Robert Rankin - Raiders of the Lost Car Park

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RAIDERS OF THE LOST CAR PARK
Robert Rankin
AS IF YOU HADN’T GUESSED
We are not being told all of the truth.
There are truths. And there are Truths. And then there are
ULTIMATE TRUTHS.
Allow me to explain.
If you have ever attempted, in the spirit of scientific discovery, to glue a rectangular map of the world
onto a sphere of the same scale, you will soon have realized that it cannot be done. There is simply too
much map.
Now, why should this be?
Well, the greybeards of The Royal Geographic will spin you a lot of jargon about ‘orthomorphic
map representations’ and ‘parallels and meridians’ and ‘scale being exaggerated in increasing proportion
to the lessening proximity with the equator’.
But then, they would say that, wouldn’t they?
That would be what they call a truth.
But it’s not a Truth. And it’s certainly not an
ULTIMATE TRUTH.
The Truth of the matter is that the map can be made to fit. All you have to do is increase the size of
your sphere by one third.
The ULTIMATE TRUTH is, that the entire planet is really a great deal larger than we have been led
to believe. And a considerable amount of it still remains uncharted.
At least by the human population, that is!
Allow me to explain.
There exists, right here, in our very midst, a race of evil beings that secretly manipulate mankind.
They plunder its wealth, screw up its progress and nick its Biros. In short, they control the world as we
know it.
This dark, malignant and altogether bad-assed bunch have, throughout history, infiltrated every level
of our society. They lurk, unseen, unsuspected and seemingly unstoppable. Growing ever in number, bent
upon the ultimate downfall of the human race and ruled over by a merciless tyrant, known to his minions
as the Hidden King of the World, and his gofer, Arthur Kobold.
Their pest holes are everywhere; hundreds across London alone. Each stacked high with a
boundless fortune in stolen booty. But you won’t find the locations on any atlas or street directory. They
are well concealed.
Because these vile beings inhabit all those bits and pieces you had to snip off your rectangular map
of the world to make it fit onto the sphere.
They inhabit the FORBIDDEN ZONES.
And that is an ULTIMATE TRUTH!
The discoverer of this ULTIMATE TRUTH, and of many more besides, was a most remarkable
man. His name was Hugo Artemis Solon Saturnicus Reginald Arthur Rune.
He was a mystic, magus and master of the arts magickal. Poet, painter and prophet. Guru to gurus
and best-dressed man, of 1933.
Hardly anyone remembers him today.
When at the height of his celebrity, between the wars, Rune was lionized by high society and held the
ear of princes and popes. He could be found dancing the night away with Greta Garbo. Fly-fishing with
Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Sharing a joke with Haile Selassie, or leading the conga line at a Buck House
garden party.
But for all this, Rune was ever a man with a mission.
Having discovered the existence of the FOR-BIDDEN ZONES, he set out to enter them, to expose
the truth about the beings that dwell within, to liberate the plundered wealth of ages, to free mankind from
its secret oppressor and would-be destroyer, and to raise upon high his banner of
ULTIMATE TRUTH.
But he did not succeed.
Although, with the aid of his acolyte Rizla, a compass and a tape measure, Rune plotted the location
of every FORBIDDEN ZONE in London; and even formulated a means of breaking into them by
playing certain ‘restricted’ notes on a reinvented ocarina, he did not succeed.
On a dark and stormy night some eighteen years ago, Rune and Rizla set forth upon a heroic
mission. Fearlessly they penetrated to the very heart of the FORBIDDEN ZONES, there to beard the
evil lion in his den. To confront The Hidden King of the World.
Exactly what happened on that fateful night may never be known. Rizla escaped, a broken man.
Hugo Rune was never seen again.
INTRODUCTION
Cornelius Murphy is the Stuff of Epics.
He is seventeen years of age, a tall boy with big hair, a quick wit and an astonishing sense of smell.
He is also the illegitimate son of Hugo Rune.
Cornelius has just returned from an epic adventure. He was employed by a certain Mr Arthur
Kobold, to seek out certain missing chapters from a certain missing book.
