Retromancer (22 page)

‘Outrageous,’ said Himself, a-striding and a-swinging of his stick. I sought hard to keep up with this striding and already was growing quite weary.

‘Please slow down,’ I puffed and panted. ‘I am sure we can deal with the matter.’

‘Deal with the matter? Deal with the matter?’ Hugo Rune turned fiercely upon me. ‘How many times have I told you, Rizla? I offer the world my genius. All I expect in return is that the world cover my expenses.’

‘You have told me more than once,’ I said. ‘I, however, unlike Fangio, have not been keeping a record.’

‘I shall never again grace those premises with my august personage,’ quoth the Magus. And I for one had no reason to doubt the sincerity of his words.

‘Where to now then?’ I asked. ‘No telegrams. Nothing in the newspapers. No seemingly irrelevant something that later proves most pertinent to be found at The Purple Princess. It looks like we are stuffed for a case. As it were.’

‘There is always the Ministry,’ said Hugo Rune, gloomily.

‘But they always contact you.’

‘A change is as good as a rest. Let us hail up a cab.’

Recalling Hugo Rune’s wanton excesses in the field of violence towards cab drivers, I was not altogether keen. And I only agreed to accompany him by cab if he crossed his heart and saw-this-wet-and-saw-this-dry and swore upon a stack of imaginary Bibles that under no circumstances would I see him visiting physical hurt upon the driver of our cab.

Grudgingly he conceded to this and I hailed up a cab.

Cabs were so much better in wartime days. They were huge inside, with great high ceilings, so that a gentleman had no need to take off his topper, nor a lady her bird-bedecked bonnet. And each cab had a built-in cocktail cabinet, plush leather seats and, even though this cab was motorised, a bale of hay in the boot to feed the horse.
[10]

‘’Op in, your lordships,’ said the cabby, his cockney tones at odds with his dapper livery. ‘I expect you swells will want taking to the h’opera, or the ’ouses of Parleyament.’

I watched the guru’s guru’s knuckles whiten around his stick. I grinned and whispered, ‘Do not forget what you promised.’

Hugo Rune contained himself and named our destination.

‘ Mornington Crescent, is it?’ said the cabby, smiling back at us over his shoulder. ‘Now there’s a place and no mistake. ’It by a bomb last night, it were. Blew a great terrible ’ole.’

I looked up at Hugo Rune.

And he looked down at me.

‘Drive at your swiftest and there is a silver sovereign in it for you,’ said Mr Rune, in a manner that, to a stranger or casual listener-in (because all walls had ears), would certainly have passed for convincing.

‘Drive then I will, your ’onour,’ said the cabby and off we jolly well went.

We jolly well went at a fearsome pace, much to the amusement of Mr Rune, who cheered loudly and clapped his hands together when our driver had a passing cleric off his bicycle near Tottenham Court Road.

‘You know what, your worshipfulness,’ called the cabby, ‘they do say as what there is a secret underground horganisation down below Mornington Crescent Tube. The Ministry of Dipperdy-do-dah, or some such. And ’ow there’s elves and goblins and bugaboos from the middle of the Earth does work with them. And ’ow a gigantic fat troll called Hugo R-’

‘Stop the cab here, please,’ said Hugo Rune.

‘Soon as you like then, your nobleness.’

The cabby slammed on the brakes and I shot forwards to land in an untidy heap upon the elegantly carpeted floor. Mr Rune, however, was made of sterner stuff and never even spilled the cocktail I had mixed for him.

He politely excused himself from my presence and left the cab. I climbed shakily to my feet and saw Mr Rune escorting our driver into a nearby alleyway.

The Magus returned most swiftly, wiping down the pommel of his stick. He opened the passenger door and I shook my head.

‘You promised,’ I said. ‘On a stack of imaginary Bibles and everything.’

‘You should have worded your directive a little more carefully, Rizla. I distinctly recall you saying that you did not want to see me visiting physical hurt upon the driver of the cab. Now kindly please take to the front seat and drive.’

