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  “Oh, Gorgar, you mean.”

  “I suppose so. Was he still here?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  Heighway thought for a moment, then realized Attali was gazing at him again.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked her.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” she said.

  “What?”

  “We’ve met before. Two years ago. I was working on the streets, then. A client had beaten me up and I came in to the police station to report it. Sergeant Hogman interviewed me then told me it was all I deserved and tried to drag me into his office. The other policemen were watching and grinning, but you intervened. You told him you’d take over, and you took me out of the police station and put me in a carriage home.”

  “That was you!” Heighway could remember the bruised, bedraggled girl of the incident, but couldn’t relate her to the beautiful woman who was staring at him out of those huge eyes.

  “I know what would have happened to me if you hadn’t intervened,” she went on. “I will always be grateful. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Actually, there is. Does this Gorgar have his own locker?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to see inside it.”

  Attali nodded. She rummaged around under the bar and emerged with a small set of keys. Taking a torch from the wall, she led Heighway through the door and along the short passageway to the changing room. Then, after handing him the torch, she selected a small, thin key and opened one of the lockers.

  Inside, a single hangar held the rubber hood, vest and trousers. Heighway raised the torch and studied them. They clearly were Gorgar’s; the hole in the crotch was plain to see. They smelt appalling and Heighway wondered if they had ever been washed.

  Closing the door, he stood for a moment in thought. Things were falling into place.

  “Attali,” he said. “There’s one more thing I’d like your help with tomorrow. The problem is, it could be quite dangerous . . .”

  It was nearly midnight when Heighway got back to the police station. Kratavan was sitting on a bench in the entrance hall, waiting. He rose to his feet as the Inspector entered.

  “Raasay get home all right?” Heighway asked him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How was he?”

  “He went straight to bed, sir. Said it hurt to sit down.” Kratavan’s face looked oddly pinched, as though he were desperately trying to keep it straight.

  “It’s not funny, you know,” said Heighway, and the next moment the two of them were laughing fit to bust.

  “It’s an odd business, all this, sir,” said Kratavan, when they’d managed to regain their composure.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Seems like human nature to me. Greed, avarice, jealousy . . . Like every case, it all comes down to motive.”

  “Money?”

  “Money isn’t everything, Kratavan. Now go and get some sleep. Meet me at Raasay’s lodgings in the morning. I want him to be in at the end of this, too . . .”

  Superintendent Weird was sitting at his desk signing papers when Heighway entered his office early next morning. He looked up, his face unfriendly.

  “You anywhere near solving this case yet?” he barked without preamble.”

  “I think so, sir,” Heighway told him. “There’s a possible witness, a hostess called Attali. I think she has the answers. I’ll be seeing her this evening.”

  “Well, I hope for your sake she has. The Commissioner is getting impatient. You’ve got twenty-four hours, then you’re off the case. Now, get out of my sight.”

  An hour later, Heighway walked along the shabby, run-down street where Raasay lodged to find Kratavan and the Sergeant waiting for him. Both looked apprehensive.

  “Good morning, lads,” he greeted them brightly. “Are you ready for this?”

  Sergeant Raasay was looking about as happy as an orc that has just been told it is bath night.

  “Sir, I don’t really want to go back there.”

  “Nonsense, man! Me and Kratavan will be with you. And this time you won’t have to wear any stupid clothes. And we’re going to get one of those nasty, perverted beggars bang to rights.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “Yep.” Heighway clapped them both on the back and smiled confidently. “Trust me, lads. We’ve cracked it.”

  Gorgar looked warily around the deserted street and then pulled his hood over his head and slipped into the little sidealley that led to the private entrance of Club Nefarioso. At this critical time it was even more essential not to be recognized. Reaching the side door, he paused and listened, then slid his key into the lock. The door opened soundlessly, and he paced quietly along the dark corridor to the second door, the one that led into the changing room. It was too dark to see here, but he knew from habit where the handle was and the door opened silently.

