‘Surely I recognize you, madam,’ said the unsmiling auctioneer. ‘Weren’t you here last week?’
The lady in the straw hat nodded. ‘I purchased two lots. I’ve put one of them back into the sale this week. I’m going to bid for it myself.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I paid far too much for it the first time, so I’ve put a really low reserve on it now. If I can pick it up this week it should be a real bargain.’
‘But I thought you said you wouldn’t have a thing like that in your house.’
‘I did, but you can’t pass up a bargain, can you? And if I get it really really cheap I might put it back into next week’s auction.’
‘Oh I do hope so,’ said the auctioneer. ‘Now, lot number one.’
‘This is my lot,’ said the lady, ‘so no-one else bid.’
‘What’s going on here?’ A smart young police officer pushed his way through the crowd. ‘Stop hitting that man, Patel. Oh, it’s you, is it, McMurdo? What villainy are you up to this time?’
‘It’s not my fault,’ wailed Felix, as Mr Patel struck him a blow to the shin. ‘My money’s stuck in this machine, that’s all.’
‘I saw everything,’ said a young mother with clenched buttocks. ‘McMurdo started it. The fiend.’
‘I did not. All I want is some cigarettes.’
Mr Patel took another swing at the un-canny Scot and hit the young police officer.
‘This could be a long afternoon,’ said Tuppe. ‘Should we pop out for an hour or so and take a late breakfast?’
Cornelius shook his head and vanished under his hair. ‘Not likely. I’ve seen that one before. We slip out for five minutes and the lot will be sold before we get back.’
‘You are wise beyond your years.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Sold to the lady in the straw hat,’ said the auctioneer. ‘Lot ninety-seven.’
‘Told you,’ said Cornelius. ‘You’ve got to have your wits about you in this game.’
‘Stand back, the lot of you.’ The young police officer fished out a twenty-two-function Swiss Police knife and selected a worthy blade. ‘I’ll soon deal with this.’
He worked the blade into the slot and waggled it about.
‘Don’t you damage that machine,’ said Mr Patel.
‘Sir, I know what I’m doing. We’re trained to deal with situations like this.’ He gave the knife a violent twist.
The blade snapped off.
The police officer gaped at his Swiss Police knife. Its functioning power had just been reduced by a factor of one.
‘My best knife.’ The police officer burst into a flood of tears.
‘Look what you’ve done now, McMurdo.’ The tobacconist raised his stout stick. The crowd cheered him on.
‘Lot ninety-seven. Leonardo Da Vinci’s missing workbook. Containing his designs for the perpetual-motion helicopter. Mathematical principles appertaining to the five-sided cube and the formula for the transmutation of base metal into gold. Who’ll start me off with a fiver?’
‘Four,’ said a fellow in a green cagoule.
‘Five over here,’ said a big fat man in a shameless wig.
‘I have five,’ the auctioneer waved his gavel around. ‘Do I hear six? I’d like to hear six.’
‘Six,’ said someone.
‘I have six,’ said the auctioneer.
‘No, you don’t have six,’ said the someone. ‘You wanted to hear six. And now you’ve heard it.’
‘It’s you again, isn’t it, madam?’
‘Only kidding,’ said the lady in the straw hat.
‘This is a very peculiar auction,’ said Tuppe.
‘My penknife,’ wailed the officer of the law. Several young, and reasonably wild wild women stepped forward to comfort him. A man in a uniform was a good catch in these parts.
A bus drew up at the lights and the driver, an excitable Puerto Rican, climbed down from his cab to see what all the fuss was about.
Up on the scaffolding, the two rugged manly types whistled at the womenfolk.
The lights changed to green and the traffic began to back up.
‘Six,’ said the big fat man in the shameless wig.
‘But you said five,’ said the auctioneer.
‘I can change my mind if I want to.’
‘No. That’s not what I meant.’
‘I’ll bid seven,’ said the cagoule. ‘Can I bid seven with a major credit card, by the way? I’m not sure whether the lady asked about that.’
‘Eight down here,’ cried Tuppe, ‘just for the hell of it.’
‘Eight somewhere down the back,’ said the auctioneer.
‘Who said eight?’ the fat gentleman asked. ‘I’ll go to nine.’
