A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (16 page)

He paused for dramatic effect.

“Comrades, we stand on the very brink of an act of artistic barbarism so monstrous that I am almost ashamed of it myself. All of you have been my faithful servants for many years, and although none of you possesses a soul quite as squalid as mine, and the faces I see before me are both stupid and unappealing, I regard you all with no small measure of fondness.”

His four comrades mumbled their thanks.

“Silence! I think it is fair to say that I am the most debased individual on this planet and quite the most brilliant criminal mind this century. The plan that we embark upon now is easily
the most diabolical ever devised by man, and will not only take you to the top of everyone's most-wanted list but will also make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams of avarice.” He clapped his hands together. “So let the adventure begin, and here's to the success of our finest criminal endeavor!”

“Sir?”

“What is it, Dr. Müller?”

“All that money. I'm not so sure. I'd settle for a Gainsborough. You know—that one of the kid in the blue suit.”

Acheron stared at him for a moment, a smile slowly breaking across his features.

“Why not? Odious
and
art-loving! What a divine dichotomy! You shall have your Gainsborough! And now, let us—What is it, Hobbes?”

“You won't forget to make the ESC put on my improved version of the Scottish play—
Macbeth: No More ‘Mr. Nice Guy
'?”

“Of course not.”

“A full eight-week run?”

“Yes, yes, and
Midsummer Night's Dream
with chainsaws. Mr. Delamare, is there anything that
you
require?”

“Well,” said the man with the brain of a dog, rubbing the back of his head thoughtfully, “could I have a motorway services named after my mum?”

“Insufferably obtuse,” remarked Acheron. “I don't think that should be too difficult. Felix7?”

“I require no payment,” said Felix7 stoically. “I am merely your willing servant. To serve a good and wise master is the best that can be expected of any sentient being.”

“I
love
that man!” said Hades to the others. He chuckled to himself and then turned back to Hobbes, who was waiting to make the jump.

“So you understand what it is you have to do?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then, Mycroft, open the portal and my dear Hobbes: Godspeed!”

Mycroft pressed the green “open” button and there was a bright flash and a strong electromagnetic pulse that had every compass for miles around spinning wildly. The portal opened rapidly and Hobbes took a deep breath and stepped through; as he did, Mycroft pressed the red “close” button, the portal slid shut and a hush descended on the room. Acheron looked at Mycroft, who stared at the timer on the large book. Dr. Müller read a paperback of
Martin Chuzzlewit
to check Hobbes's progress, Felix7 kept an eye on Mycroft, and Delamare looked at something sticky he had found inside his ear.

Two minutes later Mycroft pressed the green “open” button once more and Hobbes came back through, dragging a middle-aged man dressed in a badly fitting suit with high collar and necktie. Hobbes was quite out of breath and sat on a nearby chair, panting. The middle-aged man looked around him in mystification.

“My friends,” he began, looking at their curious faces, “you find me in a disadvantaged state. Pray explain the meaning of what I can only describe as a bewildering predicament—”

Acheron walked up to him and placed a friendly arm around his shoulders.

“Ah, the sweet, sweet smell of success. Welcome to the twentieth century and reality. My name is Hades.”

Acheron extended a hand. The man bowed and shook it gratefully, mistakenly believing he had fallen among friends.

“Your servant, Mr. Hades. My name is Mr. Quaverley, resident of Mrs. Todger's and a proctor by trade. I have to confess that I have no small notion of the large wonder that has been subjected to me, but pray tell me, since I see you are the master
of this paradox, what has happened and how I can be of assistance.”

Acheron smiled and patted Mr. Quaverley's shoulder affectionately.

“My dear Mr. Quaverley! I could spend many happy hours in discussion with you about the essence of Dickensian narrative, but it would really be a waste of my precious time. Felix7, return to Swindon and leave Mr. Quaverley's body where it will be found in the morning.”

Felix7 took Mr. Quaverley firmly by the arm.

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Felix7—”

“Yes, sir?”

“While you're out, why don't you quiet down that Sturmey Archer fellow? He's of no earthly use to us anymore.”

Felix7 dragged Mr. Quaverley out of the door. Mycroft was weeping.

. . . The finest criminal mind requires the finest accomplices to accompany him. Otherwise, what's the point? I always found that I could never apply my most deranged plans without someone to share and appreciate them. I'm like that. Very
generous
 . . .

ACHERON HADES
—
Degeneracy for Pleasure and Profit

S
O WHO
is this guy we're going to see?”

“Fellow named Sturmey Archer,” replied Bowden as I pulled my car into the curb. We found ourselves opposite a small factory unit that had a gentle glow of light showing through the windows.

“A few years ago Crometty and myself had the extreme good fortune to arrest several members of a gang which had been attempting to peddle a rather poorly forged sequel to Coleridge's ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.' It was entitled ‘Rime II—The Mariner Returneth' but no one had been fooled. Sturmey avoided jail by turning state's evidence. I've got some dirt on him about a
Cardenio
scam. I don't want to use it, but I will if I have to.”

