The Metatemporal Detective

In all his long career as a consulting detective, Mr Seaton Begg had never received a stranger visitor to his Sporting Club Square rooms. Though it was not yet noon the personage now languidly seated across the desk from him was clad in full evening dress, complete with cloak and silk hat. This alone was remarkable, but what was truly striking about the creature, who spoke with the faintest of educated Middle European accents, was that he was a pure albino!

From the visitor's bone-white skin stared eyes as crimson as the lining of his hat and cloak. Upon his long, delicate fingers he wore two rings, one of plain gold and the other some black, mysterious metal, engraved with the crest of a family which had been old and civilised before the Romans ever attempted-and failed-to conquer its land.

Seaton Begg felt himself in the presence of a great power-able to command the wealth of Europe, who smoked, after polite enquiry of his host, an oddly smelling little brown cigarette which Begg, long familiar with Lime-house, recognised as opium. This doubtless explained the man's languor, his slightly hooded, if sardonically amused, eyes which regarded Begg with a certain understanding. The albino introduced himself, handing his card to the famous investigator.

The ivory pasteboard bore a simple inscription:

Monsieur Zenith The Albany

The hint of a smile crossed Begg's lips as he read the name. "You prefer to be incognito, your highness?"

"You are discreet, Mr Begg. I can see that your reputation is not baseless."

"I hope not, sir. By the way, as a fellow fiddle player, would I be right in thinking you are at present having trouble with your E-flat? A trifle sharp?"

The albino examined his little finger. "Just so, Mr Begg." He raised his right eyebrow a fraction. "I am impressed."

"No need to be, sir. An easily learned and very simple observation. The calluses on your hands are not, after all, dissimilar to my own! The rest was schoolboy logic. You are presumably here to seek my professional advice?"

"Exactly, sir." Whereupon, "Monsieur Zenith" dispensed with further formalities and launched, in precise, economical English, into his explanation for making this appointment.

Sir Seaton Begg's success was legendary. On more than one occasion he had been employed by the government of which M Zenith had until lately been a member. Blackshirt revolutionists had, with finance from a certain Great Power, succeeded in ousting the elected government and sending the king into exile. Now a puppet sat on the throne of Monsieur Zenith's mountainous land and a dictator, supported by foreign gold and arms, tyrannised a pleasant, if backward, nation, enslaving and destroying, creating dissension amongst people once living in easy harmony. Dr Papadakia had divided in order to rule. And rule he did-in a land drowning in its own blood and shrieking in its death agonies.

This, said Monsieur Zenith, was what any intelligent reader could deduce from the newspapers. What was not generally understood was how, to make further capital from his country's suffering, the Dictator and his bullies were in essence kidnapping prominent people and ransoming them to relatives abroad. On more than one occasion tortured, ruined corpses had been delivered to those unable or unwilling to pay.

"That alone is an horrific trade, Sir Seaton, I think you'll agree. There is a streak of ancient blood in our people which occasionally reemerges. When it does, such cruelties become commonplace. What Papadakia and his gang are doing is offensive to all we civilised men hold holy." The queer looking creature paused, lowering his eyes and drawing deeply on his little cigarette. After a while he continued. "But now, Sir Seaton, they have devised a variation on their vile theme.

"They are blackmailing the king!"

Their puppet, a distant cousin of the legitimate monarch, had rebelled and died. But having succeeded so well in their obscene enterprise, these bandits-in-uniform had sent a message to King Jhargon the Fourth (with his family in Paris): "Unless he returns to my country and gives his blessing to the present dictatorship, so that the world might think them reformed, Dr Papadakia and his bully-boys would painfully and brutally dispose of a young woman every day. Virgin blood, they declared, would be upon the king's hands."

Long familiar with the world's infamies, Begg felt his own blood chill in his veins as Monsieur Zenith described the fate of the women, all members of his country's oldest families, who would die foully if the king did not return. It was a scheme of almost unimaginable fiendish ness and Begg's loathing for the "fascisti" rabble informed the set of his lips and the hardening of his cool, grey eyes.

"You have my help in whatever form you desire, sir." The detective's tone had grown singularly grave. "Though I do not have the resources to start a counterrevolution in your country, if that is what you are proposing."

"Those ideas are being debated elsewhere," Monsieur Zenith told the detective. "And moves are afoot to oust the dictator. But meanwhile there are seven young women, two of whom are directly related to me, who will die dreadfully if we do not help them. Dictator Papadakia already has the seven under lock and key. They are imprisoned in the Martyrs' Tower, from which in olden times the famous Ziniski monks jumped to their deaths rather than submit to the Injinkskya Heresy. Well, if you know that story you know that the tower is impregnable. Protected, they say, by Hell and History." The albino casually extinguished the remains of his drugged cigarette in Begg's ashtray.

"You are telling me that the position of these young women is hopeless, Monsieur?" Begg's eyes narrowed.

"Unless the king capitulates."

"Which he must not do-for the sake of his people and his honour."

"Precisely, Sir Seaton."

Begg mused upon his caller's appalling position. "Rescuing those seven maidens would be one thing," he murmured. "Ensuring that this foul dictator was ousted from his unearned eminence and foiled from committing any further evil-that would be another!"

Monsieur Zenith's expression did not change, but his posture appeared more relaxed and there was a certain amused alertness in his strange, crimson eyes. "You are a man after my own heart, Sir Seaton. I came to you for advice, as I said. What would you suggest?"

Begg placed his elbows on his desk. He put his fingertips together and regarded the albino over hands that seemed poised to pray. "I have the glimmerings of an idea. But to explore it I must take a little time. And then, my dear sir, I shall require you to put me in your confidence on certain delicate matters. If convenient, I should be obliged if you could meet me again in twenty-four hours. Then we might discuss our plot ..."

The albino rose, picked up his hat, and bowed. "I am obliged to you, Sir Seaton. Until I came through your door I had no hope at all. Now I have a little."

"Your opinion is flattering, sir. I sincerely hope I deserve it." With a quick, almost clumsy movement, Begg reached to shake the albino's hand.

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Excerpted from The Metatemporal Detective by Michael Moorcock Copyright © 2007 by Michael and Linda Moorcock. Excerpted by permission.
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