The Great Pursuit

by Tom Sharpe

  Sonia looked at the glowing mass. Heat waves gusted into her face. Someone firing a machine-gun from the basement? It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. Unless of course you accepted Hutchmeyer’s theory that someone had deliberately set out to murder him.

  ‘And you’re quite sure nobody escaped?’ she asked.

  The fireman shook his head.

  ‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘We were the first truck to get here and apart from the shooting there hasn’t been anything come out of there. And the guy who did the shooting just has to be a goner.’

  So was Sonia. For a moment she tried to steady herself and then she collapsed. The fireman hoisted her over his shoulder and carried her to an ambulance. Half an hour later Sonia Futtle was fast asleep in hospital. She had been heavily sedated.

  *

  Hutchmeyer on the other hand was wide awake. He sat naked except for the jerry-cans in the back of the Coastguard launch that had rescued him and tried to explain what he had been doing in the middle of the bay at two o’clock in the morning. The Coastguard didn’t appear to believe him.

  ‘Okay, Mr Hutchmeyer, so you weren’t on board your cruiser when she bombed out …’

  ‘My cruiser?’ yelled Hutchmeyer. ‘That wasn’t my cruiser. I was on board my yacht.’

  The Coastguard regarded him sceptically and pointed to a piece of wreckage on the deck. Hutchmeyer stared at it. The words Folio Three were clearly visible, painted on the wood.

  ‘Folio Three’s my boat,’ he muttered.

  ‘Thought it just might be,’ said the Coastguard. ‘Still if you say you weren’t on her …’

  ‘On her? On her? Whoever was on that boat is barbecued duck by now. Do I look like I was …’

  Nobody said anything and presently the launch bumped into the shore below what remained of the Hutchmeyer Residence and Hutchmeyer was helped ashore, wrapped in a blanket. In single file they made their way through the woods to the drive where a dozen police cars, fire trucks and ambulances were gathered.

  ‘Found Mr Hutchmeyer floating out there with these,’ the Coastguard told the Police Chief and indicated the jerry-cans. ‘Thought you might be interested.’

  Police Chief Greensleeves looked at Hutchmeyer, at the jerry-cans, and back again. He was obviously very interested.

  ‘And this,’ said the Coastguard, and produced the piece of wood with Folio Three written on it.

  Police Chief Greensleeves studied the name. ‘Folio Three eh? Mean anything to you, Mr Hutchmeyer?’

  Huddled in the blanket Hutchmeyer was staring at the glowing ruins of his house.

  ‘I said, does Folio Three mean anything to you, Mr Hutchmeyer?’ the Police Chief repeated and followed Hutchmeyer’s gaze speculatively.

  ‘Of course it does,’ said Hutchmeyer, ‘it’s my cruiser.’

  ‘Mind telling us what you were doing out on your cruiser this time of the night?’

  ‘I wasn’t on my cruiser. I was on my yacht.’

  ‘Folio Three is a cruiser,’ said the Coastguard officiously.

  ‘I know it’s a cruiser,’ said Hutchmeyer. ‘What I’m saying is that I wasn’t on it when the explosion occurred.’

  ‘Which explosion, Mr Hutchmeyer?’ said Greensleeves.

  ‘What do you mean “which explosion”? How many explosions have there been tonight?’

  Police Chief Greensleeves looked back at the house. ‘That’s a good question,’ he said, ‘a very good question. It’s a question I keep asking myself. Like how come nobody calls the Fire Department to say the house is burning until it’s too late? And when we get here how come somebody is so anxious we don’t put the fire out they open up with a heavy machine-gun from the basement and blast all hell out of a fire truck?’

  ‘Somebody opened fire from the basement?’ said Hutchmeyer incredulously.

  ‘That’s what I said. With a goddam machine-gun, heavy calibre.’

  Hutchmeyer looked unhappily at the ground. ‘Well I can explain that,’ he began and stopped.

  ‘You can explain it? I’d be glad to hear your explanation, Mr Hutchmeyer.’

  ‘I keep a machine-gun in the romper room.’

  ‘You keep a heavy-calibre machine-gun in the romper room? Like to tell me why you keep a machine-gun in the romper room?’

