It appeared that the Customs wished to look into the dead musician’s coffin, which was leaving with the rest of the band. The Customs seemed to think it likely that the ornate box contained contraband rather than a defunct Turk. Parrodyce was inclined to agree with them.
He was getting a pale sort of pleasure out of watching this tableau when a ‘Single Z’ waiter arrived by his side.
‘Gen’leman upstairs wants to see you,’ he told Parrodyce.
The liquid in Parrodyce’s bladder froze over instantly.
‘What’s his name?’ he asked. ‘What’s he want?’
‘He di’n’ say, sir,’ the waiter said, adding virtuously ‘and I naturally di’n’ ask. But he did say it was a matter of life and death you went up.’
Parrodyce had an aversion to the word ‘death’, but he got to his feet almost with a feeling of relief: the initiative was at last out of his hands.
‘Where is he?’ he asked.
‘Right up the stairs. Room 3.’
Parrodyce went up. There seemed no alternative, but in any case he was curious; if the New Police wanted to arrest him, why not do it in their usual fashion – in full view of others, as a warning – rather than in this roundabout way? And if it wasn’t the police, it might conceivably be someone offering him help.
Upstairs, cheap moon-plaster was crumbling from the walls. It was gloomy here, with a smell of beer and fagends and dirty trousers. The door of Room 3 stood open. Parrodyce entered cautiously, and was immediately grabbed. Arms, ferociously strong, flung him on to a bed.
He was searched all over, and then his captor stood back and surveyed him.
It was Joe Rakister, Parrodyce’s ex-assistant.
‘I never thought you’d be fool enough to walk in like that!’ Rakister exclaimed. ‘You know I was up here – what made you come? Or have you got someone else with you? In that case, it’s just too bad, because we’re leaving in a moment by a back entrance.’
This made little sense to Parrodyce. He stared blankly at his late assistant. The man looked wild. He was filthy and unshaven and evidently had not slept for some time. He wore some kind of ill-fitting uniform which included a cap, jammed tightly on to his head.
‘You see, I’m too smart for you all,’ Rakister explained. ‘I cottoned on instantly. I messed up the killing of Dorgen – I heard someone come into the earth shop as I was doing it. And I thought, “The Colonel will get you for this, boy!” And then I realised that he was planning to get me any way, I’d go back for my reward and nobody would ever see me again. For some reason, it was important to him to get Dorgen out of the way secretly; but the secret would only be really safe with me out of the way too. Oh, I worked it all out, Parrodyce.’
‘Very clever of you, Joe,’ said Parrodyce. ‘Go on.’
‘I’ve seen the telecasts. I know they pinned the job on this bod Wyvern. But that’s just a blind to lull me into a sense of security and make me come out of hiding. It won’t wash. Now they’ve sent you along – to talk me into coming back, I suppose?’
So he did not know that Parrodyce was also on the run – but how could he? The sense of hope rose in Parrodyce again.
‘Well …’ he said.
‘Oh, don’t trouble to deny it. I’ve got no grudge against you, Parrodyce – you were a good boss, as bosses go. But now you’re here, you’re going to help me. With your assistance, I can carry out a little plan I’ve hatched. We’re going out through Trafalgar Gate, see? I’m beating it out of the sector.’
The sense of hope swelled into a sense of triumph. It interfered with Parrodyce’s breathing.
‘Once we’re in the open, you can please yourself what you do,’ Rakister continued. ‘I shan’t harm you if you co-operate. If you don’t co-operate, I’ll kill you soon as look at you. Get that?’
‘You know I’m no fool, Joe.’
Rakister laughed harshly.
‘See this get-up I’m wearing?’ he said. ‘Never mind how I came by it. It belonged to a lung-piper. Know what a lung-pipe is?’
The term meant nothing to Parrodyce.
‘A lung-piper is a chap who inspects the oxygen wells. You know how they get the liquid oxygen up here from underground lakes? The pipes run through the hangar, and the pumps are there. We’re going to inspect them; I’m the piper, you’re my mate. Now here’s exactly what we do, and keep your ears open because we’ve got to hurry.’
For a man who looked as mad as Rakister, the plan sounded a pretty cool one.
The substitute lung-piper and his mate, the latter in dungarees, the former equipped with a tool case and necessary credentials, crossed from the rear entrance of the ‘Single Z’ to the Trafalgar Gate.
There, the Turkish band was haggling its way through the smaller gate. Instruments blared saucily, for they had won a moral victory over the Customs officials and the coffin full of loot was getting through untouched. They were the centre of all eyes, which suited Rakister and Parrodyce well.
Rakister had obtained a good deal of information on lung-piping from the unfortunate off whom he had got his uniform. Parrodyce following, he marched boldly into the guard room, flashing a yellow pass.
They were well in before a corporal stopped them.
‘Out of my way, sergeant,’ Rakister said. ‘We’ve got to get through here. There’s an emergency job required on the underground piping. They phoned through about it, didn’t they?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ the corporal said, ‘but I’ve only just come off watch. I’ll have to wake up the sergeant, if you’ll hang on.’
‘Wake the bloody sergeant if you like, but we must get on with it unless you want to be floating out on liquid oxygen. There’s a break in X-235.’
He had brushed past the corporal, and was in the tiny store behind the guard room proper. Through a doorway on their right they could see the rest of the detail sleeping in steel cots with their boots on.
At the far end of the store was a trap door. Rakister knelt down beside it, pulled out a bunch of keys and began unlocking the locks and snapping the seals.
‘Hang on a bit for God’s sake, man,’ the corporal said. ‘It won’t take a minute, but whoever tampers with those seals has to sign a form.’
‘Give it me when I come up from the tunnel,’ said Rakister.
The corporal weakened. Evidently he did not consider that rousing a sleepy sergeant was too sound an idea.
‘How long are you going to be?’ he asked, indecision in his voice.
‘An hour – eighty minutes,’ Rakister said. ‘Bring us down some tea, eh?’
‘I’ll still be here then,’ the corporal said with evident relief. ‘I’ll go and get the form, if I can find it. I think it’s a KH 725A.’
He drifted back into the front room as Rakister pulled up the metal square. Parrodyce fished a torch out of the kit they had with them, and they climbed down into the depths, lowering the trap door on top of them.
‘Wouldn’t it have been playing safer if we had tipped that corporal down here and shut him up?’ Parrodyce enquired.
‘He knows he shouldn’t have let us down here. Therefore he’ll keep the secret better than we could,’ said Rakister, and Parrodyce knew he was right. In the old days, casual remarks like this, revealing Rakister’s considerable working knowledge of human psychology, had surprised Parrodyce; he could not understand