Overtime. Part 19

Blondel scowled, and then grabbed the headgear from the Lombard brothers and rammed it down over the ears of the prisoners. 'They are now,' he said.

Guy reached, rather hesitantly, for his revolver. One of the prisoners let out a howl of anguish and asked Blondel rather urgently what it was that he wanted to know.

'You could start,' Blondel said, 'by telling me where the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes is.'

The prisoner thought for a moment and then said 'Pursuivant, Sergeant at Arms, 87658765.'

'Come again?' said Blondel. 'Was that supposed to be a map reference or something?'

'Name, rank and number,' Guy interrupted. 'It's all a prisoner of war has to tell you, under the Geneva Convention.

'Which hasn't been signed yet,' Blondel replied. 'Mr Pursuivant, if you will insist on talking through your hat, perhaps you'll find it easier with a hole to talk through.'

'Pursuivant, Sergeant at Arms, 8765 -'

'Oh for pity's sake,' Blondel said. 'Go and make some custard, somebody.'

There was a baffled silence for a moment. 'Custard?' Giovanni eventually enquired.

'That's right,' Blondel said, 'custard.' He folded his arms, smiled, and leaned against the table.

'What's going on?' Pursuivant demanded querulously. 'What are you playing at?'

'You'll see,' Blondel replied. 'Now then, while we're waiting for the custard, would either of you two gentlemen care to tell me anything?'

'Clarenceaux, Sergeant at Arms, 987665723,' mumbled the shorter of the other two prisoners. His companion said nothing.

'Fine,' Blondel sighed. 'We'll do it the hard way if you wish. Anybody got any peanuts out there?'

'Here,' said Clarenceaux, but his companion told him to shut up. Blondel's smile widened into a wicked grin.

Giovanni came back with a large pudding-basin. 'You're in luck,' he said. 'Just by chance I found some in the kitchens of the Burger Knight stall. It's cold, I'm afraid, but...'

'Oh that's all right,' Blondel said. 'Cold's fine. Now then, one last chance. Any offers?'

Clarenceaux would have said something if his companion hadn't stamped viciously on his foot. Blondel made a sort of tutting sound and lifted Clarenceaux up by the collar of his cagoule.

'Sorry about this,' he said, 'but that's how it is. To a certain extent, of course, I admire your courage.'

'Courage?' Clarenceaux whimpered.

'Sorry,' Blondel replied. 'I should have said heroism. You see,' he went on, as he lifted the borrowed hat off the prisoner's head, 'when you're dealing with people who, every time they get beaten up, mutilated or killed, are somehow magically restored to life and health by their bosses, there's clearly not much mileage in conventional torture. But,' he said, tipping a copious amount of custard out on to the top of Clarenceaux's head, 'pain and death aren't the only things we're afraid of in this life. Oh no. There's also,' he said, flexing his fingers and ma.s.saging the custard into Clarenceaux's scalp, 'humiliation, embarra.s.sment and being made to look a right nana. I mean - anybody got any jam? - I expect your comrades in arms are a right little bunch of humorists, aren't they? Once they get hold of something they can be funny about, you'll never - blackcurrant'll do fine, thanks - hear the last of it. And correct me if I'm wrong, but since you're effectively immortal, and stuck doing the same job with the same bunch of people for effectively the rest of time - that ought to do it; now, I'll need some flour, some eggs, some feathers and, of course, the peanuts and a razor -the very worst thing I could do to you would be send you back to Headquarters all covered in horrible sticky mess with half your beard shaved off and a packet of peanuts down the back of your neck. Oh, I forgot the shoe polish.'

'All right,' Clarenceaux squeaked, 'all right, I give up.' His companion tried to jump at him but Guy hit him with the fire extinguisher and he sat down again. 'Just let me wash all this off and I'll talk.'

'After you've talked,' Blondel said. 'And any mucking about and it's the honey and feathers treatment for you. No, not honey,' he added. 'Treacle.'

Clarenceaux made a sort of rattling noise in the back of his throat. 'You wouldn't do that,' he gargled. 'That's ... that's not fair.'

Blondel grinned and shook his head. 'Let's have it,' he said. 'Where's the Chastel des Larmes Chaudes?'

'I -'.

'Yes?'

Clarenceaux gagged, spat out a mouthful of custard which had dripped down his nose into his mouth and said, 'I don't know.'

'You don't know?'

'Really I don't.'

Blondel paused for a moment, while the prisoner watched him with big, round eyes.

'Have you thought,' Blondel said at last, 'what your so-called mates are going to do to you when you turn up later on this evening all covered in rice pudding and with a banana shoved right up your -'

'I don't know,' Clarenceaux screamed. 'We aren't allowed to know, just in case we're caught, see? There's this sort of bus thing picks us up and takes us to where we got to go, and then takes us back when we finish. They put paper bags over our heads while it's moving. Honest, I'm telling the truth.'

Blondel stroked his chin with the custard-free back of his hand. 'I don't believe you,' he said. 'Guy, see if you can find some rice pudding. Lots of rice pudding, there's a good chap.'

'Look, mister ...

'And a banana, of course. Mustn't forget the banana.' Clarenceaux started to sob, but Blondel's face remained unchanged. 'The Chastel,' he said. 'Where is it?'

'I don't ...

'Got that rice pudding yet, Guy?' Blondel asked. Guy stood up. Where, he asked himself, was he expected to get rice pudding from at this...?

'Leave him alone,' Pursuivant interrupted suddenly. 'Can't you see he's telling the truth?'

Blondel turned slowly round and looked Pursuivant in the eye. 'Lots of rice pudding,' he said.

'It's the truth, I tell you,' Pursuivant whined. 'We don't know nothing, any of us. The bus just comes, and then it takes us away again after. It's a big grey thing,' he added desperately, 'with a duff exhaust.'

Blondel nodded and folded his arms, inadvertently getting custard on himself. 'Go on,' he said.

'What do you want to know?' Pursuivant asked.

'Well,' said Blondel, 'you could start with the number plate.

'That's easy,' Pursuivant said. 'It's Z -'

Then something happened which Guy didn't expect. Giovanni, who'd been standing behind Blondel holding the pudding-basin full of custard, suddenly lifted it up, turned it over, and shoved it down on top of Blondel's head. As Guy moved to strike him, one of the others - Iachimo, probably -threw the flour in his face and squirted an aerosol of whipped cream, which he apparently happened to have by him, in his eyes, leaving him momentarily blinded. The third brother, meanwhile, bundled the three prisoners to their feet and towards the door. Guy wiped cream furiously out of his eyes, gave Iachimo a shove that sent him reeling, pulled out his revolver and fired a shot at the retreating prisoners. There was a crash of splintering china, and the pudding-basin over Blondel's head split exactly in two and slid down over his shoulders to the floor. Giovanni was. .h.i.t on the ear by a fragment of ceramic shrapnel, yelped and sat down heavily on a plate of mince pies. Iachimo had fallen into a laundry basket. The third brother, Marco, had jumped out of his skin when Guy fired his revolver, slipped on a patch of custard and collided with a standard-lamp, the shade of which fell down over his shoulders like a jousting-helm. The door closed with a bang, and from the corridor outside came the sound of hurried squelching, fading away into silence.

Blondel found a towel and wiped the custard out of his eyes and ears. 'Right,' he said, 'that's quite enough of that for one evening. Now then.'

He turned towards Giovanni, who cringed slightly, and Guy instinctively realised that, for all his dexterity with a pudding basin, the eldest Lombard was not primarily a man of action.

'It's all right,' said Blondel wearily. 'But what the devil possessed you to do that? The so-and-so was just about to