'I don't approve of theft, but you've got to admire anyone bold enough to put a ladder against a window in broad daylight and climb up and nick the thing,' said Jessica after briefly studying the report. 'That's what happened, apparently. They're appealing for witnesses, of course, but they think people must have taken him for a window cleaner. The guys with the squeegees are out in force before the shops are open. Scores of them. I have mine done every morning. It's essential. You wouldn't believe the state they're in sometimes.'
'The window cleaners?'
Jessica smiled. 'The windows, lovey.'
'I saw the police looking up at the Postal Museum window this morning,' Shirley-Ann said. 'I happened to be having coffee outside the French cafe, with Polly Wycherley, as a matter of fact.' For the second time in a few minutes she wished she had guarded her tongue. The way Polly had spoken of Jessica should have made her more careful.
Jessica picked up on the remark at once. 'You were with Polly?'
'Just for a coffee, yes:'
'You knew her already, then, before the other evening?'
'No.' She thought of saying that she met Polly in Shires Yard by chance, but she had never been a convincing liar. 'She phoned me this morning when I was in the shower. She must be an early riser. I think she felt as chair of the Bloodhounds that she ought to follow up on the meeting and find out if I was coming again.'
'Probably,' said Jessica.
'We couldn't have known that a real mystery was unfolding in front of us.'
The real mystery had ceased to interest Jessica. 'Did she have any advice for the new member?'
'Oh, I think it was just a friendly gesture,' said Shirley-Ann, resolved to stonewall.
'Polly is good at giving advice,' remarked Jessica, and it didn't sound like a compliment.
'Well, I'm grateful for all the friendship. I feel as if I belong already. I'm certainly going to come again.'
'Good-we can do with you,' said Jessica more warmly. 'It was getting polarized between the whodunit readers and the blood-and-guts lot. There's so much else we could talk about, but we hardly ever do.'
'Apart from Umberto Eco.'
Jessica smiled. 'Apart from him. They're charming people, but they will insist on taking up positions, and it's only because they don't read widely enough. If Rupert were to try a Peter Dickinson for a change, with that fertile imagination thinking up the most amazing plots and settings-'
'Oh, yes!'
'— and still worked out as puzzles, with clues and a proper investigation, he'd be jolted out of the rut he's in. And I'd love to get Milo reading American thrillers. I know the way in for him. It's through the Fletch books.'
'Gregory McDonald.'
'Yes. He'd adore the humor, and he'd appreciate the logic of the plots and he'd soon be into Westlake and McBain and Block and ultimately Ellroy.'
'There is a way in through women writers,' Shirley-Ann pointed out.
'True.' Jessica laughed. 'True in theory. But you don't know Milo.'
Shirley-Ann raised her eyebrows, and Jessica nodded.
Much more gossip about the Bloodhounds would certainly have emerged, but Shirley-Ann didn't want to appear overcurious. She turned the conversation back to the art and was rewarded with an invitation to a private view on Wednesday of the following week.
'I won't pretend it's anything amazing,' Jessica explained. 'Rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic, A.J. calls it. The same people tend to come each time, but it does pull in a few dealers, and I sell enough to cover the cost of the buck's fizz and Twiglets. You'll see a couple of faces there you know. And don't, for God's sake, feel under any obligation to buy.'
The Second Riddle
Chapter Ten
When John Wigfull emerged from his press conference Diamond was in the main office reading the poem-if that isn't too grandiose a description of the four lines of verse that had misled everyone, including himself.
'Was it grueling, John?' he asked, with a matey grin.
'I didn't expect an easy ride.'
'You took. my advice, I hope?'
'What was that?' said Wigfull in a hollow, preoccupied tone. 'Look, no offense, Peter, but I don't have time to talk. There are urgent things to attend to.'
'Like a strong coffee? The throat does get dry, answering those damn fool questions.'
Whatever the state of Wigfull's throat, his vocal cords had no difficulty in projecting his growing impatience. 'I'm heading a major inquiry. This is the world's most valuable stamp. It's far more serious than your shooting in Saltford.'
'Not in the eyes of the law, it isn't, and not to the bloke who was Jdlled. So you're calling for reinforcements, no doubt?'
'I'll use every man and woman on the regional crime squad if necessary.' There was no doubting Wigfull's commitmerit. His jaw jutted like Churchill's uttering the 'blood, toil, tears and sweat5' speech.
'And what are your lines of inquiry?'
'For a start, I'm going to have that bloody poem analyzed by forensic.'
'What for-to see if it scans?' Before Wigfull reacted to that, Diamond added, 'Because if you hope to learn something from the copies that were sent to the media, you'd better think again. I've got one here.' He held out the sheet of paper he had been studying, but Wigfull displayed no interest. 'There was a time when it was possible to look at a piece of typing and say which typewriter was used, thanks to some tiny flaw in one of the characters. 'Pray examine this small irregularity in the letter W. It proves conclusively that the note was typed on Professor Moriarty's Smith-Corona.' Not these days, laddie. Moriarty puts it through a word processor and runs it off on a laser printer that gives a perfect finish, indistinguishable from a million others. Then he photocopies it. Your forensic friends aren't going to help you, John.' A favorite theme of Diamond's, and worth repeating each time he got the chance.
Wigfull was not to be downed. 'Wrong. With fluorescence under laser illumination they can get good fingerprints off paper these days.'
'All the prints except the thief's.'
'You can't say that.'
'This guy is smart, John. He won't have left any prints. Have you checked the spelling?'
'The spelling?'
'Of the words in the note.'
'Let me have another look.' Wigfull snatched the scrap of paper from Diamond and stared at the words. 'I can't see anything wrong with this.'
'Nor I,' said Diamond, after a pause. 'Like I said, he's smart. We know the bugger can spell.'
That 'we' rang an alarm bell for Wigfull. He thrust his head forward combatively. 'You and I had better get one thing straight, Peter. This one is mine. Just because I listened to you about the press conference it doesn't mean you can muscle in.'
'Muscle in?' Diamond blandly echoed. 'You know me better than that. I'm far too busy talking to bank clerks.'
The grin faded as the week progressed. The bank clerks failed to revive it. Every one of them had a tale to tell of meanness, injustices, and slights inflicted by the former manager. If only the chief clerk, Routledge, hadn't
