“Blimey,” said Old Pete, “it’s bloody Hirohito.”
Archroy strode forward, scattering the crowd before him. “Show me the package,” he demanded.
Pooley was amazed to note that Archroy had even adopted a pseudo-Japanese accent. And there was something indefinably different about him, not just the eastern trappings. He had physically changed, that much was certain, broader about the shoulders and narrower at the hip. Through the folds of his silken sleeves muscles seemed to bulge powerfully.
Omally handed him the parcel with an extraordinary display of politeness. “If you please,” said he, smiling sweetly.
“And it cannot be opened?” The crowd took to shaking its collective head. “Impregnable,” said somebody.
“Huh!” said Archroy without moving his lips, “two men hold it up, one either side.”
Omally shrugged. “What can happen? Might as well do what he says.” He and Pooley stood several feet apart in the centre of the bar, holding the parcel between them in outstretched hands.
“Better get some assistance,” said Archroy, taking up a stance before the parcel. Several he men stepped forward and assisted with the gripping and supporting. They made quite an impressive-looking little group really, not unlike one of William Blake’s visionary tableaux of struggling heroic figures pressing on one upon another in endless titanic conflict. The subtler points of that particular similarity were however lost to most of those present, who merely cleared a path for the lunatic in the kimono.
“When I cry out, hold on as tight as you can,” commanded Archroy.
The grippers, holders and supporters nodded assent. Archroy took a step back and performed a series of ludicrous sweeping motions with his arms. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes; slowly he drew back his right arm, knotting the fingers of his hand into a fist with a sickening crackle of bones and gristle.
“Woosah!” he screamed.
Those who watched him throw the punch say to this day that they never saw his hand move; one moment it was suspended motionless at shoulder height behind him, the next it was similarly motionless but outstretched, fist clenched, at the spot where the parcel had just been.
The two clusters of grippers, holders and supporters collapsed in opposite directions like two tug-of-war teams suddenly bereft of their rope. There was an almost instantaneous crash, followed by two more. The awestruck spectators swung in the direction of the crashes. The parcel had travelled across the bar and straight through the outside wall, leaving a perfectly shaped rectangular hole to mark the point of its departure.
Through this the sun threw a crisp shaft of sunlight which fell in a pleasant golden diamond on to a section of the carpet which had never previously known the joys of solar illumination. Neville looked at the hole, then at Archroy, back to the hole and back once more to the destroyer of his wall. “You’re barred!” he screamed, searching for his knobkerry. “You’re bloody barred! Vandal! Vandal!”
Archroy was examining his knuckles. “What’s in that parcel?” was all that he could say.
The crowd was making moves towards the door, eager to see what the other two crashes might have been. “Maybe he’s demolished the flatblocks,” said somebody.
Pooley and Omally, intent only upon retrieving the Professor’s book, elbowed their way through the push and found themselves the first to emerge into the very daylight which was now beaming so nicely through the neat hole in the Swan’s front wall.
“My oh my,” said Omally.
Before them was a vehicle parked at the kerb, a pickup truck of a type much favoured by used-car dealers. It was one of this doubtful breed of men who sat in the front seat, white-faced and staring. That he should be white-faced was reasonable enough, for sliced through each side of the truck’s bodywork was a sharp-edged hole corresponding exactly in shape and size to that of the Professor’s parcel. Regarding further this whiteness of face, its sole unusual quality was that the driver of the see-through pickup was none other than that well-known local Rastaman Leo Felix. The hurtling missile had escaped striking, only by the briefest of inches, the oxygen canister strapped inside his vehicle. Had it struck home there is not much doubt that very little would have remained of Haile Selassie’s latest follower.
Pooley and Omally peered through the holes in the hope of lining up on the Professor’s parcel. “It’s over there,” said Jim, “in Mrs Fazackerley’s front garden.”
The two men skipped across the carriageway, dodging the traffic which had mercifully escaped the bazooka attack a moment before, and retrieved the parcel.
“Not even a scratch,” said Pooley, examining it. “Nothing.”
The crowd was now in the street thronged about Leo’s ventilated pickup pointing and speculating. Someone was waving a handkerchief before Leo’s wildly staring eyes. Neville danced in the doorway of the Swan, ranting and raving, and Archroy stood calmly regarding his demolition work and wearing a satisfied expression upon his face.
Omally nudged Pooley in the rib area. “Best make a break for it, eh?”
“Best so.”
The two fled away down the Ealing Road.
20
As they stood puffing and panting in the heat of the Professor’s back garden Pooley asked his companion why he thought it was that neither of them ever seemed to be able to visit the old gentleman without arriving in either a harrassed or a drunken condition.
“I have no idea whatever,” Omally wheezed. “It’s all go nowadays isn’t it?”
“Lunchtime drinking at the Swan is not the peaceful affair it once was.”
The metal shutters were drawn down upon the French windows, and only prolonged knockings, shoutings and rattlings finally succeeded in eliciting a reply from within. The shutters rose, exposing first carpet-slippered feet, then an expanse of tweed trousering, then a red velvet smoking jacket and quilted waistcoat and finally the old white head of Professor Slocombe.
He beamed upon them. He spotted the parcel Omally clutched in his perspiring hand. “Good lad, John,” he said. “The last book I require, excellent.” Closing and bolting the heavy iron shutters, he took the parcel from Omally’s outstretched hand and turned away to his desk. There was a brief rustle of waxen paper and he held the exposed book proudly aloft. “Excellent, and I see it has withstood the rigours of Post Office despatch unscathed.”
“Don’t ask,” said Pooley as he noticed Omally’s mouth opening, “it is probably better not to know.”
“You look somewhat dishevelled,” said the Professor, noticing for the first time the state of his guests. “Why is it, do you think, that neither of you ever seems able to visit me without arriving in either a harrassed or in a drunken condition?”
“We have wondered that ourselves,” said Jim.
“And now,” said the aged host as the two men slumped before him sipping scotch and sighing deeply, “to business, as they say. There are very few hours left for me to school you in all you must know regarding our prospective attackers. I do not expect that their master will take an active part in the proposed assault upon us. That would not be fitting to his dignity. He will despatch his five minions to us, and at least on this score we should be grateful.”
“Extremely,” said Pooley.
“Here’s to you, Alex boy,” said Omally, raising his glass.
“I admire your bravado,” the Professor said gravely, “for my own part I find the situation somewhat alarming. I would have hoped that we could have had a try at him before he has a try at us, if you get my meaning.”
“You are pretty secure here,” said Jim, “as long as you keep well bolted up.”
“I have considered several manoeuvres,” said Professor Slocombe. “Abandoning the house and taking refuge at some undisclosed location, for instance, but this I could not do, for it would mean leaving the books. I considered calling on some help, your friend Archroy I understand has recently mastered certain techniques which I struggled with to a lesser degree.”