The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived

by Robert Rankin

  ‘Get along here and give me a hand at once.’

  ‘Not a chance. I said over and out and I meant it. Message ends.’

  ‘Well, really!’ Cornelius tucked the two-way radio back into his pocket. He screwed up his eyes and examined the area of wall which had lately been the door. It was a most convincing area of wall. It lacked for doorishness completely. Cornelius turned away and turned back quickly. He nonchalantly strolled a pace or two down the corridor and then jumped back. He even withdrew a shiny blade from his knife and used it mirror-fashion.

  No good.

  Whatever spell of protection Rune had cast over his door was unlikely to be broken by anyone possessed of less magic than himself.

  ‘Find another way in then,’ said Cornelius Murphy. ‘Onto the roof, down a drainpipe, in at an open window?’ The tall boy slunk off to seek a fire exit.

  ‘Fire!’ went Brigadier Wilberforce, miming the blast of an elephant gun. ‘Bagged three tigers in a single day. Remember that, Rune? Three of the blighters, man-eaters all.’

  ‘Bagged a couple of native bearers also, as I recall.’ Rune poured further wine. ‘And the mahout who was steering your elephant.’

  ‘Bally fool got in the way. Those were the days though, eh? British Empire splattered all over the globe. Johnny Foreigner knew his place back then, doncha know.’

  A passing waiter of foreign extraction overheard this remark and made a mental note to spit in the Brigadier’s soup.

  ‘So,’ said Brigadier Chunky. ‘Well and good to reminisce and all that. But what’s the wheeze then, Rune? Why have you called me down to this seedy resort? Prostitution conspicuous here, you know.’

  ‘Really?’ said Rune.

  ‘Conspicuous by its absence.’

  Further guffaws.

  ‘I’d like to put a bit of business your way, Chunky. Do you still run that scrap-metal yard?’

  ‘Scrap-metal yard? How dare you, sir. Far too many unsavoury connotations. Not scrap-metal yard any more. More politically correct title. Wilberforce Associates Nice Kind Ecological Recycling Services.’

  “Which is an acronym, I believe.’

  ‘Gets a cheap laugh at dinner parties, yes.’

  ‘But you can still “acquire” items of a metallic nature?’

  ‘Anything you care to mention, old man. What do you have in mind? Military hardware, Scud missiles, stealth bomber?’

  Rune shook his head.

  ‘Nuclear then? Not easy to come by, but I have contacts.

  Rune shook his head once more. ‘Pylons,’ said he.

  ‘Pylons? What those big eyesores that electricity board chaps who live in the city love to plague the country Johnnies with?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Humyah. Can’t see why not. Have a few ex-Desert Storm bulldozers that I “won” off Saddam, gathering dust in the old eco-friendly recycling yard. They’ll get the job done. How many pylons do you want?’

  ‘Twenty should be sufficient, with two miles of the heaviest duty cable. And a couple of radio masts.’

  ‘Piece of pudding, when do you want ‘em?’

  ‘By next Wednesday night. Undamaged, and a team to re-erect them here.’

  ‘Bit public, might raise an eyebrow from the locals.’

  ‘There will be no locals. We will have this town to ourselves.’

  ‘What are you up to, Rune?’

  ‘Mum’s the word on this one, Chunky.’

  ‘With you there. No names, no pack-drill.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And the matter of my fee?’

  ‘How does a million pounds in pure gold sound to you?’

  ‘It sounds good to me,’ whispered Thelma to Louise.

  And the sound of an electric drill being carelessly applied to the chassis of the Cadillac Eldorado awoke a sleeping sheep-suiter.

  ‘Oh my head,’ went Boris, ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Come in, Delta Force, where are you, over?’

  Cornelius plucked the two-way radio from his back pocket. ‘I’m up on the roof. Be quiet.’

  ‘What are you doing on the roof?’

  ‘I’m going to climb down a drainpipe and try to shin in through an open window.’

  ‘Sounds very dangerous. Not the way I would have done it.’

  ‘Oh really, and how would you have done it?’

  ‘Well,’ said Tuppe, ‘I would have used one of the courtesy phones, called down to reception and asked for a bottle of champagne to be delivered at once to Mr Runes’s room.’

  ‘But the door has vanished, Tuppe.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking that the door only vanished when you tried to break in at it?’

