“You know, Fairfax,” said I, prodding irritably at my telephone, “it is not enough to ride. One must also be able to pay.”
*
Our journey to St Clifford’s was reminiscent of the chariot race from Ben-Hur, making any conversation beyond cursing or praying impossible. Once deposited both shaken and stirred at our destination, I paid the taxi driver, a slim, Eastern European gentleman who wept with gratitude when I tipped him a groat. Suitably reimbursed, he sent his vehicle screeching away down the pavement, causing a group of elderly nuns to dive for cover in a veritable turmoil of flying habits and wimples.
“One rarely hears such choice language from ladies of the order,” commented Urban-Smith. “I presume it was the power of Christ that compelled them.”
I brushed myself down and smoothed my ruffled feathers. “I had best crack on. I am due in court tomorrow and have to make preparations.”
“I shall return to the safety of Chuffnell Mews by foot,” said Urban-Smith. “Now that my life has ceased to flash before my eyes, perhaps I will be able to devote my attentions to my imminent press conference.”
“I, for one, await tonight’s Channel Four news with bated breath and whispering humbleness,” said I. “You can tell me all about it at dinner.”
“Will do, Rupert, but let us hope that Inspector Gadget does not take umbrage, or I may be eating mine through a straw.”
We parted company, and I continued onwards to the mortuary, where Danny awaited me. I was scheduled to perform an autopsy on a middle-aged gentleman who had died from a perforated oesophagus during an oesophagogastroduodenoscopy (the passing of a flexible camera down the gullet, through the stomach and into the duodenum).
“During a what?” asked Danny.
“An oesophagogastroduodenoscopy.”
“Sounds like he swallowed a dictionary.”
I studied the fellow’s paperwork. “Thesaurus actually. One of those pocket editions.”
There were also post-mortems to perform on an elderly lady who had collapsed unexpectedly at the supermarket and a fifty-year-old man who had died at home from a suspected heart attack, so I decided to whip through those first and then concentrate on the human book repository.
“Are you in a hurry?” asked Danny.
“I have to prepare for court tomorrow. I’m acting as expert witness at the Egg-sterminator trial.”
You may recall that in the spring of 2006, an elderly gentleman was killed with an electric egg whisk. The murder received much coverage, and the accused was dubbed, ‘The Egg-sterminator’ by the media.
“I hope the police didn’t have to beat a confection out of him,” offered Danny.
I spent the afternoon in my office and, in view of the abysmal weather, took a taxi back to my lodgings just before five, arriving at a little after half past.
Mrs Denford was busy at the stove, and the scent of roasted animal flesh and tuberous vegetation was sweet music to my olfactory nerves as I lurched across the threshold. I showered and changed, and was eagerly toying with my cutlery at the kitchen table by six o’clock.
Urban-Smith joined me, and we gorged in silence. Once sated, we trickled through to the living room to digest.
“I have had a most constructive afternoon,” Urban-Smith reported. “The news conference was surprisingly civilised. I understand that it has already been featured on the regional bulletins and should also appear on all the national broadcasts.” He rubbed his hands gleefully. “Our enemy feels the net tightening about them. They will have to act.”
“By killing us, presumably.”
“Precisely, Rupert. Precisely.”
“Should I contact an undertaker?”
“I hope that won’t prove necessary, but for future reference, what are your feelings with regard to being cremated?”
I cupped an ear. “Did you say cremated, or fellated?”
“Either. Take your pick.”
“As to the former, I have no preference. As to the latter, thank you for your kind offer, Fairfax, but I should prefer to maintain our current Platonic status.”
“As you wish.”
I regarded him nervously as he located his laptop and booted it up. “Are you going to show me your etchings?”
“Not quite, Rupert. I have found a solution to our dilemma regarding call screening. I have set Wavebreaker to filter out all frequencies below one hundred hertz other than the 17 to 18 hertz range. If we are exposed to the LOL curse, we shall certainly know about it but not succumb to it. I have also disconnected the house phone and I shall leave my laptop plugged in. If you receive any unsolicited calls, simply plug the telephone in here, and Wavebreaker will do the rest.”