The Book of Ultimate Truths. Penned by a certain Hugo Rune.
During the course of his epic adventure, Cornelius, accompanied by his best friend Tuppe (who is
also the Stuff of Epics, although to a somewhat lesser degree), and travelling in a suitably epic nineteen
-fifties Cadillac Eldorado, discovered his true parentage.
He also learned of the existence of the Forbidden Zones and that Rune is still alive and kicking, held
captive inside one of the Zones by the stinkers that dwell within.
Being an epic adventure it was naturally fraught with peril and Cornelius found himself risking life and
limb on numerous occasions. As might well be imagined, the Hidden King of the World, deter-mined to
destroy any threat to the security of his secret kingdoms, was prepared to go to any length to prevent the
tall boy passing on what he had learned.
As well as being fraught with peril, the epic adventure was not without complications. There was a
Scotsman, the Campbell, who was not really a Scotsman at all, but a malevolent chimera. Part man, part
something-else-entirely. And there was a train, THE TRAIN OF TRISMEGISTUS, which wasn’t really
a train at all, but a Satanic-style agency of despatch, unleashed by The Hidden King of the World.
Cornelius did not return from his epic adventure altogether unscathed. He lost a good deal of his big
hair in a life-and-death struggle with the Campbell. Had his Cadillac Eldorado mashed to pieces by falling
masonry. And was tricked out of Rune’s missing chapters by Mr Arthur Kobold, writer of dud cheques,
eater of cake and evil cat’s-paw of The Hidden King.
But if you are the Stuff of Epics, then you just have to take this sort of thing in your stride. And if,
like Cornelius, you find yourself at the end of it all in possession of Rune’s annotated A-Z and the plans
for his reinvented ocarina, then the way ahead is clear.
You must enter the Forbidden Zones.
You must free your father.
You must wage war upon the Hidden King of the World and expose the truth about the evil beings
who secretly control mankind.
You must become a warrior in the cause of
ULTIMATE TRUTH.
And if you happen to come across any of that boundless wealth stored up inside the Forbidden
Zones along the way..
Well, that wouldn’t go amiss either.
1
There are exactly twenty-three really wonderful things in this world, and to be in the right place at the
right time is one of them.
Happily this still leaves twenty-two others for the rest of us to share. And amongst these is Rock ‘n’
Roll.Now Rock ‘n’ Roll may not be to everyone’s taste. Some speak highly of Classical Music. In fact,
some speak highly of Classical Music and say things like, ‘Of course, Classical Music was the Rock ‘n’
Roil of its day.’ Which is frankly a load of old tucket. Classical Music was the Classical Music of its day.
Bawdy ballads were the boogie. Let me make the ballads and who will may make the laws, wrote
Andrew Fletcher in 1703. And two hundred and fifty years later Jerry Lee Lewis would drink to that.
And so today would Mickey Minns. Not that Mickey needed too much of an excuse to up-end a
pint pot. Mickey was an old rocker and the downing of large quantities of beer, went, as they say, with
the territory. He’d once jammed with Jeff Beck at The Marquee and had Mickey been in the right place
at the right time he would have played bass on ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’. But he wasn’t, so he did not.
Minns had been draped across a saloon bar counter during the recording of that particular Rock Anthem.
And he was currently draped across one now. Different counter, different decade, but the song remains
the same.
Back in the Sixties he’d had a full head of hair and a twenty-eight-inch waist and he’d owned a
guitar shop. He still owned a guitar shop. It was situated just off the high street and called Minn’s Music
Mine. Mickey had considered changing the name on many occasions over the years. But the way he saw
it, fashions come and fashions go, yet the British still love a shop with a stupid name. And his was slightly
less stupid than most.
The part-time barman called last orders for the lunch-time session and Mickey raised his head from
the counter to order another. He didn’t have to rush back. Not now he’d got the new assistant and
everything.
The new assistant’s name was Anna Gotting and she was a rare beauty. Blond of hair. Blue of eye.
