Raiders of the Lost Car Park, page 10
The silver car ploughed forward and Cornelius stood his ground.
It pulled up not three yards away and stood, its engine throbbing.
Cornelius shielded his eyes to the glare, clung to Tuppe with one hand and made a fist with the other.
‘I’m ready,’ said he.
The passenger door swung slowly open, and a voice called out the now legendary words, ‘Come with me if you want to live.’
Cornelius squinted into the headlights’ beam. ‘Mr Schwarzenegger, is that you?’
‘Don’t be a silly arse,’ the voice replied. ‘Get into the car. They are close behind.’
And close behind they were. Across the green four sets of headlights swept into view. They sliced between the trees and across the grass. They were very close behind.
Without further words spoken. Cornelius dragged Tuppe from his shoulders, cradled him in his arms and ducked for the silver car.
The driver put the vehicle into reverse and spun the wheel around.
‘It might be appropriate, at this time, that you position your head firmly between your knees. Sudden impact is a predictable circumstance.’
‘Shiva’s sheep!’ Cornelius clutched Tuppe to his bosom and ducked his head. The driver tore the car about and bore towards his pursuers. He struck the first a glancing blow which sent the tall boy sprawling to the floor.
‘Wake up, Tuppe,’ said he.
But Tuppe snored on.
‘I’ll show these fellows I mean business,’ said the driver.
‘Hold on,’ Cornelius clawed at the dashboard. ‘What’s happening?’
‘We are under attack from the forces of darkness. You would do well to maintain the “crash position”. Further concussions are reliably forecast.’ The driver did a nifty handbrake turn and side-swiped an oncoming vehicle, rolling it into a tree, where it did the right thing and burst into flame.
‘A satisfactory result,’ said the driver. ‘I recall a time in Shanghai. Lord Lucan and I were engaged in a rickshaw race. Fifty-guinea wager. His lordship had the temerity to have his coolie elbow mine from the thoroughfare, in just such a fashion. Mind you, I evened the score on that occasion. Took out my pistol and shot the pair of them dead.’
‘Oh great,’ thought Cornelius to himself. ‘I’ve hitched a ride with a psycho.’
‘I heard that,’ said the driver. ‘Thoughts have wings. And yours flutter against my ears, even in the pitch of battle. Keep your head down please.’
He screeched to a halt. A car, rushing up from behind, ploughed into the rear with spectacular effect.
The driver laughed uproariously. ‘That stopped the blighter in his tracks, what? Two down and two to go. Shall we make a chase of it?’
‘Anything you say, friend.’
‘Friend me no friends. No friends have I.’
‘Whatever you say.’ Cornelius chanced a glance up from the foetal position he had assumed on the floor.
He observed a stretch of Fair Isle sock. A goodly spread of Boleskine tweed. Much waistcoat, with a golden fobchain. Considerable silk cravat. And then a wealth of chins.
‘My name is Hugo Rune,’ the driver said. ‘But you may call me guru.’
12
The guvnor’s court was grand and Gothic. Ancient and imposing. And craving of description in the medieval manner.
Broad were the flagstones that paved its ample floor and worn were they as glass beneath the tread of shoeless feet. Royal tabards, cloth of gold, adorned its sombre walls. And on these tabards beasts and weird devices were displayed. Wrought thereupon in such a distant age, that nought remained of meaning but their majesty withal.
The guvnor himself was also old. And though his subjects, far and near, did celebrate his birthdays with appropriate occasion, none was there to accurately count the candles for his cake.
The guvnor was also fat. Prodigious were his limbs and great the girth of him each way about. His middle regions pressed they hugely at a belt as broad as three hands’ span and of such length that, stood upon its end, the tallest of the court could not stretch up to reach its buckle.
And of his boots? His tall black boots? Such was the bigness of these boots that, it was said by those who knew these matters and reported them with truth, the whole tanned hides of bullocks, two in number, had been employed, without much waste, their cobbling to complete.
And bearded also was the guvnor, very much indeed. And oh the beard of him, pure white, a pillow’s fill. A pillow? Nay, a duvet. Several duvets, and a pouffe.
