The Mechanical Messiah (18 page)

rowley did it,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Crowley has taken the ring.’

Alice Lovell appeared in the open doorway. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked. ‘Has anything been taken?’

The private detective dropped into his chair. ‘A precious item has been stolen,’ he said. ‘But I know who the culprit is and will pay him a visit in the morning.’

But Mr Bell had certain qualms regarding this. Crowley had entered the house with seeming ease. He had known exactly where to find the Ring of Moses. Nothing else had been tampered with. Nothing else was stolen. Crowley’s claims to magical powers were not, upon this evidence, without some foundation. Cameron Bell felt most uneasy —magic was hardly within his province. Commander Case had let slip that magical doings were afoot in Whitechapel. Was there a connection, or connections?

Mr Bell had had quite enough for one day.

‘Let us bring in your belongings,’ he said to Alice. ‘Settle your kiwi birds in the outhouse and then I will show you to your room.

Alice Lovell yawned most prettily. ‘I am rather tired,’ said she.

Colonel Katterfelto was an early riser. Always had been, always would be. In his present theatrical diggings it paid to be first out of bed. First man up could take advantage of what little hot water the copper geyser in the communal bathroom managed to produce. First man up had unhurried access to the Thomas Crapper. First man up received breakfast.

Colonel Katterfelto enjoyed a good breakfast. And he did enjoy being fussed over. He would naturally have preferred of course to have had his breakfast served and himself fussed over by an attractive young lady rather than a toothless bearded hag.

But such was life, and who was he to argue?

‘I heard about poor Charlie Belly,’ said the hag as she served the colonel porridge. ‘He lodged here in the past, you know. We had to open all the windows to let out the pong. But a very pretty fellow was Mr Charlie Belly. He liked a little sugar on his porridge.’

Colonel Katterfelto wondered whether that was some kind of sexual innuendo. The very thought that it might be set his teeth upon edge.

‘I will have to ask you for next week’s rent in advance, ‘said the hag, out of the blue and whilst pouring tea.

‘You will?’ asked the colonel. ‘But why?’

‘Because of the Electric Alhambra being closed for at least a week.’

‘What of this?’ asked Colonel Katterfelto. ‘I have heard nothing of this.’

‘It’s in the morning paper,’ said the lady of the land. ‘That Commander Case intends to search every single inch of the theatre.’

‘Thorough enough, I suppose.’ The colonel perused the newspaper that had been thrust before him.

WORLD’S GREATEST ENTERTAINER HORRIBLY MURDERED

ran the headline.

‘Fellow wasn’t
that
good,’ puffed the colonel. But he read on. Commander Case had apparently granted the newspaper’s editor an interview. And had stated a number of things. That he suspected that the unwholesome Johnny Frenchman might be at the back of it. Johnny Frenchman being the number-one suspect in yesterday’s HYDE PARK CORNER MASSACRE.

Colonel Katterfelto nodded approvingly at this. Like all good Englishmen he always had his suspicions about exactly what Johnny Frenchman might be up to.

Commander Case had gone on to make vague references about a magical connection. Possibly Masonic.

Colonel Katterfelto shrugged his shoulders. Commander Case had ordered that the Electric Alhambra be closed for an indefinite period, until investigations within it were concluded.

Colonel Katterfelto smiled hugely at this. It could not be more convenient. He had matters that needed attending to. Serious matters centred about his life’s quest, to create and energise the Mechanical Messiah. A week or two without the nightly dread of hurled cabbages and tomatoes would suit the colonel perfectly.

‘You look happy,’ said the toothless hag. ‘Would you like me to butter up your muffin?’

Cameron Bell did not awaken Alice Lovell. There was no need to, he would let her sleep. As he attended to the minutiae of his morning ablutions, his thoughts took a turn towards the amorous. She was actually here. Right here in his house. The woman he adored. It could not have gone better if he had planned it himself.

Cameron Bell took stock. He
had
planned it himself In a way. But she
was
here and if he was careful, polite, gallant, charming, protective, sympathetic and all the rest, who knew how things might progress?

However, he had a case — no —
cases
to solve. And the all-consuming passion of his life was solving such cases.

And mow he had a breakfast appointment with Mr Aleister Crowley.

He should not have been surprised by what occurred. It was obvious really and had he not been distracted by the lovely Alice, it would have made itself obvious to him as soon as he had discovered the ring to be stolen.

Policemen milled before the door to Aleister Crowley’s lodgings. Several burly fellows bearing sheaves of paper muttered to these policemen.

Cameron Bell turned down his eyes to their boots.
Bailiffs,
he concluded.
Debt collectors, too.

The private detective pushed towards the door, but his way was amply blocked by large policemen.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said one of these. ‘We’re asking folk to form an orderly queue.

‘He has absconded, hasn’t he?’ said Cameron Bell. For this was the obvious thing. ‘Mr Crowley, he has done, as they say, a midnight flit.’

‘Hardly
that,’
said the policeman. ‘He’s dead.’

