The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [277]
He corrected himself quickly, but it was too late for the politician, and he knew it. He scowled at the two of us, trembling with rage. His charming manner seemed to desert him as we sprang the trap; suaveness gave way to snarling, smooth politeness to clumsy threats.
“Now listen,” growled Kaine, trying to regain control of the situation, “you two are in way over your heads. Try to arrest me and I can make things very difficult for you—one footnoterphone call from me and the pair of you will spend the next eternity on grammasite watch inside the OED.”
But Tweed was made of stern stuff, too.
“I’ve closed bloopholes in Dracula and Biggles Flies East,” he replied evenly. “I don’t frighten easily. Call off the Glatisant and put your hands on your head.”
“Leave Cardenio here with me—if only until tomorrow,” added Kaine, changing tack abruptly and forcing a smile. “In return I can give you anything you want. Power, cash—an earldom, Cornwall, character exchange into Hemingway—you name it, Kaine will provide!”
“You have nothing of any value to bargain with, Mr. Kaine,” Tweed told him, his hand tightening on his pistol. “For the last time—”
But Kaine had no intention of being taken, alive or otherwise. He cursed us both to a painful excursion in the twelfth circle of hell and melted from view as Tweed fired. The slug buried itself harmlessly in a complete set of bound Punch magazines. At the same time the steel doors burst open. But instead of a pestilential hell-beast conjured from the depths of mankind’s most degenerate thoughts, only an icy rush of air entered, bringing with it the lingering smell of death. The Questing Beast had vanished as quickly as its master, back to the oral tradition and any books unfortunate enough to feature it.
“Cat!” yelled Tweed as he reholstered his gun. “We’ve got a PageRunner. I need a bookhound ASAP!”6
Volescamper sat down on a handy chair and looked bewildered.
“You mean,” he stammered incredulously, “look here, Kaine was—?”
“—entirely fictional—yes,” I replied, laying a hand on his shoulder.
“You mean Cardenio didn’t belong to my grandfather’s library after all?” he asked, his confusion giving way to sadness.
“I’m sorry, Volescamper,” I told him. “Kaine stole the manuscript. He used your library as a front.”
“And if I were you,” added Tweed in a less kindly aside, “I should just go upstairs and pretend you slept all through this. You never saw us, never heard us, you know nothing of what happened here.”
“Bingo!” cried Raffles as the handle on the safe turned, shattering the frozen lock inside and creaking open. Raffles handed me the manuscript before he and Bunny vanished back to their own book with only the thanks of Jurisfiction to show for the night’s efforts—a valuable commodity on their side of the law.
I passed Cardenio to Tweed. He rested a reverential hand on the play and smiled a rare smile.
“An undedicated dialogue trap, Next—quick thinking. Who knows, we might make a Jurisfiction agent of you yet.”
“Well, thank—”
“Cat!” bellowed Tweed again. “Where’s that blasted bookhound?”7
A large and sad-looking bloodhound appeared from nowhere, looked at us both lugubriously, made a sort of hopeless doggy-sigh and then started to sniff the books scattered on the floor in a professional manner. Tweed snapped a lead on the dog’s collar.
“If I was the sort of person to apologize,” he conceded, straining at the leash of the bookhound, who had locked onto the scent of one of Kaine’s expletives, “I would. Join me in the hunt for Kaine?”
It was tempting, but I remembered Dad’s prediction—and there was Landen to think of.
“I have to save the world tomorrow,” I announced, surprising myself by just how matter-of-fact I sounded. Tweed, on the other hand, didn’t seem in the least surprised.
“Oh!” he said. “Well, another time, then. On sir, seek, away!”
The bookhound gave an excited bark and leaped forward; Tweed hung grimly to the leash and they both disappeared into