And of the robes of him? Speak of his robes? Of regal red were they, what other colour should a sovereign clothe? And trimmed with ermine, to a niceness, pleasing to behold. Unless thou art an ermine, naturally.
The guvnor was also drunk this night. And in his cups waxed anything but merry.
‘Kobold!’ cried the guvnor, and his subject answered, ‘Sire?’
‘Arthur,’ said the king. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I just popped out,’ said Arthur, with his shoes off and his knees bent in a bow, ‘my Lord.’
‘Out? Where out? And why?’
‘On business, sire. As ever in the service of your realm.’
‘I see.’ The king leaned forward in his throne. And such a throne was his. So girt and splendid that no words might vaguely touch its grandeur or convey its glory, no. So shan’t.
‘It has reached my royal lughole’, said the king, ‘that there has been a spot of bother.’
‘Nothing I can’t handle, sire.’
‘That’s good to hear. To hear that’s good. Most truly.’
‘Good,’ said Arthur. ‘Truly good. Then I shall take my leave. Good night.’
‘Not quite good night I feel.’ The king raised up a hand. And what a hand it was. Bedecked with rings as splendid as the throne above. If not more so.
‘My liege?’
‘My car!’
‘Ah, that.’
‘Ah that indeed. My favourite car. My special car. Where might it be?’
‘I fear’, said Arthur, wringing out his hands, ‘that it has been appropriated.’
‘As in stolen, you mean?’
‘Regrettably yes, sire. The lad Murphy, whom I recently employed to recover certain documents which threatened our security, he gained access to your private car park. Drove off in the motor.’
‘Then get after him.’
‘I did, sire.’
‘And?’ The king sighed hugely (and such a sigh was his, etc.).
‘There was some unpleasantness. And whilst I was otherwise engaged, the car was stolen once more. By another party.’
‘And this occurred whilst you were using my birthday spell?’
‘Ah,’ said Arthur, wringing away like a mangle. ‘You heard about that, then?’
‘I am the King!’
‘And such a king are you,’ said Arthur. ‘August, proud and true. And of a wisdom sound and fair and—’
‘Drop it, Kobold. We tired of the medieval twaddle.’
‘Sorry, sire.’ Arthur hung his head.
‘You used my special spell without permission.
‘In order to recover your car, sire.
‘Which you did not do.’
‘No, sire. But am doing now.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Oh yes, sire. I despatched four of your bodyguards to drive around the area in search. They called in a few minutes ago to say that they had located your car and were in pursuit. So all is really well and good. Good night.’
‘Well and good?’ The king rocked forward in his throne and threw his great arms wide. ‘You despatched four of my bodyguards? My great, thick, clumsy, gormless bodyguards?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘To drive around the area, did you say?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘In what, Kobold? In what are they driving?’
‘Well. I told them to go down to your car park and take whatever they thought would get the job done.’
The king fell back. His mouth wide open in his horror. ‘My bodyguards? Given free rein with my motor cars? Have you lost all your senses? Are you bereft, Kobold? How could you think of such a thing? What made you do it? What?’
‘Well, sire,’ Arthur Kobold chewed upon his knuckles, ‘you see, it’s not just the matter of your favourite car. It’s the matter of who stole it from Murphy.’
The king groaned. ‘Go on,’ said he. ‘Tell me the worst. If worse there can possibly be.’
‘I’m afraid there can. Far worse. You see, when
Murphy stole the car from your car park, it wasn’t entirely empty. I have every reason to believe that one of our “guests” had hidden himself inside the car. A certain category-AAA “guest
‘A prisoner has escaped? I mean, “a guest has chosen to leave us?” Which one? Not Elvis?’
‘Elvis?’ Arthur Kobold asked. ‘We don’t have Elvis staying with us, do we?’
‘Ah ... er ... mm. Of course not, Kobold. Whatever put that into your mind?’
‘You just said—’
‘No I didn’t. You must have imagined it. There is only one King. And I’m he. So speak up, damn you. Who’s nicked my car?’
‘Out with it, Kobold.’
‘Spit it out. Or truly will you know my wrath.’
