“Open the gate! I’m here to see Sir Mumphrey Wilton!” A disheveled Roger Wilton was in no mood for delays.
“The mahster is not available,” Flapjack’s voice came from a loudspeaker. “If you’d like, I’ll connect you to his voice mail.”
“Look, you bloody moron, I’m his relative. I know he’s in there, and I have important information for him!”
An ominous hum began as the Bautistamatic Stunulators began warming up.
“I’ll tell the mahster you called for him. Now run along, before something bad happens to you,” Flapjack sniggered. With whirrs and a few mechanical screeches, the stun guns began a wobbly attempt at aiming at Roger.
“Crikey,” Roger exclaimed. An agent of H.M. Secret Service couldn’t possibly retreat from this challenge, but facing down a dozen stun guns that were now giving off blue sparks and a disturbing scent of ozone didn’t seem terribly bright either, even by Roger’s somewhat dim standards.
The defrosted M.I.6 agent hadn’t noticed that a large grey van had pulled up behind him. His leap into the air when one of the van’s occupants walked up to him and touched his arm was thus entirely understandable.
“Yipe! . . . I mean, on guard, evil villain!”
The grey clad man flashed an identity card and replied, “Not at all, Mr. Wilton. We’re your support team. Glad to have you back with us, right?”
“Oh, of course. Ponsonby here. Support team. It took you rather long to get here. Now if you’ll just force our way into the Lair Mansion over there, I’ll give my incredibly important mission information to Sir Mumphrey. He’s my uncle, you know.”
“Change of plan, sir. Straight from MMM himself. He wants you back in London, soonest.”
“But I want to see my uncle! I’ve finally done something that he’ll be proud of! I stopped Baron Ottokar Zemo!”
“Just so, sir. But shouldn’t you report to Centre first?” Ponsonby wheedled.
“I suppose. But I want to be the one to tell him.”
“Nobody will deprive you of that, Mr. Wilton, I’m sure. Now just step over here to this deluxe mobile headquarters van, and you can start your debriefing.”
“Mobile headquarters van?” Roger queried as he followed the man away from the Lair Gates. “It looks more like a refrigerated meat wagon.”
“Camouflage, sir. Those look like refrigeration units on top. And the ‘Danger, Liquid Nitrogen’ sign is a perfect deterrent.”
“Quite,” Roger agreed. “Most ingenious, I’m sure.”
The driver was waiting for them at the rear of the van, and opened the rear door. “Right up here, now, steady . . .”
Roger stepped up into the van. “Why is it so dark –“
The men slammed shut the rear door, bolted it, and ran for the cab. Ponsonby leapt into the passenger seat and grasped a small blue lever, pushing it down hard. A low-pitched WHOOSH was heard from the rear compartment.
“Well, I’ll radio Centre,” Ponsonby sighed, “Roger Wilton’s back on ice.”
“Should we advise the Lair Legion?” the driver asked.
“Absolutely not. We were advised yesterday that Sir Mumphrey Wilton may be compromised. From now on, they’re to be treated as unfriendlies – him most of all.”
A small fisherman’s cottage at Willingham Point:
“Hurry up, Sally, it’s starting to rain,” Elizabeth Zemo urged her sidekick.
“It’s not easy getting all of me out of this beetle,” Silicone Sally complained.
“Well, if you don’t, you’re just going to take on more water.”
“I hear you!” Sally shouted, squelching herself out of the last few crannies of the VW and beginning her lumbering path towards the cottage.
Once inside, Sally was disappointed. “Where’s the secret, luxurious underground lair? Where’s that extractor thing? I want to get back to normal.”
“This is the backup backup hideout, Sally. Not much high-tech, no big power drains, nothing to draw attention. Exemplary and his goons would just lock on to something like the Schloss Now, come over here to the laundry area.”
“That’s the extractor? A 1930’s wringer? The only place you see those is in cartoons.”
“Just step over here, Sally, and put your hand between the rollers.”
“You mean it. You’re going to wring me out. It’s gonna hurt!”
“It’ll hurt me more than you, Sally. It’s a hand-cranked wringer. I’ve got about four hours of cranking to dry you out.”
“And I’m sure you’ll find some way to make me pay for that, right?”
“Of course. Ooof. This – crank, crank – is going to be – oof—harder than I thought.”
At one of the cabanas at the Beverly Hills Hotel:
“Waiter! Waiter! Another gin and tonic, please?” Roland Wilton, budding B-movie producer, was not enjoying his face time around the Beverly Hills Hotel pool. There wasn’t a single A-list face to be seen, and he would have to hit his father up soon for another stipend to cover the astronomical cost of the cabana and drinks. And his sunglasses were too fashionably dark.
“Roger Wilton?”
“Set it right, here, and put it on my tab.”
“I’m not the waiter. Why don’t you lift up those glasses?”
“Mr. Epitome! This is an honour. Just wait right here, and I’ll get the hotel photographer to come over.” He reached for the telephone.
“This isn’t a publicity stunt, Wilton.”
“Come now, this is L.A. Everything’s a publicity event, here. Now smile, please, and look like you’re dying to work in my next film.” The photographer, seeing a sure thing, had come over on his own.
The Exemplary Man reached out and grabbed the Leica from the photographer’s grasp, extracting the film effortlessly and returning the useless shell to him.
“This is a national security matter. Find something else to do.”
Quailing at Mr. Epitome’s harsh stare, the photographer took the hint and went looking for some swimsuit models.
“See here,” Roger Wilton complained, “you’ve just ruined the best chance I’ve had in six months to get some press around here. The least you can do is to have a press conference with me.”
“I’m not here to rescue your career, and I’m certainly not going to shill you to the press. Now listen, and listen well. Your father, Sir Mumphrey, sent me here, against my better judgment. Your sister and brother-in-law have been killed, and your niece is missing. You may be in danger.”
“Danger? Me? And you’re here to protect me? Fantastic. I couldn’t be in better hands. And what a screenplay! Tell me, who’s the culprit?”
“Someone named Commander Erskine Black. One of your dad’s old enemies.”
“Never heard of him. It’s good that he’s English, though. Won’t have to worry about pressure groups wanting to change the script.”
“Don’t’ you want to know about your father?” Mr. Epitome growled.
“Oh, yes. How is he? Still in that grotty Parodiopolis?”
“He’s being blackmailed and is heading into mortal danger.
“Finally – oops, I hope he’s all right. Did he say anything about a little stipend for me, by any chance?”
“Not a word.”
“Not that it matters. Well, now that you’re my bodyguard, I’ll need to schedule some sort of appearance so that everyone realizes I’m protected. I’ll have to find some quarters for you. I’ve got a couch in my apartment –“
“I’m not here to waste time as your bodyguard. I’m already two minutes over my schedule.”
“But I’m important. I’m a major producer, and I’m Sir Mumphrey’s only son. I deserve protection.”
“I’ve lined up a substitute for you. Meet Argus.”
“He’s a hippopotamus!”
“Aye, laddie, that I am. I ken yer Sir Mumphrey’s bairn. We go back a long way, Sir Mumphrey and the Detonator Hippos.”
“It was going to be Fetish Lad, but he was called away. Well, best of luck, and be careful.” And with a quick shake of the astonished Roland’s hand, the Exemplary Man strolled away.
Playing the part of Baroness Elizabeth Zemo:
J. JONAH JERKSON
Voice of the People
ool-4357091d.dyn.optonline.net (67.87.9.29) U.S. Network
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