York gigs got cancelled and Woodstock is now the next on the list, and it would be really brilliant if you could solve the case today.’
‘Solve this case in a single day?’
‘You always solve the case in a single day.’
‘Kid, it might seem like I do, because that’s the way that Penrose writes it up. But cases do not get solved in a day. These things take time, but things are happening. Already we’ve had the dame that did me wrong do me wrong and me gun down two assassins in an alleyway. Although I admit that you missed that bit. So although I might appear to have been mostly talking the toot, things are moving along.’
‘So you won’t be talking the toot with Fangio.’
I tipped my fedora to the kid. ‘Only if it’s strictly necessary.’
‘And do you feel that there might be the vaguest chance that you might solve the case today?’
‘Kid,’ I told him. ‘Kid, I will solve the case today. Okay? Just because you are a Brit, and you’re in a hurry, I will solve this case today.’
And I felt certain that I would. Because I was Lazlo Woodbine, Private Eye, and I had never failed to solve any case that I had taken on. And although this one had certain outre qualities about it, I felt absolutely sure that ultimately I would triumph. And I would ultimately triumph today. And that would be that would be that.
But I was wrong. So terribly wrong.
So terribly, fatally wrong.
42
There were a great many bicycles. But then of course there would have been, because this was a Voodoo Pushbike Scullery. There were bikes aplenty, hanging from the ceiling and mounted on the walls and modified to act as tables and chairs and lampstands and whatnots and suchlike.
And these were not all just standard sit-up-and-begs, not a bit of it. Here you had your drop-handlebarred aluminium-framed Claude Butler racers, your Louis Orblanc mountain bikes, your Mulberry drop-head traditionals-
Oh yes, in my career path, knowing your bicycles can mean the difference between knowing your bicycles and not knowing your bicycles. And there I paused and took stock. That wasn’t right, surely? There should be a little bit of witty double entendre stylish wordplay jobbie going on there. But oddly there didn’t seem to be, and this made me feel most uneasy. I looked all around and about at the weather girls and the clientele.
The weather girls looked sound enough. One of them was singing a song, and I caught the line ‘It’s raining men, Hallelujah’, so all was well with them. But as to the clientele, I viewed them with care.
They were not right at all. They had about them the look of uptown swells, bankers and traders and big city muck-a-mucks. But there was something out of kilter about these chaps.
And I paused once more. Did I just say chaps?
And I began to feel most uncomfortable. There was something altogether wrong. I knew who I was – I was Lazlo Woodbine, the Private Eye and very likely the last in my line. There wouldn’t be any more like me. The fedora and trench coat were, unbelievably, going out of style and a new breed of private dick appeared to be on the cards. No one had really noticed when the world of Sherlock Holmes was no longer the world of Sherlock Holmes. And perhaps no one would notice the passing of the world of Lazlo Woodbine.
In fact, perhaps that world had already passed and I was now nothing more than a cliche and an anachronism. Something that had become a parody of itself. Something, God forbid, to be sniggered at.
I felt a shudder pass right through me, from the snap-brim of my fedora to the leather soles of my classic Oxfords.
I looked at the kid who was my client. ‘Kid,’ I said to his kid, ‘how do I look to you?’
‘Uneasy,’ said the kid. ‘And strangely, now that I look at you, not altogether in focus. You seem a little fuzzy around the edges.’
I took a great deep breath and leaned my elbows on the bar.
‘A bottle of Bud and a hot pastrami on rye,’ I said to the barman.
‘Coming right up, sir,’ he replied.
‘What?’
‘Pardon me, sir?’ said the barman.
‘Fange,’ I said. ‘It’s me.’
‘Well, of course it’s you, sir. Who else would it be?’
‘But you are serving me my order.’
‘That’s what barmen do, sir.’
‘It’s not what you do.’
‘Ah, have to correct you there, sir. It’s not what I did, when I was the barkeeper at my old bar.’
‘That was only about ten minutes ago!’
‘It feels like that, doesn’t it, sir? But time passes so quickly. Tick and tock and tick again and the clock doth slice away our lives. But I cannot waste your time with idle conversation, sir. I must attend to your order.’
‘Fange,’ I said, ‘What is happening here?’
‘I’ve no idea what you mean, sir. A hot pastrami upon rye and a bottle of Bud. Anything else, sir? Anything for this young gentleman here?’
‘I’ll have a bottle of Bud, too,’ said the kid. ‘But you are certain that you just want to serve Mr Woodbine? You don’t want, perhaps, to talk some toot with him?’
‘Talk some toot?’ And the barman laughed. It wasn’t a good look, or a good laugh. And Lazlo Woodbine took his bottle of Bud and poured much of its contents down his throat.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked the man in the trench coat. ‘You really do look more than a little fuzzy round the edges.’
‘What did you say?’ asked Lazlo Woodbine, replacing his bottle on the bar. ‘And how are you saying it?’
‘I’m just opening and shutting my mouth, like I always do.’
‘No you’re not.’ And Lazlo Woodbine took off his fedora. ‘You can’t do that!’ he cried.
‘Do what?’ I asked him. ‘What is the matter?’
‘You’re in the first person. You suddenly moved into the first person. You can’t do that. I work in the first person when I’m working on a case. I made that perfectly clear to you when I agreed to take your case.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I believe you did.’
‘You’re doing it again. Stop it at once.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Oh dear, I’ve done it again.’
The face of Lazlo Woodbine took on a curious expression.
No! No! No! My face took on a curious expression. I am Lazlo Woodbine. And something forceful moved inside my brain. And it said, ‘Hold on, hold on, something is happening to you, right here in this bar. Something altogether beyond the world of the outre. Something altogether anomalous.’
And I gritted my teeth and I thought myself back to the centre of things and back into the first person. ‘Kid,’ I said. ‘Kid, who is the greatest private eye of all time?’
‘You are, Mr Woodbine, sir,’ said he.
‘And why are we in this bar?’
‘Because you are pursuing a case – to find out who is the criminal mastermind behind the plan to zombify this entire world.’
‘And only I could solve such a case, yes?’
‘Only you, Mr Woodbine. Because you are the greatest of them all.’
‘Yes, kid. You’re right. You’re right.’ And I patted the kid on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps it was that blow to the skull that the dame who did me wrong dealt me. Or perhaps-’ And I looked once more all around and about.
‘Perhaps it is something more, Mr Woodbine.’
And I turned and I beheld. A figure of considerable strangeness and one that I did not take to in the slightest. He was short and plump and baldy-headed and if I had to pick out some historical character that he put me in mind