  Inside, the changing room was as dark as ever and he could just make out the shadowy shape of a waiting hostess.

  “Ah,” Gorgar said. “Attali, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Attali. “Can I assist you?”

  “I rather think you can, yes. Are we alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gorgar felt in the pocket of his cloak for the small, needle-sharp dagger and pulled it out, keeping it hidden from her view.

  “If you’d just come here for a moment,” he said softly, and then all of a sudden three torches flared into flaming light and the door of one of the cubicles burst open. Gorgar gasped in surprise as Heighway, Kratavan and Raasay stepped out from it. Kratavan and Raasay held swords at the ready, but Heighway was armed only with a pair of handcuffs, which he held up in front of Gorgar’s eyes.

  “You’ll probably quite enjoy these,” he said. “Gorgar, I arrest you for the murder of Danny, the barman, and the intended murder of young Attali here.” And he raised one hand and pulled back Gorgar’s hood to reveal his face.

  Kratavan and Raasay gasped, for the face staring back at them was that of Superintendent Weird.

  “Uncle Billy!” stammered Raasay. “What’s going on? Are you here on survey lance too?”

  “That’s right, Heighway!” Weird blustered angrily. “I’m here to check up on your appalling detective work!”

  “No, you’re not, sir, you’re here to eliminate the last loose end, just as you eliminated Danny.”

  “Heighway, if you . . .”

  “There’s no point in trying to bluff your way out, sir.” Heighway leaned forwards and pulled open Gorgar’s locker to expose the distinctive rubber clothes inside.

  “I think you’ll find these are an exact fit,” he said. “Very smelly, they are. Distinctively so. I did tell you about your body-odour once before, sir. As soon as Attali opened this locker, I knew it was you. And I’m sure that were you to don these garments, there are a few employees of this club who would be able to recognize you by your . . . exposed parts. In fact, that’s an identity parade I’d pay good money to see.”

  Superintendent Weird sighed. “I did my best to get you out of the way, Heighway,” he said. “I should have shoved your head in the glass-washer.” And then in one fluid movement he brought out the dagger and plunged it deep into his own stomach before anyone could move. For a brief moment his eyes met Heighway’s, but then they rolled up into his skull and he slumped to the floor, dead.

  “But why, chief?” asked Kratavan as they walked back to the police station. “The Superintendent was rolling in money. Why should he need to blackmail someone?”

  “Power, lad, power,” answered Heighway. “Weird had got as far up the ladder as he could go. The only possible promotion would have been to Commissioner, but Algophilos wasn’t going anywhere, and he’s younger than Weird was. But if he had been forced to resign, Weird would have been in line for his job. Now, let’s get a move on. I want to get all the paperwork done on this by five. There’s a certain young lady who will be waiting for me to pick her up outside the club after work . . .”


  It was ten minutes to five when Heighway ran down the stairs and strode through the entrance hall of the police station. He was just about to go out of the front doors when a hand grabbed his arm and he turned to see Madam Min grinning up at him.

  “You see? I was right!” she told him.

  “Yes, Min. Congratulations.”

  “The scientific method, just like you said.”

  “Well done.”

  “They’re all saying that you’re a good bet for the next Superintendent,” Min told him. “That’s great! You always said you wished pathomancers could provide some sort of evidence that would stand up in a court of law. Well, now I can! We could start a whole new department! I could train up more pathomancers and we could equip them with chickens, and every time there’s a murder we could bring them along and . . .”

  “Hold on, hold on!” Heighway interjected, removing her hand from his arm. “You’ve got to be joking! Are you seriously suggesting I equip a whole new department with mad old biddies and scrawny chickens? Great God, the Commissioner would sack me in seconds!”

  He marched to the door and then turned to deliver his parting shot.

  “And what the hell would we call it, eh?” he demanded. “The trained chicken section?”

  Min shrugged. “How about the four-hens-sick department?” she suggested.

  But Heighway had gone and she was talking to herself.

