East of Ealing by Robert Rankin Page A

and drew himself up.
    He caught sight of the three now-cowering men, and a look of perplexity clouded his face. “What year is this?” he demanded.
    Omally volunteered the information.
    “Too early, you have broken the seal.”
    “Told you,” said Jim. “Leave well enough alone I said. But does anybody ever listen to me, do they…?”
    “Shut up,” said Soap, “and kindly give me a hand.” With the aid of Omally he helped the bemused-looking man in the dressing-gown up from the steely cylinder and into the upright position. “Are you feeling yourself now?” The tall man, as now he revealed himself to be, did not reply, but simply stood stretching his limbs and shaking his head. “Come quickly now,” said Soap. “We must take him at once to Professor Slocombe.”
    The journey back was to say the very least uneventful. The gaunt man in the dressing-gown sat staring into space while Omally, under Soap’s direction, applied himself to the oars. Pooley, who had by now given up the ghost, slept soundly; his dreams full of six-horse accumulators coming up at stupendous odds and rocketing him into the super-dooper tax bracket. Of a sudden, these dreams dissolved as Omally dug him firmly in the ribs and said, “We are going up.”
    They made a strange procession through Brentford’s night-time streets. The pale ghost of a man, now once more clad in a cloak and hood, leading a striking figure in a silk dressing-gown, and followed by two stumbling, drunken bums. Vile Tony Watkins who ran the Nocturnal Street Cleaning truck watched them pass, and a few swear words of his own invention slipped from between his dumb lips.
    As the four men entered the sweeping tree-lined drive which swept into the Butts Estate, one lone light glowed in the distance, shining from Professor Slocombe’s ever-open French windows.
    The odd party finally paused before the Professor’s garden door and Omally pressed his hand to the bolt. Through the open windows all could view the venerable scholar as he bent low over the manuscripts and priceless books. As they drew nearer he set his quill pen aside and turned to greet them.
    “So,” said he, rising with difficulty from his leather chair. “Visitors at such a late hour. And to what do I owe the pleasure?”
    “Sorry to interrupt your work,” said Omally, who was now at the vanguard. “But we have, well, how shall I put it…?”
    The tall man in the dressing-gown thrust his way past Omally and stood framed in the doorway. A broad smile suddenly broke out upon his bleak countenance. “Professor,” said he. “We meet again.”
    “My word,” said the other. “This is a most pleasant if unexpected surprise.”
    The tall man stepped forward and wrung the ancient’s hand between his own.
    “You mean you know who he is?” asked Omally incredulously. Pooley was supporting himself upon the door-frame.
    “Have you not been formally introduced?” enquired the Professor. Omally shook his head.
    “Then allow me to do the honours. Soap Distant, John Omally, Jim Pooley, gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present Mr Sherlock Holmes, formerly of 22b Baker Street.”
    “Your servant,” said that very man.

9
    Professor Slocombe closed and bolted the long shutters upon his French windows. When his guests had seated themselves, he moved amongst them, distributing drinks and cigarettes. Sherlock Holmes lounged in a high leather-backed fireside chair and accepted a Turkish cigarette. “My thanks, Professor,” said he. “I see that you still favour the same brand.”
    The Professor smiled and seated himself. “I think that we have much to speak of, Sherlock. Your arrival here, although bringing me untold joy at the pleasure of meeting once more a noble friend, is, to say the least, a little perplexing.”
    Holmes drew deeply upon his cigarette and blew out a plume of light blue smoke. “It is a singular business and no mistake.”
    Pooley and Omally, who had been shaking their heads in