Independent of spirit. Seventeen years of age and five foot eight of height. Valid arguments against the
inclusion of such a being in the list of the twenty-three really wonderful things have yet to be heard.
Mickey Minns, for one, could find none against employing her. He considered Anna ideal for the
position. Ideal indeed for any number of positions, several of which sprang immediately to his lecherous
mind. After all, it was just remotely possible that the teenage siren might harbour a secret passion for
balding old musos with beer bellies and bad breath. Well, almost anything was possible. Almost.
But the tank top of stupidity did not hang in the crowded wardrobe of Mickey’s failings. He had a
teenage daughter of his own. And he had a business to run. In Anna, he saw a valuable asset. She’d only
been with him a month and the weekly takings had already doubled. Never had so many guitarless young
men purchased so many plectrums.
Mickey sighed inwardly, belched outwardly and stumbled away to the Gents whistling ‘Beck’s
Bolero’.
He was blissfully unaware that this parting pee and that postscript pint were about to cost him very
dearly indeed.
Because at Minn’s Music Mine, the first link in a fantastic chain of events was about to be forged. A
chain which would lead from the mundane to the miraculous. From the humdrum to the phan-tasmagoric.
From taedium vitae to terra incognita. From the crambe repitita ... and so on and so forth. The way
some of them do. And it would all begin with the tuneless ting of Mickey’s old shop doorbell.
Now it must be stated fairly and squarely, that Minn’s Music Mine was a proper guitar shop. A
guitar shop in the grand tradition. The genuine article. If asked to describe itself to some young and
impressionable customer-to-be and suddenly finding itself with the wish and the ability to do so, it might
well have said something like this. In a rich American accent, no doubt.
‘Hi there. My name’s Minn’s Music Mine and I’m a guitar shop. Like me to show you around?
Don’t be shy. Step right up.
‘OK. So this is my door. Note the steel cage bolted across it. And the signs. See these signs?
“Stolen guitar? No thanks!” and “Shoplifting is theft! We always pros-ecute!” and “Beware guard
dog! Got the balls to break in? You won’t have ‘em when you break out!” See all those exclamation
marks? I am a security-conscious establishment!
‘Now. Let’s step inside. Mind the step there. OK. Allow me to draw your attention to the carpet.
Note the cunning arabesques woven into its quality fabric. These are musical notes. A carpet not
dissimilar to this once featured on Six Five Special. You never heard of Six Five Special? You weren’t
even born? No, I guess not. Never mind.
‘And you can’t see any musical notes anyway? They’re there. Under all the stains and the cigarette,
burns and stuff They’re there! I’m telling you. Now see here, these, to your right. Amplifiers. And
speakers. Lots of speakers. The tall ones are WEM Vendettas. You’ve never heard of WEM
Vendettas? Yeah, well, they’re quite old. They’re on special offer. Have been for some years.
‘But these are new. See these? Japanese guitars. You get the whole works for less than £100. Axe,
strap, lead, plectrum, amp, speaker, play-in-a-day hand-book. The whole works. Bottom of the range,
these guys. We sell plenty. They’re crap as it happens.
‘What? Your mate has one? He says it’s “ex-cellent”? Fair enough.
‘OK. Now, careful where you stand, or you might step in a saucerful of cigarette butts. You’ll see
quite a lot of those in here. All the saucers are, you will ‘note, full. And lying all around and about
amongst them, see these? Coffee mugs. And in them. Precisely one quarter of an inch of congealed black
gunk. No more, no less. That’s the way we do business.
‘Why? Why what? Why all the full ashtrays and the coffee mugs with exactly one quarter of an inch
of congealed black gunk? Why? You’re asking me why? Well, that’s what you have in guitar shops.
That’s why. It’s a tradition, or an old charter. Or something.
‘Look, forget about the ashtrays. Come and see these. Here. All over this wall. Polaroid photos.
