“She went home,” said Professor Slocombe. “We had a chat. I won’t bore you with the details.”

“Secrets again.”

“Indeed. Yes.”

“And whoever knocked upon your door? Did they give you any trouble?”

Professor Slocombe winked.

“You did that. To get us off on our way.”

“I’d like to get you off on your way now, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem, Professor.” Jim closed his eyes. “Do the road drill, John.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Brrrrm,” went John.

“In A minor.”

“That was A minor.”

“That was B flat,” said Professor Slocombe. “Like the blues. The blues are always in B flat.”

“Just do it like you do it, John.” And Jim drifted off. “Om,” he went, drifting backwards.

“What is Om?” Omally asked.

“The Universal note,” said Professor Slocombe. “In Hinduism, the sacred syllable that typifies the three gods, Brahma, Vishna and Shiva, who concern themselves with the threefold operation of integration, maintenance, and disintegration. Birth, life and death. Om as a symbol is more powerful than the pentagram or cross. It represents love and love of life, without fear of death. To give and to receive this symbol is an act of love.”

“Why is Jim Omming?” Omally asked.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Om off to Alabama with a banjo on my knee,” sang Jim Pooley.

A long black car with blacked-out windows drew up outside the Professor’s house. At the wheel sat a chauffeur, whistling.

“Shut up the bloody whistling,” said Clive.

“I can whistle if I want to.”

“And I can rip your fucking heart out,” said Derek (him being the God-damn crazy ape-shit one-man killing machine of the partnership).

The chauffeur stopped whistling.

“So what happens next?” said Clive.

“We wait ’til they come out. Follow them and nab the scrolls.”

“Fair enough,” said Clive.

“Now I’ll tell you what I want,” said Derek.

“What you really, really want?”

“What I really, really want is a Zigger cigar.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. But I really, really want one.”

“Actually I had one once,” said Clive. “But it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Hey, hang about. Are they coming out?”

“No,” said Derek. “They’re not.”

“You’re not doing it properly, are you, Jim?”

“I’m sorry, John, I can’t seem to get in the mood.”

“Should I Brrrrm some more?”

“I don’t think it will help.”

“I could put you under hypnotically,” said Professor Slocombe.

“No thank you,” said Jim. “I can manage on my own.”

“I don’t think that’s altogether true.”

“Look, it’s my magic, let me do it on my own.”

“I’m sorry. Go ahead then.”

Jim closed his eyes and drifted back. And then Jim opened his eyes and he screamed very loudly.

“Jim, are you all right?” Omally hastened to his side.

“John, it was terrible. Terrible.”

“Not the murdering of the monk again?”

“Far worse. Bodies all cut to pieces. In tanks. Women’s bodies.”

“Holy God,” said John.

“Tell me exactly what you saw.” Professor Slocombe looked Jim deeply in the eyes.

“In a basement,” said Jim. “The bloke who took the casket. He’s got a basement full of dismembered bodies. Floating in tanks. Pregnant bodies without arms and legs. It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” Jim lurched to his feet, flung himself through the open French windows and threw up all over the garden.

“That won’t please my roses,” said Professor Slocombe.

At length Jim returned, pale-faced, to the study. “Weirdest thing of all,” said Jim. “This bloke. The murderer. He was really strange. There was no colour at all to him. He was all in black and white.”

“Ah,” said John Omally. “Then we have the bastard.”

Do dah. Do dah. Do dah. Do dah went the police cars.

And Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Chief Inspector Westlake stood in the Professor’s study. “You are absolutely certain about this?” he asked. “There can be no mistake?”

“Jim?” said the Professor.

“I saw it,” said Jim. “It was real.”

“Absolutely certain,” said Professor Slocombe.

“If it’s true,” said the Chief Inspector, “it will clear up a lot of unsolveds. Not murders, but bodies going missing from morgues. We’ve had eight in the last eight weeks.”

“The chap’s the duty physician at the Cottage Hospital,” said John Omally.

“Dr Malone?” The Chief Inspector shook his head.

“Genetic engineer,” said Professor Slocombe. “I’ve never met the fellow but I know of his work.”

“So do I,” said Jim. “Go and arrest him.”

“All in good time, sir. His house is surrounded. We do things softly softly here.”

“What are they doing now?” asked Clive.

“They’ve got one of those big battering ram things,” said Derek. “I think they’re going to smash down the door.”

“Oh, goody. Do you think it’s all right for us to stay here? We shouldn’t have the chauffeur drive us somewhere else?”

“I just killed the chauffeur,” said Derek. “The bastard was whistling again.”

“Things are working well for us. But what do you think all this police presence is about?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. Ah, here come the louts.”

“You just leave all this to the professionals,” said Chief Inspector Westlake.

“My pleasure,” said the Professor. “My only wish is to recover a casket that I believe is in the doctor’s house.”

“Something of yours, is it?”

“A family heirloom.”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to see one of them. They actually weave real hair, do they?”

“By the yard,” said Professor Slocombe.

“Makes you proud to be English,” said John.

“But you’re…” Professor Slocombe paused. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

“I don’t,” said Jim.

The battering ram didn’t go KNOCK. It went BASH. And then it burst right through. Uniformed constables stormed into Kether House, electric truncheons drawn, hopes of their use growing fiercely.

Constables toppled into the hall, constables rushed into the ground-floor rooms, constables pelted up the stairs. Constables pelted down other stairs. These constables saw things that would later waken them screaming from their sleep. Many of these constables did as Jim had done in the Professor’s rose garden.

Chief Inspector Westlake wiped a handkerchief across his mouth and stared about the basement hell. “Bastard,” he said. “Mad bastard. Where is he?”

“Gone,” said a chalk-faced constable. “No trace. But, Chief Inspector, there’s worse over here. Far worse.”

“What is that, constable?” The Chief Inspector looked.

The constable turned back a length of tarpaulin, exposing four tiny twisted dead things.

Chief Inspector Westlake turned away. “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered.

In the dining room Professor Slocombe patted Jim upon the shoulder. “Well done,” he said.

Jim looked down upon the empty casket. “Are they in there? I still can’t see them.”

“They are there. Well done.”

“I’d like to go now, if you don’t mind. This place turns my stomach. There’s evil here.”

“Yes, there is.” The Professor stroked the Om he wore about his neck. “Great evil, so close to my own home, yet I never knew.”

“How did he get out?” asked John. “This place was completely surrounded.”

“Tunnels, probably. These houses are very old.”

“I’ll have to ask you to clear the house, please, Professor,” said the Chief Inspector, who looked like death. “We’ll need the forensic boys in here. This is very bad, Professor. Very bad indeed.”

“I would like to help you with the forensic examination, if I might.”

“You are eminently qualified. I would appreciate it.”

Professor Slocombe offered the policeman a certain handshake. “Upon the square and beneath the arch,” he said.