Episode 17 - "Venice to Vienna"

The disparate group of "Rumblers" (as Miss kitten called them) lurked in the pit lane by their respective machines, as much to prevent sabotage as because they wanted to be in and away when called up to the line by the officials.

After the Grand Ball, the guests of the Marchesa had been transported by gondola to the mainland circuit where their machines had been garaged (under armed guard), ready to begin the next stage. Backwards, due to his Party costume, had been mistaken for one of Venice's water taxis, and Kitten had some marvelous fun watching him attempting to propel himself, with his 'passenger' - Father Scarletti - in the right direction. Sadly, owing to his complete ineptitude, the last she saw of Backwards was the unfortunate peer clinging to his pole in the middle of the Grand Canal, and Father Scarletti, drifting off to the lagoon, exchanging most ungodly language with him. Other gondoliers were punting to their assistance.

Kitten herself had inveigled a place on the Marchesa's personal gondola, together with the Baroness, Lavinia and Gabriel. It was not a comfortable position as space was limited and neither of the other two women welcomed her presence. In fact there was much mutual loathing and suspicion between all three of them. She would have liked to have had the opportunity to flirt more with Gabriel and upset the apple-cart still further, but somehow, one look at the Baroness' lethal glare melted the idea. Instead she decided for once to be a 'good girl' and sit quietly, letting her mere presence do its work. Like her namesake, she didn't fancy the idea of an early morning dip.

Gabriel wasn't feeling his best, but he made small talk with the Marchesa. Knowing the lady's reputation he tried to probe her over the possibility of the Casa being 'haunted'. All he got in return was an enigmatic,'possibly, mia Bello, but I myself have seen no ghosts. You are welcome to return and haunt my house though, if the race goes ill for you,' at which point Gabriel had paled and fallen silent. The Marches idly wondered what was wrong with him. Before the Ball at their initial meeting he had been charm itself. Now, her little joke seemed to have touched a nerve. Her eyes narrowed and she smiled to herself as she regarded him. She began to have her suspicions…
Now all the racers had assembled. As they checked-in, Kitten perused the posted list of competitors with the throng of spectators, which read as follows:

Name	Points	Position	Situation	Odds
Ldy L. Kydd-Leatherette	170	1st	Racing	5-1
Miss K. Caboodle	159	2nd	Racing	7-1
Ms P. Pitstop	98	3rd	Racing	9-2
Count Backwards	97	4th	Racing	50-1
Fr Scarletti (Vatican)	60	5th	Racing	Evens
K. v Lumpenkarl	Deceased	-	Accident (Alps)	-
F. Antomas	Deceased	-	Accident (Paris)	-
Constanza ‘Poison’ Negro	57	6th	Racing	12-2
Sir Derek Micklethwaite	57	6th	Racing	18-1
Fabrizio Carlos Sarducci	40	7th	Racing	30-1
Krzysztof Kozhakhmetova	37	8th	Late Entrant	40-2
- (Glorious Soviet Army)	-	-	-	-
Sydney Chiverton-Smythe	35	9th	Racing	50-1
- (Piccalilli of Picadilly)	-	-	-	-
Mendigo Malo Hernandez	32	10th	Late	---
- (Domingo Estate)	-	-	-	-
Ms. Violencia Van Zeil	31	11th	Racing	8-4
Seamus McLaughlin	20	12th	Singing Raucously	?
- (O’Haloran’s Howlers RC)	-	-	-	-
Randolph Thompson-Vickers	15	13th	Racing	50-1
- (Thompson-Vickers Arms)	-	-	-	-
Ms Dragana Wolfsteiner	8	14th	Late	---
Ivan Mijuskovic	0	Unplaced	Racing	100-1
Eric Oberstoetter	0	Unplaced	Racing	150-1
Charles ‘Chip’ Woodward III	0	Unplaced	Racing	40-1
(Goodenuff Super-wides)	-	-	-	-
Piers Templeman	0	Unplaced	Racing	200-1
Harry Swigger	0	Unplaced	Hungover	250-1
- (Ballarat Bruisers)	-	-	-	-
Hideo Takamori	0	Unplaced	En Route	---
Fan Song	0	Unplaced	Racing	15-1

Miss Kitten was pleased to be so close to the top of the leader board - not that she needed to actually win, but she had some pride. She wondered who was betting on her: her 'boss' perhaps - and it was the most unbelievable coincidence then that someone grabbed her arm, jerked her into a broom cupboard and a voice she knew hissed venomously in her ear;
'Do you want to explain why your targets are still in the race?'
'I'm working on it!' she hissed back to the shadowy figure, 'I nearly had the Toffs in Venice - or one of them anyway...'
'I don't want to hear about your private life - I need Lavinia out of the Race. On this stage. Then deal with the biker - at all costs I want her dead. Or your life won't be worth living. Understood?'
Kitten, subdued, 'Understood, Boss,' and without more discussion she was propelled out of the cupboard and into the emptying garage. She hot-footed it for her car, which had been relocated from Monte Carlo, presumably by HC. As she seated herself within, she checked the glove box for her documents, money and 'credentials'. They were not there. She wondered where they could have gone….

