THE PILLAR'S PRIVATE AIRPLANE — ON THE WAY TO BELGIUM
I t's early morning. We're on the Pillar's private plane, heading to the town of Ypres in Belgium. I am not surprised when I find out that his whimsical and speechless chauffeur is our flight attendant. But I am quite surprised when I learn he is also the pilot.
"I never knew you had a private plane," I say, sitting next to him in the comfortable seat as the private jet takes off. It looks like an exceptionally sunny day for this time of year. The Pillar says that the flight should only take twenty-nine minutes.
"You don't know anything about me, Alice." He surfs the internet on his phone, gathering more information about Kattenstoet. "If Tom Truckle is cheap with airplane tickets, then I'd rather use my plane. I have a hookah lounge in here."
"The Emirates Airlines also had a hookah lounge. You weren't impressed with it."
"Wonderland hookah is something else. Lewis Carroll will tell you about it one day." He tilts his head, offended by my comparison.
"And if I may ask, does your chauffeur have a name?"
"I never asked. I call him Chauffeur,” he says nonchalantly. "He doesn't speak much if you haven't noticed. He is dear to me. He works for free, as long as I protect him from the Cheshire."
"Cheshire? What would the Cheshire want to do with your whimsical chauffeur?"
"My chauffeur is very mousy if you haven't noticed. Cat and mouse aren't the best of friends." The Pillar winks. "Enough about him. You were telling me Waltraud and Ogier claim Christ Church was closed yesterday, right?"
"Yes."
"Then what do you call this?" He shows me the news coverage from TV on his phone. It shows all that happened and the footage of me eating cheese in the Great Hall. "You're very famous on YouTube, by the way. Boy, you love cheese so much."
"So, Waltraud is playing games with me, right?"
"Listen, Alice," the Pillar says impatiently. "If you're going to question your sanity whenever someone tells you you're insane, you'll spend your life in misery. For instance, all this, including the video, could all be happening in your mind. Right?"
"You've got a point."
"Then how do you really know what is true and what is not?" he says. "A friend of mine called Einstein once said, 'Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.'"
"Einstein was your friend?" I narrow my eyes.
"And an excellent hookah smoker. He puffed faster than the speed of light—relatively speaking, of course." The Pillar leans back in his seat. "How do you think he came up with his genius madness?"
"One last question," I say. "Why doesn't the FBI, Interpol, or any authority do anything about the killings? I mean, my picture is all over the world, and no one interrogated me or bothered even finding me."
"Do you really want me to answer that?" The Pillar stares at the ceiling.
"Because I am mad?"
"That's a possibility, of course, but not the real reason."
"Then what is it?" I am feeling helpless. "Are you working for Interpol?"
"Me? Of course not." The Pillar chuckles. "Intercontinental, maybe. For two days, and they fired me for teaching customers how to smoke. Your problem is that you're always asking the wrong questions, Alice."
"How so?"
"A sane person would want to figure out who works for Interpol or the FBI," he says. "But an insane person would ask who the FBI, Interpol, and the British Parliament really work for."
I turn and pull out a magazine to read. I am not even going to go there and ask who the FBI works for. Let's just stick to the Cheshire's mystery.
"By the way," the Pillar says, "the grinning cat carving in St. Christopher in Pott Shrigley was stolen this morning."