  Hutchmeyer swallowed unhappily. He didn’t like to at all. ‘For protection,’ he muttered finally.

  ‘For protection? Against what?’

  ‘Bears,’ said Hutchmeyer.

  ‘Bears, Mr Hutchmeyer? Did I hear you say “bears”?’

  Hutchmeyer looked round desperately and tried to think of a reasonable answer. In the end he told the truth. ‘You see, one time my wife was into bears and I …’ he tailed off miserably.

  Police Chief Greensleeves studied him with even keener interest. ‘Mrs Hutchmeyer was into bears? Did I hear you say Mrs Hutchmeyer was into bears?’

  But Hutchmeyer had had enough. ‘Don’t keep asking me if that’s what you heard,’ he shouted. ‘If I say Mrs Hutchmeyer was into bears she was into goddam bears. Ask the neighbours. They’ll tell you.’

  ‘We sure will,’ said Chief Greensleeves. ‘So you go out and buy yourself some artillery? To shoot bears?’

  ‘I didn’t shoot bears. I just had the gun in case I had to.’

  ‘And I suppose you didn’t shoot up fire trucks either?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t. Why the hell should I want to do a thing like that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Mr Hutchmeyer, any more than I’d know what you were doing in the middle of the bay in the raw with a heap of empty gas-cans tied round you and your house is on fire and nobody has called the Fire Department.’

  ‘Nobody called … You mean my wife didn’t call …’ Hutchmeyer gaped at Greensleeves.

  ‘Your wife? You mean you didn’t have your wife with you out in the bay on board your cruiser?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Hutchmeyer, ‘I’ve told you already I wasn’t on my cruiser. My cruiser tried to ram me on my yacht and blew up and …’

  ‘So where’s Mrs Hutchmeyer?’

  Hutchmeyer looked around desperately. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, take him down the station,’ said the Police Chief, ‘we’ll go into this thing more thoroughly down there.’ Hutchmeyer was bundled into the back of the police car and presently they were on their way into Bellsworth. By the time they reached the station Hutchmeyer was in an advanced state of shock.

  *

  So was Piper. The fire, the exploding cruiser, the arrival of the fire engines and police cars with their wailing sirens and finally the rapid machine-gun fire from the romper room had all served to undermine what little power of self-assertion he had ever possessed. As the firemen ran for cover and the police dropped to the ground he allowed himself to be led away through the woods by Baby. They hurried along a path and came out in the garden of another large house. People were standing outside the front door gazing at the smoke and flames roaring into the air over the trees. Baby hesitated a moment and then, taking advantage of the cover of some bushes, dragged Piper along below the house and into the woods on the other side.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Piper asked after another half mile. ‘I mean we can’t just walk away like this as if nothing had happened.’

  ‘You want to go back?’ hissed Baby.

  Piper said he didn’t.

  ‘Right, so we’ve got to get some mileage,’ said Baby. They went on and passed three more houses. After two miles Piper protested again.

  ‘They’re bound to wonder what’s become of us,’ he said.

  ‘Let them wonder,’ said Baby.

  ‘I don’t see that’s going to do us any good,’ said Piper. ‘They are going to find out you deliberately set fire to the house and then there’s the cruiser. It’s got all my things on it.’

  ‘It had all your things on it. Right now they’re not on it any more. They’re either at the bottom of the bay or they’re floating around alon
gside my mink. When they find them you know what they’re going to think?’

  ‘No,’ said Piper.

  Baby giggled. ‘They’re going to think we went with them.’

  ‘Went with them?’

  ‘Like we’re dead,’ said Baby with another sinister giggle. Piper didn’t see anything to laugh about. Death even by proxy wasn’t a joke and besides he had lost his passport. It had been in the suitcase with his precious ledgers.

  ‘Right, so they’ll know you’re dead,’ said Baby when he pointed this out to her. ‘Like I said, we have to make a break with the past. So we’ve made it. Completely. We’re free. We can go anywhere and do anything. We’ve broken the fetters of circumstance.’

  ‘You may see it that way,’ said Piper, ‘I can’t say I do. As far as I’m concerned the fetters of circumstance happen to be a lot stronger than they ever were before all this happened.’