  ‘Yes, I told you that.’

  ‘Protective magic.’

  ‘Yes, Tuppe, I reasoned that out for myself. Please get off the line.’

  ‘The magic wouldn’t be directed against the hotel staff,’ said Tuppe. ‘Only against potential intruders. So the champagne deliverer would have seen the door, used the pass key, and you could have slipped in behind them and—’

  ‘Thank you very much. Kindly maintain radio silence from now on. Over and out.’

  ‘Glad to be of assistance, Delta Force. Over and out.’

  Cornelius stuffed the two-way radio into his pocket once more and continued to edge along the roof, with one foot in the gutter. He was a good way up. A single slip would be sufficient to ensure a fatal fall.

  Nice night though.

  The stars looked down. The moon hung high. The waves kissed gently. A bat flapped closely.

  ‘Get away!’ Cornelius, flapped, slipped, tumbled and fell; he grabbed, gripped, clung onto and hung.

  By his fingers. From the gutter.

  ‘Use the courtesy phone!’ muttered the dangling tall boy. ‘Call for some champagne to be delivered! Nice one, Tuppe. Oh dear!’

  It was old guttering. Cast iron. Kevin was going to have it replaced with a light-weight modern-day plastic equivalent. It was on the list of things to be done. Quite far down it though.

  ‘Oooooooh!’ went Cornelius, as the guttering came away from the wall and swung in an outwards direction. ‘Oooooooh!’

  Rusty, the guttering was. Old and rusty. Unsafe.

  Click, click, click, it went.

  Bend and snap.

  ‘Ooooooh!’ Cornelius swung down with it.

  Struck the UPVC mock-Georgian window of the KEV-LYN suite.

  But did not pass through it.

  Well, you don’t, do you? Not through double glazing. You just kind of splat against double glazing. Single glazing? Well, you’d burst through that. Like in cowboy movies.

  But double glazing? Not a chance.

  ‘Ooooooh!’ The window was open at the top. Cornelius leapt at it. Clung on. The guttering spiralled down towards the car-park. In fact, it fell directly between two young men who were walking across it and embedded itself into the Tarmac.

  Mr Rodway and Mr Craik regained the composure they had momentarily lost and peered up towards the roof. They just caught sight of Cornelius, as, clinging to the window, his weight swung it inwards upon its central-pivoting jobbie and catapulted him into Rune’s apartment.

  ‘Bastard,’ said Mr Rodway.

  ‘Enterprising bastard,’ said Mr Craik. ‘Let us proceed inside and await further developments.’

  28

  Cornelius climbed dizzily to his feet. He was in.

  And that was something.

  ‘So,’ said he, clicking joints and testing for broken bones. ‘To work. Let’s see what we can see.’

  And much there was to be seen. The suite was a confusion of maps and diagrams and textbooks.

  Cornelius picked up one of the latter and scrutinized its cover. The Science of Electrolysis. Another. Electroplating for Fun and Profit. Another. Electrokinetics. Another. Electrostatics.

  ‘A lot of electrickery,’ mused the Murphy. ‘What about the maps?’ The maps were all of Skelington Bay and its surrounding areas. Som
e were partially shaded in. On one, the twin piers had been inked, one in red and one in blue. Lines of these colours ran from the piers and crossed the town to terminate at Druid’s Tor.

  Cornelius unearthed computer printouts. These appeared to catalogue the output of the National Grid. The words INSUFFICIENT POWER! had been scrawled across the bottom of them.

  Then there were pages of calculations. These seemed to be concerned with multiples of cubic miles of sea water and factors of $93,000,000.

  ‘Whatever he’s up to, it’s big,’ was the tall boy’s unenlightened conclusion. ‘So where’s my money?’

  He peered about the room. And ‘Oh,’ he said suddenly. ‘It would appear to be there.’

  In a corner of the room stood a four-sided glass construction, with a glass top. It resembled a shower cubical. This rested upon a black base and in the middle of this base, within the four clear-glass walls, stood a little plinth. And on top of this plinth, a very large stack of high-denomination money notes.

  ‘Strange place to store your wealth,’ said Cornelius. ‘Almost like an exhibit. Perhaps he likes to sit and gaze at it.’

