'No!' he said. 'What if—?'
I explained again, he smiled and gave me a nod and I began:
'So one of you is fictional,' I announced, looking at them both.
'And we have to find out who it is,' remarked Tweed, levelling his pistol in their direction.
'Might it be Yorrick Kaine—' I added, staring at Kaine who glared back at me, wondering what we were up to.
'—failed right wing politician—'
'—with a cheery enthusiasm for war—'
'—and putting a lid on civil liberties.'
Tweed and I bantered lines back and forth for as long as we dared, faster and faster, the blows from the Beast outside matching the blows from Raffles' hammer within.
'Or perhaps it is Volescamper—'
'—Lord of the old realm who wants—'
'—to try and get—'
'—back into power with the help—'
'—of his friends in the Whig party?'
'But the important thing is, in all this dialogue—'
'—that has pitched back and forward between—'
'—the two of us, a fictional person—'
'—might have lost track of which one of us is talking.'
'And do you know, in all the excitement, I kind of forgot myself!'
There was another crash against the door. A splinter of steel flew off and zipped past my ear. The doors were almost breached, the next blow would bring the abomination within the room.
'So you're going to have to ask yourselves one simple question: Which one of us is speaking now?'
'You are!' yelled Volescamper, pointing – correctly – at me. Kaine, revealing his fictional roots by his inability to follow undedicated dialogue, pointed his finger – at Tweed.
He corrected himself quickly but it was too late for the politician and he knew it. He scowled at the two of us, trembling with rage. His charming manner seemed to desert him as we sprang the trap; suaveness gave way to snarling, smooth politeness to clumsy threats.
'Now listen,' growled Kaine, trying to regain control of the situation, 'you two are way in over your heads. Try to arrest me and I can make things very difficult for you – one Footnoterphone call from me and the pair of you will spend the next eternity on grammasite watch inside the OED'
But Tweed was made of stern stuff, too.
'I've closed bloopholes in Dracula and Biggles Flies East,' he replied evenly, 'I don't frighten easily. Call off the Glatisant and put your hands on your head.'
'Leave Cardenio here with me – if only until tomorrow,' added Kaine, changing tack abruptly and forcing a smile. 'In return I can give you anything you want. Power, cash – an earldom, Cornwall, character exchange into Hemingway – you name it, Kaine will provide!'
'You have nothing of any value to bargain with, Mr Kaine,' Tweed told him, his hand tightening on his pistol. 'For the last time—'
But Kaine had no intention of being taken, alive or otherwise. He cursed us both to a painful excursion in the twelfth circle of hell and melted from view as Tweed fired. The slug buried itself harmlessly in a complete set of bound Punch magazines. At the same time the steel doors burst open. But instead of a pestilential hell-beast conjured from the depths of mankind's most depraved thoughts only an icy rush of air entered, bringing with it the lingering smell of death. The Questing Beast had vanished as quickly as its master, back to the oral tradition and any books unfortunate enough to feature it.
'Cat!' yelled Tweed as he reholstered his gun. 'We've got a PageRunner. I need a bookhound ASAP!'26