Cameron Bell took stock of this. ‘He is
dead?’
he asked. ‘But
how?’

‘Spondacious combusturan,’ said the policeman. ‘Spontaneous combustion?’ said the private detective. ‘Went up in a ball of flame, apparently. A big poof and he was gone.

Cameron Bell had no comment to make upon that.

‘Detective Bell,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Commander Case sent me to examine the crime scene.’

The policeman saluted Detective Bell. ‘Go up then, sir,’ said he.

There was a most unpleasant odour in the sitting room of the Beast. As of pork left too long in the oven. The private detective brought out his hankie, held it over his nose. A number of young bobbies inhabited the rooms of the late Mr Crowley. Touching things they should not, contaminating the crime scene. Behaving as policemen will, always have done, always will do, too.

Mr Bell announced himself The bobbies came to attention.

‘Don’t ‘alf stink, guv’nor, don’t it?’ said one, who hailed from the East End of London.

‘A fitting end for such as he,’ a God-fearing bobby said.

‘What have you to report regarding the garden?’ asked Detective Bell.

‘The garden, sir?’ asked a bobby whose mother had taught him the meaning of politeness.

Detective Bell said, ‘Surely now.’

‘I do not quite understand,’ said the bobby and all of them shook their heads.

‘Oh dear,’ said Detective Bell. ‘Commander Case is going to be most displeased when he finds out that you have not examined the garden for clues. He does have this thing about gardens. “Show me the garden and I will close the case,” he often says.

The bobbies made doubtful expressions.

‘Well, hurry along, then.’ Cameron Bell did flutterings of his fingers. ‘I will not tell the commander that you have been lacking in your duties. I will tell him that I arrived to find you hard at work in the garden.’

With much spoken thanks, which even included the well-brought-up policeman shaking the hand of Cameron Bell, the bevy of bobbies left the detective alone.

Cameron Bell made haste with his investigations.

In the very centre of the room there yawned a hole. The private detective approached and peered into this. A circular section of floor had been burned away and he could see clear through to the room below. On the ceiling above, a circular scorch mark. The room was all-over black with a layer of soot.

Cameron Bell was on the point of making an allusion to his dear dead mother. But time did not permit and he instead did searchings for the ring.

But it was an impossible task and footsteps upon the stairs announced the untimely (at least to Cameron Bell) arrival of Commander Case.

‘Well now then,’ said this very fellow. ‘What do we have here?’

‘A possible case of spontaneous human combustion,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘You misunderstand me,’ said Commander Case, squaring up before Mr Bell. ‘I mean, of course, what in the name of all that I find holy are
you
doing here?’

‘I was paying a social visit to Mr Crowley. We were students together at Trinity. I lent him a book. I came here to collect it.’ Cameron Bell smiled politely. ‘If you will permit me a couple of hours or more, I feel sure that I can find it.’

‘Out!’ cried Commander Case. ‘Out, or I will run you in for loitering with intent, illegal occupation of private premises and any number of trumped-up charges as might take my fancy.’

‘I have a theory regarding this!’

‘Get out!’ bawled the commander.

Colonel Katterfelto left his diggings. A big breakfast under his belt and a confident stride in his steppings. Under his arm was the daily newspaper the hag had thrust in his direction. On the very back page of this was a list of

PREMISES TO BUY OR RENT

The colonel marched along.

He was going to need a base of operations. A
private
base, this, and one kept secret from potential flaming-torch carriers. A discreet workshop tucked away in a back alleyway, or in amongst premises that were given over to light engineering or the manufacture of goods.

And once settled in— The colonel smiled once more. He would begin the Great Work. He had perhaps been a little too hasty last time. Choosing America had been a bad idea. Here was where it needed to be done. Right here in the heart of the British Empire. It had to be, really. Any Mechanical Messiah worthy of its name must be created here. Must have

MADE IN ENGLAND

engraved upon its back.

The colonel marched on, whistling a popular Music Hall tune.

Cameron Bell left the rooms of the late Great Beast of the Apocalypse. He was greeted — not kindly — by several bobbies in the street. Bobbies who had discovered that the premises owned to no back garden. Bobbies who had been shouted at by Commander Case. They jostled Cameron Bell and one made threatening gestures with his truncheon.

The private detective crossed the street and pondered on his lot. London had once more come to life. Horses clipped and clopped. Wheels clattered over the cobbles. Newsboys cried out the name of Charlie Belly. An airship passed across the sky, casting a mighty shadow.

Crowley dead?
thought Cameron Bell. And made dead in a manner that closely, if not identically, resembled those of the two star turns. Perhaps there was only
one
murderer. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.

The private detective dug into his trouser pocket. Brought out a certain item that he had acquired the previous night. An item that he had transferred from the trousers of his evening suit to those that he wore of a morning.

The item he had plucked from the pocket of the thing that he had shot dead.

‘This is the lead that I shall follow,’ said Mr Cameron Bell.