Robert Rankin - Retromancer

‘It makes you want to dance,’ said Miss Newman.

And I recalled the conversation I had had earlier with Hugo Rune at The Purple Princess.

‘And Big Band Theory leads me to believe that the greater the number of Mark Sevens assembled in a single place and played together, the greater would be the number of people within their range of sound who would feel the urge to dance,’ continued Miss Newman.

‘I am beginning to understand,’ I whispered to Hugo Rune, ‘why you were not particularly keen to come here.’

‘It is rude to whisper,’ said Miss Newman. ‘And due to the acoustical anomaly of this singularity, I heard every word of your whisperings.’

‘Sorry,’ I told her. Not so loud, but clear.

‘Would you care for me to demonstrate the Mark Seven?’ Roberta Newman asked of Hugo Rune. ‘I am experimenting with forms of calypso. I think that I am definitely on to something.’

‘My dancing days are sadly at an end,’ said the Magus. ‘Though once I tripped the light fantastic with debutante divas, I am now reduced to a soft-shoe-shuffle at the butcher’s bacon counter.’

‘You jest, of course,’ said Miss Newman, making a winsome expression that put my teeth upon edge.

‘I certainly do,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I could out-hoof Fred Astaire, any month with an R in its name. But we must get down to business. How many died here and where did they die?’

Miss Newman walked us around and about and pointed to here and to there.

‘And here,’ she said. ‘And there,’ and she pointed. ‘Four of my top technicians. I’ve been sent no replacements, you know. If I lose many more, this entire research facility will have to be closed down. And right when we are on the very verge of a breakthrough.’

Hugo Rune and I once more exchanged glances.

Although no words were exchanged.

‘Would you mind, dear lady,’ enquired Hugo Rune, ‘if my assistant and I had a little poke around by ourselves? I am sure you have much to do. Especially now, with the shortage of staff.’

‘You have no idea.’ And fluttering her eyelashes and diddling her jet, the burly woman left us to get on.

‘That is a bloke,’ I said to Hugo Rune. ‘And do not go telling me that it is not.’

‘Of course it’s a bloke, Rizla. But we must be polite and pretend not to notice. These are not the swinging sixties. I have known “Roberta” for many years. He risks a prison sentence for dressing as he does.’

‘Looking like that should be a criminal offence,’ I said. ‘And I come from the swinging sixties.’

‘Shame on you, Rizla. But pay attention now, we have a case to solve and I feel that if we are not quick about it, others will come to grief.’

‘You have a theory?’ I asked. ‘Then please share it with me, for I am totally in the dark.’

‘So, no prize cigar coming your way, then?’

‘I remain quietly confident,’ I said. In a manner that implied that I did, no matter how unlikely it might appear.

‘Let us search for clues,’ said Himself, and search for clues we did.

There was something about the all-over whiteness of this singular singularity that fair put my teeth on edge. I had felt uncomfortable when I entered and the discomfort seemed, if anything, to be on the increase. The air here had an almost liquid quality to it and things did not diminish in size the further you were away from them.

‘I hate it here,’ I told Hugo Rune. ‘And for that matter, much as I enjoy your company, I hate this war and really wish that I was back in my right time and all of this was over.’

‘And the war won by the Allies?’

‘Quite so.’

‘And all nice and normal again?’

‘That is right.’

‘And your Aunt Edna sending you off to find a respectable job-for-life? ’

‘Let us search for clues,’ I said. ‘I bet I find one before you do.’

But I lost that bet.

‘See here,’ said Hugo Rune, some moments later and poking around in what might have been a corner of the room we occupied, but might equally not have been. ‘Tell me what you think of this, young Rizla.’

I ambled over through the whiteness and knelt down beside Himself. ‘You see that, Rizla?’ he said to me. ‘Grey smears upon the whiteness below – now what do you make of those?’

‘Aha,’ I said and I straightened up and did some feeling around. ‘I believe that to be the scuff-mark of a door that rubs upon the floor and… yes.’ Something clicked and a bit of a door swung open.

‘Very good, Rizla, you have earned yourself a cigar band.’

I peered in through the open doorway. ‘Ah no,’ I said. ‘It is nothing special, just a big cupboard with lots of musical instruments in it.’ And I went inside and did some poking about.

‘What is that?’ I asked Hugo Rune.

‘A crumhorn,’ he replied.

‘And that?’

‘A viola d’amore.’

‘And what about that?’

‘That, as you know, is a ukulele, Rizla. And that is enough of that.’

‘I have noticed the severe lack of running gags in our present adventures,’ I told the Magus. ‘What is that, by the way?’

‘That is a girdle, Rizla. A form of ladies’ foundation garment. And a size eight. One for a little lady, methinks.’

I rummaged about amongst instrument cases. ‘There is a pair of ladies’ shoes here,’ I said. ‘In this ukulele case.’ And I flung the ukulele case aside. ‘Small size too and a flowery frock and a lady’s straw hat also.’

‘Any gentlemen’s clothing to be found?’

I rummaged some more and some more and then said that there was not.

Hugo Rune took the foundation garment and gave it a bit of a sniff.

‘I think you will probably find that is a criminal offence,’ I told him. ‘Especially if you steal them from washing lines.’

‘Buffoon, Rizla. But these are our clues and the case is all but solved.’

‘Right,’ I said and I made a certain face.

‘Think, Rizla, think,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘You can reason it out.’ And I thought.

‘Are you really telling me,’ I said at length, ‘that these clothes are really the clue that will lead us to solving the case?’

Hugo Rune nodded his head and told me he did.

‘Then I should be able to reason it out.’

And perhaps I might have done so there and then. Had there not been a sudden interruption. A fellow in a white coat, with a clipboard in his hand, came busting into the instrument storeroom and fell down at the feet of Hugo Rune.

‘Bless you, my son,’ went Himself. Bringing his blessing finger into play.

‘I’ve not come for a blessing.’ The fellow in the white coat struggled up. ‘I tripped on a ukulele case that some fool must have carelessly flung aside. There has been another murder, Mr Rune!’

We followed the white-coated fellow, who led us at length to the corpse. A number of similarly white-coated fellows stood about their fallen companion, clipboards under their arms and a-wringing of their hands.

Miss Newman was kneeling down by the body with big tears in her eyes.

Hugo Rune cleared a path for us with his stout stick and cried out the words, ‘Don’t touch anything!’

‘I loosened his collar,’ blubbered Miss Newman. ‘I thought he was having an epileptic fit or something.’

‘If this is the virus at work,’ I whispered to Hugo Rune, ‘we could all now be in a lot of trouble.’

‘We all heard that,’ cried a fellow in a white coat. ‘And that seems good cause for panic.’

And panic they began to do and run they were about to.

‘No!’ shouted Hugo Rune. And even the weird acoustics were unable to muffle his shout. ‘You will not panic. You will return quietly to your work. This is not the work of a virus. You are all intelligent men – has it escaped you that a deadly virus is not selective in whom it kills? If this, as the other deaths, was caused by some deadly virus, you would all have been struck down by it by now.’