； whose behaviour that evening had not exactly been exemplary； had gone for Pooley； and that the man in black was one of the brewery's dark forces； assisting in that loyal patron's expulsion from the Swan。 A third； which counted but one in its number； and this a son of Eire； was of an entirely different opinion altogether。
It must be stated that other factions existed also。 These were formed either from fellows who felt that now was as good a time as any to end some personal vendetta； or from those who by their very natures necessarily misinterpret any given situation。 Their participation was notable mainly for its enthusiastic and seemingly indiscriminate violence。
Young Chips； who could smell a nigger in a woodpile even with his nose bandaged； set immediately to work upon the Cerean's ankles。
Pooley had by now； under the welter of blows； lost hold upon Neville's apron； and； as the part…time barman lapsed from consciousness and sank gracefully behind the bar； found himself being borne once more towards the doorway。 Towards the very doorway； in fact； where John Omally now stood； brandishing a beer bottle。
'Leave hold；' roared the Irishman。 Pooley's mouth opened and closed and a lip reader would have covered his eyes at the obscenity。
The Cerean squared up to the obstacle in his path and raised his left hand to strike。 Omally swung his bottle and； it must be reasoned； more from luck than judgement； struck the villain a devastating blow to the left armpit。
As he lost his grip upon Pooley； several of the pro…Neville brigade fell upon the barman's attacker with relish。
The Cerean staggered towards Omally； who； having the advantage of fighting upon home territory； stepped nimbly aside and tripped him through the Swan's open doorway and into the street。
Outside； parked close to the kerb； stood an automobile that was a collector's dream。 It was ink…black and gleaming； a showroom piece。 The handbook had it down as a nineteen…fifty…eight Cadillac Sedan； the deluxe model。 In the driving seat sat a man of average height； wearing an immaculate black suit。 He bore an uncanny resemblance to a young Jack Palance and favoured a creosote aftershave。 It took him but a moment to leave the car and gain the pavement； but by then the chaos of flailing fists which now filled the Swan was spilling into the street。
The pro…Pooley faction； who knew a brewery henchman when they saw one； and who were currently occupied in assaulting the one who was rolling about clutching at his armpit； saw another quarry and wasted little time in taking the opportunity to vent their spleen。
Archie Karachi； who ran the Star of Bombay Curry Garden next door to the Swan； was a man who knew a race riot when he saw one。 Thrusting a vindaloo…stained digit into his telephone dial； he rang out a rapid nine； nine； nine。 Being also a man of few words； and most of those Hindi； his message was succinct and to the point。 'Bloody big riot in Swan；' he bawled above the ever increasing din； 'many men injured； many dead。'
The blue serge lads of the Brentford nick were not long in responding to this alarm call。 With the station grossly over…manned； as befits a district with a low crime rate； what they craved was a bit of real police action。 A bit of truncheon…wielding； collarbone…breaking； down to the cells for a bit of summary justice； real police action。 Within minutes； several squad cars and a meat wagon were haring along the wrong side of Brentford High Street； through the red lights； and up the down lane of the one…way system； bound for the Flying Swan。 Within the wheel…screeching vehicles constables were belting on flak jackets； tinkering with the fittings of their riot shields； and drumming CS gas canisters into their open left palms with increasing vigour。
What had started out as a localized punch…up； had now developed into wholesale slaughter。 The numbers involved in the mêlée had been swelled significantly by the arrival of a gang of yobbos from the flatblocks opposite。 Those crop…headed aficionados of the steely toecap had been met head on by the students of the Brentford Temple of Dimac Martial Arts Society； who had been ＇warming＇ up for their evening's training schedule with a fifteen…mile run。 Neither of these warrior bands having the slightest idea what all the fuss was about； or which was the favourable side to support； had contented themselves with exercising their respective martial skills upon one another。 Although this did nothing to ease the situation； to the crowds of onlookers who now lined the opposite pavements and crammed into every available upstairs window； it added that little extra something which makes a really decent riot worthwhile。
With sirens blaring and amber lights flashing； the squad cars slewed to a halt at the rear of a war…torn Cadillac。 This development was wildly applauded by the onlookers； many of whom had thought to bring out stools and kitchen chairs； that they might better enjoy the event。 As hot…dog men and ice…cream sellers； who have an almost magical knack of appearing at such moments； moved amongst the spectators； the Brentford bobbies went about their business with a will； striking down friend and foe alike。 With every concussion inflicted the crowd hoorahed anew and； like the season…ticket holders at the Circus Maximus in days gone by； turned their thumbs towards the pavement。
To the very rear of this scene of massacre； pressed close to the wall of the Flying Swan； two bearded golfing types watched the carnage with expressions of dire perplexity。 'Gather up the map；' said John Omally。 'I feel that we have pressing business elsewhere。'
Easing their way with as little fuss as possible through the Swan's doorway； they passed into the now deserted saloon…bar。 Deserted that is； but for a certain part…time barman who now lay painlessly unconscious in the foetal position behind the jump； and an old gentleman and his dog； who were playing dominoes at a side…table。
'Goodnight to you Pooley and Omally；' said Old Pete。 'You will be taking your leave via the rear wall I have no doubt。'
Pooley scooped up the map and stuffed it into an inside pocket。 'Offer my condolences to Neville；' he said。 'I expect that it is too much to hope that he will awake with amnesia。'
'You never can tell；' said the ancient； returning to his game。 'Give my regards to Professor Slobe。'
17
Professor Slobe peered over the pen…besmirched； match…riddled map with profound interest。 At length he leant back in his chair and stared a goodly while into space。
'Well？' asked John； who had been shifting from one foot to the other for what seemed like an age。 'Has Pooley found it？'
The Professor pulled himself from his chair and crossed the room to one of his bookcases。 Easing out an overlarge tome； he returned with it to his desk。 'Undoubtedly；' he said； in a toneless voice。 'If you will pardon my professional pride； I might say I am a little miffed。 I have sought the pattern for weeks and you find it in a couple of hours。'
'I think we had the natural edge；' said Omally。
Pooley； whose injured parts were now beginning to pain him like the very devil； lay slumped in an armchair； a hand clasping the neck of the whisky decanter。 'I only hope that it will help；' he said。 'Those lads are on to us； and I escaped death by a mere hairbreadth this night。'
'We have by no means reached a solution；' said the Professor； in a leaden tone。 'But we are on the way。'
Omally peered over the old man's shoulders as he leafed through his great book。 'What are you looking for now？'
This book is the Brentford Land Register；' the Professor explained。 'The pubs you have plotted were all built during the last one hundred years。 It will be instructive to learn what existed upon the sites prior to their construction。'
'Ah；' said John； 'I think I follow your line of thought。'
'I think my right elbow is fractured；' said Jim Pooley。
The Professor thumbed over several pages。 'Yes；' he said。 'Here we have it。 The Four Horsemen； built upon the site of the cattle trough and village hand pump。' He turned several more pages。 'The New Inn； upon this site there has been a coaching house for several hundred years； it has always boasted an