'I'm driving, you're still too rough.' Lavinia told her brother crisply, 'You clearly can't be trusted to behave when you're not sober.'
'Suits me fine,' muttered Gabriel. There was a certain amount of tension between them since the night of the Ball and Gabriel's weird evening. He still didn't believe all of it actually happened, and was a little fuzzy on certain details, but yes, there was Buffy on the start line, waving a handkerchief and blowing a kiss as they waited for Starter's Orders. Gabriel smiled weakly and raised a hand, Lavinia revved the engine, meaningfully, staring straight ahead. She didn't like this mysterious blonde, and in a private moment had placed a long distance call to her solicitor. She instructed him to do some 'digging'. Her half-brother (and secretly she felt rather worried, because she did love him, after all) was next to useless and could tell her nothing about the Baroness. The flag was waved and Chugger Zoom shot away from the line….

Miss Kitten was up next. Before her approach to the line she had mixed her patent 'trap-formula' (tins filled with tacks and sump oil), and secreted them in the foot-well. Admittedly their use required her to actually overtake her victim before dumping them on the road at speed (where they would burst), but she was largely improvising this plan. She had been rattled by HC's appearance and he had seemed less tolerant of her lack of success. Could he be tiring of her services? The thought worried her - it was a cushy job, after all. She felt a momentary pang about having to do away with Gabriel at the same time, but she consoled herself with thoughts of 'the fabulous prize' and business was business. 'Easy come, easy go,' she thought and revved her engine. Her boss' other words then deal with the biker, at all costs I want her dead, crossed her mind, and as she was waved off, it occurred to her that she had not seen Ms Pitstop in the pit lane at all….

Whilst the other competitors had been gifted a consolation clue 'Seek ye the Next Clue in the Rose of Lake Worthersee', Pandora Pitstop had already discovered it. All the information she needed for this stage had been gifted her by the Marchesa, and she now relaxed in Der Café Carinthia, in Klagenfurt, sipping a Turkish coffee she could not taste, and perusing the rest of the clue. She had in her estimation at least a six hour start on anyone else, and could afford to take her time, as far as the race was concerned. As for her 'other problem': the Marchesa's words of encouragement and support had given her new heart, and renewed her resolve. She decided for now to set her mind to the race. She read through the parchment scroll contained in the jeweled box. It informed her she must find 'a water-dragon to point the way'. She looked up from the scroll to the ornamental fountain in the square and smiled at the bronze statue she saw there….

'Fraulein! Was tun Sie? erhalten Sie unten von dort!' Up to her elbow in the dragon-fountain's mouth, Pitstop turned towards the source of the shout. The policeman was young, barely more than a rookie, and easily handled therefore.

Pitstop grinned conspiratorially 'sprechen Sie Englisch? At his nod, Pitstop indicated he come over. Intrigued the young policeman joined her in the fountain, water up to his knees. Pitstop gave him a measuring look and asked cryptically 'Are you a Racing fan, officer?'
He answered guardedly 'Ja…what is this?'
'You know the Rumble Rally?' His eyes lit up and he nodded enthusiastically.
'Ja, fraulein - you are a racer?'
'I am,' confirmed Pitstop, "the next clue I think is in - ' she stretched her fingers a little more and they touched something 'Here! Yes!' she withdrew her arm and clenched in her fist was a brass cylinder bearing the Red race flag. She smiled at him, a glitter of eyes and teeth, 'Do you want to help me win?'
The officer rocked back slightly on his heels, but was quite overcome, 'Err..ja, fraulein. How can I be of service?' Pitstop put her arm around his shoulders and they splashed out of the basin.
'Well,' she said, unscrewing the lid of the case and examining the ubiquitous parchment clue,' I've got time. If you can first help me find a stationer's, and then help me with a plan of mine…?'

