights not unlike the Templars, with whom you may be more familiar.”
“Indeed,” said Reverence.
“The Red-Hooded Brotherhood. Their founder was Sir Guy, whose knights are also monks, while he himself is their abbot. It sometimes amuses him to call himself Guy Abbot. He is at the heart of the opposition to such vermin as Fung Chang, if you like, the Lord Protector of Pulpworld. We here, including Sir Henry and myself, have great faith in him and what he has achieved. He has brought you to us for good reason, Monsieur Mears. Your knowledge of the five who are six is probably unique in Pulpworld. And it is unlikely that Fung Chang knows anything about you.”
