Well, you’d be surprised what greedy blighters some artists can be. The ones who said yes to Jim put a really high value on the pieces they exhibited.
Jim insured the lot.
Not that he expected the insurance company to actually pay up. But he felt that it was nice to have the documentation of the art works’ values, in case he ever chose to sell the pieces on in the future.
The night before the exhibition — which had been widely advertised in the arts media — was to open, Jim went round to the gallery with another hired van, opened it up with his keys, took down all the canvases and removed them to a place that was far far away.
Spain probably.
You might well know of Jim’s final great crime, although it is doubtful that you will have known it for the thing it really is until now. It was a logical progression, though. A matter of seeing potential.
Having graduated from bogus post box to bogus telephone box to bogus AA pickup truck to bogus Securicor van to bogus police van to bogus art gallery, it was natural that Jim would progress to a bogus organization into which millions and millions of pounds might readily pour, week in week out, without anyone ever seeing it for the thing it really was.
So he did.
You probably do know of it.
It’s called the National Lottery.
Allegedly.
But let us return now to Icarus Smith, who is about to have a little action. A great deal of action, as it happens.
But no.
Wait.
Let us not return to Icarus just yet. Let us return instead to Lazlo Woodbine, which is to say, the world’s greatest private eye. Because Laz is about to meet up with an old companion, a very important companion, and that companion is about to impart certain information to Laz which is of major importance to our tale. Information which will change the direction of Lazlo Woodbine’s investigations, and indeed the world, for ever.
We left Laz falling into that deep dark whirling pit of oblivion that all great genre detectives always fall into after they’ve been bopped on the head by the dame who does them wrong, or, as in this case, the fat boy barman. So let us join Laz as he regains consciousness.
Over to you, Mr Woodbine, sir.
5
I awoke from a dream about a doctor’s office and clutched at a dented skull.
“Tongues of the jumping head,” I said. “That hurts more than a broke-dick dog on the rocky road to ruin.”
I didn’t trouble myself with the old “What happened?” or the even older “Where am I?” That stuff’s strictly for the cheap seats; you’re in the dress circle here.
I blinked my baby blues, choked away a manly tear, cast aside all thoughts of pain and even those of taking up a hobby (such as playing Kick butt west of the Pennines, without the aces wild), and copped a glance at my present surroundings.
I lay, sprawled handsomely, though a tad dishevelled, upon a carpet. But it was a carpet of such an unspeakable nature that no words could naturally speak of it. This carpet was spread on the floor of a room which was long and low and loathsome. There was a ghastly hatstand, rising like a gallows tree. A water cooler of evil aspect, dripping poison from its crusted chromium spout. A filing cabinet, coffin black, which surely rotten corpses held. A desk, dark foreboding, and a chair of surly misdemeanour. Above me turned a ceiling fan, its blades slowly cleaving the rank air. Its motion conjured dire thoughts of the pendulum in the tale by Edgar Allan Poe and chilled my soul and placed an icy hand upon my heart.
“What foul and evil den is this?” I cried. “What fetid wretched chamber of despair? Oh, what has it come to, that I should find myself in such a dismal place? What vile crimes have I committed, that I should be cast into this dungeon of hopelessness? This sordid, filthy—”
“Get a grip, chief. You’re back in your office.”
“Aaagh!” cried I. “The evil one himself speaks inside my head. The father of lies. The spawn of the pit. I am possessed. I am possessed.”
“Turn it in, you twat, it’s me, Barry.”
“Barry?”
“Barry, chief. Your Holy Guardian Sprout. The cute little green guy who sits in your head and keeps you on the straight and narrow. The little voice that speaks to you and only you can hear. Your bestest friend, who helps you solve your cases. Your little gift from God’s garden.”
“Ah,” said I. “That Barry.”
“That would be the kiddy, chief.”
“Yeah. Well, I knew it was you all the time. And I knew it was my office. I just thought I’d add a bit of atmosphere and excitement. And demonstrate my skills with the old Gothic prose.”
“Best stick to what you do best, eh, chief?”
“Being the best private eye in the business?”
“That would be the kiddy, chief. You wish.”
“I didn’t catch that last bit, Barry.”
“I said that would be the kiddy, chief, you’re bliss.”
“Thanks, Barry.”
I lifted myself into the vertical plane with more dignity than a belted earl at a defecophiliacs’ disco. Made my way across my office with more style and suavity than a dandy in the underground and sat myself down on my chair with more polished aplomb than a plump pink plumber from Plympton.[7] And with a certain amount of care in comfying up the cushion, as my piles were playing me havoc at the time.
Before me, on my desk, I spied my snap-brimmed fedora and my trusty Smith and Wes Craven.
“My hat, my gun,” said I with some degree of amazement.
“Say ‘Thank you Barry’,” said Barry.
“Eh?”
“Say ‘Thank you Barry for putting thoughts in a couple of heads and getting my hat and gun back so I can set out once more on a case without looking like a hatless, gunless, gormless git.’”
“There’s no bullets in this gun,” said I, examining same with my eagle eye. “I had at least two bullets left, I’m sure. I remember shooting that black guy in the alley who asked if I wanted to buy the Big Issue. And I put two in the head of that fat woman, because she was taking up too much space in Fangio’s and I’ve never seen the point of fat people. And one in the kid with the lollipop, because I can’t be having with dogs and children either. And …”
“‘Thank you, Barry’ not a happening thing at the moment, then, chief?”
“Yeah, sure, Barry, thank you. But like I was saying, I’m certain I should have had at least two bullets left. And bullets don’t grow on trees, Barry. Bullets cost bucks.”
“You ungrateful schmuck.”
“What did you say, Barry?”
“I said you’re a wonderful buck, chief.”
“Yeah, I guess that I am.” And guessed that I was. That’s one of the things that I liked about Barry. He recognized greatness. “So, little green buddy,” I said. “What have you been up to? You weren’t with me in Fangio’s when I got bopped on the head.”
“I always like to miss that part, chief. Rattles me all about inside this empty skull.”
“So where have you been?”
“Been up in Heaven, chief. We Holy Guardians have to check in every week. Put in our expense chitties. Write out our reports. Get a bit of fertilizer rubbed into our leaves by a bra-less Charlie Dimmock lookalike with five-star bottom cleavage. But it’s mostly paperwork. You know how it is.”