  1 Alarmas are woolly-fleeced, long-necked pack animals from the southern mountains. Nervous and highly-strung, they tend to panic easily, stampeding and emitting their warning call, a high-pitched scream that has been described as sounding like a banshee having a nervous breakdown.

  2 Half-orcs are usually the result of a liaison between a human male and an orc female. The reason for this is that, whereas most women are far too sensible to have anything to do with orcs, many is the human male who, after a night of heavy drinking, has woken up next morning with a crippling hangover to find that the vision of loveliness he seduced the previous night is lying beside him and in reality has green skin, fangs and a contented smile.

  THE STRANGE AFFAIR OF MR CORPUSTY

  Anthony Armstrong

  This story is quite true; but unfortunately I can’t prove it. I missed my chance and now it is too late. Nor is it the kind of thing people are likely to believe if I tell them – not even those trusting souls who let total strangers take their wallets round the corner just as a guarantee of good faith, and whom I have never had the good fortune to meet.

  For, to begin with, it was quite the last thing one would have expected of Mr Corpusty. If you had asked any dozen men to put their fingers on a chap for the job of, say, ice tester on the Round Pond, they would all have said, “Take Corpusty,” and half of them would have added, “But take him in a good strong lorry!” Or if you had asked them to name a fellow to try out the new Waterloo Bridge, they would have said the same – always assuming they had no feeling about the future of the bridge. But if you had asked them to pick out a fellow who would be able to float in the air and had then suggested Corpusty yourself, you would have soon found them getting together in little groups, gazing apprehensively at you out of the corners of their eyes and tapping their foreheads.

  For Corpusty was built on the general lines of a Himalaya, and a fat Himalaya at that; moreover, he was red-faced, wobbly, and given to much port. Also he breathed heavily, as if he had just surrounded far too large a meal – which he generally had. One’s first impression was a self-confident voice and an acre of waistcoat: one’s second that the waistcoat area had been underestimated. In short, quite the last person for any thistle-down-cum-gossamer work. And yet that dictatorial self-confident voice could have given the clue.

  You see, Mr Corpusty was a very forceful personality. He was married to the frailest, most unassuming wife you ever saw; he was sole head of a big business; he was rich uncle to half a dozen timid nephews; and he had taken several courses in Will Development, Character, and Impress Your Personality First. He trusted so fanatically in Will Power that he had come to believe that things were so, because he said they were so – which is the only reason I can put forward as to why this business should have happened to him of all people.

  My cousin Clarence was present at the first manifestation, which was after Sunday lunch, in Corpusty’s Hampstead garden. The conversation, Clarence tells me, turned on Corpusty’s feet, which were tender – and, considering their job, who shall blame them? – and Clarence by way of a joke then said:

  “I wonder you don’t cure them by will power.”

  Corpusty, who was wrestling stertorously with a Sunday afternoon torpor and two helpings of roast beef and Yorkshire, woke up slightly, said he disagreed entirely, and then asked what Clarence had said. Clarence repeated, and Corpusty unexpectedly answered that he had tried, but that it was too much of a physical achievement even for his will.

  Mrs Corpusty said “Yes, dear,” from her knitting.

  Clarence, feeling he was getting quite a good rise, continued:

  “Well, I wonder you haven’t tackled it in some other way – such as willing yourself to weigh less than you do.”

  Mr Corpusty took some more port from the decanter on the garden table, and boomed out authoritatively that certain Indian fakirs were able, by the exercise of a will-power rare among Europeans, to increase their weight to many tons or else to reduce it to such an extent that a child could lift them with one finger. He added that men with strong wills who trained them sufficiently could do that sort of thing. He then dropped into a brief doze.

  Mrs Corpusty said “Yes, dear.”

  The idea of a child waving Corpusty about in the air with one finger was too much for Clarence, who laughed and woke Corpusty up. To explain his amusement he murmured something about overdoing it and getting blown away in a breeze. “Or one might even fly,” he added with a great assumption of seriousness.