I shook my head once more. Sadly. But did as Mr Rune bade me to do and I must say rather enjoyed it. Certainly I did do some basic graunchings of the gears and did shunt into a brewer’s dray, but essentially I soon had the knack and there were no fatalities.

And, in truth, Mr Rune knocking the cabby about gave me a warm feeling inside. A warm and cosy feeling. Because as nothing so far this day had gone the way it should have gone, falling back on a tried and tested, if slightly clichéd, old favourite such as Mr Rune walloping a cab driver was not without its share of comfort and joy.

Presently this joy died away when we beheld Mornington Crescent. The station had taken a direct hit from a V2 flying bomb. I had seen one of those missiles in the Science Museum when I was a child and had been amazed by its size. I now stood and viewed the full horror of its capabilities.

Hugo Rune leaned over the chasm that yawned where the station had been. He kicked a stone into it and listened for a distant report. A policeman then chivvied us away and I asked Mr Rune what he thought we should do now.

‘Regrettably, Rizla, we will be forced to use the tradesmen’s entrance. Kindly follow me.’

His leadings led to a nearby and unscathed Lyons Corner House. Which was a wonderful art deco masterpiece of a café, all polished chrome and black enamel panelling. Mr Rune had a word or two with the head waiter and we were escorted backstage, as it were, to another one of those glorious brass-cage lifts. Mr Rune gave the head waiter a certain handshake, applied his special key to the lift and down we went at a big hurry-up.

The Ministry of Serendipity was deep deep down and safe from even the V2’s excesses. We sauntered along the curious corridors and Mr Rune rapped with his cane onto the office door of Mr McMurdo.

I felt a certain dread attendant to that knocking. What, I wondered, would be the condition of Mr McMurdo this time? What horridness had Mr Rune ‘accidentally’ wrought upon him?

The knocking was answered by a bright and breezy, ‘Come,’ and we two entered the office.

Mr McMurdo was seated at this desk and all looked natural enough. He was not the size of a small country. Nor had his fingers grown in the manner of bamboo plants come summer. He smiled at us as we entered.

And then he rose to his feet.

And my eyes widened, as I beheld…

That he was perfectly normal.

‘How good to see you, Mr Rune,’ he said. ‘And you too, Rizla. Would you care for a humbug?’

‘Not for me, sir, thank you,’ I said, trying hard not to stare.

‘You would appear to be all present and correct,’ said Hugo Rune. And he said this with a degree of puzzlement in his voice.

‘New doctor,’ said Mr McMurdo. ‘ Harley Street chap. All the latest gizmos. You’d be surprised what they have in their surgeries today, extraordinary apparatus.’

‘And so you are now fully restored,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And,’ and he sighed most slightly, ‘all through the aid of technology.’

‘As right as ninepence,’ said Mr McMurdo, ‘and bright as a new pin. And trim and chipper as a pony girl’s harness too, as it happens. I’ve never felt better than this.’

‘I am so very pleased for you.’ And Hugo Rune put out his hand, but the chipper chap did not shake it.

‘And I will let bygones be bygones, no hard feelings, old fellow,’ he said.

I could swear I heard Mr Rune’s teeth grind at this, but he remained most calm.

‘Care for a cocktail?’ asked Mr McMurdo. ‘I can knock us up a rather nifty Tokio Express. I have purchased one of these new electric cocktail shakers. Japanese built, perhaps a tad unpatriotic, but it certainly gets the job jobbed. Double for you with a little umbrella?’

But Hugo Rune shook his head.

‘No?’ said Mr McMurdo.

‘No?’ said I. Amazed.

‘Given it up,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Strictly teetotal from now on.’

And I held my breath.

‘Well, never mind, never mind, sit yourself down, do.’

Mr McMurdo returned to his desk and sat himself behind it. We dropped into the visitors’ chairs and Mr Rune cradled his stick.

‘Been meaning to give you a call, actually,’ said Mr McMurdo.

‘A case?’ said Hugo Rune.