“Top hole, Fairfax,” I said. “Do you think we shall have long to wait?”
“Unlikely,” he replied, looking to the mantel clock. “I laid it on rather thick, and hopefully the bait will soon be taken.”
*
It was not long until the call came. At half past seven, my mobile telephone filled the room with the Barry White classic, ‘Hung Like a Whale.’
I held up the telephone. “No number displayed.”
Urban-Smith snatched it from me and hurriedly plugged it into his laptop. There was a subtle change in the tone of Barry’s crooning as the sound was transferred to the computer’s speakers.
I answered the call. “Harker speaking.”
A heavily distorted voice issued from the speakers. “I wish to speak to Fairfax Urban-Smith.”
“I am here,” said he.
The computer began to shudder, and I became abruptly seized with a nauseating feeling of ill-fortune and dread. From his expression, I could see that my comrade felt it also. This feeling continued for about twenty seconds and then the line went dead.
I released a breath that I had been unaware I was holding. “What a detestable sensation.”
“Indeed.” Urban-Smith rubbed his eyes. “Deeply unsavoury, yet most satisfactory, for we know that our attacker is no more than three hundred metres away; probably outside in a car, waiting to see if an ambulance arrives. Once they realise that I am unscathed, they will run and we lose the game.” He rose. “We must act quickly, Rupert. Grab your coat and some money and follow me.”
We seized our overcoats, and Urban-Smith led me out of the back door and across the rear courtyard to the back gate which opened into the narrow alley that runs behind Chuffnell Mews. We sprinted down the alley and onward into Lower Grillbury Street and thence the Marylebone Road. Regrettably, I am built for comfort rather than velocity, and my lungs floundered and broiled in my chest as I struggled to match pace with my long-limbed companion.
We hailed a taxi on the Marylebone Road, and at Urban-Smith’s instruction, the driver kept the motor idling as we surveyed the junction with Baker Street.
“We are looking for either a green Fiesta or a dark Mondeo,” advised Urban-Smith.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“It is as I said, Rupert. The little details.”
“Now look here….” I demanded, but the words froze upon my lips as, sure enough, a blue Mondeo appeared at the junction, indicating left.
Urban-Smith banged upon the back of the driver’s seat. “See there. Do a U-turn and then follow that blue Ford,” he instructed. “An extra shilling if you can remain unnoticed.”
“Kor όslepić mnie, strajk światło i uwielbiam kaczkę, Szanowny! (Cor Blimey, strike a light and luv a duck, Guvnor!)”
We followed the Mondeo east, past Madame Tussaud’s and Regent’s Park, then turned left at Great Portland Street Station and headed north, following signs to Holloway and Camden Town.
I attempted to engage Urban-Smith in conversation, but he would have no part of it, preferring instead to play with his telephone.
“Do be quiet, Rupert. I am trying to send a text.”
“To DI Gadget?”
“Of course not. I am texting Dr Grove as to the whereabouts of Professor Gorshkov’s late mother�
��s house.”
“What on Earth for?”
“Hush, Rupert. Stop distracting me.” He cursed vociferously. “See what you have made me do. I have just texted him requesting assistance to build a henhouse.”
I desisted, and by the time we passed Holloway Prison, the text had been successfully sent and Urban-Smith had lapsed into reverie, his eyes tightly shut and his fingers writhing and contorting in a grotesque yandric cat’s cradle of seemingly impossible angles and intersects. I watched silently, both fascinated and repulsed by his nimbleness and proficiency as we continued northwards.
Approaching the Seven Sisters Underground Station, the Mondeo slowed and turned left. After making a right and two further lefts, we found ourselves on a quiet suburban street flanked by identical semi-detached houses. We watched as the Mondeo halted and then reversed onto the driveway of number forty-nine. Urban-Smith instructed the driver to continue onwards for a hundred yards and then deposit us at the kerb.
We tipped our taximan a crown and waited for him to depart before following the pavement back towards our quarry.
“It was the phone, Rupert. He fumbled with it, yet you did not.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked with not a little exasperation, but he had hurried on ahead and did not hear.