***

'Who's that behind us?' Lavinia asked, glancing in her rearview mirror. Gabriel leaned out of the window for a better look. Though the driver's face was obscured by wind-whipped blonde hair, it was obvious: Kitten Caboodle, and she was gaining. Gabriel relayed the information to Lavinia.
'Hmm,' said Lavinia selecting a faster gear, 'Let's see how good she is,' and Chugger Zoom began to out haul the pursuing roadster. But only momentarily, for Kitten's car again began to advance with frightening speed.
'She's coming on again,' Gabriel stated, a note of excitement creeping into his voice.
'Ha!' exclaimed Lavinia and began to weave on the road to prevent Kitten overtaking. Suddenly, without warning, Kitten's car leapt forward and rammed Chugger's rear bumper. Lavinia swore.
'Did you piss her off last night or something?' she half muttered in Gabriel's direction.
Without thinking Gabriel responded 'She molested me, the tart, it was all I could do to get away from the trollop - Livvi, EYES ON THE ROAD!' for his half-sister was staring round eyed at him and they were close to the edge. Swearing, Lavinia wrenched the wheel around, but the swerve had allowed Kitten to pass, which she did with a characteristic 'grind and bump' of wheel arches.
'Bitch!,' snapped Lavinia, 'Got a thing for blondes have we?' she continued venting her spleen at Gabriel.
'Not blondes, no…' Gabriel replied very quietly and looked out of the window.

Kitten had pulled ahead but somehow seemed not to be able to outrace them as she held her position ten yards ahead. Lavinia smiled grimly. 'Ha, she can't keep it up, now we'll - WHAT THE HELL?' for Kitten had thrown something over her shoulder. It bounced twice on the road and split apart in a spray of oil and metal fragments over Chugger's bonnet. Gabriel reached around the edge of the windscreen and plucked one of these from where it was lodged. It was a very sharp 2 inch long tack.

'Livvi, close up, don't give her the space to launch another!' he commanded. Lavinia nodded and pressed the gas pedal. As they closed on her, Kitten launched another 'bomb'. Lavinia skillfully took evasive action, but the car following them was not so lucky: tires shredded, the Bentley Blower of Sydney Chiverton-Smythe spun 360 degrees before careering backwards into a large boulder. Smoke began to curl upwards.
'Bad luck, Chivers,' muttered Gabriel. Lavinia accelerated, closing the distance between her and Kitten. This was clearly a duel to the death, and it wasn't going to be theirs.
Kitten spared a glance over her shoulder, and reached into the foot well for another canister. It was her last - she had to make it count. Bracing the gas pedal with a large spanner, and steering with one hand, she stood in her seat, canister upraised in the other and took careful aim on Chugger Zoom.
'Finally, you copper topped tart,' she snarled, 'sorry, Gabriel…' and she launched her projectile.
'Oh that's almost epic,' said Gabriel as he watched their persecutor launch her bomb. Lavinia closed the distance. The canister did not hit road: it exploded through Chugger's windscreen in a spray of oil and sharp steel. Kitten gave a crow of triumph as the Mephistopheles 23 slewed across the road. Her triumph was short lived, for the jalopy somehow held the road.

What occurred next happened in very short succession. Kitten's roadster, inexpertly steered, hit a pothole. The spanner was jolted from its position on the accelerator and fell heavily on the brake, and those racing brakes were good. The car screeched to a halt, but Kitten was saved from being catapulted over the bonnet purely by the fact of Chugger Zoom, blindly steered, piling into her rear bumper. Kitten, unsecured, was launched into space and, performing an impressive backwards somersault, arced, limbs failing through the air and landed in Chugger's rear seat: rump first painfully and messily in a pool of oil and tacks. She yelped at her punctured posterior flesh, and whiplash. Chugger had been stopped, but the 120mph momentum had hammered the lighter roadster off the road and down the steep gradient. Kitten, hat over her eyes, did not witness the final death of her car as it cartwheeled end over end before exploding in the ravine. She pulled the brim off her face and wiped hair from her eyes and said 'ah…'. Staring back at her, covered in oil and looking murder were Lavinia and Gabriel. Kitten swallowed hard…

Count Backwards was glad to be out of Venice, out on his own, and most of all out of the ridiculous Gondolier's clothes. He had 'borrowed' a rather natty little Mercedes 710 Trossi from the Austrian Eric Oberstoetter, while the other was purging his system of the elephant laxative that had somehow found it's way into his morning coffee. Backwards laughed dementedly: he didn't envy the next person into the WC. Now his new car devoured the miles towards Klagenfurt (oh, really, what a simple clue - he'd holidayed there!). Ahead of him in the middle and far distance were two other competitors; having perused the starting list he knew they would be - Constanza 'Poison' Negro, and Sir Derek Micklethwaite, the Piccalilli Magnate, in his custom yellow Wolsley Hornet. Even at this distance, the vile colour was unmistakable. Backwards vaguely knew Micklethwaite, and was amazed a man of his corpulence was able to squeeze into the cockpit of the auto - the thought made him vaguely queasy and the Marchesa's calamari breakfast was sitting rather heavy. Striking woman, the Marchesa, thought Backwards but mad (look who's talking?).

