The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(174)
Clayton looked at him in surprise and then burst into even louder guffaws than before.
“Stop that cackling!” yelled the Villain.
“Oh, forgive me, forgive me . . . I just can’t help laughing when I think of the way you describe as an immense, unique gift a simple disease caused by a tiny virus accidentally brought into this universe . . .” The inspector dried his eyes. “I confess I admire your unwavering belief in yourself. I think we should all take a lesson from your irrepressible optimism, Mr. Rhys . . .”
“I see you know my name and everything about the cronotemia virus . . . ,” the voice hissed. “The old woman had time to tell you a lot before she jumped.”
“Oh, no. Alas, Mrs. Lansbury scarcely had time to tell me anything. Actually, it was you who told me everything I know . . .”
Beaming, Clayton turned around, picked up the kettle sitting on the table, and flicked a small switch on its side. Instantly, the Villain’s voice boomed out, crossing time and space:
“Very well, George. But I warn you, if you are trying to buy time, it won’t do you any good. I have all the time in all the worlds at my disposal! So, you want to know who I am! Are you sure you want to know? I am the most powerful being in all creation! I am the epilogue of mankind! When the universe comes to an end, only I will remain . . . presiding over all your accursed graves. My name is Marcus Rhys, and I am the God of Chaos!”
Clayton flicked the switch back and the kettle went quiet. He patted it lightly, as one would a dog that has just performed a trick, before turning to the Villain, smiling.
“We are very proud of these little gadgets at Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. They can record any conversation and transmit it to a similar terminal on the other side of the city, and they work as remote alarms . . .” Clayton clucked his tongue in admiration. “Thanks to the fact that, courtesy of the Division, Mr. Wells also has one of these kettles, he was able to warn me this morning when he sensed danger. And not just me. As soon as Wells placed his special kettle on the fire, another kettle started whistling in my boss’s house . . . Isn’t that so, Captain Sinclair?” he addressed the air, hands clasped behind his back.
At this, several police officers popped up from behind the piles of wonders kept in the Chamber, silently aiming their weapons at the empty space where the book and the pistol were floating. Finally, the plump Captain Sinclair stepped out from behind one of the strange columns, his false eye glowing red in the dark, like an infernal lighthouse beacon. He placed one hand on a lever to the side of the column and raised the other slowly, also aiming his pistol at the invisible man.
“Quite right, lad,” he said to Clayton. “Only, next time, remind me to adjust the volume on that damned thing. My wife is threatening to leave me next time that unbearable whistling wakes her up . . .”
“Oh, I am sure Marcia would never do such a thing.”
“Be quiet! Be quiet, both of you!” the voice roared, the book and the pistol gyrating in the air, as if the Villain was spinning round, observing the ring of police officers now surrounding him. “What is this farce? Do you really think you have caught me in your silly trap?” He let out a menacing guffaw and the pistol and the book instantly dropped to the floor. “I am the Invisible Man! You can’t see me, and you can’t stop me from escaping. I can leap into another world! And when I come back for what is mine, you will never know when I am behind you. You will never see me coming!”
Clayton contemplated him with the weary expression of someone realizing that the most boring guest is still at the party.
“Invisible, really?” he retorted scornfully. “Take a good look at yourself. Do you still think we can’t see you?”
At that moment, the captain pressed down the lever on which his hand had been resting, and the strange columns dotted about the Chamber lit up with a subdued hum, emitting a ghostly bluish light. Before everyone’s eyes, clearly traced in the air was the gelatinous outline of a hand, slowly extending to an arm, a rounded shoulder, and part of a chest and neck, as if someone were blowing up a blue bubble in the shape of a human.
“What the devil is happening to me?” the Villain stammered, his watery hand opening and closing in front of his still-invisible face.
“I don’t wish to bore you with complex chemical explanations,” replied Clayton amiably, “so I shall try to sum up the most important facts: that book isn’t The Map of Chaos, it is an amusing novella I wrote when I was younger. I had it bound to look like the original, and then our scientists impregnated the cover with a substance you have been absorbing through your skin for the last few minutes, which reacts to a certain kind of light . . . It is now in your bloodstream and, as you can see, is already coloring your cells . . . irreversibly. Soon your body will be visible even in daylight. Congratulations, Mr. Rhys, you have ceased to be a monster! At least in appearance . . .”
The Villain’s lower jaw and mouth had started to appear, and a savage cry of rage issued from his lips. Then the outline of his body, which was gradually becoming whole, began to flicker, as though intermittent pulses of forgetfulness were racing through it.
“He is going to jump to another world!” Wells cried out.
Just then, Captain Sinclair lowered the lever to a second position. The gentle hum of the columns gave way to a deafening roar, and hundreds of lights flashed through the encircling cables at an incredible speed. A blinding light filled the room, forcing everyone to screw up their eyes. Marcus Rhys’s body stopped hovering between the real and the imaginary and resumed its solid shape, which was beginning to look more and more like an irate ice sculpture.