The Mondeo was parked with its boot open and the motor running. A handsome middle-aged woman in a long winter coat hurriedly piled bags and equipment into the car, whilst beside her, a gentleman in a rumpled white shirt and black trousers (but no shoes) was being menaced at gunpoint by a second gentleman in a trench coat and fedora.
As we reached the end of the driveway, recognition struck me like an errant cricket ball, and in that moment, the world shrunk about me and I froze in my tracks, oblivious to all else. Stood before us, wrestling with a pair of bulging suitcases, was none other than the recently widowed Ulyana Gorshkov.
No. This could not be. Surely this beautiful and dignified woman could never be part of this devilry?
“Professor Gorshkov,” shouted Urban-Smith, jolting me from my stupor. “Surrender your weapon. The game’s up.”
To say that I was dumfounded beyond reason barely does the matter justice; I was on the verge of becoming abysmal! Nor was I the only one.
With a shrill cry, Mrs Gorshkov dropped her luggage and clasped her hands to her chest, clearly unprepared for our intrusion. Not so, Professor Gorshkov. His face transformed to a mask of rage and hatred, and he let out a strangled bellow of fury and loathing. He turned his gun arm in our direction, and I stared in horrified resignation as his finger tightened about the trigger and he strode towards us with murderous intent.
◆◆◆
20. FAQ’s
Urban-Smith grabbed me and dragged me out of the line of fire as the revolver roared once, twice, three times.
The Gorshkovs’ hostage seized the opportunity to make a dash for it, sprinting across the neighbour’s front lawn. As he did so, I observed that his hands were bound behind his back.
Crouching low, Urban-Smith and I ran out onto the roadway, trying to keep the parked cars between ourselves and Professor Gorshkov. The gun roared twice more, and we cowered as fragments of shattered glass rained down upon us.
“Trofim! Hurry!” Ulyana Gorshkov had pulled the car into the road and was screaming at her husband to climb in. The Professor spat in our direction and hurried round to the passenger side. Mrs Gorshkov ground the gears, stomped on the accelerator, and as the car roared towards us, Urban-Smith heaved me to safety once again. There was the grinding of metal against metal and the banshee shriek of overburdened tyres as the Mondeo ploughed a furrow into one of the parked vehicles on its way past us.
Urban-Smith stepped out to watch the car accelerate away, and it was my turn to be saviour, hauling him back as a black saloon with no plates sped by in pursuit.
“It’s the Russians,” I said. “They’ve followed us.”
Lights were on in several houses, though no one had been brave enough to come and investigate the gunshots.
“The police will be on their way,” said Urban-Smith, “but I fear that this may prove to be the last that anyone sees of the Gorshkovs. I think it would be in our best interests to say nothing of our dealings with the Colonel or his enforcers.”
As Urban-Smith stooped to retrieve his phone, which had fallen onto the street in the furore, a head popped out from the hedge behind us.
“Have they gone?” asked the head.
“Indeed they have. I am Fairfax Urban-Smith, and this is my colleague, Dr Rupert Harker.”
“Fedya Dolfin. Please call me Fedya. Pardon me if I don’t shake hands, but I am trussed up very tightly. Would you mind untying me?”
“Not at all.”
Dr Dolfin wended his way around the shrubbery and presented himself so that we could release him from his bonds. He looked very little like the deceased Dr Dolfin on whom I had performed an autopsy, and I smelt a definite rat.
“Thank God you showed up,” he gushed. “How did you know where I was?”
“We didn’t. We were following Mrs Gorshkov.”
The man shuddered visibly. “A cold fish, that one, but you two certainly ruffled her feathers, if a fish can have feathers.”
I became aware of approaching sirens.
“Dr Dolfin,” said I.
“Fedya, please.”
“Fedya, can you explain how a completely different Fedya Dolfin happened to die in your bed a fortnight ago?”
“It’s a long story,” he replied with a sigh. “Do you mind if I save it for the police?”
*
Urban-Smith, Dr Dolfin and I were arranged in parallel on the back seat of a police car on our way to Tottenham Police Station when the driver received a call on his radio, asking him to deliver us to Wandsworth Station to liaise with elite expletivist, Inspector Gadget.