‘Hugo Rune,’ said Arthur Kobold. ‘Can I go now, sire, I need the toilet.’
Hugo Rune put his foot to the floor and the silver car streaked over Kew Bridge towards Brentford.
‘As a rule I rarely drive,’ he told Cornelius. ‘There are two kinds of people in this world: those who sit behind a wheel and drive, and those who sit behind them and tell them where to drive. I am of the latter persuasion.’
‘You are my father,’ said Cornelius.
‘Mayhap. However, put aside all thoughts of falling on my neck with kisses. Our lives are still in some peril.’
A gorgeous long-bodied landaulet, which would have found a pride of place in the collection of Lord Monty, drew level with them. Its driver, a hideous great green thingy, yelled something gross in their direction.
‘One moment’s pause, before you yet again enjoy the pleasure of my conversation.’ Rune drew down hard on the steering wheel, caught the landaulet a thunderous blow and sent it spinning from the road. Cornelius peeped over his shoulder to make what he would of the explosion. Thoughts of the evil Campbell returned to his mind, and the devastation he had wrought upon a score of police cars. Like father like son.
‘Only one remaining now,’ said Hugo Rune.
‘If you hang a right after the traffic lights, we can easily lose him in the backstreets and hide out at my house.
‘What an absurd suggestion. We shall go directly to my manse.
‘Whatever you prefer then. Kindly lead the way.’
‘Now that’, said Hugo Rune, ‘is what I do the best.’
They lost the final car, a rare, if not unique example of the Cord, when Rune nudged it off the road into the newly reglazed front window of Polgar’s Pet Shop.
From then on the drive became more sedate. They left the suburbs of the metropolis behind and travelled north. And Rune discoursed upon a great diversity of subjects. Cornelius spoke little and though a thousand questions crowded in his head, he couldn’t get a word in edgeways on. And so, at last, he fell asleep.
He awoke to find the sun upon his face and Rune’s words once more in his ear.
‘And that is how’, said Rune, ‘the scoundrel Einstein stole my notes and walked off with the Nobel Prize.’
‘Outrageous,’ said Cornelius. ‘Are we there?’
‘Behold the manse.’
The car was parked upon a sweeping drive of Chichester stone.
Before it rose an ancient country pile, circa 1690. It was fashioned from the granite of the region, mellowed to a golden hue. The house had a hipped roof, pediment and cornice, which combined with the classic façade, so favoured in the period by Inigo Jones. There remained the Gothic touch in the mullion and transom windows. And near the angles, pilasters took the place of the usual rusticated quoins.
Rune left the car and stretched his limbs before the house. Cornelius urged Tuppe into wakefulness.
‘Don’t shake me all about,’ said the small bloke. ‘I’ve been awake all the time. God, your knees are bony.’
‘Awake all the time, eh? Then I suppose you know where we are.’
‘No,’ said Tuppe. ‘I’m quite lost.’
Cornelius viewed Hugo Rune through the windscreen. ‘And what do you make of him?’
‘He’s looking well on it,’ said Tuppe. ‘Doesn’t seem to have aged a day since that picture was taken.’
‘The one we found in Victor Zenobia’s trunk?’
‘Do you still have it?’
‘Of course.’ Cornelius wormed the crumpled relic from his pocket. There was Rune, surrounded by his acolytes, on his birthday, more than half a century before. And no, he hadn’t aged one day, one jot, or one iota. Nor had the suit he wore, the same nineteen thirties Boleskine tweed plus-fours number by all the looks of it.
Cornelius looked up from the Rune of yesterday to see the Rune of today waving him to follow.
‘Shall we join him?’ asked Cornelius.
‘Do you smell breakfast cooking?’
Cornelius wound down the window and flexed his sensitive nostrils. ‘And then some,’ he replied.
13
The hall was ‘baronial’, with a hammerbeam roof. The design of this roof, however, differed from most other hammerbeam roofs, in that it carried the great arch-brace through the hammerbeams and hammer-posts, instead of under the point of junction of the hammerbeam and hammer-post. Thereby balancing the vertical and oblique thrusts so perfectly as to permit a large span. As an additional vanity, spandrels between the king post and the braces had been filled with cusping.