Rock stars. Rock stars past and present. Mostly past, I guess. But they’ve all been in here. You can see
my owner, Mr Minns, in many of them too. There’s one of him with Charlie Watts. He bought a practice
pad in here once. Watts. Charlie Watts. You never heard of Charlie Watts?
‘Never mind. Now. Guitars. Do we have guitars. The racks here. These are your “Spanish
beginners”. Boxwood. Narrow necks, so kids can get their little fingers around them. And the rack up on
the wall. Your £200-plus acoustics. Up out of the way where the bloody kids can’t get their fingers
around them. And right up there. Top of the world, Ma, as we say, is an original Les Paul Sunburst. The
pride of my owner’s collection. He’d never sell it, of course. Check out the patina. And the frets. See
these frets? Tasmanian porcupine quill. And the inlay on the linger-boards. Mother-of-pearl. You can
almost taste the sustain. A Les Paul original. Les Paul. Les Paul? You’re standing in a guitar shop and
you have the gall to ask who is Les Paul? For Chrisakes, fella, I can put up with so much and then no
more! You have a crack at my carpet! You snub my saucers! You poo-poo my polaroids!
‘But Les Paul! What the hell did you come in here for anyway?
‘The Who? There’s a polaroid over there of Mr Minns being beaten up by Keith Moon. Not that
Who. What who then?
‘Oh. I see. The who with the blue eyes and the blond hair. The Gandhi’s Hairdryer World Tour
93 T-shirt and the tight blue jeans. The who sitting on the stool playing the Stratocaster.
That who. Ah yeah. That who.’
‘That who’ was practising her guitar licks. If you’re going to work in a guitar shop, you must know
your licks. And your riffs, of course. Your licks and your riffs. If you can’t wield your axe and blast out a
passable ‘Stairway to Heaven’ or ‘Sunshine of your Love’, then forget it. Take the checkout job at
Tesco’s.
Anna’s licks were greatly admired locally. As were her riffs.
And so, on this particular day, the lunch-time guitar fanciers having purchased their plectrums and
drifted back to their checkouts at Tesco’s, Anna had the shop all to herself. So she cranked up the
volume and let riff.
She knew full well that she wasn’t cut out for a lifetime of shop work. She was destined for greater
things. Although exactly what these greater things were, she did not know. But there was plenty of time
yet to find out. And during this period she really loved playing the expensive guitars that no-one was ever
likely to buy.
She didn’t hear the tuneless ting of the old shop doorbell as it tolled the knell of her passing interest
and it was some moments before she realized that she had an appreciative audience.
Before her stood a brace of young men. They had evidently arrived together. But there all similarity
between them ended. One was tall. Very tall. The other was quite the opposite. The tall one wore a
black shirt, buttoned at the neck. A light, pale cotton jacket with long lapels, drooping padded shoulders
and one-button-low. Black trousers of the peg persuasion. Canvas loafers. No socks. The entire
ensemble had that ‘lived-in’ look about it.
At the high head end there were points of interest.
A fine aquiline nose. A noble brow in the making.
A mouth made for smiling. Gentle eyes. The head was swathed in bandages and topped off by a cap
with the words Ultimate Warrior printed on the front.
The short one, and he was a very short one, scarcely reaching the knee of his companion, sported
Mother-care dungarees, a tartan shirt and red jellies. He had the face of a cherub.
Anna switched off the expensive guitar, unplugged it and set it carefully aside. Then she climbed
down from her stool, tucked the rear of her T-shirt into the twenty-three-inch waistband of her jeans,
stroked back her hair and pounced.
She plucked up the fellow in the dungarees and cradled him in her arms. ‘Watchamate, Tuppe,’ she
laughed, lowering her cheek for a kiss.
‘Great licks, Anna.’ The small one applied his lips to the allocated beauty spot.
‘And watchamate, Cornelius.’
The tall boy stood and he sniffed.
‘I bet you can’t get it.’ Anna grinned wickedly.
‘I bet you I can.’ Cornelius took another sniff ‘Chanel,’ said he.
‘But which one?’ -One more small sniff and one big smile. ‘Chanel No. 19.’
