Johannes Cabal the Detective

CHAPTER 15 in which Cabal sets the scene

“Cabal!” cried Count Marechal warmly. “I cannot begin to tell you how very happy I am to see you!”

“Really?” said Cabal, his sangfroid slightly shaken.

“Really!” Marechal drew his revolver and levelled it at Cabal’s head. “Now I can finally kill you.”

Cabal rolled his eyes. “For somebody who fancies himself a great thinker, you don’t tend to let it get in the way of doing something stupid, do you?”

“There’s nothing stupid about shooting you, Cabal.”

“In front of witnesses? Oh, but of course that’s not really a problem, is it? There’s not a person here who will ever tell.”

“Hold your fire, sir,” said Colonel Konstantin. “This is not the place for an execution.”

“Oh, you’re going to shoot him, Daddy?” Lady Ninuka stepped forward, face flushed with excitement and every inch her daddy’s girl. She smiled. “Good. He was horrid to me.”

Under different circumstances, Miss Barrow might have remonstrated with Lady Ninuka, but she had only just seen her ladyship for what she was. The vanity and solipsism, the lack of concern for others, the hunger for new amusements to titillate a palate that jaded too quickly. Miss Barrow could have kicked herself for not spotting a textbook case of psychopathy until now.

Count Marechal grunted with irritation. “Will you please be quiet, child? One thing at a time.”

Cabal was growing irritated, too. He had been planning his grand entrance for the past few hours, and people kept chattering instead of letting him get on with it. He coughed loudly, and a gratifying silence fell. “You have the gun, Marechal, so you make the rules. I would, however, suggest that I know several things that you don’t and that these facts represent areas of ignorance in your knowledge that may — no — that will prove very important soon. You can kill me now, but I guarantee that you will regret such precipitous action before very long.”

Marechal sighed heavily. “Don’t you ever shut up, Cabal?”

“In my laboratory, I may remain entirely mute for months on end. This is not a time for silence, however. I have a story to tell that will illuminate much for some, less for others, but everybody will learn at least one thing vital for their futures. Such as whether they have one.”

“Why did you come back, Cabal?” said Miss Barrow. There was an electricity in the air that she did not like, an approaching storm of violence that contained at least one thunderbolt specifically meant for him. What was worse was the building sense that Marechal did not intend to stop with one body at his feet. Cabal had been right all along about the deaths aboard having political roots, and politics can be a more ruthless killer than any number of wild-eyed maniacs.

“Now, there’s a funny thing,” replied Cabal. “That is exactly the thing I would like to talk to you all about first. With your permission, Count?” And, without waiting for a reply, he walked into the centre of the salon, where he stood like an entertainer about to start his act. “Please, sit down. You may as well hear this in comfort.”

Nobody moved for a moment, then Konstantin stepped over to Miss Ambersleigh and drew out a chair for her. “Ma’am?” With a weak little noise of affirmation, Miss Ambersleigh sat. It was the catalyst, and the other passengers found chairs, too. Marechal watched the proceedings with contempt, but realised that the perfect moment for shooting Cabal had come and gone, and that he could no longer do it with panache, at least for the moment. He would have to wait for Cabal to finish his piece, and then kill him. This could represent his last wish, Marechal decided. It would have been more convenient if he had just asked for a cigarette and a blindfold like a normal person, but no matter. It would serve only to sharpen Marechal’s anticipation. He’d arranged the execution of so many peasants while putting down the short-lived revolt that he had got quite bored with it. This, he hoped, would serve to clear his palate and restore the pleasure of revenge.

He strolled to the bar, helped himself to a glass and a bottle of Mirkarvian spirits that bore a similar chemical composition and taste to de-icing fluid, and settled himself on a barstool. His revolver remained in his hand. “Very well, Cabal. You have your few minutes’ grace. Amuse us all with your intellect.”

Cabal bowed. It was possible that it wasn’t meant to be mocking, but that was certainly the effect.

“To begin with,” he began with, “it is important to understand how we come to be in this situation. I shall start with my own journey.”