‘Not as such, dear fellow. In fact quite the opposite.’

Hugo Rune went, ‘Mmmm?’

‘Change in the air,’ said Mr McMurdo. ‘The wind of change, you might say. The Ministry is going through changes. Words from above regarding efficiency and suchlike. Bigwigs upstairs and all that kind of carry on.’

I wondered where this was leading. I did not have to wonder for long.

‘Retirement,’ said Mr McMurdo.

‘You are going to retire?’ said Hugo Rune. ‘How splendid.’

‘No, not me, my goodness no. So much paperwork, although less actual paperwork, what with all these new computers going “on line” as the boffins will have it.’

‘I fail to understand,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘If not you-’

‘You, dear fellow, retirement for you.’

‘For me!’ And Hugo Rune rose to his feet.

‘Lucky old you, eh?’ said Mr McMurdo, fiddling with papers on his desk. ‘Time to put up those old feet of yours and let younger men do the hard work.’

I wondered perhaps whether I should excuse myself and slip quietly from the room. I dreaded to think as to where and to what this conversation would inevitably lead.

‘Don’t think of it so much as being put out to pasture,’ said Mr McMurdo brightly. ‘See it more as a just reward for services rendered.’

Mr Rune’s face momentarily brightened. ‘Ah,’ said he. ‘I see, a retirement, but on a pension equal to my present retainer, of course.’

‘Ah, no,’ said Mr McMurdo. ‘Regrettably not. I tried to push that through with the bigwigs upstairs, but they said, sorry, no can do. All belts have to be tightened with a war on, you see. Your retainer constituted a considerable amount of our yearly budget. Had to stop your latest cheque to the bank, I regret to say.’

‘I really think I should be leaving now,’ I said.

‘Please wait outside,’ said Mr Hugo Rune.

I waved goodbye to Mr McMurdo and fled the room. And paced up and down outside. I did not wish to press my ear to the brassy door, for fear of what I might hear. Instead I whistled loudly as I paced and la-la-la’d and fol-de-roll’d and made a lot of noise.

Presently the door to Mr McMurdo’s office opened and Hugo Rune emerged, wiping down the pommel of his stick. Under his arm he carried a briefcase.

‘You did not-’ I said. ‘Please tell me you did not. Please.’

‘I did not, Rizla, truthfully. We, how shall I put this? Haggled. And came to an agreement regarding a financial settlement. A golden handshake, I believe is the term.’

‘Is that briefcase full of money?’ I asked.

‘Regrettably, no, Rizla. I have agreed to perform one final service for Mr McMurdo, in return for which he will furnish me with a sum of money sufficient to cover two first-class tickets aboard a luxury liner to America.’

‘There is a certain symmetry to that,’ I said. ‘You seem to be taking this ever so well.’

‘All good things must come to an end, Rizla. Even as the plumed peacock paradiddles plaintive parodies, the cackling crow doth hold no hallowed noodle. North nor South!’

‘I cannot argue with that,’ I said. ‘So what is in the briefcase, if not money?’

‘Secrets, dear Rizla, secrets. Which must be placed into the hands of the prime minister, by myself, at precisely three o’ clock this afternoon.’

‘Winston Churchill?’ I said. ‘Can I meet him, please?’

‘I have told you that you will not like him.’

‘Yes, but he is Winston Churchill. But why at precisely three o’ clock this afternoon?’

‘He is to make an important speech at three-fifteen on the wireless. This is that very speech.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘How exciting. Can we have a read of it now?’

‘Absolutely not! I have given my word to Mr McMurdo that I will not open the briefcase. He swore me to it, in fact. Upon a stack of actual Bibles.’

‘All very hush-hush and top secret,’ I said. ‘It must be very important. ’

‘Naturally, Rizla. Or else the delivery would not have been entrusted to me.’

If I had any remarks to make about that, I kept them to myself.

‘And so,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘might I suggest that we repair to an upper-class eatery and take a light lunch?’

‘A light one?’ I said. ‘Now that I would like to see.’

