The Brentford Triangle

Norman nodded. He had every intention of pulling off the treble this night. But that was something he was keeping very much to himself.

The Swan was filling at a goodly pace. With seven local teams competing for the cherished shield, business was already becoming brisk. Neville had taken on extra barstaff, but these were of the finger-counting, change- confusing variety, and were already costing him money. The part-time barman was doing all he could, but his good eye wandered forever towards the Swan’s door.

When at quarter past eight it swung open to herald the arrival of Omally, Pooley, Professor Slocombe and Norman, the barman breathed an almighty sigh of relief. Omally thrust his way through the crowd and ordered the drinks. “As promised,” he announced, as the Swan’s team enveloped Norman in their midst with a great cheer.

Neville pulled the pints. “I am grateful, Omally,” said he, “these are on the house.”

“And will be for a year, as soon as the other little matter is taken care of.”

“The machine?”

“You will have to bear with me just a little longer on that one. Whatever occurs tonight you must stand resolute and take no action.”

Neville’s suspicions were immediately aroused. “What is likely to occur?”

Omally held up his grimy hands. “The matter is under the control of Professor Slocombe, a man who, I am sure you will agree, can be trusted without question.”

“If all is as you say, then I will turn a blind eye to that despoiler of my loins who has come skulking with you.” Omally grinned handsomely beneath his whiskers. Neville loaded the drinks on to a tray and Omally bore them away to the Professor’s reserved table.

A bell rang and the darts tournament began. A hired Master of Ceremonies, acting as adjudicator and positive last word, clad in a glittering tuxedo and sporting an eyebrow-pencil moustache, announced the first game.

First on the oche were the teams from the Four Horsemen and the New Inn. Jack Lane, resident landlord at the Four Horsemen these forty-seven long years, struggled from his wheelchair and flung the very first dart of the evening.

“Double top, Four Horsemen away,” announced the adjudicator in a booming voice.

Outside in the street, two figures who closely resembled a pair of young Jack Palances, and who smelt strongly of creosote, were rapidly approaching the Swan. They walked with automaton precision, and their double footfalls echoed along the deserted Ealing Road.

“Double top,” boomed the adjudicator, “New Inn away.”

Pooley and Omally sat in their grandstand seats, sipping their ale. “Your man Jarvis there has a fine overarm swing,” said Omally.

“He is a little too showy for my liking,” Pooley replied. “I will take five to four on the Horsemen if you’re offering it.”

Omally, who had already opened his book and was now accepting bets from all comers, spat on his palm and smacked it down into that of his companion. “We are away then,” said he.

Bitow bitow bitow went the Captain Laser Alien Attack Machine, suddenly jarring the two men from their appreciation of life’s finer things, and causing them to leap from their chairs. Omally craned his neck above the crowd and peered towards the sinister contrivance. Through the swelling throng he could just make out the distinctive lime-green coiffure of Nicholas Roger Raffles Rathbone.

“It is the young ninny,” said John. “Five to four you have then, I will draw up a page for you.”

Neville was by now moving up and down the bar, taking orders left, right, and centre. The till jangled like a fire alarm, and Croughton the pot-bellied potman was already in a lather.

No-one noticed as two men with high cheekbones and immaculate black suits entered the Swan and lost themselves in the crowds. No-one, that is, but for a single disembodied soul who lightly tapped the Professor upon the shoulder. “All right,” said the old man, without drawing his eyes from the match in play. “Kindly keep me informed.”

The Four Horsemen was faring rather badly. The lads from the New Inn had enlisted the support of one Thomas “Squires” Trelawny, a flightsmaster from Chiswick. “Who brought him in?” asked Pooley. “His name is not on the card.”

“A late entry, I suppose, do I hear a change in the odds?”

“Treacherous to the end, Omally,” said Jim Pooley. “I will not shorten the odds, who is the next man up?”

“Jack’s son, Young Jack.”

Young Jack, who was enjoying his tenth year in retirement, and looked not a day over forty, put his toe to the line and sent his feathered missile upon its unerring course into the treble twenty.

A great cheer went up from the Horsemen’s supporters. “He once got three hundred and one in five darts,” Omally told Jim.

“He is in league with the devil though but.”

“True, that does give him an edge.”

Somehow Young Jack had already managed to score one hundred and eighty-one with three darts, and this pleased the lads from the Four Horsemen no end. To much applause, he concluded his performance by downing a pint of mild in less than four seconds.

“He is wearing very well considering his age,” said Omally.

“You should see the state of his portrait in the attic.”

“I’ll get the round in then,” said Professor Slocombe, rising upon his cane.

“Make sure he doesn’t charge you for mine,” called Omally, who could see a long and happy year ahead, should the weather hold. With no words spoken the crowd parted before the old man, allowing him immediate access to the bar.

Beneath his table Young Jack made a satanic gesture, but he knew he was well outclassed by the great scholar.

“Same again,” said Professor Slocombe. Neville did the honours. “All is well with you, I trust, barman?” the old gentleman asked. “You wear something of a hunted look.”

“I am sorely tried, Professor,” said Neville. “I can smell disaster, and this very night. The scent is souring my nostrils even now as we speak. It smells like creosote, but I know it to be disaster. If we survive this night I am going to take a very long holiday.”

“You might try Penge, then,” said the old man brightly, “I understand that it is very nice, although…” His words were suddenly swallowed up by a battery of Bitows from the nearby games machine.

Neville scowled through the crowd at the hunched back of the paperboy. “Perhaps I will simply slay him now and take my holiday in Dartmoor, they say the air is very healthy thereabouts.”

“Never fear,” said Professor Slocombe, but his eyes too had become fixed upon the green-haired youth. Speaking rapidly into Nick’s ear was a man of average height, slightly tanned and with high cheek-bones. The Professor couldn’t help thinking that he put him in mind of a young Jack Palance. The youth, however, appeared so engrossed in his play as to be oblivious to the urgent chatter of the darkly-clad stranger.

Neville chalked the bill on to the Professor’s private account, and the old gentleman freighted his tray back to his table. “How goes the state of play?” he asked Omally.

“Squires Trelawny is disputing Young Jack’s score,” said John, unloading the tray on to the table. “He is obviously not altogether au fait with Jack’s technique.”

“Oh dear,” said Pooley pointing towards the dispute. “Young Jack is not going to like that.”

Trelawny, a temperamental fellow of the limp-wristed brotherhood, frustrated by the apparent wall of indifference his objections ran up against, had poked one of the Horsemen’s leading players in the eye with his finger.

“Trelawny is disqualified,” said the adjudicator.

“You what?” Squires turned upon the man in the rented tuxedo and stamped his feet in rage.

“Out, finished,” said the other. “We brook no violence here.”

“You are all bloody mad,” screamed the disgruntled player, in a high piping voice. The crowd made hooting noises and somebody pinched his bum.

“Out of my way then!” Flinging down his set of Asprey’s darts (the expensive ones with the roc-feather flights),