Chapter 21
SO THE GUARDS were on the way at last. How much did they know? Would it be possible, Grimes wondered, to bluff his way past them?
“Leave this to me . . .” whispered Fenella Pruin.
She ran towards the advancing party of armed men, staggering a little. (Her requisitioned sandals, Grimes learned later, were a size too small.) She yelled indignantly, “It took you long enough to get here!” Then, hysterically, “They’re all dead in there! Dead! And what are you doing about it? I didn’t pay good money to come here to be murdered! It’s a disgrace! Vicious criminals allowed to run amuck with weapons! I’ll sue!” She was screaming now. “I’ll sue!”
The officer, a burly brute in grey leather, brass-studded shirt and kilt uniform raised a hand as though to dam the flood of angry words.
“Lady,” he expostulated, “we have only just been told. By another lady who escaped . . .”
“Only just been told! What sort of supervision is there in this dump? Where do I find the manager?”
He ignored this question, asked one of his own.
“How many of them are there, and how armed?”
“With knives, iron bars, anything. There are four of them, a man and three women. Or there were . . .”
“There were?”
“When they got among us and started killing we managed to hide. Under the seats. And then . . . And then I peeped out and saw that they were fighting among themselves. Like wild beasts they were. So we made a break for it and ran . . .”
“I can’t waste any more time on you, lady,” said the officer brusquely. “I have to get in there to clear up the mess.” He turned to Grimes. “Sir, will you accompany us? You might help to identify a few corpses.”
“Not bloody likely!” sputtered Grimes indignantly. “It’s your mess. You clear it up.” He turned to the women. “Come, Angelica.” (It was the first name that came into his head.) “And you two ladies. We will make our complaints to the manager.”
“As you please, sir.” He signalled to his men and led them in a brisk trot to the theatre entrance.
Grimes and the women walked, not too fast, along the corridor. They came to a cross passage, paused to take stock. The women had been quick-witted enough to pick up handbags although Grimes had not thought to tell them to do so. His own kilt had come with attached sporran. In this he found an almost empty notecase and another, much fatter, wallet containing credit cards and other documentation. There was also a passport. The late owner of all this had been a Wilburn Callis, M.D., a native of Carinthia. Photograph and other data did not match Grimes’ personal specifications. Then, most importantly, there was a card issued by the Colosseum airport; the late Dr. Callis, whose medical researches had been so rudely interrupted, had flown here on his own—or rented—wings.
Fenella Pruin, according to the contents of her handbag, was Vera Slovnik, also from Carinthia. Like Dr. Callis, Ms. Slovnik had preferred credit cards to folding money. Shirl was Lisbeth McDonald from Rob Roy, one of the Waverley planets, and Darleen was Eulalie Jones from Caribbea. As the two New Alicians could almost have passed for twin sisters this would prove awkward if, for any reason, a show of passports were demanded.
Hastily restowing money and papers the party walked on. Fortunately the corridor that they had taken was not a well-frequented one; almost certainly the main thoroughfare to the theatre from which they had escaped must now be extremely busy, with guards, stretcher parties and, thought Grimes with unkind satisfaction, the meat wagons.
They came to a large, illuminated wall map showing the various levels. There was more than one theatre, Grimes saw. The one from which they had escaped was the Grand Guignol. Then there were the Living Barbecue, the Operating Theatre and the Dungeon. But it was the airport that Grimes wanted. It was not very far from where they now found themselves. He memorised the directions and set off at a brisk walk, the women following. A moving way carried them on the last stage of their journey.
And then they were out into the cool night and Grimes, having handed over the card, was paying the charges due from the late Dr. Callis’ money. Relief at having escaped from the horrors of the Snuff Palace was making him talkative. No, he told the attendant, he hadn’t heard about the disturbance in the Grand Guignol. He and the ladies were checking out because, frankly, they found all this old-fashioned sadism rather boring, as a spectator sport. If members of the audience were allowed to participate—no, not as victims, ha, ha—it would be much more fun . . . So perhaps a spot of hunting at Camp Diana would be more entertaining . . . And the camperfly? Fuelled and provisioned? Thank you, thank you . . . (Money—not too much but just enough—changed hands.) And Aisle D, Number 7? Thank you, thank you . . .
They boarded the chubby aircraft and, with Grimes at the controls, lifted. He told Airport Control that the destination was Camp Diana.
Once they were up and clear Fenella Pruin turned on him and asked viciously, “Why did you have to run off at the mouth like that? It’s a miracle that you didn’t spill the beans!”
“I thought that it was in character . . .” said Grimes lamely.
“Whose character? Yours?”
“Leave him alone!” cried Darleen loyally. “He got us out of here, didn’t he?”
“It was just his famous luck,” snarled the Pruin. “Just hope and pray that it lasts.”
Amen, thought Grimes. A-bloody-men.