The Underground City, page 15
Casimir, now at least twenty feet tall, reared from the spout of the little lamp, smoke eddying around him in clouds. He was furiously angry! Angry with Lewis for being idiotic enough to put him in the lamp in the first place, and with Ali Baba for having been fool enough to actually rub the lamp in the second.
Alec Johnston was also furious. He knew that during rehearsals he had made a lot of enemies — jealous, no doubt, at his fantastic performance — and being totally self-centred, didn’t for one second believe that Casimir was real. And who could blame him? Genies, after all, only exist in story books! So it wasn’t entirely his fault that he thought someone was taking the mickey with a vengeance. He’d no idea how they’d managed it but they’d stolen his thunder, ruined his act and made him look a fool; for he gloried in the knowledge that his magnificent entrance was the star moment of the pantomime.
Spitting with fury, he reached out, grabbed the magic lamp from Ali Baba and threw it with all the strength he could muster, into the wings. Seeing it coming, a policeman ducked swiftly but the monstrous slave-merchant standing behind him, wasn’t quite so quick off the mark and the lamp hit him full in the face with considerable force.
Now the slave-merchant, who in the past had been the butt of quite a few of Alec Johnston’s more snide remarks, positively hated the strutting, trumped-up star. When the lamp fell to the floor and he saw who had thrown it, he was not at all amused. A red rage seized hold of him and with a roar of fury he drew his scimitar and, blood streaming down his face from a badly mangled nose, charged onto the stage.
The genie saw him coming and turned quite pale as the mountainous man thundered through the wings towards him. He leapt back and, grabbing a scimitar from the ranks of the Sultan’s Guard, prepared for battle. Heartened by the knowledge that the slave-merchant was no swordsman, he leapt at him bravely enough and, scimitars clashing angrily, they fought their way several times round the stage, into the wings and back again. The Stage Manager, white-faced and horrified, looked close to a nervous breakdown by this time but nobody dared stop the two men who were fighting with deadly passion and deadlier weapons — for the way things were, neither could give way to the other without one of them being beheaded!
Casimir, suddenly deprived of his home in the lamp, had promptly shrunk in size and was now the rather sour, cross old man that Lewis knew so well. He didn’t even see the genie and the slave-merchant fighting around him but only had eyes for the Sultan. As their eyes met, there was a brief clash of wills. Casimir, however, had had all the time in the world to ponder his behaviour when he’d been held captive in the well at Al Antara. He was a changed man and, although puzzled at his sudden passion to own the crown, he had no wish to confront Sulaiman the Red. So, he did the only thing he could under the circumstances. He bowed low to the Sultan who rose to his feet and beckoned him forward.
Neil and Clara, standing on each side of the dais, looked at one another in amazement. “Prince Casimir,” Neil mouthed to Clara, who nodded in agreement for the resemblance between father and son was strong. Knowing the depth of the enmity that existed between the two men, they watched in fascination as the Sultan extended his hand to be kissed; the huge, ruby ring on his finger glowing in the spotlights. Casimir looked the Sultan in the eyes and then knelt before him and kissed his ring. It was a historic occasion in the world of magic. Sir James sat tense with excitement in his seat as he realized its importance and even Matt Lafferty was astute enough to know that this was not acting.
His eyes goggled as, out of the blue, an ornate chair appeared on the dais to the right of the Sultan’s throne. Not quite as grand or as large as the Sultan’s but imposing nevertheless. The Sultan rose and taking Casimir’s hand, sat him graciously beside him.
It was only when the genie and the slave-merchant passed again in furious combat that the Sultan seemed to realize that there was a battle going on under his nose. As the men headed for the wings, he lifted his arm and as he did so, both scimitars suddenly flew into the air and the two men collapsed onto the stage.
The Stage Manager was close to tears. Now what? Would nothing in this pantomime go right? He was furious with Alec Johnston and also quite convinced that by this time the audience, having completely lost the plot, would get up and go home. Worse, however, was to come!
