The Ghosts of N-Space - Barry Letts [68]
‘Good morning, Mr Vilmio,’ called the Brigadier from the top of the gate tower before they even had time to knock on the door.
238
Half a dozen faces turned upwards. ‘I want to talk to the owner of this dump,’ said Max.
‘I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,’ replied the Brigadier. You are not welcome here. Please be so kind as to leave at once.’
‘Where’s that Doctor? Let me talk to the Doctor.’
‘He’s not available at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?’
Vilmio’s face darkened. ‘Listen, creep. I’ve had about enough of your slimy Brit talk. You’ll save yourselves a lot of grief if you just open up.’
The Brigadier smiled. ‘Thank you for your warning.
May I reciprocate by strongly advising you not to try any strong-arm tactics, You might be surprised by the amount of
– ah – grief waiting for you.’
He spoke more truly than he realized himself While he had been talking, the two senior members of the defence force, Umberto and Mario, together with a sweating Elvis look-alike, having all deserted their posts apparently, had struggled up the narrow stairway carrying a steaming bucket each. As they came panting onto the top of the tower, Maggie, who had been keeping well back, gave a whoop of delight and rushed over to seize Umberto’s bucket.
To receive a faceful of very hot dishwater – not quite scalding, unfortunately, owing to the journey from the 239
kitchen – would disconcert the most determined attacker. It was to the credit of Max Vilmio’s bodyguard that in spite of the deluge (for Maggie’s bucketful was almost instantly joined by Roberto’s, and Mario’s was not far behind) all four had their guns out of their shoulder-holsters in a moment. The only one not to react at all was the figure in a monk’s habit, who didn’t even appear to be wet.
But no shot was fired, for Max had lifted a restraining hand. He spat out a mouthful of dirty water and looked up at Maggie, who was giggling with delight at the sight of the drenched party. ‘So that s where you got to, you little bitch,’
he said.
‘I know all about you, you dirty old man,’ she answered. ‘So why don’t you bug off?’
‘Good advice, Mr Vilmio,’ said the Brigadier, who had been watching the antics of his insubordinates subordinates with immense satisfaction. ‘Si,’ added Mano. ‘Go paddle your own canoodle.’
‘Okay, we’ll play it your way,’ said Vilmio, who had shown no great surprise to be told that his cover had been blown.
With a jerk of his head, he ordered a tactic retreat.
Keeping their guns in their hands, his party went back the way they had come, keeping an eye on the row of grinning 240
faces at the top of the gate tower, and vanished round the corner by the orange grove.
A shout from behind brought the Brigadier’s head round. ‘I say, you lot. What’s going on?’
Jeremy, in an old straw hat with an enormous brim which Umberto had dug out for him, was wandering towards them from the middle of the open space, like a peripatetic mushroom.
The Brigadier was across to the other side of the tower in a flash. This was no time for Jeremy to be joining the others in abandoning his post.
‘Stay where you are!’ he shouted. ‘You’re going to be needed at any moment!’
And indeed, he was immediately summoned back to the front of the tower by a call from Roberto. ‘Lookee-here, boss man,’ he cried, ‘the monk guy’s doing the hokey-cokey!’
The Brigadier pushed his way through the little knot of excited onlookers. In the wood opposite the orange grove, the figure of the monk – what had Maggie called him? Nico, wasn’t it? – was dodging through the trees from clump to clump, obviously trying not to be seen. His motion was distinctly strange. It was almost, the Brigadier thought, as if he were floating four inches above the ground; and this 241
wasn’t surprising, he thought a moment later, because that was exactly