“I think we’ll be safe enough in here then,” Pooley whispered.
“Might as well settle in then,” said Omally. “It will take us a goodly number of pints to catch up upon our last few days of abstinence.”
“I will drink to that.”
By around seven, both Pooley and Omally were in an advanced state of drunkenness. They leant upon one another’s shoulders, each extolling the other’s virtues and expressing his undying friendship. It was a touching thing to behold.
“Buffoons,” muttered Jack Lane.
“I fear that nature is calling me,” said Pooley, “and in a voice of no uncertain tone.”
“I myself must confess to having overheard her urgent cries,” Omally replied.
The two men lurched up from their chairs and staggered towards the door. Jack Lane’s establishment boasted no “accommodations” and it was therefore necessary to do one’s business in the public lavvies next door. The two men stumbled out into the early evening; it seemed unwontedly dark considering the weather, and there was a definite chill in the air. Omally stared up towards the sky, there was something not quite right about it, but he was unable to make out exactly what it was.
Jim swayed in through the ever-open door of the gents and sought out the first available cubicle. He relieved himself amid much sighing and heavy breathing. “A job well done,” he said pulling the chain.
Suddenly a soft voice spoke his name. “Who’s that?” Pooley said, looking around in surprise. “John, is that you?”
Evidently it was not, because Pooley could make out the sounds of a similar bout of sighing and gasping from the next cubicle.
“James,” said the voice again; it was coming from a mesh grille beneath the water cistern.
“Good God,” said Pooley, “I have lost myself and stumbled into a confessional. Father forgive me, for I know not what I do.”
“James, listen to me.” Jim pressed his ear to the grille. “There is not much time,” whispered the voice. It was the Other Sam!
“Much time, much time for what?”
“Tonight is to be the night, the two of you must go at once to Professor Slocombe’s.”
Pooley groaned dismally. “I hardly feel up to it,” he complained, “couldn’t we put it off until tomorrow?”
The Other Sam’s voice was both harsh and urgent. “You must go at once, waste not a moment, go now and keep together.”
Pooley was about to voice further complaint but the Other Sam had gone and Omally was rattling at the door. “John,” said Jim, “John, you are not going to like what I have just heard.”
The Irishman stood swaying in the doorway supporting himself upon the doorpost. “Do not bother to relate your conversation,” he said simply, “for I have overheard every syllable.”
Pooley dragged himself up to his feet and patted his companion upon the shoulders. “The fates are against us,” he said, “we had better go.”
The two men staggered off down Mafeking Avenue, en route for the Butts Estate and Professor Slocombe’s house. At intervals Omally stopped to stare again at the night sky. “Something is definitely amiss in the heavens,” he said.
Pooley stumbled on. “I would gladly offer you my opinion,” he said, “but I fear that any increased elevation of the head might result in a catalepsy, possibly terminating in death.”
Outside the Memorial Library Pooley stopped and held up his hands. “Enough,” said he, “I can go no further.” He collapsed on to his favourite bench, breathing heavily and clutching at his heart.
Omally pulled at his shirtsleeve. “Come now, it’s only around the corner and I am sure that there will be time for a glass or three of the Professor’s whisky.”
Pooley rose unsteadily. “We must aid our noble colleague, a fine and learned old gentleman. Come Omally, let us not delay here.”
The Professor’s house was shuttered and absolutely silent. As Pooley and Omally stared at the front door the old man’s hand appeared, frantically beckoning them to enter.
The Professor bolted the door firmly behind them. The house was in darkness, lit only by the silver candelabra which the old man carried. By the flickering light Pooley could see that his face looked pale, drawn and deeply lined. He seemed to have aged terribly since they had seen him last “Are you all right, Professor?” Pooley asked in concern.
Professor Slocombe nodded impatiently. “I will be all right. What of you two, how have things been for you since last we met?”
“Oh, fine,” said Omally, “we are wanted by the police, we came within inches of being eaten alive, other than that, fine.”
The Professor led them through the ink dark corridors towards his study. “The police,” he said, “how are they involved?”
“They have found my wheelbarrow stuck in the mud at Chiswick accompanied by two corpses. They raided the Swan and were also at Pooley’s asking questions.”
By now the three men had entered the Professor’s study and the old man lit from his candelabra an assortment of candles around the room. “Fear not, John,” he said, seating himself at his desk, “I have recorded upon paper all that I know regarding this business. It has been witnessed and it is lodged in a safety-deposit box. Should I not survive this night then at least you will be safe upon that account.”
“That is pleasing to my ears,” said John, “but come now, survive this night, what can you mean by that?”
As Omally filled glasses Professor Slocombe seated himself at his desk. “Tonight,” he said, “the followers of the being who calls himself Pope Alexander VI will gather at the Seamen’s Mission to glorify their new Messiah. Tonight he will instal himself upon his Papal throne and ‘sanctify’ his ‘Holy See’. The Mission is to be his new Vatican. Tonight will be our last opportunity to stop him. Should we fail then I can see little future for any of us.”
Pooley gulped back his scotch. “But do you think we alone can stop him?”
“We must try.”
“And at what time will this mockery of the true Church take place?” Omally asked.
“A little after nine. We must lose ourselves amongst the crowd, and once we get inside you must do exactly as I say.”
Pooley refilled the glasses and looked up at the great mantelclock. It chimed eight-thirty. “We have half an hour.” He smiled, dropping back into one of the Professor’s high-backed fireside chairs.
Omally fingered the neck of the crystal decanter. “Plenty of time,” said he.
The minutes ticked slowly away. Pooley and Omally fortified themselves until the decanter was spent, and the Professor sat at his desk scribbling away with a goose-feather quill upon a length of parchment.
Omally watched the old man working. Could he really stand up to this Pope Alex? Omally felt somewhat doubtful. Certainly the Professor was full of good intentions and his knowledge of the esoteric and the occult was profound. But who knows what might be lurking within the Mission? It seemed reasonable to suppose that Pope Alex would not be unguarded. Better a more positive approach then. Something more physical than mere babblings of ancient words. Something more concrete. More concrete?
A smile crossed Omally’s face and broadened into a grin of Cheshire cat proportions. Concrete, that was the thing. Or better still, the good old half brick, always a friend in time of need.
23
The Professor’s clock struck nine and the old man rose unsteadily to his feet. “We had better go,” he said, “slip these about your shoulders.” He indicated two mud-brown cloaks draped across a side table. “They should help you merge into the crowd.”
Omally raised himself to his feet and swayed over to the table. “Very pleasing,” he said, casting the cloak about his broad shoulders, “very ecclesiastical.”
Pooley climbed from his chair and donned his cloak. “You would make a fine monk, Jim Pooley,” said Omally, chuckling irreverently.