"Retromancer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rankin Robert)

12

The Underground stations served as air-raid shelters during the Second World War. They were never intended to, but so many people flocked into them that the authorities simply turned a blind eye.

Down we went on the escalator into the bowels of Piccadilly. I had something of a shake going on. I fancied a bit of excitement, truly, but not getting blown up by a bomb.

‘How long do air raids generally last?’ I asked Hugo Rune as we descended on the escalator.

‘That depends very much on whether they are real air raids or not,’ he said.

‘You mean sometimes they are false alarms?’

‘I mean no such thing. Sometimes the Ministry of Serendipity wants the streets cleared for reasons of its own.’

‘What kind of reasons might these be?’

Mr Rune did tappings at his nose and pointed to a poster that read WALLS HAVE EARS.

That phrase rang a terrible bell, from my recent experiences in enemy-occupied Brentford. But I asked Mr Rune what it meant.

‘Spies,’ he whispered into my ear. ‘Fifth Columnists. Quizlings and beings of that nature, generally.’

‘There are German spies here?’ I whispered back and then did glancings all around.

Hugo Rune nodded and whispered some more. ‘Regarding air raids. When the air-raid siren sounds, all non-London-serving military personnel, essential services, ARP, Home Guard, police, ambulance services, firefighters and so on, must adjourn to the shelters at once. This is the law. Martial law. Anyone caught on the streets can be shot as a looter.’

‘That is never true,’ I said.

‘Oh yes it is,’ the Perfect Master whispered. ‘There is much that history does not record about this war. The Fire Service Secret Priority List, for instance.’ And he went on in whispered words to explain just what that was. ‘When the bombs start to drop and the calls come in to the fire stations, the gallant lads are expected to respond to these calls in order of priority – hospitals, Government buildings, food supply depots and suchlike. Now recall that the streets are deserted and there is no one to watch in which direction the appliances travel. The Secret Priority List in the station house does not list the Government-approved priority targets for fire extinguishing. On the contrary, it lists pubs, jewellery shops, furriers, high-class tailors and sweet shops. You may draw your own conclusions as to why.’

‘That is the most cynical thing I have ever heard you say,’ I said to Hugo Rune. ‘Those firemen are heroes. I have been told that my own father was a fireman here in London during the Blitz.’ And that made me think about my father. About meeting him. Because he was here, somewhere in London, right here and now. Alive.

Hugo Rune could tell what I was thinking and he mouthed ‘no’ towards me. ‘You must understand this, Rizla,’ he went on, ‘war brings out the best in people, the noble virtues. But it also brings out the worst. And the fear that the next minute may be your last does not always engender a charitable disposition.’

‘I am disgusted by your words,’ I said. ‘And also,’ and I fanned at my nose, ‘by this pong. The London populace that shelters here from the bombings is of a somewhat unwashed persuasion, I am thinking.’

‘Indeed.’ And Hugo Rune applied a nosegay to his sniffer. ‘But if your love is for a cockney singalong about getting your knees up and eating jellied eels, then this is the place to be.’

‘We are losing time here,’ I said. ‘If you wish to solve this case by the end of the day we have to get out of here at the hurry-up.’

‘And so we will, Rizla. Now follow me.’

And I followed Hugo Rune, down onto the platform of Piccadilly Underground Station, through the hurly-burly and hustle and bustle of cockney costermongers, pearly kings and queens, chimney-sweeping lads and a whole host of colourful period characters who surely should have peopled a Victorian music hall rather than a nineteen-forties Underground station.

‘Style never dates,’ said Hugo Rune, as if in answer to my unasked question. ‘Now follow me further.’

And we left the platform’s edge and stepped down onto the track.

‘Oh no!’ I cried. ‘We shall surely be electrocuted or run over by a train. This is not a good idea at all.’

