lily-of-the-valley-flavoured foot powder, which ensured for ever freshness of the feet. I did not know at the time, and in fact never did find out, that these personal products had all been promoted through a Fifth Avenue advertising agency in which my old chum Rob of The Sumerian Kynges now owned a controlling interest. I’m glad I never knew, really, because I’m sure it would probably have upset me.
‘You are Mr Woodbine, ain’t you, sir?’ asked the sweetly smelling swiddler.
I nodded in the manner that suggested that yes, I might be, but who was it who was asking.
‘The name’s Presley, sir,’ said the fellow. ‘Elvis Presley – you might have heard of me.’
‘I might,’ I said. Enjoying the moment. A drunken moment, it was.
‘Help me, Mr Woodbine. You are my only hope.’
I bade the fellow seat himself beside me. And I glanced around at the clientele, who had now all ceased to speak, but not to whisper, and were staring slack-jawed at my would-be client. ‘Back about your business,’ I cried at them. Firmly, with authority.
‘A drink?’ I asked Elvis. Because it appeared to be him. The accent was certainly right. And the manner. And the swiddling.
‘Well, thank you, sir.’
I called out to Fangio. But not too far, as he was leaning right across the bar counter behind me.
‘It is him,’ whispered Fangio, his big face once more close against my ear. ‘It is him, isn’t it? Say it is him.’
‘It is him,’ I whispered in reply.
And Fangio whistled. Tunelessly. ‘Richard Nixon,’ he said. ‘Right here in my bar. Just wait until I tell the guys at the tennis club.’
‘Tennis club?’ I said. ‘You?’
‘I’ll have you know that I do own a tennis club,’ said Fangio.
‘Own a tennis club?’
‘Certainly. It’s a thing about yay-long.’ Fangio mimed the yayness. ‘Made of wood, with criss-crossed strings at the fat end.’
‘That’s a tennis racquet,’ I said.
‘Not the way I use it,’ said Fangio.
‘Two Bosun’s Whistles,’ I said to Fange. ‘And don’t feel that you need to skimp on the speed when serving them up. As fast as possible will do just fine.’
Fangio made the sound that a sparrow will make when pushed through the strings of a tennis club. And went to mix our drinks.
‘An honour to meet you, sir,’ said Elvis. ‘Might I say that you’re younger than I figured you’d be.’
‘I keep myself fit,’ I told him, ‘because in my business, keeping yourself fit can mean the difference between serving up a winning storm at Wimbledon and serving time in Sing Sing with a swarm of bees up your jumper.’
Elvis looked at me blankly.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You’re right, it was rubbish. I promise I’ll never do it again.’
Elvis looked at me some more. Even more blankly this time.
‘Right,’ I said. And then our drinks arrived.
‘Shall I put these on your bar tab, Laz?’ asked Fangio.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Take the cost out of the one hundred dollars you owe me. I give up on these cocktails. I have no idea what’s in them.’
‘And you never will,’ said Fangio. And chuckling once more he took himself off to the cash register.
‘Were you just talking the toot, sir?’ asked Elvis. ‘Only I read about that, in the Lazlo Woodbine Thrillers.’
‘You’ve read those, have you?’
‘Well, no, sir, not really. I have them read to me.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘But you need my help. You have a worried mind. And a problem that only Lazlo Woodbine can solve for you. Am I correct?’
‘You are, sir, yes.’
I was really rather taken with the way Elvis spoke. He didn’t just smell nice, but he was so polite, too. So well mannered. All right, he was rather fat. And I didn’t mention this at the beginning of the chapter, although perhaps I should have, because he had put on weight. He was now a bit of a bloater. But I didn’t mention it, and what with him being so sweetly smelling and so polite, I am not going to mention it. Not even in passing. No.
‘So,’ I said to Elvis Presley, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘Well, sir, I gotta problem. I been playing Vegas, six nights a week, two shows a day, practising for my big tour. This tour is going to take me all over the world. I never left America before, except to go to Germany for my call-up, and now I’m going to England. And through Europe. And Africa. To Sumeria.’
‘Sumeria?’ I said. ‘Why Sumeria?’
‘I don’t know, sir. It’s on the tour list – New Begrem, Sumeria.’
‘Begrem?’
‘Yes, sir. But that ain’t the problem.’
‘You might need me to accompany you on that leg of the tour,’ I said. ‘In fact, we should probably write out a contract to that effect right now.’ And you do have to understand that me saying this was not going against the Tyler Technique even before I’d had a chance to put it into operation. Because, come on, I really did have to get to the Lost Golden City of Begrem if there was any chance at all. Didn’t I! ‘Fangio, fetch paper and pen,’ I said.
‘Coming right up, sir,’ said Fangio. But he didn’t move an inch.
‘So what, exactly, is the problem?’ I asked Elvis.
‘It’s my brother,’ said Elvis.
To which I said, ‘Your brother?’
‘Not so loud, sir, if you please.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. But your brother – I didn’t know that you had a brother.’
‘I was born one of twins,’ said Elvis.
‘Yes, well, I know that. But your twin died in childbirth. I know that, too. Very sad.’
‘He didn’t die,’ said Elvis. ‘They took him away. He was a special boy. He is a special boy.’
‘Have you ever heard of the Ministry of Serendipity?’ I asked Elvis.
‘Yes, sir, I have. And that Doctor McMahon ain’t no brother of mine.’
‘But you do know of him?’
‘Certainly, sir. He was part of the experiment.’
And yes, I confess, I was warming to this. Elvis Presley’s twin brother. The Ministry of Serendipity. Part of the experiment. Oh yes, I was certainly warming to this.
‘I will have to ask you to tell me everything as clearly and precisely as possible,’ I told Elvis. ‘The facts are the most important thing to a detective. Oh, and one more thing-’
‘Yes, sir?’ said Elvis.
‘Not you,’ I told him. ‘Fange.’
‘Yes?’ said Fange the barman.
‘Clear off,’ I said to Fange. ‘This is private.’
And Fangio stumped away in a right old grump and a battered tricorn and I spoke on with Elvis.
‘Tell me everything,’ I said. And he told me everything.
‘You must understand, sir,’ said he, ‘that I only know what I am going to tell you because my daddy told it all to me. After my mummy died-’ and Elvis crossed himself, though I never thought he was Catholic ‘- my daddy took me aside and said, “Son, I have things to say to you, and you’d better listen when I say them.” And I listened and so I’m telling them to you now.’
‘And very well, too,’ I said. And Elvis continued.
‘You see, sir, there’s a war going on. And I don’t mean a war like Vietnam. This war has been going on for ever. Between Good and Evil, God and the Devil.’ And I thought back to Captain Lynch and all he had told me when I was young. And I thought that I knew what was coming. And I did. To some degree.
‘Good and Evil, God and the Devil,’ said Elvis. ‘But God, He doesn’t war too much Himself. Though the Devil keeps right on. And the bad guys who work for the Devil – black magicians, I tell you, sir, real black magicians.’ And Elvis looked at me. Deeply, right into my eyes.
And, if I had been gay, well…
