The Most Amazing Man Who Ever Lived (The Cornelius Murphy Trilogy Book 3)

by Robert Rankin

  Tuppe and Louise were in the front seat. An exhausted Louise had fallen asleep. Tuppe was reading a copy of the day’s Skelington Bay Mercury, which he’d found blowing along the beach.

  ‘LUGGAGE’ VICAR IN ‘GRAVE’ MISDEMEANOUR

  Ran the headline, and beneath it:

  RIOT BREAKS OUT AT LOCAL YOUTH’S FUNERAL

  ‘They like a punch up in this neck of the woods, don’t they?’ said Tuppe. ‘Cor look at that, poor kid.’

  ‘What is it?’ Cornelius asked. Tuppe displayed the newspaper. There was a big, blown-up photograph of Norman on the front.

  ‘Some local boy,’ said Tuppe. ‘Got killed when his father fell out of the sky onto his head.’

  ‘Are you making this up, Tuppe?’

  ‘No, it’s all here. Fourteen years of age. That’s pretty tragic.’

  Cornelius studied the newspaper. He looked long and hard into the face of Norman and a strange expression passed over his own.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Tuppe asked. ‘You look mighty strange.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Cornelius shook his head, showering the occupants of the Cadillac. ‘I seemed to feel something. Or sense something. We’ve never met this boy, have we?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Cornelius folded the newspaper and rammed it into his trouser pocket. ‘Mighty strange indeed. So what shall we do now?’

  ‘Let’s go and have a drink,’ said Thelma, fishing a vest-wearer’s wallet from her shoulder bag. ‘I’ve plenty of cash.’

  ‘Yes, I was hoping to have a word with you about that.’

  ‘You don’t approve, do you?’

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly a “victimless” crime, is it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Thelma took out the wallets and removed the cash from them, ‘we’ll call the money compensation for the violent interruption of our lunch. And we’ll mail the wallets back to the owners’ home addresses. Be a nice surprise for them after they’ve hitchhiked home.’

  Cornelius grinned and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘Wicked woman,’ said he, keying the ignition.

  The Cadillac shivered and the engine made a low, evil, growling sound. ‘And we’ll put this car into the first garage we come to. There’s definitely something not altogether right about it.’

  Mr Rodway’s brother Clive ran the Skelington Bay Auto Agency. He looked quite pleased to see Cornelius.

  ‘I’ll have a look at it,’ he said. ‘But I can’t promise how soon I’ll get it done.’

  ‘You got a lot on then?’ asked Tuppe.

  ‘Didn’t have until this lunchtime, but look at all those.’

  The mechanic pointed to the row of smart-looking cars gleaming on his forecourt. A Porsche, a Mercedes, two BMWs. A long black limousine with the personalized number plate HR1.

  ‘They look familiar,’ said Thelma.

  ‘They do,’ said Louise. ‘They were all parked in front of the Grande, when we drove the Cadillac in this morning.’

  ‘Well they’re all banjoed now,’ said the mechanic. ‘Faulty brakes, dodgy steering, weird noises coming from the engines.’

  ‘Curious,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle. Stay up all night to work on them if necessary.’

  ‘Highly commendable,’ said Cornelius.

  ‘A fine car deserves fine treatment, that’s my motto.’

  ‘And “a labourer is worthy of his hire”?’ Cornelius suggested.

  The mechanic wiped his hands upon his oily rag.

  ‘I’m in no particular rush,’ said Cornelius. ‘If you could fix mine during the hours of daylight, while on single time. And notify me in advance of any expensive parts you might require, so I can have them sent to you and—’

  ‘Yeah, I get the message,’ said the mechanic.

  ‘But I’ll tell you what,’ the Murphy voice took on a conspiratorial tone. ‘The long black limousine with the HR1 plates . . .’

  ‘Yeah?’ asked the mechanic.

  ‘Multi-millionaire,’ said Cornelius. ‘Money no object at all.’

  ‘You know him then?’

  ‘Like I know my own father.’ Cornelius winked.

  The mechanic winked back. ‘Cheers, mate,’ said he.