‘Be not so timid, Rizla,’ called Himself, striding away with vigour. ‘The power is switched off during air raids. We have a good twenty minutes. Hurry now, the fun-fur-collared anorak of dread masks not the tattooed shoulder of Talula the hula-hula girl from Kealakekua, Hawaii. No siree. By golly.’

And so I shrugged and followed Mr Rune.

I am still uncertain as to how he created the light which shone ahead of us along the darkness of the tunnel. It appeared to flow from the pommel of his stout stick, but as to how I do not know, because I did not ask.

‘Where are we heading to?’ I did ask, tripping for the umpteenth time and stumbling about.

‘Only to Whitechapel.’

‘What?’ I replied. ‘That is miles away, surely.’

‘Naught but a brisk stroll. Are you tooled-up?’

And I had to ask just what he meant.

‘Are you armed, Rizla? As my good friend Mr Sherlock Holmes used to say, “Always carry a firearm east of Aldwych”.’

‘You never knew-’ But I did not bother to finish. I stumbled and bumbled along behind Mr Rune, who, it seemed to me, although I might well have been mistaken, took some pleasure in my stumblings and bumblings. By his unstifled laughter.

‘It is not funny, me falling down,’ I told him.

‘Nearly there, Rizla,’ he replied. And then he chuckled some more.

And eventually we reached Whitechapel Station. I now had very grazed knees and was not at the peak of my general unfailing cheerfulness. ‘You can be a thoroughgoing rotter at times,’ I told Hugo Rune. ‘On this matter I agree with little Mr McMurdo.’

We hustled and bustled through many more cockneys and climbed over the turnstiles when no station staff were watching and reached daylight in time to hear the ‘all clear’.

Which somehow seemed so convenient.

I looked up at Hugo Rune.

And then I shook my head.

‘Well, you wanted excitement,’ he said. ‘Now let’s press on.’ And press on so we did.

I had never been to this area of London before and I must say that it had taken a terrible pounding. But apparently not today, as I saw no signs of smoke, nor gallant firemen with pockets full of diamonds and guts all full of liberated beer.

‘This is Jack the Ripper territory,’ I said to Hugo Rune.

And the great man smiled and said, ‘Don’t get me going on him.’ And then he pointed with his cane and said, ‘That way, down the Radcliffe Highway.’

At length we reached a rather delightful house. It had blooming wisteria all about its door, which considering the month of the year it really should not have. And it had flowering chrysanthemums and hollyhocks and tulips, roses and Rafflesia arnoldii in its neat little trimmed front garden. The house was constructed of London Stock, beneath a roof of Northampton Slate. And there was something altogether musical about it. The front door was of Henry wood and the windows, Philip glass.

I noted also a doorstop of Sly stone and that the afternoon sun angling down gave the front garden the look of a dusty spring field.

‘Stop that as soon as you like!’ said Mr Rune, and he rapped with his stout stick on the door.

The lady who answered his rappings was beauteous to behold. Her hair was simply red and her coat was deacon blue. It seemed we had just caught her as she was on her way out, and her face was flushed and pink.

Mr Rune made faces at me and introduced himself.

‘I know who you are,’ I told him.

‘I am introducing myself to this lady,’ he said.

‘I am sorry. I got confused.’ I scuffed my heels upon the doorstop and noticed that my brogues where Arthur brown.

The beauteous lady bade us enter with many urgent gestures and we followed her inside.

Mr Rune got straight down to business. ‘Show us to the cellar,’ he said. ‘There is no time to waste.’

We were directed to a door beneath the stairs. ‘Down there,’ said the lady. ‘I will not join you, if you don’t mind. I find the professor’s laboratory an uncomfortable place to be.’

‘The ceiling is very low?’ I suggested.

‘Its ambience,’ said the lady and she shivered. ‘And now I have to go, I am in a terrible hurry. Please make sure the front door is secure when you leave.’

‘Farewell, then. My companion and I will go down without you,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Rizla, you first, I think.’

‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Why me?’

