Doctor Who_ Atom Bomb Blues - Andrew Cartmel [5]
‘Who’s Major Bulldog?’ said the girl.
‘Butcher, Ace,’ said the small man. He was still leaning over the seat, still looking at Butcher and smiling. Butcher decided he had run the ruse as far as it would go. ‘Actually I’m Major Butcher,’ he said.
For a moment there was complete silence, except for the smooth hum of the car’s powerful engine and muted thud of its tyres on the rough road surface.
Butcher knew that his passengers were swiftly reviewing everything they’d said in his hearing and wondering if they should have said it. The sort of things you let slip in front of a flunky like a driver might be very different from the things you’d say to the head of security of the atomic bomb project at Los Alamos.
It was the little man who broke the silence. ‘Forgive us. We assumed you were a driver sent by Major Butcher. Not the Major himself.’
‘It was my civvies that threw you,’ said Butcher. ‘I like to be comfortable on a long drive. But don’t worry, you’ll get to see me in full uniform soon enough.
When I’m acting in my official capacity.’
‘But surely it’s high treason to take off your uniform, especially in a time of war,’ said the little man.
‘If I was behind enemy lines I could be shot,’ said Butcher lightly.
‘But the Doctor’s right,’ said the girl. ‘It’s against regulations, isn’t it?’
‘There are exceptions,’ said the man she called the Doctor.
‘I imagine
such unconventional behaviour is permissible when you are acting as a plain clothes detective.’
‘Detective?’ said Ace.
‘The Major here used to be with Pinkertons, America’s premier private investigation firm.’
Butcher glanced at the man in surprise. Or, he would have glanced at him, but the Doctor had suddenly subsided into the rear of the car again. Butcher had to search for him in the mirror. When he got a look at his face, the little man was smiling. ‘How did you know that?’ said Butcher.
The Doctor chuckled and looked at the girl beside him. The Major here is accustomed to reading dossiers on people and it must be an alarming thought for him to imagine someone else reading a dossier on him.’ He leaned forward and spoke over the back of the seat again, as if imparting a confidence.
‘Actually it’s nothing so sinister Major Butcher. Or should I say Rex Butcher.
I’m a fan of yours.’
‘A fan of his?’ said the girl. ‘What are you on about?’
‘The Major here is a writer,’ said the Doctor.
10
Butcher was annoyed to note that the girl seemed astonished. ‘Him? What kind of a writer?’ The Doctor laughed, apparently amused by her scepticism.
He said, ‘What kind do you think? He’s a detective, so he writes detective stories. Novels, in fact. And very accomplished novels at that.’ Butcher tried to repress a warm glow that spread across his heart at these words. He knew the man could be trying to manipulate him, but it was hard for an author to entirely shut himself off from praise of his work.
‘Really?’ said the girl. Annoyingly, she still seemed astonished. Butcher suddenly wondered if he should have shaved this morning after all. But he’d been deliberately cultivating the Neanderthal grease-monkey look for his feint as the driver. Now the girl was acting as if the proverbial bear had stood up after doing its business in the woods and begun reciting poetry.
‘No, really,’ said the Doctor hastily, as if sensing Butcher’s displeasure, ‘I’m a great admirer of yours Major. I think your experience working as a real detective informs your work while not circumscribing it.’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Butcher.
‘By which I merely mean that what you write is better than reality, more organised and concise and dramatic. And yet it conveys the tang of reality with it.’
‘Which ones have you read?’ said Butcher. He’d be amazed if the little bastard had read any of them.
The Doctor frowned and considered. I’ve got him there, thought Butcher. But then the little man spoke up as