The other driver, 'Poison' Negro, was a serious competitor. A ruthless Argentinean ex-merengue dancer from the bars of Buenos Aires she had clawed her way up first as a race groupie, then a racer in her own right - and she drove dirty. Backwards had seen her hovering about her rivals cars, which enabled him to pick an 'un-nobbled' one. Well, he thought, you're first - and he pressed the pedal….

Constanza 'Poison' Negro drove an ivy green Maserati Tipo. She was a domineering 35 year old woman of striking appearance. Her immaculate black Marcel wave and kiss curl were concealed beneath her leather flying helmet, and she hid the cruelty in her eyes behind round smoked lens sunglasses. Nothing hid the cruel pleasure of her smile though as she glimpsed the Mercedes moving to overtake her. She drew the nickel-plated automatic from her garter belt and modified her speed. They were approaching a wider stretch of road, where her pursuer was certain to make his move.

Backwards licked his lips in anticipation. He could 'take' Negro in a few moments - the Mercedes had plenty more to give him, he knew. He also knew that a driver of 'Poison's' reputation was hardly likely to let him have it his own way. He prepared himself for battle, as he gradually edged alongside.
Constanza Negro was mildly surprised to note it was not in fact Oberstotter at the wheel but the English Count Backwards. Nevertheless he was a rival who needed to be removed. He grinned maniacally over at her, she stared blankly back from dark lenses, looking rather skull like. Suddenly to Backwards' horror, Negro's hand whipped out holding a pistol. He ducked as the first shot cracked over his head. The second shot ricocheted from his wing mirror. Snarling he steered away then back, ramming the Maserati. Negro was forced to grab her steering wheel with both hands, and rammed him in return.

Thus they sped along the road, wrestling with their powerful engines, battering the bodywork, and then Negro's offside mudguard folded under Backwards' wheel-arch locking the cars together. She gave the Count a death's head grin as she aimed her pistol at point-blank range.

Backwards however was ready. No fool (well…), as soon as the fenders had locked he had prepared himself and drawn from one of his many poachers' pockets an aerosol of ACME Patent 'Confuser and Disabuser': a spin off from the Navy's continuing attempts to invent a successful shark-repellent, this one-use-only confection had developed for multi-purpose use and was a blend of the finest cayenne pepper, itching powder, mayonnaise, sump oil and luminous paint (for effect). Backwards had been dying to use it, and today was that one-use day: he gave it to 'Poison' full in the face.
Negro's eyes were protected by her sunglasses, not so her nose and mouth and suddenly her world turned into hot, messy, breathless agony. Retching, she dropped her pistol and pawed frantically at the filthy stuff, whilst trying to see with streaming eyes and steer with the other hand. With a shrieking of parting metal, her Maserati peeled the Backwards' mudguard away like the lid of a sardine tin, and spun off the road, through a fence and a panicked flock of chickens, before crashing through the doors of a barn, never to be seen in the race again.

Backwards kissed the tin and tossed it over his shoulder. 'One down,' he congratulated himself. His lips began to itch, and he felt a sneeze coming…

***

The outskirts of Klagenfurt were coming into view and the remaining racers were forced to slow down and behave themselves. As they neared the picturesque town they found they had to negotiate a diversion, officered by a young and rather flustered looking policeman. Sir Derek Micklethwaite was first to arrive and was directed up a side street which took him into a very run down and unlikely quarter of the town.

Backwards arrived next, but wasn't stopping for anyone, casting a wristy gesture of contempt at the policeman and smashing through the barrier. Other racers streamed in after him, depending on their honesty (ha) some stopped for the officer, who was able to fulfil his promise to Pitstop and misdirect them, whilst others ignored him completely.

Lastly came Chugger Zoom, battered, oil besmeared, devoid of windscreen and bearing three fuming people - one of whom was bound and gagged on the backseat. Gabriel had suggested the boot might be more 'comfortable' but Lavinia didn't want Kitten getting her hands on the howitzer. Besides, some of her best clothes were in there. The policeman was about to direct this last party to the sewage works, when two monocled figures appeared from the shadows and dragged him out of the way…