But Mr Rune had opened the door and thrust me through the opening. There was a string that hung down in my face and I gave that string a pull. A narrow staircase was illuminated and I stepped cautiously down it.

‘This is not quite what I expected,’ I said to Mr Rune. ‘I thought that a professor working on a project of national importance would probably live in a big Georgian house with a laboratory that looked a bit like your sitting room, but with more test tubes.’

‘You did?’

‘And retorts.’

‘You did?’

‘And Bunsen burners too. Oh, and litmus paper. I have always loved litmus paper. The blue, you understand, never the pink.’

‘Quite so, never the pink.’

And then we came to a door. A very sturdy door and a brass one also. This door had clearly been jemmied open and its lock was all broken in.

Mr Rune pushed past me, pushed upon the door, found a light switch, flicked it on.

A most curious room came into view and one with a very low ceiling. It certainly did not resemble my idea of a scientist’s laboratory. There were no test tubes, nor retorts, nor Bunsen burners, nor litmus paper of any colour or hue. There was a desk and there were books. And there were more books and there were papers too. And there were more papers and even more papers and, from what I could see of these papers, they all appeared to be covered in mathematical calculations.

‘He made a lot of notes,’ I observed. ‘He was clearly seeking to see if things added up.’ And I did a kind of foolish titter. And for my pains received a light cuff to the forehead.

‘Ouch,’ I said.

‘Buffoon,’ said Hugo Rune.

‘Oh look,’ I said. ‘His clothes, they are still laid out on the floor.’

Hugo Rune gazed down at the clothes and said, ‘That is most suggestive.’

‘Perhaps to you,’ I said, ‘but men’s clothes do not really do it for me.’

‘Rizla, you are acting the giddy goat, will you please smarten up.’

‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I am drunk. What would you say the hue of that paper is? Barry white, do you think?’

‘I think you need to sit down.’

And indeed I did.

Mr Rune sat me down upon the only chair, which stood behind the book- and paper-smothered desk. I drummed my fingers upon that desk and grinned foolishly. I really did feel rather strange.

Mr Rune did not do all those things that detectives are expected to do. He did not throw himself onto the floor and search about for clues. Nor did he pace up and down, deep in thought, before exclaiming, ‘I have it.’

Instead he simply took out his cigar case and selected a smoke.

‘You are, I believe, my good Rizla, in a somewhat heightened state of mind. Whilst in this state would you care to make free with your observations?’

‘I am thinking that I would like some cheese,’ I said. ‘Which I find puzzling, as I am no real lover of cheese.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Can this be relevant?’

‘Please indulge me, do.’

‘I am feeling, and this is really weird, I am feeling that we are not the only ones present in this room. There is someone else here, but I cannot see who it is.’

‘Splendid, Rizla, splendid. Then perhaps I can assist you.’

‘I really do not understand.’

‘But you will.’ And Hugo Rune lit up his fine cigar and did great puffings upon it. ‘This might surprise you, Rizla,’ he said as he puffed. ‘Indeed it might frighten you. But you need not be afeared for I am here to protect you.’

‘I will take comfort in your words,’ I said. ‘Whatever they mean.’

‘Then in that case, Rizla, let me introduce you to Professor James Stigmata Campbell, would-be discoverer of the God Particle.’

And Mr Rune took great lungfuls of smoke and blew them out through his mouth. And the smoke billowed into the low-ceilinged room and much to my surprise and indeed shock it wafted all around and about the shape of a man. An invisible man, so it seemed, who stood stock still in the centre room, frozen in an attitude of terror.

I could make out for a moment the expression on his face as the smoke brought his features into visibility. And that expression was one of horror. His arms were flung up as if to protect himself from the onrush of some hideous force. His knees were bent, his shoulders stooped and he was all over naked.

Hugo Rune blew further smoke, but I had seen enough. I jumped from that chair and fled from that room and ran with great speed up the stairs.