The meal went far beyond my expectations. Which, I must say, were great. We dined at the Savoy Grill, but my initial difficulty was actually in gaining admittance.

We arrived in our commandeered cab and I held wide the door for Hugo Rune. But when I tried to enter the restaurant, I was informed it was not for my kind.

‘You just wait until the nineteen sixties,’ I told the commissionaire, who had me by the collar of my nice pale linen suit and was hauling me back down towards the cab.

Mr Rune set matters straight, explaining that I was his son, an eccentric millionaire in my own right who had taken to the driving of a cab as part of the War Effort, me being too sickly and weak to uniform-up and stick bayonets in the enemy.

The Savoy Grill quite took my fancy and, as I was certain that it survived the war, I thought that when (or perhaps if) I returned to my own time, I would visit it again to see how much it had changed.

On stage was a band called Liam Proven’s Lords-a-Leaping Jazz Cats. The band leader Liam was an imposing figure in white tie, tailcoat and khaki shorts. There seemed to be a novelty element to the performance, with constant humorous interjections of the, ‘I say, I say, I say, my wife once went to Hartlepool on a charabanc.’

‘Zulus?’

‘Yes, thousands of them.’

Followed by a drum-roll and a cymbal-crash.

‘It is hard to believe, I know,’ said Hugo Rune, taking out a pre-lunch cigar and slotting it into his mouth, ‘but fifty years from now no one will remember Liam Proven.’

‘I will remember him,’ I said to Hugo Rune. And I do remember him well.

The band launched into a number called ‘When Common Sense Walks on a Single Leg, I’ll Wear My Viable Trousers’, and we launched into our soup.

‘I do have to say,’ I said, between polite spoonings, ‘that I do not really think that delivering a speech to Winston Churchill qualifies as a case.’

‘It’s a brief case,’ said Hugo Rune, tapping at the very one that rested in his lap. ‘And there is a war on, you know.’

‘I remain unconvinced,’ I said. ‘Although perhaps a real case has yet to present itself in some subtle furtive fashion.’

And then there came an explosion that drowned out everything else.

And then there came that commissionaire, who hurried to Hugo Rune. Urgent words entered Himself’s ear; Himself nodded to these. The commissionaire departed and Hugo Rune pressed on with his soup.

‘Well go on, then,’ I said to him. ‘Tell me what he whispered.’

‘Oh, it was nothing, Rizla,’ said the Magus. ‘Our taxi was hit by a bomb, nothing more.’

Which caused me to choke on my soup. ‘Hit by a bomb?’ I said when I could. ‘We were in that cab only minutes ago. We could have been blown up.’

‘Such is the way with wars, young Rizla. But come now, calm yourself. Getting all hot under the collar plays havoc with the digestion.’

‘I quite liked that cab,’ I said, making a grumpy face.

‘I’ll let you choose another. There’s a row of them outside.’

Liam Proven’s Lords-a-Leaping Jazz Cats struck up the lively refrain ‘My Love for You Is as Inappropriate as a Grocer’s Apostrophe, Yet Sweeter than a Butcher’s Turn-Up’.

Which was so damned catchy that I knew I would be whistling it for months.

Hugo Rune perused his pocket watch. ‘I suggest we do keep this luncheon light, as I previously suggested. We will have time for no more than four courses, so choose with care. My appointment with Winnie must be kept, to the minute and the second of the hour.’

I was back to feeling all uncomfortable once more. The thought of Hugo Rune actually arriving on time for something, other than a restaurant opening, was, to me, unheard of.

‘Cometh the hour, cometh the man, young Rizla.’

I shrugged and said that I agreed. Although I did wonder why we had not ordered all our other courses at the same time as we had ordered our soup. But fathoming the hows and whys of Hugo Rune had never proved a satisfying pastime. ‘I will have the steak,’ I said to the well-dressed waiter.

‘And for sir’s other three courses?’

‘Three more steaks.’

Which tickled Hugo Rune.