Ever since the magic mirror had disgorged the two goblins onto the stage, Sir James had been waiting for another figure to emerge from its depths. So, to a certain extent, had Neil and Clara, for they, too, had been present on that last terrible day at Ardray when Prince Kalman, in an attempt to escape, had been trapped between mirrors.
The Sultan, however, was most certainly expecting his arrival and when, like the goblins, a somewhat dishevelled Prince Kalman was suddenly catapulted out of the mirror into the middle of the stage, he merely waved his hand and a spell transformed him into a gorgeously-robed Turkish prince.
Sir James clapped furiously, the audience did likewise and a rather stunned Prince Kalman bowed with regal grace and then gawped in a most un-princely fashion at the sight of his own father sitting at the right-hand side of the Turkish Sultan, Sulaiman the Red. The look of relief that crossed his face when he realized that his father was alive was, however, fleeting. His brain, working with the speed of light, swiftly told him that the Sultan must not only have held him prisoner for countless years but also seemed to have succeeded in making him his vassal. Memories of that last, dreadful scene at Ardray, when the Sultan had taken his crown back, were still fresh in his mind and as his anger boiled anew, he glared furiously at the Sultan.
The Grand Vizier who, by this time, was now positively thriving on the totally unexpected, nipped smartly out of the way as another chair materialized beside the Sultan’s throne. He hadn’t a clue what was happening but as every theatrical instinct in his body was geared to keeping the show going at all costs, he stepped forward with a flourish, bowed deeply to the young prince and escorted him to the dais.
The Sultan rose from his throne, held his hands out in welcome and gestured to the empty chair beside him.
In the audience, Sir James sat rigid and hastily breathed a silent prayer for, in a matter of seconds, Prince Kalman’s expression had changed from blank astonishment to blind fury. Neil and Clara, standing like statues on either side of the dais, hoped fervently that he wouldn’t recognize them and turned their heads away slightly while Casimir, who wanted more than anything to hug his son, gripped the arms of his chair in anxiety but did not dare intervene. Such was the crackling tension in the atmosphere that even the Grand Vizier stepped back, his eyes looking warily from Prince Kalman to the Sultan and back again. Indeed, Kalman’s arrogance in the face of the Sultan’s power was nothing short of mind-boggling. The Sultan could have hexed him there and then but Kalman was consumed by a black rage that made him fearless.
“How can you sit there, father?” he snarled. “The vassal of Sulaiman the Red!”
Casimir made to rise but the Sultan stepped forward. “Come Prince Kalman,” he said sincerely. “You are as welcome as your father to my court. Let there be peace among us as there was in times long gone.”
“Never!” Kalman almost spat the word out. His blue eyes blazed in fury as his glance swept the scene — and rested inevitably on Neil and Clara.
That did it. The Sultan knew it, Sir James knew it and so did Casimir although he hadn’t a clue as to why the sight of two children should send his son through the roof in a towering rage.
There was, in fact, nothing that could have been better designed to send Kalman’s temper rocketing skywards than the sight of Neil and Clara. “You!” the prince snarled, with a ferocity that sent the Grand Vizier’s eyebrows snapping together in alarm. “So you are here as well, are you?” he hissed, venomously. “Many’s the time I’ve longed to have you in my power!” Clara wilted under the unrelieved fury of his gaze and as Neil stepped forward to protect her, Kalman grabbed each of their arms and, muttering the words of a hex under his breath, the three of them vanished in a cloud of smoke.
Casimir leapt from his chair, screaming in horror as his son disappeared; the Sultan, hiding his fury, pursed his lips impassively; Sir James looked thunderstruck and tears sprang to Lewis’s eyes. He knew how badly Casimir had wanted to find his son and now look what had happened!
As Casimir wailed and wept, the Sultan looked round and decided that as far as he was concerned, the pantomime had more than served its purpose. He met Matt Lafferty’s sharp, brown eyes with a glint of amused appreciation in his troubled smile, lifted his arm and cast a spell that not only replaced his own undoubted majesty with the body of the original Sultan, but also brought the pantomime back to the point when the genie appeared.