  26

  The most amazing man who ever lived appeared once more upon the scene; soaking once more in the perfumed waters of his marble bath-tub; and seeking once more the final equation to complete his formula for the universal panacea and elixir of life.

  And once more came the drumming on his chamber door.

  And once more came the voice of his landlady.

  ‘Get out of that bed, you lazy sod, or I’ll have my husband Cyril come and break down the door!’ she cried.

  Once more.

  And once more he awoke with a start.

  To find that he’d dozed off in his chair in the KEV-LYN suite at the Skelington Bay Grande.

  ‘Now, where were we?’ asked the most amazing man. ‘Ah yes. I recall, I was asking questions and you were answering them. A curious reversal of roles. But no matter.’

  Rune fixed his gaze upon a cringing fellow in a garish suit. A cringing fellow who answered to any one of a number of names. Except perhaps to that of McKintock.

  ‘Let us recap on events,’ said Rune. ‘I am rudely awakened from my nap by the noise of a fire appliance. I find the hotel in an uproar. I gaze down from my window to see a certain big-haired lout and his small companion streaking away from the premises. Appalled at this circumstance I call upon you in your room and find you packing your bags, preparatory to streaking away on your own account.’

  ‘I thought the hotel was on fire,’ lied he of the garish suit. ‘I was only trying to save my costumes.’

  ‘No, no,’ Rune raised a fat finger and waggled it in the air. ‘This I believe to be an untruth. Murphy is here, in this town. Was here in this very hotel. I feel that you and he exchanged words. That you have spoken to him of things that you should not.’

  ‘I never would. I never did.’

  ‘Explain to me then, his presence here.’

  ‘I don’t know. He must have broken out of the cell.’

  ‘I think I shall have to dismiss you from my employment,’ said Hugo Rune.

  ‘Oh yes?’ The man known as Showstein to some and by other names to others, could not control the look of relief which now spread across his face. ‘Dismiss me from your employment?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rune. ‘Let you go, as they say.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Showstein, sighing and sweating. ‘Let me go, oh my word.’

  ‘No hard feelings,’ said Rune.

  ‘None at all,’ said the man in the suit.

  ‘I know of a company that has a vacancy for such a fellow as you. I will furnish the necessary references.’

  ‘Why thank you, Mr Rune. Thank you very very much. What is the name of this company?’

  Rune drew a derringer from the sleeve of his silk dressing-gown and pressed it to the forehead of his ex-employee. ‘It’s called The Universal Reincarnation Company,’ he said, as he pulled the trigger. ‘I’ll let them know you’re on your way for the interview.’

  27

  ‘Are you sitting comfortably?’ asked Claude the ex-controller.

  ‘No, I’m most certainly not.’ Norman was crammed into a little bullet-shaped affair, in a kind of breech-loading affair, in one of the big sky nozzle soul-launching sort of affairs.

  ‘Well this won’t take long.’ Claude worked away at another affair. It was a large version of the little brass Karmascope contrivance. It even had a computer screen. Numbers flickered across this and Claude tapped at the keyboard. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

  ‘You never lose the old magic,’ said he.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Norman asked.

  ‘Mapping coordinates, sonny, zeroing you in on Cornelius Murphy.’

  ‘How do you know where he is?’

  ‘I’m working it out on the machine, don’t ask
so many damn fool questions.’

  ‘Do get a move on. Someone will catch us.’

  ‘I know exactly what I’m doing. I think.’ The old boy tapped some more. ‘Yes, certainly I do. Now do you remember what you have to say?’

  ‘Of course I remember. I tell this Murphy all you’ve told me about his bastard of a dad and all I know about the electrical discharging and what might well be the all-round extermination of the human species next Friday.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then let him figure out what to do about it.’

  ‘Hm,’ said old Claude. ‘Doesn’t sound an altogether fool-proof plan when you put it like that, does it?’

  ‘Oh do get a move on,’ Norman said.

  ‘I’m all done.’ The ancient grinned. ‘So I suppose it’s goodbye.’

  Norman peeped out at the ex-controller. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Beat the bastard,’ said Claude. ‘Me up here, you down there. Between the two of us we’ll beat him. All the hims of him there are.’

  ‘You really think we can?’ Norman had plenty of doubts. And he now felt a bit sad at saying goodbye to Claude. ‘You really think we can?’