‘Correct, as ever.’ Anna carefully set down the Tuppe, then fell upon the lowered neck of Cornelius
Murphy and kissed it. It was the kiss of an old friend. Cornelius kissed her hair. It smelled wonderful. He
could easily have identified the shampoo. But he did not. He closed his eyes and savoured the subtle
fragrances which composed the olfactory identikit that was Anna Gotting. It was all quite wonderful.
‘So where have you been?’ Anna stepped back and glanced him up and down. ‘I haven’t seen you
since we left school a month back.’
‘We’ve been working,’ Tuppe said. ‘But it didn’t work out,’ he added.
‘So what are you doing here? Starting a band? I’m getting the hang of lead guitar, if you are.’
‘We’d like to buy an ocarina,’ said Tuppe brightly.
‘A what?’
‘An ocarina.’ Cornelius mimed the playing of one. ‘It’s an egg-shaped wind instrument with a
protruding mouthpiece and six to eight finger holes. It produces an almost pure tone. Do you have one in
stock by any chance?’
Anna eyed the tall boy. ‘What happened to your head?’
Cornelius gingerly fingered his cap. ‘Car accident,’ he suggested.
‘Oh. I’m sorry.
‘About the ocarina?’ Tuppe grinned up.
Anna smiled down. ‘I think I’ve seen one some-where. Do you want me to look for it this minute?’
‘Please.’ Tuppe nodded vigorously. ‘It’s quite urgent.’
Anna shrugged. ‘OK. You can play the guitars if you want. But don’t touch the Sunburst. It’s an
original.’
And with that said she swept away to the storeroom, laying down a trail of Chanel No. 19 that
Cornelius could have followed with his nose bandaged.
Tuppe gazed wistfully around the shop and sighed. I wish I could play the guitar.’
‘You could learn.’ Cornelius strapped on the Stratocaster and did Pete Townsend windmills with his
right arm. Then he stooped hastily to pick up the rack of sheet music he’d overturned. ‘Why don’t you
take lessons?’
‘I couldn’t reach the fretboard. My arms are too short.’
Cornelius did not apologize for his thoughtless remark. And Tuppe did not expect him to. They
‘were best friends. Each saw the other as an equal. The glaring difference in their heights did not enter
into it.
‘Is this an ocarina?’ Anna returned with an item resembling a tiny bullet-pocked mahogany
sub-marine.
‘That’s the fellow,’ chorused her customers. Anna turned the instrument between her delicate fingers
and perused the faded price tag. ‘£5.18s.6d. Is that a fair price for an ocarina?’
‘The price of a thing bears no relationship to its value,’ said Tuppe wisely.
‘That depends whether you’re buying or selling,’ replied Anna, wiser yet.
Cornelius shuffled his loafers. ‘We weren’t actually thinking of buying it.’
‘You mean you just want to have a blow or something?’
‘Well no.’ Cornelius chewed his lip. ‘We were hoping to steal it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we don’t have any money.’ Tuppe pulled out his pockets. ‘We’re stony broke.’
‘So you want to nick this?’
‘I don’t want to.’ Cornelius held down his cap and shook his head. ‘Dishonesty does not dine at my
table as a rule. But the present circumstances are somewhat exceptional. Might I perhaps borrow the
ocarina?’
‘I could ask Mickey, but I don’t think he’d be keen. What do you want to do with it? Busk?’
‘I want to drill holes in it.’ Cornelius smiled painfully.
‘Then forget it. Listen, are you two on something or what?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Then why do you want to drill holes in an ocarina?’
Cornelius looked at Tuppe. And Tuppe looked at Cornelius.
‘Tell her,’ said Tuppe.
‘I can’t,’ said Cornelius.
‘Of course you can. If we succeed in this thing, everybody in the world is going to know about it
anyway.’
‘Everybody in the world?’ Anna looked from the one to the other of them.
‘All right.’ Cornelius smiled a little less painfully. But not much. ‘You see,’ he began, ‘Tuppe and I
have just returned from an epic journey. And during the course of it we learned a great and terrible
secret. A secret which we have sworn to reveal to the world.’