  ‘Oh you’re just a pessimist,’ said Baby. ‘I mean you’ve got to look on the bright side.’

  Piper did. Even the bay was lit up by the conflagration and a number of boats had gathered offshore to watch the blaze.

  ‘And just how do you think you’re going to explain all this?’ he said, forgetting for the moment that he was free and that there was no going back. Baby turned on him violently.

  ‘Who’s to explain to?’ she demanded. ‘We’re dead. Get it, dead. We don’t exist in the world where that happened. That’s past history. It hasn’t got anything to do with us. We belong to the future.’

  ‘Well someone’s going to have to explain it,’ said Piper, ‘I mean you can’t just go round burning houses down and exploding boats and hope that people aren’t going to ask questions. And what happens when they don’t find our bodies at the bottom of the bay?’

  ‘They’ll think we floated out to sea or the sharks got us or something. That’s not our problem what they think. We’ve got our new lives to live.’

  ‘Fat chance there’s going to be of that,’ said Piper, not to be consoled. But Baby was undismayed. Grasping Piper’s hand she led the way on through the woods.

  ‘Dual destiny, here we come,’ she said gaily. Behind her Piper groaned. Dual destiny with this demented woman was the last thing he wanted. Presently they came out of the woods again. In front of them stood another large house. Its windows were dark and there was no sign of life.

  ‘We’ll hole up here until the heat’s off,’ said Baby, using a vernacular that Piper had previously only heard in B-movies.

  ‘What about the people who live here?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t they going to mind if we just move in?’

  ‘They won’t know. This is the Van der Hoogens’ house and they’re away on a world tour. We’ll be as safe as houses.’

  Piper groaned again. In the light of what had just happened at the Hutchmeyer house the saying seemed singularly inappropriate. They crossed the grass and went round a gravel path to the side door.

  ‘They always leave the key in the glasshouse,’ said Baby. ‘You just stay here and I’ll go get it.’ She went off and Piper stood uncertainly by the door. Now if ever was his chance to escape. But he didn’t take it. He had lived too long in the shadow of other authors’ identities to be able now to act on his own behalf. By the time Baby returned he was shaking. A reaction to his predicament had set in. He wobbled into the house after her. Baby locked the door behind them.

  *

  In Hampstead Frensic got up early. It was Sunday, the day before publication, and the reviews of Pause O Men for the Virgin should be in the papers. He walked up the hill to the newsagent and bought them all, even the News of The World which didn’t review books but would be consoling reading if the reviews were bad in the others or, worse still, non-existent. Then, savouring his self-restraint, he strolled back to his flat without glancing at them on the way and put the kettle on for breakfast. He would have toast and marmalade and go through the papers as he ate. He was just making coffee when the telephone rang. It was Geoffrey Corkadale.

  ‘You’ve seen the reviews?’ he asked excitedly. Frensic said he hadn’t.

  ‘I’ve only just got up,’ he said, piqued that Geoffrey had robbed him of the pleasure of reading the evidently excellent coverage. ‘I gather from your tone that they’re good.’

  ‘Good? They’re raves, absolute raves. Listen to what Frieda Gormley has to say in The Sunday Times, “The first serious novel to attempt the disentanglement of the social complicity surrounding the sexual taboo that has for so long separated youth from age. Of its kind Pause O Men for the Virgin is a masterpiece.”’

  ‘Gormless bitch,’ muttered Frensic.

  ‘Isn’t that splendid?’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘It’s senseless,’ said Frensic. ‘If Pause is the first novel to attempt the disentanglement of complicity, and Lord alone knows how anyone does that, it can’t be “of its kind”. It hasn’t got any kind. The bloody book is unique.’

  ‘That’s in the Observer,’ said Geoffrey, not to be discouraged, ‘Sheila Shelmerdine says, “Pause O Men blah blah blah moves us by the very intensity of its literary merits while at the same time demonstrating a compassionate concern for the elderly and the socially isolated. This unique novel attempts to unfathom those aspects of life which for too long have been ignored by those whose business it is to advance the frontiers of social sensibility. A lovely book and one that deserves the widest readership.” What do you think of that?’

  ‘Frankly,’ said Frensic, ‘I regard it as unmitigated tosh but I’m delighted that Miss Shelmerdine has said it all the same. I always said it would be a money-spinner.’

