“I am wondering whether we might saw out the section of floor on which he is standing and despatch him into the cellar, at least then if we can’t get rid of him he will be out of the way, and if he remains preserved indefinitely in his icy cocoon he will do wonders for your reserve stock.”
Neville shook his head. “Absolutely not, I have no wish to confront him every time I go down to change a barrel.”
“All right, it was just a suggestion.”
By nine o’clock the mob, by now extremely drunk and ravenously hungry, began to grow a little surly. There were murmurings that the whole business was a put-up job and that Omally and Neville were in cahoots to con the punters out of their hard-earned pennies. In the corner, a couple of ex-Colditz types were forming an escape committee.
Then, a little after ten, one of the prisoners went over the wall. He had been out in the gents for more than his allotted two minutes, and when Neville went to investigate, there was no sign of him. “Legged it across the bog roof,” the part-time barman said breathlessly as he returned to the saloon, “dropped down into the alley and away.”
“Who was it?” asked Omally.
“Reg Wattis from the Co-op.”
“Don’t worry, then.”
“Don’t worry? You must be joking.”
“Listen,” said Omally, “I know his wife and if he tries to give her any excuses about frozen corpses in the Flying Swan he will get very short shrift from that good woman. It occurs to me that we might let them escape. If they talk nobody will believe them anyway.”
“They can always come back here to prove it.”
“Not much chance of that, is there?”
“So what do we do?”
“I suggest that you and I withdraw to your rooms and gave them an opportunity to make their getaways.”
“I hope you know what you are doing.” Neville struck the bar counter with his knobkerry. “Omally and I have some pressing business upstairs,” he announced. “We will not be long and I am putting you all on your honour not to leave.” Conversation ceased and the eyes of the patrons flickered from Omally to Neville and on to the bolted door and back to Neville again. “We swear,” they said amid a flurry of heartcrossing and scoutish saluting.
Omally beckoned to Norman. “You might as well come too, you overheard everything.” The three men left the bar and trudged up the stairs to Neville’s bedroom.
“So what now?” asked the part-time barman.
“We sit it out. Do you still keep that supply of scotch in your wardrobe?”
Neville nodded wearily. “You don’t let much get by you, do you, John?”
Below in the saloon bar there came the sudden sound of bolts being thrown, followed by a rush of scurrying footsteps. Neville, who had brought out his bottle, replaced the cap. “Well, we won’t be needing this now, will we?”
Omally raised his eyebrows. “And why not?”
“Well, they’ve gone, haven’t they?”
“Yes, so?”
“So, we go down and dispose of the Captain.”
“Oh, and how do we do that?”
Neville, who had been sitting on the edge of his bed, rose brandishing the whisky bottle. “So it’s treachery is it, Omally?” he roared. “You had no intention of getting rid of him.”
“Me? No.” Omally wore a quizzical expression, mingled with outraged innocence. “There is nothing we can do, he is welded to the floor in a most unmovable manner. If I was a man with a leaning towards science fiction I would say that an alien force field surrounded him.”
Neville waggled his bottle at Omally. “Don’t give me any of that rubbish, I demand that you act now, do something.”
“If you will give me a minute or two to explain matters I would greatly appreciate it.”
Neville took out his hunter. “Two minutes,” said he, “then I waste this bottle over your head.”
“I deplore such wastage,” said John, “so I will endeavour to speak quickly.”
“One minute fifty-three seconds,” said Neville.
John composed himself and said, “As we both observed what happened to the Captain I do not propose to lecture you upon the sheer inexplicable anomaly of it. It was clearly the work of no mortal man, nor was it any natural catastrophe, or at least none that I have ever heard of.”
“It’s Reekie’s Syndrome,” said Norman.
“Shut up Norman,” said Neville.
“It was caused,” said Omally, “I believe, to shut the Captain up. He was about to spill the beans over what was going on at the Mission and so he was silenced.”
Neville scratched his Brylcreemed scalp. “All right,” said he, “but what do we do about him, we can’t let him stay there indefinitely.”
“No, and nor can they. Now, I have listened to certain propositions put forward by Professor Slocombe.”
Neville nodded. “A good and honourable man.”
“Exactly, and he believes that there has come amongst us of late an individual who can affect the laws of chance and probability to gain his own ends. This individual is presently ensconced in the Seamen’s Mission and calls himself Pope Alexander VI. I believe that he is to blame for what happened to the Captain, and I also believe that he cannot afford to be tied into it and will therefore arrange for the disposal of same.”
“You went over your two minutes,” said Neville, “but if all is as you say, it would go a long way towards explaining certain matters which have been puzzling me for some months now. Have I ever spoken to you of the sixth sense?”
“Many times,” said Omally, “many, many times, but if you wish to retell me then may I suggest that you do it over a glass or two of scotch?”
“Certainly.”
“And may I also suggest that we keep a watch on the road at all times?”
“I will do it,” said Norman, “for I have had little to say or do during this entire chapter.”
Night fell. Almost at once the sky became a backcloth for a spectacular pyrotechnic exhibition of lightning. The lights of the saloon bar were extinguished and the frozen Captain stood ghostly and statuesque, covered by his linen cloth. Norman stood at Neville’s window staring off down the Ealing Road, and Omally drained the last of the scotch into his glass. Neville held his watch up to what light there was. A bright flash of lightning illuminated the dial. “It’s nearly midnight,” he said. “How much longer?”
Omally shrugged in the darkness.
The Guinness clock struck a silent twelve below in the bar and in Neville’s room Norman said suddenly, “Look at that, what is it?”
John and Neville joined him at the window.
“What is it?” said Neville. “I can’t make it out.”
“Down by Jack Lane’s,” said Norman, “you can see it coming towards us.”
From the direction of the river, moving silently upon its eight wheels, came an enormous jet- black lorry. It resembled no vehicle that the three men had ever seen, for it bore no lights, nor did its lustreless bodywork reflect the street lamps which shone to either side of it. There was no hint of a windscreen nor cracks that might indicate doors or vents. It looked like a giant mould as it came to a standstill outside the Flying Swan.
Omally craned his neck to look down upon it but the overhang of the gabled roof hid the mysterious vehicle from view. The familiar creak of the saloon bar door, however, informed the three men that
