Dialogues of the Dead

So this was Ambrose Bird, the Last of the Actor-Managers. Hat recalled what Rye had said about the rivalry between Bird and Follows for the proposed overall directorship of the Centre. This, it became clear, was the reason for his presence. As news of the murder and the Dialogue had run round the building (no prizes for guessing its source, thought Hat, looking at the still vainly chirruping librarian), Bird had decided that his self-assumed status as Director Apparent if not yet Elect would be enhanced by appearing as the Centre spokesperson to the media. He was probably the one who’d picked up the phone and tipped off the Gazette.

Pascoe, with a diplomatic ease that Hat could only admire and hope to learn, quickly relegated the trio to the public area of the reference library while Hat ushered Rye Pomona and Dick Dee into the office.

Pascoe closed the door, checked on the trio of men through the glass panel, then murmured to Hat, “Keep your eye on that lot. Any of them come close, especially Sammy, get out there and break their legs.”

The office had a lived-in feel about it. Coffee machine, tin of biscuits, one old armchair that didn’t look like municipal issue, a square of Oriental carpet the same, and the walls crowded with pictures, some prints, some photos, all of men. Maybe Dee was gay, thought Hat hopefully. But he didn’t feel gay, though this was a dangerous touchstone to be applied by anyone who worked with Edgar Wield. Looking for evidence that the librarian was a family man, he spotted on the desk a silver-framed photo of three schoolboys. The one on the right looked like it might be Dee junior. Or perhaps, indeed, Dee senior when junior. Also on the desk was a box containing small plastic tiles with letters and numbers on, plus three wooden tile racks, standing on a large folded board. Presumably this was Paro-whatsit, the crazy word game Rye had told him about.

He caught her eye and risked a smile.

She didn’t smile back.

Pascoe took her and Dee through the events of the morning with clinical precision while Hat took notes, glancing through the panel from time to time to make sure the journalist was keeping a safe distance.

When she said that the first thing she picked out of the open sack had been Charley Penn’s translation of one of Heine’s poems, Hat felt yet another pang of this silly jealousy.

“So Mr. Penn was in the library already when you arrived?”

“Oh yes.”

“And saw everything?”

“Mr. Penn doesn’t miss much,” said Rye carefully.

“I didn’t notice him when we arrived just now,” said Pascoe.

“No,” intervened Dee. “Charley said that there would probably be so much fuss in the library that he’d be better off working at home.”

From the faint smile that accompanied this, Hat guessed it was a paraphrase of what Penn had actually said.

“And home is where?”

Dee stumbled over the address and Rye came in and recited it correctly. Did this mean she’d actually been there? wondered Hat, jealousy once more bubbling up, without, he hoped, showing on his face. She’d already picked up he was jealous of her fondness for Dee. Let her get the impression he was some kind of possessive nut and that could really fuck up his prospects.

Finally Pascoe was satisfied.

Leaving the two librarians in the office, he moved out with Hat. Near the library door, Bird and Follows were continuing their running row while Ruddlesdin, chewing on an unlit cigarette, spectated with world-weary indifference. The dispute stopped when Pascoe called, “Gentlemen!” and all three moved to join him.

He stepped aside to usher them into the office.

“I’m finished here,” he said. “Thank you for waiting so patiently.”

Then, to Hat’s delight and admiration, he gently closed the door behind them and moved towards the exit at a pace which stopped just short of running.

Ruddlesdin caught up with them just before the door of the car-park lift closed.

“Quote, Pete,” he gasped. “Give us a quote.”

“Smoking can seriously damage your health,” said Pascoe.

“Where are we going, sir?” asked Hat as they got into the car.

“To talk to Charley Penn, of course,” said Pascoe.

Penn’s flat was on the top floor of a converted Edwardian townhouse which was corralled in scaffolding and resonant with the shouts, crashes, clangs and radio music which proclaim to the world that the British workman is earning his pay.

They found Penn on his way out. With a resentful glower, he turned round and led them back into his apartment, saying, “Would you bloody believe it, I fled the library, thinking it was soon going to be echoing to the heavy plod of constabulary feet, making it impossible to work, and came back to this hell?”

“But you must have known that work was going on,” said Pascoe.

“They hadn’t started when I left and I thought, Saturday morning, maybe the buggers refuse to get out of their pits unless they get quadruple time.”

“So what are they doing?”