  ‘Of course we can, sonny. Of course we can. Think positive. Do what’s right.’

  ‘I’ll see you again, won’t I?’ Norman gave a little sniff.

  ‘You’ll see me again.’

  ‘Look after yourself,’ said Norman, getting a crinkly mouth on. ‘It’s been, er, good to know you.’

  ‘Don’t get drippy on me, sonny.’

  ‘I’m not getting drippy, how dare you!’

  ‘That’s my boy.’ Claude pressed a big red button. The big sky nozzle belched purple flame and a little white point of life soared off across the blackness of space, bound for planet Earth.

  Claude mopped a tear from his eye. ‘Good luck, Norman,’ he said.

  Many miles, or dimensions or whatever, down below, Skelington Bay was dressing for the evening. The lights along the promenade clicked into rainbows. Neon danced in fish-and-chip shop windows. A red-and-white-striped barber’s pole revolved into nothingness.

  Pavements glowed with gold. And sunset laid a molten path across the sea to shore.

  Lovely stuff.

  In a bar near the west pier, Cornelius brought a tray of drinks to the table. ‘Are we all up for this?’ he asked.

  Thelma and Louise nodded. ‘As long as we get a crack at your loot once you’ve retrieved it.’

  ‘And as long as I stay well clear of Rune,’ said Tuppe. ‘That fellow scares the breakfast from my bottom, so to speak.’

  ‘If we all do it right then things will go without a hitch.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Tuppe. ‘You almost have me convinced there.’

  ‘Look it’s simple enough. I telephoned the Grande this afternoon to confirm whether Mr Hugo Rune would be dining there tonight. They said, yes he will, in the Casablanca, which is apparently undergoing repairs. Eight o’clock, they said. Now Rune is a man who likes his fodder. He’ll be settled in there for a couple of hours.’

  ‘And to make sure of that Louise and I will be joining him,’ said Thelma. ‘Eager to listen to this oh so interesting man, who according to you has been everywhere and met everybody.’

  ‘Right,’ said Cornelius. ‘And while he entertains you with fascinating tales, I shall break into his room and go through everything he has there. Hopefully I shall be able to find out what he’s up to and what he’s done with my money. I shall work as quickly as I can. If you can’t keep him talking, phone up to the room, twice, three rings each time.’

  ‘And I’ll be keeping a look out for you,’ said Tuppe. ‘And we will communicate through these.’ He proudly displayed the two-way radio sets he’d purchased with some of Thelma’s wallet winnings.

  Cornelius took one of the radio sets and gave it a dubious perusal. ‘This isn’t Watergate,’ said he.

  ‘No, but they’re really good fun. We can have secret call signs. Like Blue Leader and Foxtrot Patrol.’

  ‘It’s getting on for eight,’ said Cornelius. ‘Let’s drink up and get to it. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ said Tuppe. ‘I hate to mention it. But I feel it should be mentioned.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Shouldn’t somebody have woken Boris? We left him in the car.’

  The car was up on jacks now.

  And Boris was still asleep in the back.

  Which was probably all for the best, as it happened.

  Considering what lay in store for him.

  Soon.

  Cornelius, Tuppe, Thelma and Louise left the bar. Leave Boris to sleep for the night and get on with the dirty doings, had been the general consensus. Tuppe’s ‘mad sheep as diversionary tactic in an emergency situation’ being outvoted three to one.

  Two gentlemen watched the foursome’s departure. Although gentlemen is not quite perhaps the word. Somewhat grazed were these two. Grazed of chin and cheek-bone. Scuffed of suit and missing of initialled cufflink.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Mr Rodway. ‘The bunch from lunchtime at the Grande, conspiring to commit a felony. Should you get on the blower to the Lord High Butter of No Buts and alert him to their intentions?’

  Mr Craik flashed eyes which seemed less wild now that he had been beyond the range of Rune’s influence for almost all of the day. ‘Play this one by ear, I think. There might well be a little profit to be turned.’

  Mr Rodway tapped his tender nose. ‘I’m with you there, squire. With you there.’

