someone had entered the bar. “Here,” said Neville suddenly, “what are we doing? Whoever it is down there could be rifling the cash register.”
“Go down then,” said Omally, “you tell them.”
The part-time barman took a step towards the door then halted. “Best leave it, eh?”
“I think it would be for the best,” said Omally.
The saloon bar door creaked again and after a brief pause Norman said from the window, “It’s moving off.” The three men watched as the hellish black lorry crept out once more into the road and disappeared over the railway bridge past the football ground.
Together the three men descended the stairs. The bar was empty, lit only by the wan light from the street. The lightning had ceased its frenzied dance on the great truck’s arrival and the night had become once more clear and silent. In the centre of the floor lay the white linen table cloth. Neville flicked on the saloon bar lights. Norman picked up the table cloth. Holding it out before him he suddenly gave a cry of horror and dropped it to the floor. Omally stooped to retrieve it and held it to the light. Impressed upon the cloth was what appeared to be some kind of negative photographic image. It was clear and brown as a sepia print and it was the face of Captain Carson.
“There,” said Omally to the part-time barman, “now you’ve something to hang behind your bar. The Brentford Shroud…”
19
Omally lost little time in conveying news of the previous night’s events to Professor Slocombe. The old man sat behind his desk surrounded by a veritable Hadrian’s Wall of ancient books. “Fascinating,” he said at length. “Fascinating although tragic. You brought with you the tablecloth, I trust?”
“I thought it would be of interest.”
“Very much so.” The Professor accepted the bundle of white linen and spread it over his desk. In the glare of the brass desk lamp the Captain’s features stood out stark and haunting. “I would never have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes.”
“It takes a bit of getting used to.”
The old Professor rolled up the tablecloth and returned it to Omally. “I would like to investigate this at a future date when I have more time upon my hands, but matters at present press urgently upon us.”
“There have been further developments?”
“Yes, many. News has reached me that our adversary is planning some kind of papal coronation in the near future, when I believe he will reach the very zenith of his powers. We must seek to destroy him before this moment comes. Afterwards I fear there will be little we can do to stop him.”
“So how long do we have?”
“A week, perhaps a little more.”
Omally turned his face towards the French windows. “So,” said he, “after all this waiting, the confrontation will be suddenly upon us. I do not relish it, I must admit. I hope you know what you are doing, Professor.”
“I believe that I do John, never fear.”
The door to the Seaman’s Mission was securely bolted. Great iron hasps had been affixed to its inner side and through these ran a metal rod the thickness of a broom handle, secured to the concrete floor by an enormous padlock. Within the confines of the Mission the air was still and icy cold. Although long shafts of sunlight penetrated the elaborate stained glass of the windows and fell in coloured lozenges upon the mosaic floor, they brought no warmth from the outer world. For no warmth whatever could penetrate these icy depths. Here was a tomb of utter darkness and utter cold. Something hovered in the frozen air, something to raise the small hairs upon the neck, something to chill the heart and numb the senses.
And here a face moved from the impenetrable darkness into the light. It was rigid and pale as a corpse, a face cut from timeless marble. The nose aquiline, the nostrils flared, the mouth a cruel slit, and the eyes, set into that face, two hellish blood-red orbs of fire. The face traversed the stream of frozen sunlight and was gone once more into the gloom.
Slow yet certain footsteps crossed the marbled floor and firm hands gripped a monstrous throne which rose at the end of the pilastered hall. The brooding figure seated himself. Whatever thoughts dwelt within his skull were beyond human comprehension. His being was at one with the sombre surroundings, the gloom, the terrible cold.
And then from hidden recesses of the darkling hall, there came other figures, walking erect upon two legs yet moving in a way so unlike that of humankind as to touch the very soul with their ghastliness. Forward they came upon dragging feet, to stand swaying, five in all, before their master. Then low they bowed, touching the chill floor with their faces. They murmured softly, imploringly.
The being upon the throne raised a languid hand to silence them. Beneath the hems and cuffs of their embroidered garments, touched upon briefly by the cold sunlight, there showed glimpses of their vile extremities. Here the twisted fibrous claw of a hand, here a gnarled and rootlike leg or ankle, for here were no human worshippers, here were the spawn of the bottomless pit itself. Foul and unspeakable creations, sickening vomit of regions beyond thought.
The red-eyed man gazed down upon them. A strange light began to grow around him, increasing in power and clarity. His very being throbbed with a pulsating energy.
He raised his mighty hand above his head and brought it down on to the arm of his throne. A voice rose up in his throat, a voice like no other that had ever spoken through earth’s long aeons.
“I will have it,” he said, “soon all shall be mine.” The creatures below him squirmed at his feet in an ecstasy of adoration. “There will be a place for you my children, my five grand Cardinals of the Holy See, you will know a place in my favour. But now there is much to be done; those who would plot my destruction must be brought to their destiny; the Professor, he must be dragged before me, and the Irishman. Tonight you must go for them. I will tolerate no mistake or you shall know my displeasure. Tonight it must be, and now be gone.”
The writhing creatures drew themselves erect, their heads still bowed in supplication. One by one they shuffled from the great hall leaving the red-eyed man alone with his unspeakable thoughts.
Atop the Mission roof and hanging sloth-like by his heels, a lone figure had watched this gothic fantasy through a chink in the Mission’s ventilator. The lone figure was none other than Jim Pooley, Brentford’s well-known man of the turf and spy for the forces of mankind, truth and justice, and he had overheard all of the ghastly speech before he lost his footing and descended to the Mission’s row of dustbins in a most undignified and noisy manner.
“Balls,” moaned mankind’s saviour, wiping clotted fish scales from his tweeds and making a timely if somewhat shop-soiled departure from the Mission’s grounds and off across the Butts Estate.
Archroy was working out on Father Moity’s horizontal bars. Since the arrival through the post of book two and later book three of Count Dante’s course in the deadly arts of Dimac the lad had known a renewed vigour, a vibrant rejuvenation of his vital forces. The young priest watched him exercise, marvelling at the fluency of his movements, the ease with which he cleared the vaulting horse at a single bound. All he could do was to clap enthusiastically and applaud the astonishing exhibition of super-human control and discipline.
“You are to be congratulated, Archroy,” said Father Moity. “I have never seen the like of this.”
“I am only beginning, Father,” Archroy replied, “watch this.” He gave out with an enormous scream, threw his hands forward into the posture the Count described as “the third poised thrust of penetrating death” and leapt from the floor on to a high stanchion atop the gymnasium clock.
“Astonishing.” The young priest clapped his hands again. “Amazing.”
“It is the mastery of the ancient oriental skills,” Archroy informed him, returning to the deck from his twenty-foot eyrie.
