Robert Rankin - Retromancer

‘Mine too for a top-up,’ I put in. For I had no idea how long Mr McMurdo’s talk might last and I had already developed a taste for his gin.

When all was done in the drinks department and Mr Rune reseated, Mr McMurdo continued. ‘We at the Ministry have studied the rise of Germany ’s National Socialist Workers’ Party. Hitler did not ascend to his lofty position, which is one of almost messianic proportions, through opportunism and corrupt dealings alone. Although these did play their part.

‘He became the right man in the right place at the right time through the exercise of occult power. The Nazi Party is founded upon the principles of the blackest of the black arts. Ancient magic has been reactivated, ancient symbols brought once more into prominence. Dark forces revived. Let me make it clear, I am not talking about Satanism. Mr Hitler does not worship the devil of Christian theology. His master predates this. The Nazi hierarchy consider themselves to be true Aryans, the present-day heirs to the Teutonic heritage of Odinism.

‘The swastika is the symbol of Thor. Hitler believes the swastika to be a sacred Aryan symbol derived from the Feuerquirl. Literally, the protean fire-whisk with which the universe was created by the Supreme God of Germanic mythology. Hitler’s God is Wotan.

‘The revival of such ancient magic, I regret to say, has caught the West somewhat on the hop. There are few in this country with sufficient knowledge of the esoteric arts to counter such a situation. The knowledge has mostly been lost to us.’

Mr Rune did clearings of his throat.

‘Present company excepted,’ said Mr McMurdo, in a grudging yet resigned tone of voice.

‘Please continue,’ said Mr Hugo Rune.

‘Mr Rune is presently employed by the Ministry of Serendipity to aid us in our countermeasures against whatever occult weaponry the enemy might aim towards us. And also to formulate such weaponry that we might use against them. Which brings me once more to the matter of-’ And Mr McMurdo rose once more to his feet and took once more to some demented jigging about.

‘A regrettable circumstance,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Had the spell in question achieved the desired effect – that of creating a temporary cloak of invisibility – I would no doubt be kneeling now before a grateful monarch to receive yet another knighthood. Have sympathy for my disappointment also in this matter, please.’

Mr McMurdo huffed and puffed some more. ‘You wrought this calamity upon me, Rune.’

‘You volunteered,’ said the Perfect Master, as he perfectly mastered his G & T towards his mouth. ‘How anxious you were to volunteer, I recall.’

‘Out of my loyalty to King and country.’

‘Really?’ said Mr Rune. ‘And yet I also recall that I overheard you speaking to one of your minions, in confidence of course, words to the effect that “my first pleasure as the Invisible Man will be to kick the bum of that pompous buffoon Hugo Rune”.’

‘I did no such thing… I-’ And Mr McMurdo huffed and puffed some more.

And certain thoughts entered my head regarding the spell that Mr Rune had seemingly cast with such ‘unexpected’ results. But I dismissed these thoughts from my mind and asked Mr McMurdo whether, having now explained to me the noble motivations of those who toiled away in the Ministry of Serendipity, he might now care to avail Mr Rune and I of the facts in the case concerning the missing scientist, Professor James Stigmata Campbell. As time was now passing by at a goodly rate and he had seemed anxious that the case be solved by this very evening. Which was why Mr Rune and I were here.

‘Quite,’ said Mr McMurdo, as Hugo Rune sought, with little success, to disguise another beaming grin. ‘The facts in the case are these. We have a number of deep-cover operatives in Germany, brave chaps all who risk their lives to supply us with information regarding the Nazis’ scope of operations and current areas of scientific research. There is a fine line between science and magic, as is evidenced by the enemy’s present endeavours.’

I supped at my drink and Mr Rune did likewise.

And Mr McMurdo continued with the telling of his tale.

‘Particle physics,’ he said. ‘Which is to say the study of forces and matter upon an atomic and subatomic level. It is a study of the very fabric of existence. We know that Nazi scientists are engaged in this and we have scientists of our own similarly engaged. Professor Campbell is the leading light in this field of research.’

‘Might I ask,’ I asked, ‘precisely what Professor Campbell was engaged in?’

‘The nature of his experiments is top secret. I cannot divulge that information to you.’

‘You might divulge the theory behind them,’ Mr Rune suggested, ‘without compromising security.’

‘Then it is this way. Many theories exist regarding how the universe was brought into being. Some believe that the universe has always existed; it might expand and contract, it might do all manner of things, but essentially it has always been here. Others subscribe to the belief that everything that we understand to be the universe began with a Big Bang, and that our universe is now expanding from this point of cosmic detonation. And a third faction retains the earliest belief of Mankind – that it was God who created the universe. I can only say that I have every reason to believe that Professor Campbell uncovered the truth.’

‘Golly gosh,’ I said. ‘So which one is it?’

‘That I cannot say.’

Hugo Rune took out his pocket watch and perused its face. ‘Lunchtime is upon us,’ said he. ‘I require only Professor Campbell’s address. I assume that he conducted his research and experimentation within his own home.’

‘That is correct.’ Mr McMurdo plucked a tiny stylus from an inner pocket of his immaculate suit, took up a paper napkin and wrote an address upon it. ‘You told me on the telephone that the case was as good as solved,’ he said to Mr Rune, as the guru’s guru approached him and took the napkin from his delicate hand. ‘Be so good as to honour your word upon this occasion.’

‘Your servant, sir,’ said Hugo Rune. And he clicked his heels together in a martial manner and twirled his stout stick upon his fingers. ‘Be seeing you.’

And he led me from the room.

We took our luncheon at The Ritz.

‘Taking tea there is so passé,’ Mr Rune informed me, ‘but they do a passable lunchtime nosebag.’

I was entranced by the décor, the frescoed domes of ceilings, the chandeliers and marble columns, the gilded furniture and all over Louis XVI-ness all around and about. And as I took it all in, each wondrous detail and facet, I knew in my heart of hearts that this was the life. And that this place definitely had the edge on the Wife’s Legs Café in Brentford.

The head waiter seemed genuinely pleased to see Mr Rune and wrung him warmly by the hand, this causing me to conclude that either (a) Mr Rune had not dined here before, or (b) that he had and his restaurant bills were presently being covered by the Ministry of Serendipity. It proved, indeed, to be the latter.

‘Your favourite table, monsieur,’ said the head waiter, guiding Mr Rune towards it. ‘Neither too near to the band nor the Gents, but less than a stone’s throw from the kitchen.’

‘Splendid, splendid, splendid,’ said Himself, settling into his favourite chair and gesturing for me to seat myself.

I surveyed the line of various knives and forks before me with some trepidation. I do know how to handle myself in the company of High Society. But there were an awful lot of knives and forks.

Mr Rune ordered a bottle of something exquisite and expensive, without the need of consulting the wine list, and we sat and awaited its arrival.