The Brentford Chainstore Massacre by Robert Rankin Page B

evening.”
    “Compton-Cummings dead,” said the Professor. “Compton-Cummings dead.”
    “Just one more thing before I go,” said John Omally, turning at the open front door. “There was another chap died yesterday, a Mr Compton-Cummings. His body must have been brought into the Cottage Hospital. Did you examine it?”
    “There was no other body in the morgue.”
    “But anyone who dies locally would be brought to the Cottage Hospital, surely.”
    “They would. But I know nothing about any Compton-Cummings.”
    “Perhaps there’s a story there,” said John.
    “Forget it,” said Dr Steven Malone, closing the front door upon him.
    John set off across the oak-lined street, whistling. Inside his waistcoat pocket he now had ten nice crisp five-pound notes. The day had hardly begun and already he was ahead.
    Dr Steven Malone bolted the front door and shook his pale head. Compton-Cummings? Who was Compton-Cummings? The name sounded strangely familiar. Ah yes, of course, it was the name of the author of that book on his dining table.
    Dr Steven Malone returned to examine the book. He was more than a little peeved to find it wasn’t there.
    “Hi-de-ho,” said John Omally, breezing in through the Professor’s French windows.
    “Hi-de-nothing!” said the old man, rising from his desk. “Why did you not tell me about the death of Compton-Cummings?”
    “It somehow slipped my mind,” said John. “I’d had a rough evening.”
    The Professor glared at John and then at Jim. Jim winced.
    “But I’ll tell you what,” said Omally. “There’s something very strange going on around here. The body of Mr Compton-Cummings never made it to the morgue at the Cottage Hospital.”
    Professor Slocombe raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?”
    “I’ve just been speaking to a Dr Steven Malone.”
    “The geneticist, lives in Kether House?”
    “Geneticist he may be, bloody liar also.”
    “Sit down,” said the Professor. “Sit down and tell me everything that happened last night. And I do mean everything.” John Omally sat down.
    An hour later a police car arrived at Professor Slocombe’s house. In it was Chief Inspector Westlake. He and the Professor exchanged a certain handshake and Jim’s book was taken into police custody.
    John and Jim were made to sign copies of the Official Secrets Act and issued with very stern warnings. When the Chief Inspector left, Professor Slocombe glared once more. “Am I supposed to settle this?” he said, waving a piece of paper.
    “What is that?” asked Omally.
    “It is the bill for a police car. A police car that ran into the canal last night. Something else you forgot to mention.”
    “I’ll deal with it,” said John.
    The Professor didn’t wish them well as he closed the garden gate upon them. “Get out and stay out,” were the words he used.
    “I’ve never seen him angry before,” said Jim as they trudged away. “He was very upset about Mr Compton-Cummings.”
    “Brothers under the apron,” said John. “But we came out on top, didn’t we?”
    “On top? Are you jesting?”
    “Slate wiped clean. No longer on the police hit list. And we’ve turned a profit.”
    “What profit?”
    John dug four crisp five-pound notes from his waistcoat pocket. “Hush money from Doctor Death. This is your half”
    “I don’t want that,” said Jim. “That’s tainted, that is.”
    “Well, please yourself. I’ll keep it.”
    “Oh no you won’t.” Jim snatched the fivers from Omally’s mitt. “I owe it to myself to come out of this with something.”
    “Share and share alike,” said John. “That’s our way, isn’t it?”
    “Always has been,” said Jim.
    “In triumph or adversity.”
    “I’ll drink to that.”
    “Let’s shake on it instead.”
    “All right, let’s.”
    The two men shook hands.
    “So,” said John. “Your share of the cost of the new police car is eight and a half thousand pounds. Do you want to give me cash, or a cheque?”
    John