“What makes you think he has anything to do with Crometty's death?”

“Nothing,” said Bowden simply. “He's just next on the list.”

We walked across in the gathering dusk. The streetlights were flickering on and the stars were beginning to appear in the twilit sky. In another half hour it would be night.

Bowden thought about knocking but didn't bother. He opened the door noiselessly and we crept in.

Sturmey Archer was a feeble-looking character who had spent too many years in institutions to be able to look after himself properly. Without designated bathtimes he didn't wash and without fixed mealtimes he went hungry. He wore thick glasses and mismatched clothes and his face was a moonscape of healed acne. He made part of his living these days by casting busts of famous writers in plaster of paris, but he had too much bad history to be kept on the straight. Other criminals blackmailed him into helping them and Sturmey, already a weak man, could do little to resist. It wasn't surprising that, out of his forty-six years, only twenty had been spent at liberty.

Inside the workshop we came across a large workbench on which were placed about five hundred foot-high busts of Will Shakespeare, all of them in various states of completion. A large vat of plaster of paris lay empty next to a rack containing twenty rubber casts; it seemed Sturmey had a big order on.

Archer himself was at the back of the shop indulging in his second profession, repairing Will-Speak machines. He had his hand up the back of an Othello as we crept up behind him.

The mannequin's crude voice-box crackled as Sturmey made some trifling adjustments:

It is the cause, it is the cause,
(click)
yet I'll not shed a drop of her blood,
(click)
nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow
 . . .

“Hello, Sturmey,” said Bowden.

Sturmey jumped and shorted out the Othello's controls. The dummy opened its eyes wide and gave out a terrified cry of
MONUMENTAL ALABASTER!
before falling limp. Sturmey glared at Bowden.

“Creeping around at night, Mr. Cable? Hardly like a LiteraTec, is it?”

Bowden smiled.

“Let's just say I'm rediscovering the joys of fieldwork. This is my new partner, Thursday Next.”

Archer nodded at me suspiciously. Bowden continued:

“You heard about Jim Crometty, Sturmey?”

“I heard,” replied Archer with feigned sadness.

“I wondered if you had any information you might want to impart?”

“Me?”

He pointed at the plaster busts of Will Shakespeare.

“Look at those. A fiver each wholesale to a Jap company that wants ten thou. The Japanese have built a seven-eighths-scale replica of Stratford-upon-Avon near Yokohama and love all this crap. Fifty grand, Cable,
that's
literature I can relate to.”

“And the
Chuzzlewit
manuscript?” I asked. “How do you relate to that?”

He jumped visibly as I spoke.

“I don't,” shrugged Sturmey in an unconvincing manner.

“Listen, Sturmey,” said Bowden, who had picked up on Archer's nervousness, “I'd be really, really sorry to have to pull you in for questioning about that
Cardenio
scam.”

Archer's lower lip trembled; his eyes darted between the two of us anxiously.

“I don't know
anything,
Mr. Cable,” he whined. “Besides, you don't know what he would do.”

“
Who
would do
what,
Sturmey?”

Then I heard it. A slight
click
behind us. I pushed Bowden in front of me; he tripped and collapsed on top of Sturmey, who gave a small cry that was drowned out by the loud concussion of a shotgun going off at close quarters. We were lucky; the blast hit the wall where we had been standing. I told Bowden to
stay down and dashed low behind the workbench, trying to put some distance between myself and our assailant. When I reached the other side of the room I looked up and saw a man dressed in a black greatcoat holding a pump-action shotgun. He spotted me and I ducked as a blast from the shotgun scattered plaster fragments of Shakespeare all over me. The concussion of the shot had started up a mannequin of Romeo, who intoned pleadingly:
He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. But soft! What light through yonder
 . . . until a second shot from the shotgun silenced him. I looked across at Bowden, who shook the plaster out of his hair and drew his revolver. I ran across to the far wall, ducking as our assailant fired again, once more shattering Archer's carefully painted plaster statues. I heard Bowden's revolver crack twice. I stood up and fired at our attacker, who had secreted himself in an office; my shots did nothing except splinter the wood on the door frame. Bowden fired again and his shot ricocheted off a cast-iron spiral staircase and hit a Will-Speak machine of Lord and Lady Macbeth; they started whispering to one another about the wisdom of murdering the king. I caught a glimpse of the man running across the room to outflank us. I had a clear view of him when he stopped, but as he did so Sturmey Archer stood up between us, blocking my shot. I couldn't believe it.

“Felix7!” cried Archer desperately. “You must help me! Dr. Müller said—”

Archer, sadly, had mistaken Felix7's intentions but had little time to regret them as our assailant dispatched him swiftly at close range, then turned to make his escape. Bowden and I must have opened fire at once; Felix7 managed three paces before stumbling under the shots and falling heavily against some packing cases.

“Bowden!” I yelled. “You okay?”