‘Who said nine?’ Tuppe asked.
‘Chap in the wig,’ said Cornelius, giving his chum a leg up. ‘Shall I bid ten?’
‘Move your bus!’ shouted a travelling salesman with places to be.
‘Your mother!’ cried the Puerto Rican, making a gesture with thumb and front teeth.
‘See you, Jimmy!’ The travelling salesman climbed from his car, rolling up his sleeves as he did so.
‘It was a birthday present from my old white-haired mother,’ blubbered the officer of the law.
‘Would you like to come back to my place for some sex?’ a young woman asked.
‘I have ten.’ The auctioneer waved his gavel in the air.
‘Who said ten?’ Tuppe asked.
‘Chap in the cagoule.’
‘What’s a cagoule?’
‘Eleven? Do I hear eleven? Big fat man with the shameless wig? No? Still with the chap in the lightweight, knee-length anorak of French origin, very popular with bearded prannies who wear ethnic shoes, get off on Olde English folk music and have girlfriends called Ros who run encounter groups where you can find your true self and be at one with the cosmos. Eleven still with you, sir.’
‘Well!’ said the chap in the cagoule. ‘I don’t know if I want it now.’
‘Oh go on,’ said Ros, his girlfriend.
‘Twelve,’ said a new voice.
‘Twelve.’ The auctioneer was all smiles once more. ‘Twelve I have.’
‘Who said twelve?’ Tuppe asked.
‘Who cares?’ Cornelius replied.
‘Twelve I have. All finished at twelve then? Twelve million once…twelve million twice…’
‘Twelve million?’ Tuppe asked.
‘There’s wee lads robbing your shop,’ a granny told Mr Patel. ‘If you’ll give us a lend of your stout stick I’ll deal with McMurdo while you see to them.’
‘Thank you, madam.’ The tobacconist parted with his stick and fought his way through the noisy crowd that now spilled into the road.
‘All I want is my bloody Woodbine.’
‘I know you, McMurdo, child eater so you are.’ The granny swung the stout stick.
Peep peep peep barp barp and honk, went the traffic.
‘Who you calling a wetback, homes?’ The bus driver kicked the travelling salesman where Cornelius had kicked Hamish.
A group of shaven-headed yobbos, with tattooed cheeks and nationalistic leanings, observed this from the upper deck and came swarming down from the bus.
The rugged manly types on the scaffolding flung nuts and bolts at them.
The comforting young woman led the sniffing police officer up the stairs to her bedroom.
‘And sold to the Sultan of Brunei, for twelve million pounds. Thank you, Your Majesty.’
‘Will you take an IOU?’ the sultan asked.
‘How much money do you have about your person?’ Tuppe asked Cornelius.
‘A little over four hundred pounds. In cash.’
‘Lot ninety-eight. Garish print, ‘The Crying Child’, with Artexed frame and piece of knotted string for hanging purposes to rear. Some small area of fire damage. What do I hear for this little beauty? Pound anywhere?’
‘Pound over here,’ said the lady in the straw
hat. ‘Could we have a window shut, do you think? There’s a terrible rumpus going on outside.’
‘Crash’ went a brick through the window of a nearby television shop and things took a new, but not entirely unexpected, turn for the worse.
A circling police traffic helicopter radioed in to base.
‘Yours for a pound then,’ said the auctioneer.
‘I’d like to put it back into the auction for next week,’ said the lady. ‘It hasn’t reached the reserve price.’
‘Lot ninety-nine. Three slaves. One answering to the name of Henry. Good house-boy. City and Guilds certificates in business management, light engineering and macrame. Enjoys windsurfing, working out at the gym and strutting his funky stuff on the dance floor. Who’ll start me off then?’
‘Twenty-five pounds,’ said the lady in the straw hat.
‘Twenty-six,’ said the Sultan of Brunei.
‘Thirty,’ said Ros.
‘Pass out those CD players,’ said the bus driver. ‘Load them into my cab.’
‘Uncle Wolf!’ cried Mr Patel into his telephone. ‘Big race riot going on here. Get the boys together. Bring many guns. Bring Clicki Ba!’
‘And sold to the young woman who runs the encounter group.’
