Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [182]
“I told you he’d be on time.”
And there he is. He would be a little less terrifying if he wasn’t smiling.
“Well, thank God, at bloody last!” says Patrick, studying the tall stranger with nervous resolve.
Although it is only late afternoon, Monsieur Zenith wears perfect evening dress. Thrown back over one shoulder is an old-fashioned scarlet-lined opera cape and on his head is a silk hat. His eyes are hidden by a pair of round, smoked glasses which further emphasize the pallor of his skin. He has a long head with delicate bones and his ears seem to taper. He has an almost feminine mouth, sensitive and firm. In one white-gloved, slender hand is an ebony cane, trimmed with silver. In the other, he carries what appears to be a long electric guitar case which he now stoops to rest on the floor.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” He speaks in a soft accent that is difficult to identify. “Such confidence is flattering. I believe you have something to show me?”
Patrick backs into the room as Monsieur Zenith carries in his burden, puts it down again, takes off his hat, closes the door carefully behind him and nods a greeting. Slipping a slender silver case from his inner pocket, he removes a small, brown cigarette and lights it. He comes immediately to the point. “I have your release, gentlemen. But first I must be sure that you are who you say you are and that your circumstances are as they have been described to me.”
“What do we have to bloody prove?” says Patrick. “That we blew up a Number 37 tram in the Strand? The movement knows who we are. They sent you, didn’t they?”
“Not exactly. I volunteered to come. I had heard about that—” he gestures with his cane at the parcel on the table. “And when I learned what I was to receive for my services, I put two and two together. So that was your bomb on the Number 37?”
“It was,” says Patrick, dropping his cigarette to the boards of the floor and crushing it out. His companion is silent. Monsieur Zenith removes his smoked glasses and lifts a pale, enquiring brow.
Patrick now takes note of the albino’s ruby eyes which burn with suppressed pain and melancholy irony.
Caught for a moment in their timeless depths, Patrick feels suddenly lost, as if his entire universe has fallen away from him and he is absolutely alone. Gasping, he turns and almost runs towards the table, tearing at the newspaper. “You’d better have a look at this cup…”
“No,” says Monsieur Zenith. “I don’t want to see it. Not quite yet. I know what it is, believe me. I’ll wait. Until you’re gone.”
“So you trust us?” says Patrick. He looks expectantly towards the guitar case. He is very anxious to leave. His companion, however, sits quietly in his chair, and his nod to his old acquaintance has a reconciled, almost submissive air. He makes no effort to prepare himself for departure.
“To be who you say you are? Of course I do! Who else would claim such a crime?”
“Jesus God Almighty,” says Patrick. “Crime is it? I can’t stand another damned moralist. I’d be prepared to bet you’ve just as much blood on your hands as we have.”
“Oh,” says Monsieur Zenith lifting the case onto the table. “Infinitely more, no doubt.”
This confession of complicity, as he sees it, relaxes Patrick a little. He gestures to the bottle and glasses. “A drink, pal?”
The albino moves his head a fraction. No. His strange, almost angelic face turns to the window and notes that it is overlooked by nothing.
“You brought cash I see,” says Patrick. “And travelers cheques, like we asked, I hope?” He hesitates as the albino rapidly snaps open the case’s catches and begins to lift the lid. There’s a walkman or something in there, playing what sounds at first like modern North African music. The noise deepens until it vibrates all the glass in the room and makes Patrick feel faintly ill. Some sort of alarm, perhaps.
Then the case is fully open. It is lined in red velvet. The whole of its length and much of its breadth is taken up by an enormous broadsword.