‘Oh yes?’ Anna put her hands in her back pockets (Bette Davis style).
‘Oh yes. We learned that all across London there are Forbidden Zones. They are cunningly
concealed and only a very few people know of their existence. Inside these Zones exists another order of
being.’
Tuppe whistled the theme from The Twilight Zone. ‘Another order of being?’ Anna spoke the
words in a toneless tone.
‘Another order of being, yes. A secret civilization. And it has apparently been orchestrating the
progress of mankind for centuries.’
‘Screwing it up,’ Tuppe added.
‘I see.’ Anna turned up her eyes. Bumblies hung from the ceiling. She’d never noticed them before.
They were constructed from the rolled-up foil of Woodbine packets, circa 1965. ‘Go on,’ she said.
Cornelius went on. ‘We also learned that it is possible to enter the Zones by playing certain notes on
an ocarina. Notes which cannot normally be played. You have to drill new holes. I have the plan here in
my pocket, on a map. We plan to drill the holes, enter the Zones—’
‘And grab the booty,’ Tuppe put in.
‘What booty?’ A note of interest entered Anna’s voice.
‘Riches.’ Cornelius made expansive gestures. Then he stooped once more to clear up the sheet
music. ‘Untold riches. The stones from engagement rings. Missing art treasures—’
‘Biros,’ Tuppe put in.
‘Biros, umbrellas, odd socks, yellow-handled screwdrivers, supermarket trolleys, all the stuff that
unaccountably goes missing. We’ll only be going in for the untold riches to start off with.’
Anna studied the ocarina and then the face of Cornelius Murphy. ‘And you really expect me to
believe this?’
‘No. Not at all. I only want the ocarina. You asked me why and I told you. I’d prefer it if you didn’t
believe a single word. I wouldn’t, if I was in your place.’
‘You really are on something.’ Anna prepared to return the ocarina to the spot it had occupied for
the last twenty-three years.
‘No wait,’ Tuppe blurted Out. ‘His dad’s trapped in one of the Zones. They captured him.’
‘Now I know you’re lying. I saw Jack Murphy going into the bank this morning.’
‘He’s not my real dad.’ Cornelius sighed. Explain-ing the unexplainable is always a problem. ‘My
real dad is a great magus called Hugo Rune.’
‘And mine is Elvis Presley. So long, guys.’
Cornelius fluttered his fingers. ‘Could I just look at the ocarina, before you put it away?’
Anna hugged it to her bosom. ‘What will you do if I give it to you?’
‘Well, I thought I would say something like, “Can take it outside to see the colour in the daylight?”
then just sort of run off with it.’
‘Sound plan,’ said Tuppe.
‘I can’t let you do that. I’d lose my job if Mickey found out.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ Cornelius rammed his fluttering fingers into his trouser pockets. ‘I wouldn’t
want that. We’ll go elsewhere. Listen, it was really nice to bump into you again, Anna. And smell your
perfume. If Tuppe and I survive in one piece, rescue the daddy, return with the riches, best the blighters
in the Forbidden Zones and reveal them to the world, then I’d like you to bear my children. Bye for now
then.’
‘And be lucky,’ Tuppe added.
Anna watched the odd couple turn and make for the door. She’d known Cornelius for five years.
He as a friend. Eccentric perhaps, weird even, certainly not like the rest. But he was honest. And he was
really quite handsome. Although Anna did harbour a secret passion for ageing musos with baldy heads,
beer bellies and bad breath. Well, anything was possible. Almost. But the tall boy’s story was clearly
ludicrous. An insult to her intelligence.
Anna glanced around the interior of Minn’s Music Mine, seeing it all as if for the first time. Which is
sometimes the way when you see something for the last time. Or even, when you discover yourself to be
in the right place at the right time.
‘Perhaps’, she said, as the tall boy reached the door, ‘you’d like to take this outside. To see the
colour in the daylight.’
Cornelius turned back. And he smiled a most winning smile.