And so we dined upon wondrous food and consumed wondrous wines. Smoked wondrous Wild Woodbines (for these were apparently quite the rage amongst the bright young things who thronged the Savoy Grill). And downed most wondrous brandies.

And although I did not know it then, this would be the very last five-star belly-buster that I would take with Hugo Rune in England. Which is why now, thinking back upon it, I treasure the memory.

Even that of our rapid and somewhat undignified departure.

It had seemed such a trifling matter, really. Hugo Rune had scribbled a request onto one of his calling cards and had it passed to Mr Proven. The tune in question that he wished to hear being that ever-popular standard ‘It’s Always Raining Dumplings When You’re on the Gravy Train’. Mr Proven bowed to this request, announced it through the microphone and then turned with his baton to the band. But then a question of tempo arose which somewhat spoiled the mood.

‘It’s Always Raining Dumplings’ is always played as ‘swing’. And as everyone knows, swing is basically a four-four shuffle. As opposed to rock ’n’ roll, which is all straight eights with a back beat, or waltz, which is three-four with an anticipated second beat. Swing is rarely, if ever, in fact never never, presented in five-four. An unnatural rhythm, which although finding favour in the nineteen sixties with such luminaries as Don Van Vliet, brought gratings to the nerves of the bright young things who thronged to the Savoy Grill.

It was the drummer who started the trouble, but is that not always the way?

Liam Proven had prefaced the requested tune with a most amusing jape which ran in this fashion:

Liam: I say, I say, I say, what do you call a fellow who hangs around with musicians?

Guitarist: A drummer.

Somewhat ancient that gag is now, but bright and new back then. The drummer failed to respond with the drum-roll and cymbal-crash and when the song began took to a five-four time signature that threw all his jovial comrades out of tempo. I thought this most amusing and clapped my hands to the beat as best I could. Mr Proven, however, drew his baton across his throat and demanded that the band begin again with the drummer called to order. The band began again, but this time the drummer put down his sticks and took to reading a book.

At this point Mr Rune rose unexpectedly from his chair, took himself over to the bandstand, mounted same, struck the drummer from his stool with a single swing of his stout stick, took up the tools of the drummer’s trade and hammered out a solo that would have done credit to Keith Moon. The crowd stared, boggle-eyed and droopy-jawed, and when Mr Rune had completed his solo there was that certain silence which is generally known as the calm before the storm.

I remain to this day uncertain as to who threw the first punch. I think that it might have been me. The musicians certainly attacked Mr Rune, wielding their instruments as weapons in a manner that would one day find favour with Keith Richards. But Mr Rune was trained in the arts of Dim Mak. So it was probably his bringing down most of the band, including Mr Proven, that began the riot proper. And as some bright young thing was trying to climb onto the bandstand and have a go at Mr Rune, I felt it quite right to punch him.

I think it was an ARP man who fired the first shot. They were apparently allowed (in fact encouraged) to carry firearms and discharge them at whoever they pleased if they felt that it was necessary. He possibly shot the American serviceman by accident, as I think he was aiming at Mr Rune. But the American serviceman’s companions-at-arms, who were all fairly armed to the teeth, returned fire.

But who threw the Molotov cocktail?

And why, I had to ask myself, had anyone brought a Molotov cocktail into the Savoy Grill in the first place?

I felt now that I probably would not be revisiting the Savoy Grill in the nineteen sixties, but it had made for a most memorable luncheon.

We felt it prudent to make a most rapid (if somewhat undignified) departure at this time and I snatched up the briefcase and we took our leave at speed.

We discovered outside, parked beside a hole in the ground where our conveyance had been, a number of unoccupied taxicabs. Their drivers, being cockneys, who only love jellied eels more than a good punch-up, had hastened inside, drawn by the sounds of gunfire and mayhem and were presently warring with waiters and bellboys and others of their kind.

‘We’ll take this one,’ said Hugo Rune, a-dusting of his tweeds. ‘The key is in the ignition. Broadcasting House if you will, please, Rizla.’