  ‘You did, you most certainly did,’ said Geoffrey, ‘I have to hand it to you, you’ve been absolutely right.’

  ‘Well I’ll have to see about that,’ said Frensic before Geoffrey could become too effusive. ‘Reviews aren’t everything. People have yet to buy the book. Still, it augurs well for American sales. Is there anything else?’

  ‘There’s a rather nasty piece by Octavian Dorr.’

  ‘Oh good,’ said Frensic. ‘He’s usually to the point and I like his style.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He’s far too personal for my taste and he should stick to the book. That’s what he’s paid for. Instead he has made some rather odious comparisons. Still I suppose he has given us some quotable quotes for the jacket of Piper’s next book and that’s the main thing.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Frensic and turned with relish to Octavian Dorr’s column in the Sunday Telegraph, ‘I just hope we do as well with the weeklies.’

  He put the phone down, made some toast and settled down with Octavian Dorr, whose piece was headed ‘Permissive Senility’. It began, ‘It is appropriate that the publishers of Pause O Men for the Virgin by Peter Piper should have printed their first book during the reign of Catherine The Great. The so-called heroine of this their latest has many of the less attractive characteristics of that Empress of Russia. In particular a fondness amounting to sexual mania for the favours of young men and partiality for indiscretion that was to say the least, regrettable. The same can be said for the publishers, Corkadales …’

  Frensic could see exactly why Geoffrey had hated the review. Frensic found it entirely to his taste. It was long and strident and while it castigated the author, the publisher and the public whose appetite for perverse eroticism made the sale of such novels profitable, and then went on to blame society in general for the decline in literary values, it nevertheless drew attention to the book. Mr Dorr might deplore perverse eroticism but he also helped to sell it. Frensic finished the review with a sigh of relief and turned to the others. Their praise, the presumptuous pap of progressive opinion, earnest, humourless and sickeningly well-meaning, had given Pause the imprimatur of respectability Frensic had hoped for. The novel was being taken seriously and if the weeklies followed suit there was nothing to worry about.

  ‘Significance is all,’ Frensic murmured, and helped his nose to snuff. ‘Prime the pump with meaningful
hogwash.’

  He settled back in his chair and wondered if there was anything he could do to ensure that Pause got the maximum publicity. Some nice big sensational story for the daily papers …

  14

  In the event Frensic had no need to worry. Five hours to the west the sensational story of Piper’s death at sea was beginning to break. So was Hutchmeyer. He sat in the Police Chief’s office and stared at the Chief and told his story for the tenth time to an incredulous audience. It was the empty gasolene cans that were fouling things up for him.

  ‘Like I’ve told you, Miss Futtle tied them to me to keep me afloat while she went to get help.’

  ‘She went to get help, Mr Hutchmeyer? You let a little lady go and get help …’

  ‘She wasn’t little,’ said Hutchmeyer, ‘she’s goddam large.’

  Chief Greensleeves shook his head sorrowfully at this lack of chivalry. ‘So you were out in the middle of the bay with this Miss Futtle. What was Mrs Hutchmeyer doing all this time?’

  ‘How the hell would I know? Setting fire to my hou …’ Hutchmeyer stopped himself.

  ‘That’s mighty interesting,’ said Greensleeves. ‘So you’re telling us Mrs Hutchmeyer is an arsonist.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ shouted Hutchmeyer, ‘all I know is—’ He was interrupted by a lieutenant who came in with a suitcase and several articles of clothing, all sodden.

  ‘Coastguards found these out in the wreckage,’ he said, and held a coat up for inspection. Hutchmeyer stared at it in horror.

  ‘That’s Baby’s,’ he said. ‘Mink. Cost a fortune.’

  ‘And this?’ asked the Lieutenant, indicating the suitcase.

  Hutchmeyer shrugged. The lieutenant opened the case and removed a passport.

  Greensleeves took it from him. ‘British,’ he said. ‘British passport in the name of Piper, Peter Piper. The name mean anything to you?’

  Hutchmeyer nodded. ‘He’s an author.’

  ‘Friend of yours?’

  ‘One of my authors. I wouldn’t call him a friend.’