  ‘Yore ‘ere, sir,’ Lola the showgirl waitress was on her evening shift. She had a bruise or two on her and one broken heel that seriously impaired her tottering, but a job’s a job, and Kevin the governor had promised her a raise. ‘This is yore seat.’

  ‘My thanks,’ Hugo Rune lowered his ponderous posterior onto the chair. He was clearly in high spirits (and apparently unaware that he was sharing a chapter).

  ‘Shall I fetch ya the wine list, sir?’

  ‘Do you have your little pad?’ Rune enquired.

  ‘Yeah, corse I ‘ave.’

  ‘Then write upon it, “Mr Rune will have what he had last night, but twice as much, as he is expecting a friend.”’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ The waitress staggered away on one heel. Rune gave his dire surroundings a careful once-over and consulted his pocket watch. ‘Three, two, one,’ said he.

  A bit of a crash in the door area, a slip to one side, a ricochet from the sweet trolley and an old chum sat down at his table.

  ‘Rune,’ said Brigadier Algenon ‘Chunky’ Wilberforce. For it was none other.

  ‘Chunky,’ said Rune. Hands clasped. Knuckles pressed.

  ‘Damn fine to see you, you old pederast.’

  ‘Yourself also, deflowered of virgins. And some even human!’ The two enjoined hands once more. Patted backs. Fell about in mirth for no apparent reason. Called for much wine.

  ‘How’s the billet?’ asked Rune.

  ‘Mustn’t grumble.’ The Brigadier, for this was the real McCoy (not the now-deceased impersonator), plucked upon abundant mustachios, clapped hands against a bulbous belly encased within considerable tweed and clicked his military heels together. ‘Shacked up with the local padre and his good lady. Man’s a total loon, dips his wick in anything with a handle on the top and a pair of straps round it.’

  ‘Better keep him clear of your wife then, what.’

  The Brigadier collapsed in much humour. ‘Or your toy boy, you old poo-nudger.’

  ‘Snorter?’ said Rune, pouring the wine that had been brought him. ‘Stick it in the teacup and call it black pudding.’

  ‘What the fig is going on there?’ asked Thelma, settling herself down at a nearby table.

  ‘Looks like he’s got a friend with him,’ said Louise. ‘I think we can sit this one out for a while.’

  Up on the top floor, Cornelius took out his Swiss Army knife and selected the b
lade with the skeleton-key attachment. Along the corridor and through a crack in the broom-cupboard door, Tuppe kept a wary eye on the staircase and a thumb on the ‘speak’ button of his two-way radio set.

  Cornelius slotted a selection of tumbler-turners into the hollow shaft of the skeleton key and sought the keyhole in the pinkly painted door of the KEV-LYN suite.

  And here he came up against his first major obstacle.

  The door lacked for a keyhole.

  ‘That can’t be right.’ Cornelius reached out to turn the door handle.

  But now the door lacked for this also.

  Cornelius reached his hand into his hair and scratched his head with it. Most odd. He would have to try and kick the door open. He glanced up and down the corridor.

  All clear.

  Cornelius drew back, raised his foot.

  But did no more.

  Because now the wall lacked for a door.

  All gone!

  ‘Clever,’ said Cornelius. ‘Very clever.’ He fished the two-way radio set from his back pocket, pressed the ‘speak’ button and said, ‘Tuppe.’

  ‘Aaaaagh!’ Tuppe collapsed amongst the mops and buckets. ‘What? Who? What?’

  ‘It’s me, Cornelius.’

  ‘Use your code name.’ Tuppe sought to extricate himself from the dustpans and brushes.

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s me.’

  ‘Could be a trick.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Cornelius viewed the wall which had so lately been a door. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘OK. What code name do you want me to use?’

  ‘I don’t know, make one up.’

  ‘How about Burglar to Lookout?’

  ‘No,’ said Tuppe. ‘That’s no good. Something more exciting.’

  ‘Look, I can’t think of anything. You make something up.’

  ‘All right, how about Delta Force to Howling Commando?’

  ‘Fair enough. Delta Force to Howling Commando, come in please.’

  ‘Howling Commando reading you loud and clear, Delta Force. What have you to report?’

  ‘The damned door has vanished and I can’t find my way into the room, require assistance please, over.’