  The tall boy approached the glass cubical. It was about four feet to a side and eight in height. One side was slightly ajar, the door obviously. Cornelius swung it open and stepped in to claim his prize.

  Such was not to be.

  Cornelius found himself confronted by another glass wall. This, however, did not extend the full width of the cubical and the seeker after wealth was able to squeeze through the gap remaining and reach forward.

  To find a farther wall of glass at an acute angle blocking his way. Cornelius stared at the stack of money. A foot or so beyond this second wall, he pressed his hand to the wall, which swung aside.

  Easy-peasy.

  Cornelius now found himself staring into a mirror, the stack of wealth behind him on the right-hand side. He turned. Another glass wall. He felt along it. Another opening.

  Another glass wall.

  Another mirror.

  ‘There’d be a knack to this,’ said Cornelius, seeking to retrace his footsteps but now somewhat confused about which way he had come in. ‘I came in through the side nearest to the window.’

  There seemed to be a mirror on that side.

  If it was that side.

  There seemed to be mirrors all round now.

  No, there was a glass wall, and beyond it the money.

  Cornelius felt his way along. Discovered an opening and squeezed through it. He reached towards the money and found his way blocked yet again.

  ‘I am perplexed,’ said Cornelius Murphy.

  ‘What are they doing now?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Arm wrestling, by the look of it.’ Thelma shook her golden head. ‘Over bowls of hot soup, pathetic.’

  ‘Got you there,’ chortled Rune as Chunky sucked upon a soupy sleeve. ‘That’s one hundred thousand in gold you owe me.’

  ‘Double or quits on something else?’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Loudest fart,’ said the Brigadier, making a strained face.

  ‘Might we join you, ladies?’

  Thelma looked up into the face of Mr Rodway. Louise looked up into that of Mr Craik. ‘No,’ they agreed.

  ‘Oh come on now, don’t be stand-offish,’ Mr Rodway pulled out a chair and sat down upon it. ‘You girls on holiday, looking for a little tan?’

  Mr Craik seated himself also. ‘Or perhaps here on business?’

  ‘Go away, you sad bastards.’

  ‘No need to be rude,’ said Mr Rodway. ‘We’re only trying to be friendly.’

  ‘Would you like me to call the proprietor and have you thrown out?’ Thelma asked. ‘Or would you prefer to hear my friend Louise scream, “Let go of me, you pervert,” at the top of her voice?’

  ‘We could do both,’ said Louise.

  ‘Or you could shout, “Burglar in Mr Rune’s suite,”’ Mr Craik suggested. ‘I could shout that for you, if you want.’

  The burglar in Mr Rune’s suite was now in a state of considerable confusion. And obvious captivity. He drummed his fists against the glassy walls of his prison. Possibly double-glazed they were.

  Seemingly unbreakable anyway.

  He pulled out the two-way radio set, pressed the ‘speak’ button and shouted ‘Tuppe’ into it.

  ‘Aaaaagh. Oh. Help. What?’ came the voice of Tuppe. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m stuck, I need your help.’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Oh don’t be so stupid, you know who it is.’

  ‘Use your code name.

  ‘Delta Force!’

  ‘Hearing you loud and clear, Delta Force. What have you to report?’

  ‘I’m trapped in Rune’s apartment. Inside the Cabinet of Dr Caligari or something. Get me out of here.’

  ‘Do you wish me to put Operation Call Room Service into, er, operation, Delta Force?’

  ‘Yes and make it quick.’

  ‘Howling Commando signing off then. Expect me with the champagne. Lie low for now. Message ends.’

  Cornelius jammed the two-way radio back into his pocket. ‘Now just think calmly,’ he told himself. ‘If you got yourself in, you can get yourself out.’

  ‘What exactly have you got yourself into?’ enquired Mr Rodway. ‘Perhaps we can help.’

  Thelma offered the bald estate agent a withering glance. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Businessmen.

  ‘Oh dear Lord, no,’ said Mr Craik.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s Mr Rune, he’s seen me. He’s calling me over.’

  ‘Well go and pass the time of day. Tell him all about our plans for the MCD. Impress him. I will entertain the ladies in your absence.’

  ‘Oh dear Lord,’ said Mr Craik once more.

  ‘Go on. Don’t keep him waiting. For the Lord’s sake don’t do that.’