  “One might,” said Mr Corpusty, equally seriously.

  “I’m sure you could, dear, if you gave your mind to it,” said Mrs Corpusty, who felt it was a cue, and Clarence laughed again.

  Corpusty sat up mountainously in his chair.

  “Look here!” he began angrily, “you’re making fun of me.”

  “No, no,” Clarence assured him.

  “Anything is possible to a man of marked force of character who can concentrate his will sufficiently on one thing. The trouble is to concentrate wholeheartedly.”

  He had another glass of port, and Clarence, looking at him, murmured: “Faith can move mountains.”

  Mr Corpusty eyed him angrily for a moment and then heaved himself upright. What with port and opposition he looked very truculent and determined.

  “I maintain,” he boomed, fixing Clarence with a glassy eye, “that if I could exercise sufficient will-power and could concentrate sufficiently I could at this moment float in the air.”

  Mrs Corpusty glanced up from her knitting and said, “Why yes, dear,” as if her husband had merely remarked that the days were drawing in, and Clarence, now feeling that this was the best rise he had ever had, added, “Of course you could.”

  “Well, now,” said Corpusty, shutting his eyes and screwing up his face to an expression of intense determination, “I am Going to Float Two Feet above the Ground.”

  “Certainly, dear,” said his wife helpfully, purling two together, and then suddenly gave a little scream. For Mr Corpusty seemed at first to have grown unmistakably taller, and then it was definitely seen by both of them that his feet were no longer touching the ground.

  Slowly and still with shut eyes Mr Corpusty rose gently till his feet were about eighteen inches above the grass of the lawn, while his wife and Clarence gazed open-mouthed. Clarence tells me his first thought was that it wasn’t real and that he had dropped off to sleep, and then he decided perhaps it was a touch of sun – and lunch.

  Finally Corpusty, speaking with an effort through set teeth but in tones of intense satisfaction, said, “There
now!” and Mrs Corpusty cried tearfully, “Henry, what are you doing?”

  At these words a sharp spasm of doubt appeared to cross her husband’s face, and the next moment he was sitting painfully on the grass. Clarence helped him up. There was quite a large dent on the lawn, where the Corpusty rear axle had made a forced landing.

  “What did you want to talk like that for?” he bellowed at his wife, as soon as he had recovered. “You made me think that I wasn’t doing it after all.”

  “I’m sorry, dear,” almost wept the little woman. “I was just surprised for a moment. I know it was silly of me.”

  “I told you I could do it,” growled Corpusty; “and I did – till you made me think . . .”

  “Yes, you – er – did it all right,” said Clarence in a dazed fashion.

  “It was quite simple,” boomed Corpusty, getting back his self-complacence. “Merely will-power. You could both do it.”

  Mrs Corpusty decided not to attempt it, but Clarence admits shamefacedly that he did. Without result, of course. He felt all the time that he couldn’t, and that of course spoilt it. He hadn’t got Corpusty’s self-confident wholehearted belief that he was always in the right. Nor had he Mrs Corpusty’s equally important ringside confidence in his success. In fact, he could feel from the way she counted stitches that she was deliberately not believing in him at all.

  He took his departure shortly afterwards, and late that afternoon I first heard about it.

  Of course, at first I put it on the sun, but in the end I rang Corpusty up in Clarence’s presence.

  “Yes,” Mrs Corpusty answered in the proud yet timid voice of a new high priestess discussing the mysteries, “it’s quite true. He’s done it again, lying down. He did it on the bed this time, so as not to hurt himself, but the bed of course is . . .”

  Corpusty interrupted. His voice was more complacement and assertive than ever.

  “Ah, is that you? Clarence has told you then of my little discovery? Funny, I never thought of ascertaining my full power before. Come out tomorrow morning and I’ll demonstrate. I’m staying away from the office for a day or two to experiment. Don’t tell anyone else; I’d like it kept quiet till I know where I am. There’s money in it, I think . . .”