Agaton and the Learned Man

Professor Mortimer, the man who now opened the door, was every inch the academic. He was tall with broad, powerful shoulders. He had an aquiline nose, a head that tapered to a hairless point and, beneath some incredibly impressive eyebrows, his gaze was somehow both piercing and dreamy.

He stared first through Agaton Sax and then at him. Neither seemed to immediately provoke a reaction.

Then, abruptly, he seemed to return to the physical world from whatever flight of intellect he had been enjoying.

‘Ah, hello. And who might you be?’

Agaton nodded politely and offered his card.

‘Ghel n’thrud, len,’ he said. And he meant it.

This was Cryptic for ‘Excuse me for the intrusion, but I have brought you a small gift as a token of my esteem’.

The Professor smiled.

‘Gn! Agh crypt-y-thrallen, nerd?’

Or: ‘You speak Cryptic! How wonderful. Please, come in. You are most welcome.’

Agaton removed his hat and followed the Professor into the living room. At first glance, the entire room appeared to have been constructed from books and magazines, maps and magnifying glasses. Clutter, in other words. But there was the odd glimpse of a chair or a settee beneath the rubble – and several fascinating specially-adapted Cryptic typewriters that Agaton could see.

Agaton unwrapped the small parcel he carried, revealing the worn covers of an antique book.

The Professor’s eyes lit up at the sight of it.

‘Is that…?’ he asked, in Cryptic.

‘Yes,’ said Agaton, replying in kind. ‘It should be in your library, not mine.’

Mortimer received the proffered volume gently, turning it over in his hands as though it were a precious gem, which to both himself and Agaton Sax, it was.

‘Do you know how long I have scoured the globe for a copy of this book?’ he asked, breathlessly.

‘I suspect I do, sir.’

‘We must celebrate. A glass of my best port, yes?’

The Professor hastened from the room, the book tucked tenderly beneath his arm. It was the perfect opportunity for Agaton to take a better look at his surroundings.

The walls were covered in maps of various countries around the world. But what interested the Swedish detective more than anything was the one that he could see through the half-open door to Professor Mortimer’s study – a large scale map of the North Sea, just above a quantity of underwater diving equipment.

Why that one map in his study, rather than on display with the others? And diving equipment? That was a new wrinkle.

The following half an hour was congenial, with some fine port consumed and a conversation in Cryptic that seem to delight the Professor to no end. The two men parted with a shared insistence that they must meet again and converse further.

Agaton exited after much shaking of hands, and headed up the small street. After about a hundred yards, Agaton stopped in a café and settled at a table by the window, with a good view of the Professor’s house.

Everything was going according to plan. He took another glance at his watch.

If the Edinburgh train was on time, they would arrive in approximately twenty minutes. Agaton was grateful for the emptiness of the café, as he needed to focus.

Sure enough, almost to the expected minute, a taxi pulled up and the mismatched crooks stepped out, heading directly for Professor Mortimer’s front door.

Agaton slipped a small earpiece into his right ear. He felt a small wave of guilt for having abused the Professor’s hospitality, but it was in the interest of justice.

As you will have guessed, there was a hearing bug in his gift of a rare book, which Agaton knew the Professor would immediately take to the safety of his study.

It was why he had visited him in disguise and was why he had allowed himself to play a trick on a man whom he had once held in such regard.

Unfortunately, it was now clear to him that the esteemed Professor was leading a double life.

Agaton’s suspicions had first been aroused when he met the two crooks on the Snail-Express. Their use of Cryptic had been the first clue, one that his computer Clever Dick had reinforced on his return to Sweden. There was simply no one – other than Agaton himself – with sufficient ability to both run an international crime organisation and instruct its members to use a rare and complex language as a secret form of communication.

He knew he was not responsible, which left only Professor Mortimer.

More concrete information, however, would only come from careful investigation, which was why he was listening in now.

The Professor did not sound happy.

‘Your most recent report was as incoherent as usual,’ he grumbled. “Something about a train, and a snail?’

‘Yes, Professor,’ said the larger man.

‘And you were watched by an Englishman?’

‘That’s right,’ the smaller nodded.

‘How did you know he was English?’

‘He was wearing a ridiculous hat.’

‘I see. And then you planted a playing card in the compartment?’

‘Yes.’ The big man looked proud of himself. ‘That was our… heh… trump card.’

‘Stop that.’

‘Sorry. Anyway, he walked straight into our trap.’

‘How so?’

‘We made him think he was following us to a meeting at Princes Street Garden, whereas the message was for him alone.’

‘And the point of that was?’

‘To apprehend him!’

‘So you led him from Brosnia – a country you were about to leave – to Scotland, at the very heart of our enterprise.’

The two men bit their lips, but said nothing.

‘Fools.’

‘Still, we nearly got him!’ protested the small man.

‘Why nearly?’

‘He smelled the garlic, Professor.’

The Professor closed his eyes and groaned, muttering several words in Cryptic that made the listening Agaton Sax blush.

‘I don’t even want to know.’

‘It wasn’t our fault, Professor.’

‘Untrue, but it’s done now. Were you at least able to get a photograph, so I can see who we’re dealing with?’

‘No, but we can describe him.’

‘Go on, then.’

The two men, despite an occasional verbal disagreement and at least one bout of fisticuffs, gave a fairly accurate description of Agaton in his disguised form.

Professor Mortimer grew pale. Obviously, there was no way for Agaton Sax to know this, having only sound to go on, but I promise it’s true.

‘You witless blunderers! You led him straight to my house!’

