Dialogues of the Dead

And Bowler just had time to feel puzzled as to why Dee should be addressing Rye as Kraut, when a most unfeminine voice replied, “Thank ’ee kindly, whoreson,” and his tentative knock at the well-oiled door pushed it open sufficiently for him to see the distinctive profile of Charley Penn.

“Mr. Bowler, do step inside,” said Dee politely.

He went into the office. The men on the wall all seemed to be examining him critically like a candidate for a job they didn’t think he was going to get. On the other hand, the teenage trio in the photo on the desk seemed to look straight through him at a world which, united, they did not doubt their capacity to deal with.

“Is your errand avian, amoristic or authoritarian?” said Dee.

“Sorry?” said Hat.

Penn was grinning at him. Hat felt, unusually for one not naturally violent, like wiping his clock.

“Do you require information about birds? Or do you wish to ask after Rye? Or have you come to quiz us about the latest Dialogue?”

Hat forgot about Penn and said, he hoped neutrally, “What do you mean by that, Mr. Dee?”

“I’m sorry,” said Dee. “Is it confidential? Of course it is. Forget I spoke. It was crass of me, and certainly not a subject to be flippant about.”

The apology came across as sincere rather than an empty formality.

“Mr. Dee, I’m not saying there has been another, but if there was, I’d like to know what you know about it,” insisted Hat.

“All I know is what all the library staff know, that a suspicious envelope was found this morning and handed over to the police and as it hasn’t been returned since-though of course that too might be the purpose of your visit-then it seems likely it contained matter of interest to you. But please, forget and forgive my curiosity. I have no desire to embarrass you professionally.”

“Doesn’t bother me, though,” said Penn in his grating voice. “My guess ’ud be that you’ve heard from yon loony again and it’s something to do with Sam Johnson. Right?”

“That just a lucky guess, Mr. Penn?” said Hat.

His gaze engaged the writer’s and locked for a while, then fell. Never get into a fight it’s not worth winning. He found himself looking down at the Paronomania board. It was the same star shape as the one he’d seen in Penn’s flat, but the designs on it were different. These seemed to have been taken from an old map, with wind-puffing cherubs, spouting whales, towering ice-cliffs, disporting mermaids. The game was well advanced with numerous tiles laid out, going in all directions, but none of the letter combinations made any sense to Hat. And there were three tile racks in use, one before each of the two facing players, the third between them. Only two can play, he recalled Rye telling him. Why should she lie? Unless she was the third player, involved in some weird ménage à trois with these two?

It was a thought as disgusting as silverfish in a salad bowl, but before he rinsed it from his mind, he found himself looking to see if there were anywhere Rye could have retreated to at his approach.

There wasn’t. There wasn’t even a window to climb out of.

Jesus, Bowler! What kind of nutty creep are you turning into? he asked himself angrily.

Charley Penn was answering his spoken question.

“Not lucky, by any standards, and hardly a guess, Constable. First thing we all thought when we heard about poor Sam yesterday was, it has to be this Wordman. Then folk started whispering suicide. Well, it seemed possible. Too much Beddoes could drive anyone down that road. But the more I thought, the less likely it seemed. I’d not known him long, but I’d have put him stronger than that. I’m right, aren’t I? If this envelope Dick mentioned does contain another Dialogue, it has to be about Sam Johnson, right?”

“No comment,” said Hat. “Mr. Dee, is Rye here?”

“Sorry, you’re out of luck,” said Dee. “She’s got a touch of this flu-bug that’s around. She looked so ill yesterday, I sent her home and told her not to come back till she was better and our readers were safe.”

“Right. Thank you.”

As he turned away, Dee said, “Would you like her phone number? I’m sure she would be comforted to know you were asking after her.”

This was kind, thought Hat, recalling that not so long back, the librarian had felt unable to pass Rye’s number on. She must have said something to suggest their relationship had taken a step forward.

Before he could respond, Penn sneered, “Not got her number yet, lad? You’re not making much progress, are you?”

Hat resisted the urge to reply that he’d made a lot more progress than some geriatrics not a million miles away and she’d given him her number unasked. Instead he took out his notebook, said, “That would be kind, Mr. Dee. I seem to have mislaid my pen. May I borrow a pencil?”

He stepped forward to the desk, picked up a pencil, and stood with it poised.

From this angle he could see the tiles in the third rack.

There were six of them. J O H N N Y.