‘I am sorry,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But — and please bear with me on this — what if I enquire who stole the reliquary and it does spell out my name?’
‘Then I will eat my beard,’ said Belmont. ‘Peppered and salted. Perhaps upon toast.’
Mr Bell considered that although he could not really spare the time, he would be prepared to set an hour or two aside to watch that.
‘Right,’ said the detective. ‘I will tap in the question.’
‘Not so fast,’ said Belmont. ‘You should pay a forfeit if you are wrong.’
‘But I am not wrong,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I have yet to explain matters, but essentially I am not wrong.’
‘Then you won’t mind paying a forfeit if you are wrong.’
‘Not at all,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Well,’ said Belmont, stroking the beard that he soon might be having for lunch. ‘Ah yes, quite so. If I am to dine upon my beard, then you, if you are wrong, must eat your hat.’
Mr Bell laughed somewhat at this.
‘Promise that you will,’ said Belmont. ‘I assume you to be a man of your word.’
‘All right,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I promise.’
‘Then tap the keys and spell out your question.’
Mr Bell gave thought to this and then tapped out his question.
WHAT IS THE TRUE NAME OF THE MASTERMIND
BEHIND THE ROBBERY OF THE RELIQUARY?
‘Are you sure you wish to phrase it like that?’ asked Belmont.
‘Absolutely certain,’ said Cameron Bell.
Belmont tutted loudly. ‘Mastermind,’ said he. ‘Giving yourself all airs and graces.’
‘Just trying to keep it accurate,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘Oh, it will be that all right.’ Belmont climbed a small staircase, took hold of a key that was almost the size of himself and wound up the clockwork motor that powered the Patent Post-Cogitative Prognosticator.
The engine came to life with wonderful whirrings and clickings, with a spinning of ball governors and the enigmatic moving of parts that few men knew the names of Mr Bell watched it as it went about its mysterious business.
‘Just one question for you,’ he said to Belmont. ‘How far back into the past can this contraption delve in search of answers?’
‘Until the year eighteen nineteen,’ said Belmont, who had found an oily rag to wipe his hands upon in the manner that engineers find so pleasurable. ‘Back until that year only. It expresses no knowledge of anything prior to that time.’
‘And how would you account for that?’
Belmont now wiped his beard on the oily rag. ‘Either the engine was built during that year or nothing at all occurred before that year. I am in two minds myself’
Click-click-whirr-and-whizz went the wonderful engine and then it ground to a standstill. There was a sound that resembled a thunderous burp and a strip of brass popped out of a little slot.
Belmont caught it, blew upon it — for it was hot — then without so much as a glance passed it up to Mr Bell.
‘You read it out,’ said he.
Cameron Bell glanced at the strip of brass. Letters were embossed upon it, so Cameron Bell read out what they spelled. But read it to himself.
‘Out loud,’ said Belmont. ‘What does it say?’
Mr Bell took a very deep breath. ‘It says,’ said he, and he took another breath. ‘It says: “THE TRUE NAME OF THE MASTERMIND BEHIND THE ROBBERY OF THE RELIQUARY IS—”‘
‘Go on,’ said Belmont. ‘Let’s hear it.’
‘“DARWIN THE MONKEY,”‘ read Cameron Bell.
‘Do you want mustard on your hat?’ asked the grinning Mr Belmont.
23
ustard, Mr Bell spread on his hat, and then consumed it.
‘You are a man of your word,’ said Belmont. ‘I certainly would not have eaten my beard.’
‘Perhaps not willingly,’ said Mr Bell, his face both pale and grey.
‘You missed a bit of the hatband, ‘said Belmont. ‘And might I enquire — who is this criminal mastermind who calls himself Darwin the Monkey? Carlos the Jackal,[15] I’ve heard of— he’s one of those anarchists that the princess is a-feared of — and Hopp the Frog-Boy. And I once met a parrot called Peter, but that, as they say, is quite another story.’