  ‘No, no indeed.’ Mr Craik jumped up and took his leave.

  ‘You called?’ said he, a-trembling at the table of Hugo Rune.

  ‘Who’s this cove?’ asked the Brigadier. ‘Shifty eyes. One of your bods, Rune? Take a stick to the blighter and send him on his way.’

  Hugo Rune stilled the volatile Brig with a single, though mysterioso, gesture of his left hand. ‘Be seated,’ said Rune to Mr Craik.

  Mr Craik drew out a chair.

  ‘Floor,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And kneel with it.’ Stephen Craik knelt down.

  Thelma watched this. As did Louise.

  ‘Oh dear Lord,’ said Mr Rodway, watching also.

  ‘Dining with friends?’ Rune asked. ‘Two ripe-looking youngsters. Who’s the bald git?’

  Mr Craik’s wild-again eyes flashed up at Rune’s shaven dome. ‘That’s Mr Rodway,’ he ventured. ‘The estate agent.’

  ‘The born-again Cardinal, oh yes.’

  ‘The who, I’m sorry?’

  ‘Never you mind. How are you progressing with the task I set you?’

  ‘Very well, Mr Rune. We’ve—’

  ‘Not now,’ said Rune, putting a fat finger to his lips. ‘Later, in my suite. But why not bring your friends over to join us?’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think—’

  ‘At once,’ said Rune. ‘And please don’t make me ask you twice.’

  ‘And a couple of packets of flavoured crisps,’ said Tuppe into a courtesy phone. ‘And as quick as possible. It’s a surprise, just let yourself in with the pass key and leave the drink by the bed. Who should you charge it to? Mr Rune’s account, of course. It’s a surprise by him, for someone else. Me? I’m his chauffeur, calling from the car phone. Must go now, the lights have turned green. Goodbye.’ Tuppe replaced the telephone. ‘Howling Commando to Delta Force,’ he called into his two-way radio. ‘We have a green light on Operation Call Room Service, lie low in your cabinet and await extraction.’

  Hugo Rune stared hard into the face of Thelma who was now seated opposite him. ‘You have an upper-left molar that woul
d do well for extraction,’ said he. ‘Although it might be saved.’

  Thelma fingered her jaw. ‘How do you know that?’

  Rune smiled. ‘Champagne?’ he asked, dipping his hand into the Thirties-revival cooler.

  ‘Yes please, that would be nice.’ Thelma looked at Louise. And Louise looked at Thelma. Both felt decidedly uncomfortable.

  ‘You know who I am, of course,’ said Rune.

  Louise opened her mouth to say no. ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but of course you do,’ Rune filled a champagne flute and handed it to Louise. She took it in uneasy fingers. Rune’s large hand closed about hers.

  ‘Ah,’ said Rune, releasing it. ‘Ah yes, I see.’

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘I see all,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And most of the rest. Do you know that if you put one grain of rice on the first square of a chessboard, two grains on the next, four on the next, eight on the next and keep on doubling, that when you reached the final square, you would end up with enough grains of rice to bury England and Wales and all their population?’

  ‘Have to be a bloody big chessboard then,’ said Chunky. ‘Need a white king the size of your arse, Rune.’

  Hugo Rune smiled warmly upon his old chum. ‘Back to your billet now,’ said he. ‘There’s a good fellow.’

  ‘Come off it, Rune, haven’t even got stuck into the nosebag yet.’

  Hugo Rune leaned over to the Brig. He whispered words into his ear.

  The face of Chunky Wilberforce lost all of its ruddy hue. It whitened. Became albinotic, leucondermatous, eburnean.

  Things of a thesaurusian nature.

  ‘Ah, now, well, I, ah. Sorry to run and all that. But pressing business elsewhere. Say ta-ta for now then. Toodly-pip.’

  And, at a speed quite unbecoming for one of his advanced years, Brigadier Algenon ‘Chunky’ Wilberforce made his departure.

  ‘And so,’ said Rune, forming ship-ribs with his fingers and pressing his thumbs to his forehead, ‘now we are five. Unlucky number five. Who shall we lose?’

  His haunting eyes fanned over the sitters. Each of whom looked extremely eager to be lost.

  ‘You,’ said Rune to Mr Rodway. ‘Bald git. On your bike. Take a powder. Scram. Vamoose. Hit the road.’