A long oak table, groaning with a veritable banquet, stood at the centre of this hall. And Hugo Rune spread out a great arm and said, ‘Behold the beano.’
Cornelius had never seen such food, nor smelled such smells. The mingling fragrances rising from the exotic fare, as such it was, comprising dishes and delights to baffle the most seasoned gourmet, made music in his nose.
‘Seat yourselves.’ Rune took his place at the head of the table. ‘And feast.’
Cornelius looked at Tuppe.
And Tuppe looked at Cornelius.
And they both sat down and feasted.
It took more than an hour for the three of them to get through it all. But they did. The spread was reduced to a desolation suggestive of a soldier ant march past.
Rune licked clean his plate, released the lower button of his waistcoat and belched mightily. ‘Adequate,’ said he.
Tuppe grinned through a layer of chocolate cake.
And Cornelius said, ‘Incredible.’
‘Fair to middling.’ Rune dabbed his mouth with a napkin. ‘Shall we partake of cigars, before we gravitate to the main course?’
‘Main course?’ Cornelius made with the popping eyes.
‘Unless you’d care for a little more starter.’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
Tuppe licked his fingers and thumbs. ‘He likes his nosebag, does your daddy.’
‘I’ll take a cigar please,’ said Cornelius. ‘I think that we have much to speak of.’
‘Correct in essence, but not in specific detail. I have much to speak of and you have much to listen to.’ Rune plucked a long green cigar from a bound brass case and poked it into his mouth. He turned the case towards Cornelius.
‘Thank you.’ The tail boy took out a cigar, put it to his nose and breathed in its glory.
‘Argentine,’ Rune hit the end from his cigar and spat it the length of the room. ‘Roiled upon the thigh of a dusky maiden. It recalls to me a time I spent in that fair land. I had been invited to stay with the president, old Juan Peron and his passionate wife, Eva. The president wished to purchase the patent for a bullet-proof garment I had recently perfected. Have you ever heard of the Three-fold Law of Return?’
Cornelius nodded and so did Tuppe. But as Rune didn’t trouble to look in their direction, he continued without pause.
‘The Three-fold Law of Return is an occult law, whereby a magickal current, raised by an inadequate magician to attack some enemy, reflects, with a triple force, back upon him. And serves the bugger right. Incompetence in the Arts Magickal deserves no better reward. My bullet-proof garment, Rune’s Patent Protector, functioned upon this principle. It reflected the assassin’s bullet straight back at him with a triple force. Most effective.
‘Unfortunately, I was unable to capitalize on this particular invention. There was some unpleasantness.’
‘You mean it didn’t work,’ said Tuppe.
‘Of course it worked. I invented it. The unpleasantness to which I allude was of a personal nature. The president took exception to the relationship I had formed with his wife.’
‘What?’ Tuppe fell back in his chair. ‘You don’t mean he caught you shagging her?’
‘Tuppe, really!’ Cornelius took his cigar and stuck it into the small fellow’s mouth.
Rune fluttered his fat fingers. ‘Shagging is not the word I favour to describe an intimate congress between two kindred spirits. Although it was the one Peron used when he burst into his bedchamber to find his wife and me “taking tea with the parson”.’
‘Stone me,’ said Cornelius. ‘What happened then?’
‘The tardy fellow put me before the firing squad.
“Any final request?” he asked. “Only that your men aim for my heart,” said I, “for it has been my undoing.” Happily they did. Twelve shots rang out. Twelve men fell dead. Rune’s Patent Protector, tried and tested. I left the country with my head held high and my reputation intact.
‘And the bullet-proof vest?’ Cornelius asked.
‘Vanished into obscurity?’ Tuppe suggested.
‘Hardly that.’ Rune sucked upon his cigar. It took flame, which was a neat enough trick, but no great shakes. ‘Peron hung on to that. He intended to equip his entire armed force with it. And no doubt did. Woe betide any nation that dares to wage war upon Argentina.’
Tuppe opened his mouth to speak, but chose to suck upon his cigar instead. His didn’t light.