Mr Bell swallowed the last of the hatband. It was a matter of principle, really. Darwin the monkey indeed. But somehow he could find no cause to doubt it. The Patent Post-Cogitative Prognosticator could, had it been simply randomly generating names, come up with anything, even Hopp the Frog-Boy at a push. But it had come up with Darwin, so Darwin it somehow must be.
But how? And Mr Bell wiped boater from his chin. ‘Ah,’ said he, of a sudden. ‘I have it.’ And he flung aside his knife and fork and pushed his plate away.
He and Belmont were sharing a table in the servants ‘quarters. There was much busyness here, much straightening of uniforms and ironing of clothes.
‘What do you have?’ asked Belmont. ‘Please tell me it is the whereabouts of the stolen item.’
‘That is what I am thinking,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Let us ask your wonderful machine where the reliquary is at this moment.’
‘Brilliant,’ said the tiny man. ‘I wish I had thought of that.’
Cameron Bell made a certain face.
Belmont made it also.
And then Belmont shook his head and said, ‘Sadly, it cannot be done.’
Cameron Bell asked why this was and Belmont told him why.
‘The engine has to recalibrate itself,’ he said, ‘and that takes time. And before you ask, a very great deal of time —twenty-five years, I’d say, give or take a month.’
‘Then I shall have to apply logic to this situation.’ Cameron Bell drained the pint pot of porter that Belmont had recommended as the perfect complement to his boater.
‘The I, that is me here, did not commit the crime, and as I cannot be in two places at the same time, it therefore follows that there must be another I, which is identical but not the same as the one here. Are you following this?’
‘I am probably way ahead of you,’ said Belmont. ‘Your reasoning goes— ‘Please let me say it,’ said Mr Bell, ‘for I am the detective.’ ‘The I that is you, or the other I?’
Mr Bell’s temper was growing short, but he kept his anger in check.
‘My reasoning goes,’ said he, ‘that if this other me is so very me that his fingerprints are identical to mine — that he is me, in fact — then I have every reason to believe that he would act as I would act and that he would carry the reliquary off to a place and leave it for me to collect.’
‘The two yous are working together, then, is it?’ asked Belmont.
‘I know exactly where I would take it,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And if I am wrong I will gladly eat my jacket.’
Belmont now bounced up and down. Which put Mr Bell in mind of Darwin and set him to wondering many things about his little friend.
‘Oh, do tell,’ said Belmont. ‘I have never before seen a man eat a jacket. A flowerpot, once, I recall, and upon another occasion— ‘I have to go,’ said Cameron Bell, rising from his seat. ‘I have a theory regarding this. A fanciful theory, certainly, but a theory nonetheless. If I am correct, all will shortly be explained to me.
‘Well, lucky old you,’ said Belmont. ‘I for one do not think I could survive much more of your company. Mystery and chaos surround you like false friends who have learned of your lottery win. You will eat your jacket if you’re wrong, though, won’t you?’
‘I promise I will,’ said Mr Bell.
But Mr Bell did not always tell the truth. When he returned to the royal steam tug and gently awakened the helmsman, this fellow enquired of Mr Bell whether he had, as promised, spoken with Princess Pamela and broached the subject of a pay rise and a job for his eldest son.
‘I certainly did,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘She said she would think about it. She said also that you were to
hurry me back to the shore as speedily as possible.’
‘As speedily as can be,’ said the helmsman. ‘I notice that you have your bag and sword-stick, but fear that you have forgotten your fine straw boater.’
‘As speedily as can be,’ said Mr Bell.
The helmsman stoked up the boiler, diddled with stopcocks and set the tug in motion.
Once more upon dry land, Mr Bell tipped the helmsman and went upon his way. It was a long walk back to the hotel, for the driver who had conveyed him to the steam tug’s mooring had long since departed with his cart. Mr Bell was forced to trudge the road. A long and winding road was this, which led through deep-red forest. Odd things swung about in the trees, calling their curious calls. Other things that might well have been predatory scampered through the undergrowth and the detective put a certain spring into his step.
