arise.”
Mr Gleeson smiled. “Who said he was going to live for ever?” he replied. “All we know is that he hasn’t died yet. It’s scientifically impossible for a man to live for ever. Logically, he must die eventually. And every year he doesn’t die, the problem gets inexpressibly worse. You see the trouble we’re in. We can’t afford for him to die, any more than we can afford for him to live any longer. Fifty per cent compound. Think about that for a moment, will you?”
Jane thought about it. She shuddered. “So where is he now?” she asked.
“We don’t know,” said Mr Gleeson. “We lost track of him in the 1630s, and then he kept turning up again. He turns up once every seven years or so, and then he vanishes off the face of the earth.”
Suddenly Jane remembered something. “You mean like the Flying Dutchman?” she said.
“Vanderdecker is the Flying Dutchman,” said Mr Gleeson. “The very same.”
“I see,” Jane said, as if this suddenly made everything crystal clear. “So where does Bridport come in?”
“I was coming to that,” said Mr Gleeson, “just as soon as I’d given you time to digest what I’ve just told you. Obviously you’ve got a remarkable digestion. Or you think I’m as mad as a hatter. Bridport comes in because that’s where Vanderdecker was last recorded in this country. He opened an account at the bank’s Bridport branch in 1890 -something. I believe you found it.”
“I did,” Jane confirmed. “Why on earth haven’t you closed it?”
“Easy,” replied Mr Gleeson, “we can’t close it without either his instructions or sight of his death certificate. Rules are rules.”
Jane was astounded. The last thing she had expected was integrity. “But what about bank charges?” she said. “Couldn’t you just write it off against those?”
“No bank charges in eighteen ninety-thing,” replied Gleeson. “It wouldn’t be right. There would be an anomaly which would have to be noted in the accounts. As the bank’s auditor, I would have to insist on it.”
“I see,” Jane said again. “I didn’t realise the rules were so strict.”
“All we can do,” said Mr Gleeson, “is keep very quiet about it. The only people who know the significance of that account are me, the chairman of the bank, and now you. Obviously the local manager doesn’t know. And if anyone finds out apart from us, of course, we hound them to insanity and have them locked up in a mental hospital.”
“That’s within the rules, is it?”
“I’ve read them very carefully,” Mr Gleeson replied, “no mention of it anywhere. Therefore it stands to reason it must be legitimate.”
“In that case,” Jane said slowly, “why haven’t I…”
“Because,” replied Mr Gleeson, “you have no sense of smell.”
For the third time, Jane asserted that she saw. She lacked conviction.
“Let me explain,” said Mr Gleeson. “There’s one other thing we know about the Flying Dutchman. He smells. Awful.You’ve heard of the
Jane said that she had.
“National Lombard were part of the syndicate insuring her, so it carried out its own investigation. It found the only survivor.”
“Ah.”
“Well might you say Ah,” replied Mr Gleeson. “As soon as the managing director found out what was going on, he cleared everyone else out of the way and spoke to the man personally, just before he died of acute bewilderment. He reported how they were all sitting there minding their own business when this old–fashioned sailing ship came alongside. There was this smell, the survivor said. It was so bad, he said, everyone jumped into the sea and was drowned. Except him. The old–fashioned ship picked him up just before he was about to drown and took him on board. He was on the ship for three weeks before it dropped him off. He described the smell in detail; that bit of the report runs to four hundred and seventy-nine pages, so you can see it made quite an impression.”
“Anyway, it turned out that the name of the ship’s captain was Vanderdecker. Since the name is not common and the survivor said the whole crew were in sixteenth-century costume, it’s a fair assumption that it was him. There have been other incidents since which corroborate the story, but the names won’t mean anything to you because they happened in remote places and the bank managed to cover them up in time. It is an undoubted fact that Vanderdecker smells so horrible that nobody in the world can bear to be in his presence for more than a few seconds at a time. This,” said Mr Gleeson, “is where you come in.”
“I see,” Jane said, for the fourth time.
“What we want you to do,” said Mr Gleeson, “is find Vanderdecker and reason with him. Tell him he can’t take it with him. Negotiate with him to surrender the policy in return for an annuity—a million pounds a year for life or some such figure. It’d be worth it, the bank can afford it. You’d be on commission, naturally.”
“But how do I find him?” Jane said. “If it was possible, surely you’d have done it by now.”
“We haven’t dared try,” Mr Gleeson replied. “In order to find Vanderdecker, we’d have to let too many people in on too much of the secret. Far too risky. Sucker bet. Only someone like you can do it, because you know already. And you only know because I’ve told you, and I’ve only told you because you have no sense of smell. Do you follow me?”
“I think so,” Jane said, “more or less. Actually, I might have a lead already.” And she told him about Lower Brickwood Farm Cottage, and the invoices. When she had finished, Mr Gleeson nodded and smiled, a you-can-call- me-Bill sort of smile that he usually reserved for Prime Ministers.
“Will you help us, then?” he said. “If you succeed, you can name your own fee.”
“Well…” Jane hesitated, genuinely doubtful. If she accepted the job, she would have to find some way of coming to terms with what she had just been told, and that would not be easy, not by a long way. On the other hand, and bearing in mind all the material circumstances, with particular regard to the section of the rules which said nothing at all about locking people up in lunatic asylums, she felt she didn’t have much choice.
“Yes,” she said.
Mr Gleeson grinned at her. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “May the Sock be with you.”
SIX
Cheer up, for God’s sake,” said the other man in Quincy’s, with his mouth full, “you’re putting me off my asparagus quiche.”
His companion scowled at the little cardboard square under his glass. For reasons which it would be counterproductive to rehearse, he knew that the jolly little cartoon on the beer that of a Viking warrior drinking lager was completely inaccurate, but that wasn’t the thing that was upsetting him.
“I don’t want to cheer up,” he said. “Cheerfulness would be very strange behaviour just now, don’t you think?”
Suspense is a legitimate literary device only if responsibly handled. Know, then, that the other man’s name is Gerald.
“You always were a gloomy sod,” said Gerald, his jaws temporarily free, “even when we were kids. You had this knack of always looking on the black side. And what good does it do? Tell me that.”
“It enables me,” said Gerald’s friend, “to harmonise with my karma. My karma is presently as much fun as a traffic-jam on the M6. Therefore I am gloomy. If I were to cheer up now, I could suffer severe spiritual damage.”
“Funny you should mention the M6,” Gerald replied. “I was three hours—three whole hours out of my life— getting between Junctions Four and Five the other day. And you know what caused it all? Changing the light bulb in one of those street-lamp things. Pathetic, I call it, absolutely bloody pathetic.”
“Tell me all about the M6,” Gerald’s friend said savagely. “I’m sure it’s incredibly relevant to my getting the sack.”
“You have not got the sack,” Gerald said. “How many times have I got to tell you? You’ve been moved sideways, that’s all. It happens to everyone. I got moved sideways last year, and it’s been the making of me.”