The men had been about to explain their suspicion that Agaton Sax was also in Scotland – having not yet realised that their two stalkers were one and the same – but the steam audibly whistling from their boss’ ears convinced them to keep that piece of information to themselves.

The Professor took a series of deep breaths and, recovering his calm, said:

‘Get back to Edinburgh. By tomorrow, you will find this man and report back to me.’

‘But who is he?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

Their silence suggested otherwise.

Professor Mortimer’s newly found calm began to creak around the edges.

‘Gronsky! Our deadly enemy! What other Englishman would be on our trail?’

‘Gronsky!’ the two men exclaimed, as one.

‘I believe that’s what I just said. Now go and get him.’

***

A few minutes later, Agaton Sax watched as the crooks exited the Professor’s house looking nervous and unhappy, then trudged towards the bus stop at the top of the road.

Agaton paid his bill and left the café. Many of his suspicions had now been confirmed. He knew for certain that Professor Mortimer was the head of this new gang. He knew that a competitor, Gronsky, was also in play. But what was their game exactly? It clearly had something to do with the forgery scandal in Brosnia and elsewhere. Or did it? It could be a coincidence, though that seemed unlikely.

Either way, there was no way to tell if this was the entirety of the scheme, or if there was some other crime still to be discovered.

Agaton and his enormous brain had put together a picture of exactly what was going on. He believed he knew what the Professor was up to and he was not going to tolerate it.

He took a taxi back to Edinburgh. On arrival at his hotel, he was immediately confronted by the other complication in the case – the second two men were standing across the street, watching the guests as they arrived.

The Professor, quite sensibly, clearly did not trust one set of henchmen to do the job and had doubled up.

Or…

Agaton stroked his moustache. He knew little of this Gronsky. Perhaps he too had crooks in the field.

So much was still unknown. All of which would have to wait. He went straight up to his room, picked up the telephone receiver and requested a certain number in Stockholm, Sweden.

Ten minutes later, the call came through.

‘Ahoy!’ said a gruff voice, but in Swedish.

‘Am I speaking to the Admiral of the Fleet, Royal Swedish Navy?’ asked Agaton politely.

‘You are, sir!’

‘Do you remember me, Admiral?’

‘I might if I knew who you were.’

‘This is Agaton Sax.’

‘Ah, Mr Sax. Of course I remember you. I’ve never known an underwater swimmer of greater talent. How may I be of assistance?’

‘You’re too kind. I’m in Edinburgh, Admiral.’

‘A fine city; go on.’

‘The thing is, I own a mini-submarine which is, at present, anchored in Gothenburg.’

‘I am the Admiral of the Fleet, Mr Sax. There isn’t a vaguely damp vessel of which I am not aware. What of it?’

‘I require my sub here in Scotland, but I haven’t time to fly home and collect it.’

‘I see. Might I ask why?’

‘I’m sorry, Admiral. On that I must be silent for now.’

‘If it’s security you’re worried about…’

‘Not at all, Admiral. Were it such, I’d happily tell you. It’s a criminal matter and discretion is vital.’

‘I see.’

‘I would be grateful if you might allow two or three of your sailors to bring it across the North Sea for me.’

‘Now?’

‘If you could.’

‘Nothing could be simpler. Well... not bringing a submarine across the North Sea would technically be simpler, but I’m happy to arrange it.’

***

Four hours later, the AS Neptune 73 headed out from Gothenburg harbour and made its way across the North Sea, bound for the Firth of Forth, where, twenty-four hours later, it would be reunited with its owner, Agaton Sax.

In the meantime, Agaton – back in disguise – treated himself to a late dinner in the hotel restaurant; partly because he’d worked up an appetite and partly to keep an eye on the two men who were still shadowing him.

After dining, he headed back to his room for some much deserved sleep. In the morning, he placed a call to Scotland Yard at 10:00, as planned.

‘Lispington?’

‘Good morning, Agaton. How are you?’

‘Fine. And you?’

‘Could be worse.’

‘Have you spoken to your government yet?’

There was a pause.

‘About?’

‘What ever you were so hush-hush about yesterday?’

‘Oh, that.’

‘Lispington,’ Agaton Sax began impatiently.

‘The thing is, Agaton… I mean to say… it’s a complex matter—’

Then the phone went dead, abruptly and surprisingly, like a parrot dropping from a perch mid-squawk

Agaton stared at the receiver for moment, then replaced it in its cradle.

It would keep.

For the rest of the morning, he acted the part of an ordinary tourist, to give the two men following him a chance to stretch their legs. Of the original two crooks, however, he saw nothing. Which was odd, as they had received clear instructions to find and eliminate him. Or at least Gronsky, as they believed him to be.

His feeling that the second pair of crooks did not belong to Professor Mortimer’s gang grew stronger.

At 20:00, he hailed a taxi.

‘Where to, sir?’

‘The National Theatre, please.’

‘Of course, sir.’

And off they drove. Two minutes later however, the driver took a sharp left into a narrow alleyway.

‘Are you sure this is the right way?’ Agaton asked, already curling his fingers around the door handle.

‘A shortcut, sir.’

Agaton knew this to be a lie. He had carefully scoped out the city on arrival and knew seven convenient routes to the National Theatre. This was not one of them.

He tugged at the handle. Nothing happened.

Or, at least, nothing happened until the taxi pulled to a stop and someone outside yanked the opposite door open and leapt in beside Agaton. The newcomer swiftly pressed a revolver against the detective’s ribs.

‘Okay, Charlie!’ he shouted to the driver. ‘Step on it!’

The taxi’s wheels squealed as they sped off.