Monday, July the 19th, 2004
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ON MY FATHER’S TWENTY first birthday, Professor Underlip—or Walter Mad, as I had better call him—was forty. Almost a year had passed since poor Patch told me the story of the theft, so by my calculations, Mad was now ninety eight: check that yourself, I think you'll find it's correct.
My first stop, having set out upon my quest, was at the reference library of Spangles, a market town some three days' journey from home. Resting my haversack in the cloakroom, I charged into the newspaper archive and consulted the biographical index, which consisted of untold thousands of little pencil-scrivened cards housed in a series of metal filing cabinets. The index had been devised by a certain Riggory Dewe, an amateur who had also turned his mind to the design of oars, the analysis of socks, and a revolutionary scheme for the eradication of mumps in the Trobriand Islands. When I have finished with this story, I have a good mind to write a thumping great biography of Dewe: he was a gifted and fascinating man.
Not the least of his accomplishments was the Spangles Newspaper Reference Index, a scheme which, to my knowledge, has never been used elsewhere, for reasons which mystify me. I intend to write a lengthy chapter on Dewe's system in the biography, so I will not go into detail here. As a taster, however, I reprint below the contents of the Walter Mad index card.
Mad, Walter
attacks postman: 146329970 chin
bedecked in garments of breathtaking beauty: 231546995 head
crushes a viper: 497664325 neck
digs pit in field: 545090861 thorax
enjoys burning flags: 754512908 abdomen
freakish tantrums: 138053424 tongue
gum disease: 995451119 elbow
hoist by own petard: 612007542 toe
intransigence of: 412099775 knee
jam, recipes for: 661321878 lip
kaolin quarry workers dispute, involvement in: 754123124 ear
lack of teeth: 442327865 shin
misery on St Mungo's Day: 643901222 collarbone
nautical incompetence: 131208774 jaw
old man's beard: 630880714 scrotum
porridge, loathing of: 076232144 scalp
questions existence of fish: 644000012 rib
runs away from orphanage: 712214329 nipple
stalks toad-headed robber: 085337902 ankle
thimbles, collection of: 551231971 nose
unstable in high winds: 641220097 hip
veins and arteries, irregularities of: 997543252 rectum
wistfulness at seaside: 370941221 brain
xylocarp, juice of, smeared on hair: 142986555 mouth
yachting, arguments for the banning of: 429099822 foot
zircon, relish for: 444751296 eye
Unzipping a little bag full of tokens, I made my way to the issuing desk and requested newspaper number 644000012: there being no obvious place to start, I thought I may as well plunge in at random and discover why Mad had questioned the existence of fish. Pocketing my token, the librarian pointed towards a small wooden bench, and requested that I sit there until the newspaper was delivered from the vaults.
There were five other people waiting: one had a long grey beard; one was inspecting a scrap of paper on which arcane details of ships' moorings had been roughly scribbled; one was chewing on a radish; one seemed fast asleep; and the fifth, next to whom I sat down, was cradling in his hairy hands a .44 Pugsley—an alarmingly powerful revolver—which he immediately poked into the small of my back. At the same moment, his mouth, full of an implausible number of filthy, unbrushed teeth, was jammed next to my right ear-hole. Noises issued from this mouth, but such was my terror that at first I was unable to wring any meaning from them: it was like listening to my mother. Slowly—although in truth it can only have taken a few seconds —the whispers assailing my ear congealed into sensible words: if anything, my terror heightened.
“Act naturally,” I heard, “Stand up, walk out of the library, and go towards the owl sanctuary—it's on your left, past the baths, the chemist's shop, the Town Hall and the pigeon lofts.”
“Ung,” I said, for which my spine was prodded rather painfully by the Pugsley.
So I stood up, looked wildly about me and, seeing no librarians dashing to my assistance, made my way towards the owl sanctuary. Ten minutes later, arriving at a clump of simnel trees in which dozens of owls were snoozing, my abductor ordered me to halt.
“What do you want with me?” I asked, in a quavering little voice. The gun-toting git was still behind me, and I dared not look round.
“I trade in tin futures,” he said mysteriously. I waited for further details, but he remained silent. At times like these, I have an annoying tendency to start babbling, so I did.
“Ah, tin. An intriguing metal, isn't it? I remember once reading a study of metal-planet affinities which allied tin to Jupiter. Apparently the ancient Etruscans called the planet Jupiter Tins—”
He clouted me on the head with his free hand, so I shut up.
“When I am not trading in tin futures,” he rasped, “I act as a special agent for the Turquoise Badge Ten.” He paused to let that sink in, but I had no idea what he was talking about, and I told him so.
“The Turquoise Badge Ten,” he explained, “Is an impossibly powerful secret society. Woe unto the nit who incurs its wrath, as you have done. Take off your hat. Good: put it on the ground directly in front of you. The Turquoise Badge Ten sent me to forestall you in your Walter Mad researches: unfortunately, I have not been given permission to kill you. For some reason best known to themselves, they have ordered me to swipe your hat, to clout you twice upon the head—there, that's the second—and to put you into a crate and take you to their headquarters. I am now going to collect the crate, and to make sure you do not run away, I am going to bury you up to your waist. Hand me that shovel.”
God knows where the crate was: it took him about four hours to fetch it. During that time, when I had finished sobbing and shouting fruitlessly for help, it struck me that perhaps this was all for the best, and that being delivered into the clutches of the Turquoise Badge Ten, far from being a terrible calamity, was an unexpected opportunity to get to the heart of the matter. The special agent was a considerate man, in his way. He had insisted that I wrap a large sheet of oilcloth around my legs and feet, so that, when submerged in the earth, my boots and trousers would not get muddy. From a sack, he took some floral-embroidered cushions and placed them comfortingly around me. He set up a little folding-table and arranged on it a packet of trout-paste sandwiches, a flask of cocoa, a fly-swatter, a Tilly lamp, and a selection of reading matter, including Gargle's The Life and Times of Colonel Bigot, half a dozen improving tracts published by the Society for the Regulation of Orphanages, a rare edition of a tremendously exciting sci-fi yarn by Chlorine Winslow, and the cumulative index, bound in greaseproof paper, of the Journal of Nosebleed Research.
It was getting dark, and the owls were waking, when my abductor reappeared, trundling a wheelbarrow on which the crate rocked unsteadily. By the time he had dug me out of the ground, he was puffed out.
“Look,” I said, “I’m quite happy to accompany you. We can take it in turns to push the wheelbarrow. Just before we get to the HQ I’ll jump into the crate: that way you can pretend you've followed your orders to the letter.” And, of course, I’d be able to memorise the route: I learned a thing or two from Fig, you know.
“Splendid, splendid,” said the special agent, “I must say I wasn't looking forward to pushing this damnable crate, with you inside it, for a forty mile stretch. I have a metal pin in my leg.”
We shook hands in a sort of hearty, two-chaps-together way. I fancied he was smiling behind his starched linen mask, worn to ensure that I could not identify him at a later date.
“There's a spot of cocoa left, if you'd like some,” I offered.
“Yum,” he said.
As I stooped to pour out the remains of the flask, he sneaked up behind me and whipped a blindfold around my head. The hot cocoa splashed on my hand and I whimpered.
“Sorry about that,” he said, reasonably, “But I can't have you knowing the location of the Turquoise Badge Ten HQ. If we meet anyone on the way, I’ll pass you off as a victim of some particularly hideous crime. I am now going to insert a pair of corks into your ears, so you won't be able to retrace the route from auditory clues. And don't worry—I’ll make sure you don't bump into anything.”