So, once again, Alec Johnston made his magnificent leap onto the stage. This time there was no Casimir to spoil it and the applause was deafening. It was only the Grand Vizier, Lewis and Sir James who noticed that neither Neil nor Clara stood guard at either side of the Sultan’s throne.
26. Smoking Kills
Murdo and Tammy Souter didn’t stand a chance.
A black beetle couldn’t have left the Assembly Hall that night without being thoroughly scrutinized! There were policemen everywhere and it wasn’t at all surprising that Murdo and Tammy were caught fair and square when they tried to leave the theatre with the audience.
After Prince Kalman’s sudden disappearance, the pantomime had suffered no more untoward interruptions, much to the relief of Sir James, Matt Lafferty, Lewis and the Stage Manager. The finale was a triumph and the applause had been rapturous.
After many curtain calls had been taken, Sir James had gone on stage and given a short but witty speech, reminding the audience that, as the performance was for charity, he hoped that each and every one of them would contribute generously. There were baskets, he said, in the foyer for their donations which would all be given to Children’s Aid, a worthwhile cause if ever there was one.
The mention of baskets had, at the time, filled both Murdo and Tammy with apprehension and sadly for them, their fears were not unfounded, for as they tried to escape the searching eyes of the policemen scattered round the foyer, they saw many people putting cheques and cash in the same tall, Ali Baba baskets that held the takings of their robbery. As there wasn’t a lot they could do about it, they gritted their teeth as they headed for the swing doors that they hoped would lead to freedom.
It was not to be, however, for Sir Archie’s instructions had been brief, simple and to the point — and it must be admitted that the hand of the law, when it finally fell on their shoulders, was not totally unexpected.
As Murdo had said, it was a fair cop and they’d gone quietly. But when he got to the police station and found that Wullie hadn’t been arrested, he’d really started to worry. With sickening clarity, he’d remembered the arrival of white-faced policemen backstage and although they’d been tight-lipped about what had gone on in the Underground City, he had a sneaking suspicion that perhaps it wasn’t only the ghosts that had scared them. Perhaps the Plague People had got out? Mary King had warned him. What if they’d got out and found Wullie? Such an innocent! Such a daft idiot! And so scared of the ghosts!
Murdo hammered violently on the door of his cell. “I want to see the Chief Inspector,” he roared through the grill, “and I want to see him now!”
The constable who unlocked his cell door looked at him with more than a touch of awe, wondering what on earth Murdo had been up to this time. “You’re in luck, Murdo,” he said, eyeing him strangely, “but it’s no’ the Chief Inspector that wants to see you! It’s the Chief Constable himself!”
Murdo blinked, startled. “Sir Archie?”
The constable grinned. “Aye, Murdo! Sir Archie, himself! You’ve made it to the top this time!”
Inside the hill, Jaikie, who was checking to see if any of the plague ghosts had managed to escape into the High Street, sat up suddenly for the third time that evening. “Didn’t Sir Archie say they’d got everyone out of the Underground City?” he queried.
“Yes,” the MacArthur looked up in surprise, “that’s what he told us, anyway.”
“Well, he was wrong! Come over here and have a look! There’s still someone in there,” Jaikie said.
“It’s not a policeman, though!” Hamish muttered, peering over his shoulder.
The MacArthur and Rothlan got up and moved over to the crystal.
“It must be one of the bank robbers,” Jaikie said. And they watched in horror as the plague ghosts homed in on the lonely figure.
It was one of the bank robbers! It was Wullie!
When Wullie woke up under a veritable fortune in used banknotes, he had a head on him fit to burst. At best, it felt as though he’d been hit by a couple of hundred hammers. As this pain-filled daze lasted for some time, it was a while before he remembered about the vault and it was only when the realization slowly dawned that he must still be in the bank that he tentatively opened his eyes and sat up, shedding piles of notes.
It was a mistake. His head swam and his eyes glazed but not before he saw the banknotes that lay in piles around him. Hundreds of them! Thousands of them!
