"No, I really have got it," said Jim. "Things always seem simple when you look back at them. John's right."

"Go on."

"Look back at them," said Jim. "Don't you get it?"

"No," said the Professor. "I don't."

Jim sighed. "It's so simple. I should have thought of it at once. Go back. In time. I can do that. I go back in time and see who pinched the casket."

"Give that man a big cigar," said John Omally.

Dr Steven puffed upon a big cigar, the way proud fathers do.

On the dining table lay the casket, in this lay the golden child. Upon the floor lay the lid and in this lay the other one.

Dr Steven stooped and peered. There was something not quite right about the other one. Only two had survived the terrible zinc tanks and they had both been cloned from dried blood from the Turin Shroud. But they were by no means identical.

The golden child exuded warmth and joy.

But this one.

Dr Steven blew cigar smoke into its face.

The features twitched. Dark they were. Swarthy. The hair was black, the eyebrows and the lashes. But there was an all-over blackness about this child. A little shell of darkness seemed to surround it. A palpable thing. Whenever Dr Steven fed it with the bottle he felt his fingers growing cold. There was something far from right about this baby.

The fact that everything about all of this was far from right eluded Dr Steven.

"What exactly are you?" asked the genetic engineer.

The baby's dark eyes opened and they focused.

"Dada," it said, in a deep dark tone.

"Does it need to be dark?" asked Professor Slocombe. "Should I switch off the lights?"

"No problem." Jim settled himself on the chaise longue. "Where did Celia Penn go?" he asked.

"She went home," said Professor Slocombe. "We had a chat. I won't bore you with the details."

"Secrets again."

"Indeed. Yes."

"And whoever knocked upon your door? Did they give you any trouble?"

Professor Slocombe winked.

"You did that. To get us off on our way."

"I'd like to get you off on your way now, if you don't mind."

"No problem, Professor." Jim closed his eyes. "Do the road drill, John."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes, you do."

"Brrrrm," went John.

"In A minor."

"That was A minor."

"That was B flat," said Professor Slocombe. "Like the blues. The blues are always in B flat."

"Just do it like you do it, John." And Jim drifted off. "Om," he went, drifting backwards.

"What is Om?" Omally asked.

"The Universal note," said Professor Slocombe. "In Hinduism, the sacred syllable that typifies the three gods, Brahma, Vishna and Shiva, who concern themselves with the threefold operation of integration, maintenance, and disintegration. Birth, life and death. Om as a symbol is more powerful than the pentagram or cross. It represents love and love of life, without fear of death. To give and to receive this symbol is an act of love."

"Why is Jim Omming?" Omally asked.

"I haven't the faintest idea," said Professor Slocombe.

"Om off to Alabama with a banjo on my knee," sang Jim Pooley.

A long black car with blacked-out windows drew up outside the Professor's house. At the wheel sat a chauffeur, whistling.

"Shut up the bloody whistling," said Clive.

"I can whistle if I want to."

"And I can rip your fucking heart out," said Derek (him being the God-damn crazy ape-shit one-man killing machine of the partnership).

The chauffeur stopped whistling.

"So what happens next?" said Clive.

"We wait 'til they come out. Follow them and nab the scrolls."

"Fair enough," said Clive.

"Now I'll tell you what I want," said Derek.

"What you really, really want?"

"What I really, really want is a Zigger cigar."

"And what is that, exactly?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. But I really, really want one."

"Actually I had one once," said Clive. "But it wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Hey, hang about. Are they coming out?"

"No," said Derek. "They're not."

"You're not doing it properly, are you, Jim?"

"I'm sorry, John, I can't seem to get in the mood."

"Should I Brrrrm some more?"

"I don't think it will help."

"I could put you under hypnotically," said Professor Slocombe.

"No thank you," said Jim. "I can manage on my own."

"I don't think that's altogether true."

"Look, it's my magic, let me do it on my own."

"I'm sorry. Go ahead then."

Jim closed his eyes and drifted back. And then Jim opened his eyes and he screamed very loudly.

"Jim, are you all right?" Omally hastened to his side.

"John, it was terrible. Terrible."

"Not the murdering of the monk again?"

"Far worse. Bodies all cut to pieces. In tanks. Women's bodies."

"Holy God," said John.

"Tell me exactly what you saw." Professor Slocombe looked Jim deeply in the eyes.

"In a basement," said Jim. "The bloke who took the casket. He's got a basement full of dismembered bodies. Floating in tanks. Pregnant bodies without arms and legs. It's the most disgusting thing I've ever seen in my life." Jim lurched to his feet, flung himself through the open French windows and threw up all over the garden.

"That won't please my roses," said Professor Slocombe.

At length Jim returned, pale-faced, to the study. "Weirdest thing of all," said Jim. "This bloke. The murderer. He was really strange. There was no colour at all to him. He was all in black and white."

"Ah," said John Omally. "Then we have the bastard."

18.

Do dah. Do dah. Do dah. Do dah went the police cars.

And Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Chief Inspector Westlake stood in the Professor's study. "You are absolutely certain about this?" he asked. "There can be no mistake?"

"Jim?" said the Professor.

"I saw it," said Jim. "It was real."

"Absolutely certain," said Professor Slocombe.

"If it's true," said the Chief Inspector, "it will clear up a lot of unsolveds. Not murders, but bodies going missing from morgues. We've had eight in the last eight weeks."

"The chap's the duty physician at the Cottage Hospital," said John Omally.

"Dr Malone?" The Chief Inspector shook his head.

"Genetic engineer," said Professor Slocombe. "I've never met the fellow but I know of his work."

"So do I," said Jim. "Go and arrest him."

"All in good time, sir. His house is surrounded. We do things softly softly here."

"What are they doing now?" asked Clive.

"They've got one of those big battering ram things," said Derek. "I think they're going to smash down the door."

"Oh, goody. Do you think it's all right for us to stay here? We shouldn't have the chauffeur drive us somewhere else?"

"I just killed the chauffeur," said Derek. "The bastard was whistling again."

"Things are working well for us. But what do you think all this police presence is about?"

"I haven't the foggiest. Ah, here come the louts."

"You just leave all this to the professionals," said Chief Inspector Westlake.

"My pleasure," said the Professor. "My only wish is to recover a casket that I believe is in the doctor's house."

"Something of yours, is it?"

"A family heirloom."