‘Huh,’ said the chap in the cagoule, making a huffy face.
‘Lot one hundred,’ said the auctioneer.
‘We’re on,’ said Tuppe.
‘Lot one hundred. Large green canvas portmanteau containing the personal effects of the late Victor Zenobia. Brush-and-comb set in calfskin case. Various papers, duffle-coat (lacking toggles) some wear on elbows. No reserve.’
‘Can you see it?’ Tuppe asked.
Cornelius craned his neck. ‘It’s on a table by the pulpit. The Campbell is leaning on it.’
‘All right now, ladies and gentlemen. Who’s going to start me off on this one? Very chic brush-and-comb set. Tenner anyone?’
‘Ten,’ said the Campbell, glowering around the place.
Cornelius stuck his hand up, caught the eye of the auctioneer and ducked down again.
‘Eleven I have at the back there.’
‘Who said eleven?’ growled the Campbell.
‘Do I hear twelve?’
‘Twelve.’ The Campbell curled his lip.
Cornelius stuck his hand up again.
‘Thirteen at the back of the hall.’
‘Fourteen!’ The Campbell raised his voice.
Cornelius raised his hand.
The sound of an explosion issued from the street. And the distant wail of police sirens.
‘Twenty-five pounds’.’ stormed the Campbell. ‘And the devil take the man who offers more.’
‘Thirty!’ Cornelius had to shout. There was a rat-at-tat of machine-gun fire and several windows shattered. The auctioneer took the dive for cover. He took his microphone with him.
‘Do I hear forty?’ he called. ‘And you’ll have to speak up.’
‘Forty.’ The Campbell drew out a pistol which had no hint whatsoever of the Airfix factory about it.
‘Fifty!’ called Cornelius.
‘Uh-oh.’ Tuppe spied the lower portions of Angus and Sawney approaching through the forest of legs. ‘They’re on to us.’
Cornelius scooped up his chum and scrambled on to the nearest table, scattering antique French tennis racquets.
‘One hundred pounds,’ he shouted.
‘One hundred.’ The auctioneer waved his gavel above the pulpit. ‘Do I hear one-fifty?’
The Campbell rooted in his combat jacket. ‘I don’t know if I have that much on me,’ he said. ‘Could you just hold up the bidding while my boys settle with the opposition?’
‘Going once at one hundred,’ called the auctioneer, assuming the foetal position.
‘Look out!’ Tuppe clung to the tall boy’s neck. Cornelius leapt nimbly as crocodile teeth fanned the air beneath them.
Outside in the war-torn street, Special Forces vehicles drew up in an uncompromising line. Steel doors rose at their rear ends and heavily armed men dropped to the ground.
‘Have at you, spalpeen!’ Angus took another swipe. Cornelius took another leap.
‘Gas masks on,’ ordered the commander of Special Services. ‘Fire on my command.’
The mob, now several hundred strong, and going at it hammer and tongs, took time out to boo and jeer at the military presence. Some began to hurl stones. Shaven-headed Nationalists rolled a car on to its side and took up positions behind it.
‘Going twice,’ said the auctioneer. ‘Twice at one hundred pounds.’
‘One hundred and five,’ called the lady in the straw hat. ‘What the heck eh? It’s only money.’
‘Fire!’ Tear gas canisters broke into the mob. The Nationalists replied with Molotov cocktails and foul language. Petrol from the upturned car flooded across the street and took fire beneath the bus, which erupted in a gush of flame.
‘You did that, you peeg!’ The bus driver drew out a Saturday-night special and shot the travelling salesman.
Above the war cries and the screams and the order to ‘fire at will’, came the thunder of approaching hoofbeats.
Down Agamemnon Street, leaping motor cars and fleeing rioters, came a horde of Afghani horsemen. And to the van of them, high upon a pure-bred white Arab stallion, the Wolf of Kabul.
Mr Patel waved from his shop doorway. ‘Hi, Uncle,’ he called.
‘Two hundred pounds.’ Cornelius leapt from table to table, Tuppe held high. ‘All cash.’
‘Two hundred pounds I hear.’ The auctioneer stuck his head up above the pulpit and the Campbell took a shot at it.