Now Wullie was not overly blessed with brains but his situation would, at that moment, have left a genius floundering! There he was, in the vault, all the lights were on, there was money everywhere and the whole place was as quiet as the grave. Not another soul anywhere! No police, no bank staff, nobody at all!
In the dim, cloudy, outer-reaches of his mind, Wullie wondered about Murdo and this vague recollection strengthened when he saw his bin-liner lying beside him, half-full of money — he looked at it thoughtfully and as he looked, his brain, very gently, began to tick over. Not very fast, mind you, but it was a start! The first thing it told him was that he needed a cigarette. It was a sad fact, but Wullie couldn’t think at all without a cigarette in his mouth. So he lit up, tried to ignore his pounding head and thought about what he was going to do.
Now this was important because until then, it was actually Murdo that had done all the thinking. Murdo said do this, and he did it! Murdo said go this way, and he went! Murdo was always there to see him safely home! Life without Murdo was, in fact, totally uncharted territory and the only thing Wullie was quite sure of was that if he wasn’t careful, he wouldn’t get home. He’d get lost. And that freaked him out because if he got lost, the ghosts would get him!
Now, although Wullie’s thoughts didn’t exactly move with the speed of light, they were nevertheless logical. He lit another cigarette and thought some more. He wasn’t sure about the street that went to the Assembly Hall, even though Murdo said they wouldn’t have heard the bang from up there. But the bang had been a while ago, surely? This reminded Wullie that he had a watch on. He peered at it through the drum-beats of his thumping headache and saw to his amazement that it had been ages since they’d blown the vault. This cheered him up no end. With a bit of luck, he thought hopefully, the ghosts might, by this time, have gone to bed!
But he made his decision. He wouldn’t go near the Assembly Hall. He’d stick to the way he knew. He’d take the old familiar passage to Deacon Brodie’s Tavern and get out through their cellars!
Struggling to his feet was a delicate process as every movement jarred his thumping head and sent lights flashing before his eyes. However, he managed it without too much trouble, lit another cigarette and fifteen minutes later was carefully plodding up the steep slope of the little alley, shining his torch over what, to him, was reassuringly familiar ground.
It was when he heard a strange, horrible, gargling sound and saw some white ghosts heading his way down the alley that Jaikie picked him up in the crystal ball.
Now, Wullie hadn’t seen these ghosts before and although they didn’t look particularly nice, his vision was still desperately blurred from the crack on his head, with the result that the nitty-gritty details of the swooping horrors were totally lost on him. Murdo, too, had very successfully instilled the notion into his thick head that the ghosts, however awful they looked, couldn’t do him any real harm. And as Murdo was always right, the upshot was that he didn’t pay the plague ghosts a blind bit of notice. This rather stopped them in their tracks as they weren’t used to being ignored and it made them gurgle and groan even louder as they swooped around him.
The MacArthur, Rothlan, Ellan and Jaikie all watched in fascinated horror as Wullie calmly stopped, lit up again and plodded to the top of the alley with the ghosts streaming behind him! He looked around and ahead of him saw the familiar route to the cellar stretching ahead. Not long now, thought Wullie!
He noticed, however, that the bubbling, moaning noises of the ghosts swirling around him seemed to have subtly changed in tone and now that his head was feeling slightly better and the cigarettes were kicking in, looked at them with more attention. The bubbling noise was now more like a choking, gargling sound and the awful faces were curling up frightfully at his cigarette smoke. One ghost was doubled up in convulsions, another was coughing fit to burst and a third seemed to be in the process of complete disintegration!
The MacArthur and Lord Rothlan looked at one another in startled amazement and Wullie beamed as realization dawned!
It was his fags!
Now revenge is sweet and Wullie hadn’t by any means forgiven the ghosts for all the shoves, pushes and icy-cold blasts of the past. He inhaled deeply and blew smoke in their awful faces, watching in delight as they gasped, coughed, choked and more or less creased up. More and more came swinging along the alley and as he lit up again and again, he took them all on quite happily, even waving his arms from time to time so that the fumes of long-standing that lurked in his overcoat wafted towards them and doubled them up in an agony of self-destruction.