He answered slightly unsteadily but in the affirmative. I
advanced slowly on the fallen figure, who was breathing in short gasps, all the time watching me with a disconcertingly calm face. I kicked away the shotgun then ran a hand down his coat while holding my gun a few inches from his head. I found an automatic in a shoulder holster and a Walther PPK in an inside pocket. There was a twelve-inch knife and a baby Derringer in his other pockets. Bowden arrived at my side.

“Archer?” I asked.

“Finished.”

“He knew this clown. He called him Felix7. Mentioned something about a Dr. Müller, too.”

Felix7 smiled up at me as I took out his wallet.

“James Crometty!” demanded Bowden. “Did you kill him?”

“I kill a lot of people,” whispered Felix7. “I don't remember names.”

“You shot him six times in the face.”

The dying killer smiled.

“
That
I remember.”

“Six times! Why?”

Felix7 frowned and started to shiver.

“Six was all I had,” he answered simply.

Bowden pulled the trigger of his revolver two inches from Felix7's face. It was lucky for Bowden that the hammer fell harmlessly on the back of a spent cartridge. He threw the gun aside, picked up the dying man by the lapels and shook him.

“WHO ARE YOU?” he demanded.

“I don't even know myself,” said Felix7 placidly. “I was married once, I think; and I had a blue car. There was an apple tree in the house where I grew up and I think I had a brother named Tom. The memories are vague and indistinct. I fear nothing because I value nothing. Archer is dead. My job is done. I have served my master; nothing else is of any consequence.”

He managed a wan smile.

“Hades was right.”

“About what?”

“About
you,
Miss Next. You're a worthy adversary.”

“Die easy,” I told him. “Where is Hades?”

He smiled for the last time and shook his head slowly. I had been trying to plug his wounds as he lay dying, but it was no good. His breathing became more labored and finally stopped altogether.

“Shit!”

“That's
Mr.
Schitt to you, Next!” said a voice behind us. We turned to see my second-least favorite person and two of his minders. He didn't look in a terribly good mood. I surreptitiously pushed Felix7's wallet under a workbench with my foot and stood up.

“Move to the side.”

We did as we were told. One of Schitt's men reached down and felt Felix7's pulse. He looked up at Schitt and shook his head.

“Any ID?”

The minder started to search him.

“You've really screwed things up here, Next,” said Schitt with barely concealed fury. “The only lead I've got is flatline. When I've finished with you, you'll be lucky to get a job setting cones on the M4.”

I put two and two together.

“You
knew
we were in here, didn't you?”

He glared at me.

“That man could have taken us to the ringleader and
he
has something that we want,” asserted Schitt.

“Hades?”

“Hades is dead, Miss Next.”

“Horseshit, Schitt. You know as well as I do that Hades is alive and well. What Hades has belongs to my uncle. And if I
know my uncle, he would sooner destroy it forever than sell out to Goliath.”

“Goliath doesn't buy, Next. They
appropriate.
If your uncle has developed a machine that can help in the defense of his country, then it is his duty to share it.”

“Is it worth the life of two officers?”

“Most certainly. SpecOps officers die pointlessly every day. If we can, we should try our best to make those deaths worthwhile.”

“If Mycroft dies through your negligence, I swear to God!—”

Jack Schitt was unimpressed.

“You really have no idea who you are talking to, do you, Next?”

“I'm talking to someone whose ambition has throttled his morality.”

“Wrong. You're talking to Goliath, a company that has the welfare of England foremost in its heart; everything that you see about you has been given to this country by the benevolence of Goliath. Is it little wonder that the Corporation should expect a small amount of gratitude in return?”

“If Goliath is as selfless as you suggest, Mr. Schitt, then they should expect
nothing
in return.”

“Fine words, Miss Next, but cash is always the deciding factor in such matters of moral politics; nothing ever gets done unless motivated by commerce or greed.”

I could hear sirens approaching. Schitt and his two minders made a quick exit, leaving us with Felix7 and Archer's bodies. Bowden turned to me.

“I'm glad that he's dead and I'm glad that I'm the one that pulled the trigger. I thought it might be hard but I did not have the slightest hesitation.”

He said it as though it were an interesting experience,
nothing less; as though he had just been on the roller-coaster at Alton Towers and was describing the experience to a friend.

“Does that sound wrong?” he added.

“No,” I assured him. “Not at all. He would have killed until someone stopped him. Don't even think about it.”

I reached down and picked up Felix7's wallet. We examined the contents. It contained everything you might expect to find, such as banknotes, stamps, receipts and credit cards—but they were all just plain white paper; the credit cards were simply white plastic with a row of zeros where the numbers usually were.

“Hades has a sense of humor.”

“Look at this,” said Bowden, pointing at Felix7's fingertips. “Wiped clean by acid. And see here, this scar running down behind the scalp line.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “it might not even be his face.”

There was a screech of tires from downstairs. We put down our weapons and held our badges in the air to avoid any misunderstandings. The officer in charge was a humorless man named Franklin who had heard slightly garbled stories in the canteen about the new Litera Tec.