THE HANGÈD MAN

‘What know you of Bletchley Park?’ asked Hugo Rune one day.

The day was a Sunday early in April and we were out a-strolling.

‘Actually, I know quite a lot,’ I said, in ready reply. But speaking then in muted tones, for walls had ears and we were digging for victory. ‘It was known as Station X and it was there, under the leadership of the now legendary Alan Turing, that a hand-picked team of polyglots were gathered together to crack German codes. Using Enigma machines and an early computer called Colossus, which was designed and built by the gloriously named Tommy Flowers at the Post Office Research Station in Dollis Hill.’ And I did blowings onto my fingernails and mock buffings of these onto my tweedy lapels.

‘I assume these blowings and buffings are to signify your smugness at knowing so much,’ observed the all-knowing one.

‘I would hesitate to use such an emotive word as “smugness”,’ I declared. ‘But you must be impressed by the extent of my knowledge on this subject.’

‘Must I?’ asked Mr Rune. Affecting an attitude of yawning distraction.

‘So, are we going there? Is there a case? And will I get to meet the now legendary Mr Turing?’

‘Something of a hero to you, is he?’ Mr Rune ceased his strolling and gave me a beaming smile.

‘Him and Barnes Wallis,’ I said, ‘the man who invented the bouncing bomb. I would really love to meet him.’

‘And so I suspect you shall. But I see that our strollings have brought us into the close proximity of The Purple Princess, so why should we not take ourselves inside for luncheon and libations?’

This I felt to be a rhetorical question and so I followed Hugo Rune inside.

I greatly enjoyed our visits to The Purple Princess. It was, after all, and I feel that no harm can now come from me revealing this fact, the very pub where in nineteen sixty-seven I had engaged in my underage drinking. In the pleasant company of my good friends John Omally and Norman Hartnel.

The Purple Princess stood four-square on the corner of Ealing Road and Brook Road. And as any sporting gentleman will tell you, Brook Road is the road in Brentford. For it is the road where stands Brentford Football Ground.

The interior of The Purple Princess, then, as now, was, and is, one to inspire confidence in what lies beneath its pump handles: beer of an excellent nature. It plays host to a fine collection of Victorian fixtures and fittings and assembled bar paraphernalia. And has six hand-drawn ales on draft, a selection only bested by The Flying Swan, an establishment noted for its eight fine ales. And which, under the management of Neville the part-time barman, boasted a policy of absolutely no underage drinking.

And thus and so we took our ale at The Purple Princess.

The barlord of this drinking man’s Valhalla was a gentleman by the name of Paul, who went, for reasons known only to himself, by the name of Fangio. Fangio combined bar management and black marketeering into a pleasing composition and he, like his bar, stood four-square, prepared to take on all comers.

On this particular Sunday in April he was placed behind his bar counter, his ample frame housed within a siren suit, his brain-filled bonce shaded beneath the brim of a bowler hat and him holding forth upon the quality of mercy, which in his opinion had to be strained more than once in a while.

He greeted us with a cheery, ‘Good day there, Mr Rune, Rizla,’ enquired as to our drinking tastes, tugged upon the appropriate beer-pull and then asked Mr Rune whether he might ask him a question.

Mr Rune tasted beer, found it pleasing and nodded his head in the affirmative.

‘It is this way, Mr Rune,’ said Fangio. ‘Myself and my colleagues here,’ and he indicated himself, and his colleagues, these being a certain Old Pete and a certain Squadron Leader Lancaster, who had happened by on the off chance of an off chance, or some other reason beyond my understanding but which probably involved buying nylons for ladies, ‘have been discussing whether the dog is really Man’s best friend. Old Pete here says yes that it is. But the squadron leader says no that it isn’t and that a good woman can be a man’s best friend and a better thing to cuddle up to on a dark and stormy night. And he has a wife and a dog. And so we would be grateful if you would offer a casting vote. You being all so all-knowing and suchlike.’

And Hugo Rune nodded once more. And then spoke words of wisdom. ‘It is the way with me,’ he said, ‘never to take any given proposition at face value. One must test a proposition in order to see whether it is to be found wanting. Do you agree?’

And Fangio’s head bobbed up and down, taking its bowler hat with it. And Old Pete nodded his snowy scalp and the squadron leader said, ‘Tally-ho.’ And twiddled his ample moustaches.

‘This said,’ continued Mr Rune, ‘my suggestion would be that the squadron leader should test out the proposition himself.’

‘How so?’ asked the squadron leader, now twiddling his chin.

‘Lock both your wife and your dog in the boot of your car for an hour. Then open up the boot and see which one is the most pleased to see you.’

It was at moments like this that I understood just how Hugo Rune’s clear and uncluttered reasoning raised him that extra head and shoulders above the common man.

We left the gentlemen at the bar counter to nod their heads and comment upon Mr Rune’s genius and took ourselves off to the corner booth that was permanently reserved for the Magus, lowered our bottoms onto comfy chairs and took to tasting ale.

‘That was very impressive,’ I said to Hugo Rune.

‘A simple enough test, I would have thought,’ Himself replied.

‘No, not the boot-business,’ I said. ‘That was an appalling idea. I am talking of course about the way that by saying what you did in the way that you did, you somehow managed once again to avail us of two beers without paying for them.’

‘Sssh!’ went Mr Rune, pressing a finger to his lips. ‘Let us not forget the matter of the walls having ears.’

‘It is never far from my thoughts,’ I assured him. ‘But speak to me now of Bletchley Park. Are we going there?’

‘We are indeed,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘This telegram arrived this very morning. Kindly give it your perusal, then feel free to flesh out a sentence or two with some ill-conceived theorising.’

‘Hm,’ went I and I accepted the telegram.

It read:

MURDER AT STATION X STOP

FEAR AREA COMPROMISED STOP

REQUEST YOUR IMMEDIATE ATTENTION STOP

M STOP

I handed back the telegram and took to twiddling my chin. And further tasting of my ale. And twiddling my chin once more.

‘It would appear,’ said I, ‘that there has been a murder at Station X and Mr McMurdo fears that the area has been compromised and is requesting your immediate attention. So, in my opinion, I-’

‘And have to stop you there,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘But it would appear that this is to be our next case. Do you have the remaining tarot cards upon your person?’

‘I always carry them with me,’ I said.

‘Then whip them out and pluck one from the deck.’

I dug into my inside jacket pocket, where I kept the cards, which were already growing somewhat dog-eared at the edges. ‘I really do not see the purpose in me doing this,’ I complained. ‘If you have the case, why do you need me to pick a card?’

‘Because it is how business is done, Rizla. Have I taught you nothing? Pick a card and no more of your stuff and nonsense.’

And so I picked a card at random and the card I picked was THE HANGÈD MAN.

‘That’s a particularly gloomy-looking card,’ I observed. ‘I do hope that it will not mean either you or I having an early-morning appointment with Mr Pierrepoint.’