‘Everybody down.’ The Campbell fired into the air, taking a chip out of the magnificent fan vaulting. ‘On your knees, heads to the floor, or you’re dead.’
‘Controlled bursts. Choose your targets.’ The Special Forces commander raised his hand. The Wolf of Kabul bore down upon him. The now legendary Clicki Ba whirling above his turbaned head.
‘Destroy the infidels,’ cried the Wolf of Kabul.
‘Bloody hell,’ cried the Special Forces commander. ‘Take cover.’
Firing wildly in all directions, his men did just that.
A ricocheting bullet chanced to take the front from the cigarette machine. And Felix Henderson McMurdo, who was cowering beneath it, suddenly found Woodbine raining down upon him.
‘This must be my lucky day,’ said the un-canny Scot.
Special Forces men burst through the front door of The Anabaptist Reform Church, and gaped in horror at the unholy tableau spread out before them. They had stumbled in upon what appeared to be nothing less man a pagan sacrifice.
The ungodly congregation knelt with their faces bowed to the floor. Above them, in the pulpit, a man, apparently a black magician, in a tweed cap, held his hands high in blasphemous benediction.
And before him, upon an altar table, flanked by sword bearers, stood a tall wild-eyed figure. Surely he wore the mane of a lion upon his head and clutched in his upraised claws, the lifeless body of a small child!
‘Holy stations of the cross.’ A Special Forces man made the sign over his chest with a gun-free hand. ‘Devil worshippers.’
His comrade at arms caught sight of the Campbell, who was struggling with Hamish to shift the green canvas portmanteau. ‘I know these bastards, sarge,’ said he. ‘They’re the Wild Warriors of West Lothian. Cannibals to a man Jack of them.’
‘Jack?’ asked the sergeant. ‘As in Jack London?’
9
REGARDING AN ULTIMATE TRUTH OF NO SMALL MAGNITUDE
People often ask me, ‘Hugo, why is it that when dining with royalty, you always keep your hat on?’
I explain that this is due to an old charter, dating back to the time of Sir Hugo de Courcy Rune, third earl of Penge. And then go on to tell this tale.
Apparently, King John and Philippe II of France were in dispute over the duchy of Normandy, and agreed to settle the matter by single combat. Sir Hugo de Courcy Run
e was King John’s champion, and big with it. And, as legend has it, no sooner had he put spur to his mount and raised his stout stick, than the French champion fled the field of honour. King John, being rightly chuffed, asked Sir Hugo what reward he would care for.
The third earl replied, ‘Sire, I have titles, lands and wealth enough. But I would crave a boon for myself and my successors. To remain covered about the head regions in the presence of your highness and all future sovereigns of the sceptred isle.’
King John, knowing full well Sir Hugo’s ‘thing about his bald spot’ and considering this pretty cheap at the price, gave the request the Royal thumbs up.
And so, whenever I am called to dine at the palace, I always sport an old straw boater or knitted bobble hat, to exercise my hereditary privilege.
I am born of noble stock and I am not too proud to admit it. When it comes to deeds of great valour performed in the cause of king and country, the name of Rune is up there with the best of them. And then some.
Which brings me to the matter of my heroic cousin, Lord Victor Rune VC, and the most singular circumstances surrounding his tragic and untimely demise. It began in this fashion.
After several years of rank rising, deed doing and medal winning, 1945 found Cousin Vic leading an armoured battalion into Berlin.
Considering this an ideal opportunity to notch up a final few medals for the family collection (now housed in a vault beneath Windsor Castle), it was Cousin Vic’s plan to round up all the Nazi war criminals and march them off to prison.
Imagine his surprise, therefore, when he discovered that not a single German he met had ever been in the Nazi Party, let alone had even heard of a concentration camp.
Cousin Vic was frankly baffled.
‘Where did all the Nazis go?’ he asked a Berliner who was waving a Union Jack.
‘What is a Nazi?’ the other replied.
And wherever he went in the city he found it to be the same. Everyone was a civilian. None of them had ever supported Mr Hitler and most were shocked to hear that anything like that had been going on.
The Book of Ultimate Truths (The Cornelius Murphy Trilogy 1) Page 7