As he marched along, he pondered on the strangeness of it all. He could only draw one single conclusion and this was one he did not like at all, for it was one that could surely be the cause of all kinds of chaos.
Something shrieked in the forest and Mr Bell hurried on.
The New Dorchester gleamed in the Martian sunshine. Lackeys on ladders flicked red dust from the stately walls of white whilst others laboured to remove a large red ‘A’ that someone had painted upon a wall. The work of the dreaded anarchists, Mr Bell supposed. The hotel’s steam charabanc had been similarly disfigured.
The loafing boys once more approached Mr Bell to offer him their personal services. Mr Bell pushed past them and entered the hotel.
The detective was somewhat damp about the brow and other regions, too, when finally he reached the reception desk. A gaunt and dark-faced fellow stood behind it, who looked up from his doings and glanced at Mr Bell. Then stiffened and stared and cried, ‘Oh my!’
‘Apologies for my appearance,’ said the dusty and bedraggled detective. ‘A rather long walk back.’
The gaunt and dark-faced fellow gawped at Mr Bell, then glanced towards the lift, then back once more to Mr Cameron Bell. ‘But …’ said he. ‘How did you … ? I do not understand.’
‘Would I be correct in thinking that I have already gone up to my room?’ said Mr Bell.
The dark-faced fellow nodded gormlessly.
‘My twin brother, Sam,’ said Mr Bell, the lie springing easily to his lips. ‘He is always getting up to such tricks. He took my room key from your peg, I suppose.
‘Yes indeed,’ said the dark—faced fellow. ‘Your twin brother Sam? Ah, yes, I understand.’
‘Is there a spare key?’ asked Mr Bell. ‘I would like to surprise him.’
The dark-faced fellow nodded then went to seek it out. Upon his return, Mr Bell snatched the key from his hand and made off with haste towards the lift.
When shortly thereafter he stood before the door to his hotel room, the detective was breathing heavily. He pressed his ear to the door’s panelling and hearing nothing pushed the key into the lock.
Turned it and flung the door open.
All was as it had been, though a maid had tidied the room. But there had certainly not been that great big brown-paper-covered parcel on the bed before. The one with the note tucked into its twiney bindings.
Mr Bell glanced beneath the bed, into the wardrobes, here and there. There was no one hiding. He sat down on the bed and tapped the parcel. He had absolutely no doubt as to what it contained. The stolen reliquary. He was very interested, however, to read what the note that accompanied it had to say.
He took it up and examined what was on the sheet of paper. The small and neatly written script was, as he had expected it to be, his own handwriting. Mr Bell took his pince-nez from their case, as this writing was small, and read aloud the missive that he held now in a rather shaky hand.
‘“Note to self,”‘ it began. ‘ “As you are now aware, it was you who stole the reliquary. You did this in order to foil the evil schemes of Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm, an adversary who is proving to be most problematic. You were able to do this because the you sitting there reading this note and the you who wrote it are one and the same person, but you inhabit different time frames. The you who wrote this note travelled back into the past in a time—ship created by Mr Ernest Rutherford and piloted by Darwin, who masterminded this particular attempt to foil the evil witch. I told him that it would not work. But he told me (that is the you in the future) that it was his turn to have a go and as he was pilot his decision was final.
‘“There have been difficulties —“ ‘ Mr Bell laughed just a little at reading this ‘ “— and if this particular attempt to alter the past fails, Darwin and I have agreed that it will be the last. I cannot tell you what you must do with the reliquary now that it is in your possession. I am hoping you will do something inspired, because if you do not then things will go very badly for the you that is me now. Please try very hard not to get me killed this time!”‘
‘This time?’ Mr Bell turned over the paper. There was nothing more to be read.
‘You cannot leave it like that!’ he cried. ‘I would not leave it like that! I would explain a plan. One that was guaranteed to work. I would have written it all down here. Unless—’
And here a terrible thought struck Mr Bell.
‘Unless the actions I am about to take will cause the death of the me from the future. Oh, calamity.’
