“Bravo, bravo, but tell me my son, to what purpose do you intend that such outstanding gymnastics be put to? It is too late now for the Olympics.”
Archroy skipped before him, blasting holes in the empty air with lightning fists. “I am a man sorely put upon, Father,” said he.
The priest bowed his head in an attitude of prayer. “These are sorry times for all of us. Surely if you have problems you might turn to me, to God, to the Church?”
“God isn’t doing much for your Church at present.”
The priest drew back in dismay. “Come now,” said he, “these are harsh and cruel words, what mean you by them?”
Archroy ceased his exercises and fell into a perfect splits, touched his forehead to his right toe and rose to his feet. “You have no congregation left, Father, hadn’t you noticed?”
The young priest dropped to his knees. “I have fallen from grace.”
“You have done nothing of the sort, your flock has been lured away by a callous and evil man. I have taken a lot of stick over the past few months and I have gone to some lengths to find out what is going on hereabouts. My ear has, of late, been pressed against many a partition door and I know what I’m talking about.”
Father Moity rose clumsily to his feet. “I would know more of this my son, let us repair to my quarters for a small sherry.”
“Well, just a small one, Father, I am in training.”
The breathless Pooley staggered in through the Professor’s open French windows and flung himself into a fireside chair.
“I take it from your unkempt and dishevelled appearance, Jim, that you bring news of a most urgent nature,” said Professor Slocombe, looking up from his books.
Pooley took a heavy breath. “You might say that,” he gasped.
“Steady yourself, Jim, you know where the scotch is.”
Pooley decanted himself a large one. “Not to put too fine a point on the matter, Professor,” said he, “you and Omally are in big trouble, in fact, the biggest.”
“So, our man is going to make his move then?”
“Tonight he is sending those nasty looking creatures after you.”
“Well now.” Professor Slocombe crossed to the windows, pulled them shut and lowered the heavy iron screen. “We must not be caught napping then, must we?”
“Where is John?” Pooley cast his eyes about the room. “I thought he was here.”
Professor Slocombe consulted his watch. “I should imagine that by now the good Omally is propped up against the bar counter of the Flying Swan raising a pint glass to his lips.”
“I’d better go round and warn him.” The Professor nodded. “Bring him back as soon as you can.”
Omally was indeed to be found at the Swan, a pint glass in his hand and a large waxpaper package at his elbow. “The Professor,” he would say by way of explanation to the curious who passed him by at close quarters, “very valuable, very old.”
Pooley entered the saloon bar. Neville greeted him with a hearty “Morning Jim, pint of the usual?” and Omally merely nodded a greeting and indicated his parcel. “The Professor,” he said, “very valuable, very old.”
Pooley accepted his pint and pushed the exact change across the counter in payment. Neville rang it up in the till. “No Sale,” it said. “The brewery have been offering me one of these new computerized micro- chip cash register arrangements,” the part-time barman told Pooley. “They do seem to have some obsession about cash registers actually registering the money that is put into them. I can’t see it myself.”
“Possibly they would take it kindly if you were to keep accounts,” Pooley suggested, “it’s a common practice among publicans.”
“We always run at a profit,” Neville said in a wounded voice, “no-one could accuse me of dishonesty.”
“Of course not, but breweries are notorious for that sort of thing. Why don’t you just accept the new cash register and let Omally give it the same treatment he gave to the juke box?”
The Irishman grinned wolfishly. A brewer’s dray drew up before the Swan and Neville disappeared down the cellar steps to open the pavement doors. Pooley took Omally aside.
“You had better get around to the Professor’s right away,” he said urgently. “There is a bit of trouble coming your way from the direction of the Mission, our man Pope Alex is out for your blood.”
“Always the bearer of glad tidings eh, Jim,” said Omally. “I have to go down there anyway, the Professor’s last book has arrived.” Omally gestured to the parcel upon the bar.
“More magic of the ancients?” said Pooley. “I wonder what this one is all about.”
“More unreadable Latin texts I should expect. That old fellow absorbs knowledge like a sponge, I do not understand where he puts it all, for certain his head is no larger than my own.”
Pooley lifted the package from the counter and shook it gently. “It is extremely heavy for its size. You are sure that it is a book?”
“I have no reason to doubt it, all the others have been.”
Pooley ran a finger over the glossy surface. “It’s almost like metal, but look here, how is it sealed? There are no flaps and no joint, the book appears to be encased in it rather than packed in it.”
“Indeed, now try and get it open.”
“Better not to, the Professor would not appreciate it.”
“Try anyway, I already have.”
Jim dug his thumb nail into a likely corner of the package and applied a little pressure. The package remained intact. Pooley pressed harder, working his thumbnail to and fro across the edge. “Nothing,” he said in dismay, “not even a scratch.”
“Use your pocket knife then, don’t let it defeat you.”
Pooley took out his fifteen-function scout knife and selected the most murderous blade. Holding the parcel firmly upon the bar counter he took a vicious stab at it. The blade bent slightly, skidded cleanly off the package and embedded itself in the counter top.
“You bloody vandal,” screamed Neville, who was entering the saloon bar door. “I saw that!”
“I am trying to open this parcel,” Pooley explained, withdrawing his knife and rubbing a bespittaled fingertip over the counter’s wound.
“Give it to me,” said the part-time barman gruffly, “I’ll open it for you.” He took up the can opener which hung on a chain from his belt. “Nothing to parcels if you have the know.”
He scratched the opener roughly down the length of the package. There was not a mark. “What’s this then?” said the part-time barman. “Trick is it, or some new kind of paper?” He began scratching and scraping with renewed vigour. He laboured at the parcel as one possessed, but succeeded in doing nothing whatever, save taking the nail from his left thumb and totally destroying his opener. “Bugger,” yelled the part-time barman, “that was my favourite. Wait here!” He strode from the bar leaving a fine trail of blood behind him.
“Did he mean that the opener was his favourite or the thumbnail?” wondered Omally.
Neville reappeared behind the bar with a fourteen-inch meat cleaver clutched in a bandaged hand. “Put it here,” he demanded.
“Now steady on,” said Pooley, “after all it isn’t even our package. You will clearly destroy it with that thing.”
“One good swing,” said Neville, “just one. I’ll merely snip the end, I won’t damage the contents, I swear!”
“He’s a good man with a cleaver,” said someone. “He’ll open the bugger, never fear.”
Pooley looked to Omally. “What do you think?”
“Can’t hurt. If he damages it we can always say that the Post Office did it in transit.”