“Fairfax,” I said. “Did you know that Professor Gorshkov and Dr Dolfin were still alive?”
“Of course.”
“But how? It is one thing to fake one’s own death, but one’s own autopsy?”
“It was the phone, Rupert; he fumbled with it. Your explanation, that it was due to alcohol, would not hold water once I had seen the ease with which you were able to text Nell whilst under the influence.”
I pondered carefully but could not make the necessary leap. “I don’t see how one observation has led to the resultant deduction.”
Urban-Smith produced his pencil and pad from his jacket pocket and drew a horizontal line. “What do you see?” he asked, handing me the pad.
“It’s a straight line.”
“Your opinion, Dr Dolfin?”
“I agree. A straight line.”
Urban-Smith shook his head. “A reasonable assumption,” said he, “but sadly erroneous. It is a circle viewed from the side.”
“Brilliant,” I said, returning the pad. “That’s right up there with, ‘what’s pink and wrinkly and hangs out your trousers?’”
“What I am attempting to convey,” said Urban-Smith patiently, “is that there is always more than one perspective from which to view a problem; in this instance, the problem of Professor Gorshkov’s unfamiliar mobile telephone.”
“Alright, Fairfax,” I groaned, “kindly cut to Hecuba.”
“Very well. What if it were not the telephone that had been substituted, but the Professor himself?”
“A doppelgänger?”
“Absolutely,” confirmed Urban-Smith. “Allow me to elucidate. Either by design or fortuitous happenstance, Professor Trofim Gorshkov discovers a vibrational pattern that can induce strokes and sees the potential to make himself a great deal of money. I believe that fifty million U.S dollars was the price tag.
“Now, blackmailing the FSB is a dangerous game. Professor Gorshkov is already known to the Russian Military Attaché who, as we have discovered, is no fool. Gorshkov needs to disappear, and what better than becoming the victim of your own murder in front of dozens of independent
witnesses?”
Urban-Smith quietly waited for me to process the information. As a theory, it certainly held water.
“It does rather beg the question of who the victim was,” said I, “and how they were convinced to play along.”
Urban-Smith’s hands writhed and contorted in an unconscious yandric display of contemplation. “That would be the easy part,” he said, staring out of the car window as we crossed the Thames. “Perhaps an out-of-work actor, perhaps one of the thousands of London’s homeless population. Offer them money, food, clothing and so forth. Tell them that it’s all part of some jolly jape, some whizzer wheeze; a Professor-gram if you will.
“I suspect that the evening’s events unfolded thusly…”
*
Professor Trofim Gorshkov and Mrs Ulyana Gorshkov book into their room at the Ritz Hotel early on the evening of the sixth of October. A few days earlier, the Professor has burgled his place of work and removed his research and the equipment that will allow him to execute his plan.
At the hotel, they meet with a third party, one who bears a remarkable resemblance to Professor Gorshkov, and with his hair and beard trimmed to the same length and style. Perhaps he enters through the lobby, perhaps through a side door; nevertheless, he enters quietly and without attracting undue attention.
He liaises with the Gorshkovs in their hotel room, is plied with food and alcohol, and asked to make himself comfortable. He is told that during the evening, Professor Gorshkov will come to the room and disrobe, and that he is to dress in the Professor’s clothes and take his place at dinner. He will then receive a phone call, at which point the real Professor Gorshkov will make his entrance, and much hilarity shall ensue.
At the allotted hour, Professor Gorshkov spills wine on his shirt and jacket and excuses himself to his room, where he hands his clothes, shoes, watch, wedding ring and, most crucially, telephone to his substitute who then makes his way down to the ballroom, where Mrs Gorshkov greets him enthusiastically with a kiss.
The telephone rings and, being unfamiliar with it, he fumbles for a few seconds before raising it to his ear and becoming the second victim of the LOL curse (after the Professor’s terminally ill mother, which may have been something in the nature of both a trial run and a mercy killing).
Laugh Out Dead Page 15