‘Perhaps you’d like to see it too,’ he suggested.
2
Mr Thompkin, who ran Thompkin’s Tools in the high street, was a canny fellow. But not quite canny
enough. If he hadn’t found himself suddenly prey to erotic fantasies, he would never have let the
beauti-ful seventeen-year-old girl in the Gandhi’s Hairdryer World Tour 93 T-shirt take one of his nice
new electric drills outside, to see the colour in the day-light.
When she hadn’t returned after fifteen minutes, he dutifully, if somewhat regretfully, telephoned the
police.
The line was engaged. A Mr Michael Minns was on it. Apparently, he had returned from a late
business lunch with Japanese clients, to discover that his assistant had, like the Elvis of old, left the
building. But this time leaving the door unlocked. He was calling to report the loss of twenty-three
expensive guitars. Including an original Les Paul Sunburst, valued at around five thousand pounds.
‘There’s no point in just claiming for an old ocarina,’ his wife had told him. ‘Go the whole hog, do it
in one, and we’ll sell up the shop and move to Benidorm.’
As Mickey was far too pissed to argue, he had agreed. He wrapped the precious guitar in an old
kaftan and hid it in the wardrobe. ‘Is this my tank top in here?’ he asked.
Anna, Tuppe and Cornelius Murphy sat on a bench in the park. They were sharing the large
chocolate cake that Master Bradshaw, the baker’s son, had actually allowed Tuppe to take outside to
see the colour in the daylight.
‘I feel’, said Tuppe between munchings, ‘that the “see it in the daylight” ploy might be subject to the
law of diminishing returns. I only outran young Bradshaw by the skin of my teeth.’
Cornelius dusted chocolate crumbs from his lap. ‘I don’t think we’re really cut out for a life of
brig-andage. We must remember to pay everyone back as soon as we’re able.’
‘So where do we go from here?’ Anna licked her fingers.
‘Back to my house,’ Cornelius told her. ‘We’ll have to walk I’m afraid. I had a car, but it got—’
‘Dumped on,’ said Tuppe. ‘From a great height. A crying shame so it was.’
‘We were tricked,’ Cornelius explained. ‘By a villain called Arthur Kobold. He employed me to find
the missing chapters from a great book. Tuppe and I were almost killed doing so. Come on, let’s go. I’ll
tell you everything that happened on the way.
Anna shrugged. ‘I’m still not certain I should believe anything you’ve told me so far.’
‘It’s all true.’ Cornelius stood and stretched.
‘It is,’ Tuppe agreed. ‘There’s no plug on that drill, by the way.’
‘Stuff the plug,’ said Anna. ‘Tell me again about the booty.’
‘Tell me again about the booty.’ These words, although spoken at exactly the same moment, came
from another mouth altogether.
Coincidence? Synchronicity? The chromium-plated megaphone of destiny? The speaker of the
words didn’t know. Neither did he care. All he knew about and all he cared about, above and beyond
everything, including the call of duty, absolutely everything, was the science of deduction. The art of
detection.
And why should it be otherwise?
For this man was a detective. And not just any old detective. This man was the detective.
This was he of the Harris Tweed three-piece whistle.
He of the albino crop and the ivory ear-ring.
He of the mirrored pince-nez, the black malacca cane and the heavy pigskin valise.
He of the occasional affectation.
This was the man, the legend and the detective.
Inspectre Hovis of Scotland Yard. (Who?)
The man, the legend and the detective straddled a single regulation police-issue chair and carefully
re-phrased his question.
摘要：

RAIDERSOFTHELOSTCARPARKRobertRankinASIFYOUHADN’TGUESSEDWearenotbeingtoldallofthetruth.Therearetruths.AndthereareTruths.AndthenthereareULTIMATETRUTHS.Allowmetoexplain.Ifyouhaveeverattempted,inthespiritofscientificdiscovery,togluearectangularmapoftheworldontoasphereofthesamescale,youwillsoonhaverealiz...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：141 页 大小：362.46KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-19

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