A refrigerated cupboard in the study area was well stocked with champagne. Mr Bell drew out a bottle and dragged forth its cork. He could not as yet toast success, but he sorely needed a drink.
As the contents of the bottle found its way into Mr Bell’s stomach, he gave great thought to the matter in hand.
‘It is certainly not the way I would have gone about it,’ he said, as he tossed back champagne. ‘I would have stolen the reliquary from the British Museum before Miss Dharkstorrm acquired it and hurled it into the deepest ocean.’ Mr Bell thought of the Martian canals. ‘Well, at least I can dispose of this one,’ he said.
But here great problems loomed.
If the reliquary was not returned to Princess Pamela, the spaceport would be closed to him and a price put on his head. And if it was not passed to Lavinia Dharkstorrm she would butcher Darwin most dreadfully. But if it was given to Miss Dharkstorrm, she would reunite it with the other three reliquaries in an ‘unhallowed place’ and bring about the End of Days when the clock struck twelve on the thirty-first of December, eighteen ninety-nine.
It was all something of a dilemma.
Cameron Bell poured further champagne down his throat. ‘But I am Bell,’ said he, his voice somewhat slurred now by drink. ‘Cameron Bell, the world’s foremost consulting detective. If anyone can solve this thing, then I am the one who can.
The champagne bottle was empty, so Mr Bell sought out another.
And he was half the way through that when the great thought hit him.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Oh yes indeed.’
There was a solution to this. A dangerous one, certainly, and one that might involve the destruction of a great deal of property. But sacrifices sometimes had to be made, and in a cause such as this, in which so very much was at stake, there was always likely to be — now what was that term The Times’ Bioscope Reviewer had so recently coined? — ah, yes, ‘collateral damage’, that was it.
Mr Bell held up his champagne glass. It was afternoon now and sunlight slanting through the casement windows tinged the sweet champagne a bloody red.
The rather drunken detective took himself off in the company of both bottle and glass to the desk in the study area and there put pen to paper. He scribbled away as one possessed, and when he was done reading through what he had scribbled, he made jottings here and there then pushed aside the paper.
‘Now that is what I call a plan!’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And now I shall take a shower, change my clothes, go down to the lobby and hire the hotel’s steam charabanc for the day tomorrow, put certain propositions to the loafing boys outside, then take supper and have an ea
rly night. Tomorrow will, I feel, bring a very big adventure.’
The sun wallowed low in the Martian sky and strange beasts howled in the distance.
24
ery early the next morning, Mr Bell awoke hangover—free, as was the way with him. He eschewed today the bathroom spa, taking instead a cold— water wipe-down, then dressed and descended to the dining room for the earliest of breakfasts.
Then he returned to his room, where for the next hour he interviewed a number of the loafing boys, paying some for services already rendered and receiving from them certain illicit goods; thanking others for jobs well done and dispensing coin of the realm in a carefree, generous fashion.
When all was done and he was once more left alone, he attended to certain pressing duties, then took up the brown-paper-covered parcel and his Gladstone bag and marched from his room in a most determined manner.
Although it was still relatively early and the Martian sun was only just upon the rise, there was a very great deal of activity before the New Dorchester. A very great deal of rubbing and fussing and cursing from hotel staff.
During the night, vast works of vandalism had been performed upon the building’s façade. Huge red painted ‘A’s were in evidence and the ominous line
TODAY THE REVOLUTION BEGINS
had been wrought many times in letters large and red.
A driver, all swaddled in blankets, sporting a big black beard and a high top hat, stood to the rear of the hotel’s steam charabanc, adjusting stopcocks and scalding his hands. Of the loafing boys who usually loafed, none was to be seen.
Mr Bell climbed aboard the gleaming automobile, which offered its fragrances of polish and oil to the great detective’s nostrils. He seated himself upon the luxuriously appointed forward leather couch, tucked the Gladstone between his feet and placed the parcel carefully upon his lap.
‘The spaceport,’ said he. ‘if you will be so kind.’