Bloodhounds

Wigfull now functioned as head of CID operations, and he wasn't a happy man either.

The ACC sensed that it was time to get down to business, and for the next hour Wigfull, rather than Diamond, was in the hot seat. The main item on the agenda was crime prevention and Wigfull had taken over Operation Bumblebee, the publicity campaign against burglary. It was a new baby for him, but he'd done his homework, and he managed to talk convincingly about the reduction in the crime figures. 'It's an outstanding success however you measure it, sir,' he summed up. 'And of course all the break-ins reported go straight into the hive.'

'The what?' said the ACC.

'The hive, sir. The computer system operated by the Bumblebee team. We analyze the results and decide on initiatives to sting the villains.'

'So computer technology has a major role here?' said the ACC, worthily trying to head off a veritable swarm of bee references.

Diamond stifled a yawn. He wasn't in sympathy with computers any more than he was with bee-based PR campaigns. His thoughts turned to poetry, of all things. This was totally unlike him. He hadn't read a line of verse in years. Yet a phrase mugged up years ago for a school exam was stirring in his memory. What the devil was it? An illustration of some figure of speech?

The discussion of Operation Bumblebee persisted for another twenty minutes. Everyone else around the table seemed to feel it was a chance to make an impression on the new boss, and the squirm factor steadily increased, with talk of getting the buzz on burglars and how the entire station was humming.

Then that elusive phrase surfaced clear and sonorous in Diamond's mind. He spoke it aloud. 'The murmur of innumerable bees.'

The room went silent.

'Onomatopoeia.'

'I suppose it is time we brought this to a close,' the ACC said, after a long, baffled stare at Diamond.

Chapter Four

In the crypt, the Bloodhounds were in full cry.

'The puzzle is the thing,' Milo Motion bayed. 'The challenge of the puzzle. Without that, there's nothing.'

'You said it!' Jessica rounded on him. 'There's nothing in those books except the puzzle, and if the puzzle's no good you feel cheated at the end. Most of those so-called classic detective stories are flawed. Agatha Christie went to preposterous lengths to mystify her readers and she's reckoned to be the best of them. Take the plot of The Mousetrap.'

'Better not,' Polly Wycherley gently cautioned her. 'Just in case any of us hasn't seen the play.'

Jessica jerked her head toward Polly in annoyance, and the flounce of the blond curls drew an envious sigh from Shirley-Ann. 'Have a heart, Polly,' Jessica said. 'How can we have a serious discussion if we aren't allowed to analyze the plots?'

The reason why Polly was everyone's choice as chairman was made clear. She explained evenly, but with a distinct note of authority, 'Jessica, dear, we all love discussing crime stories, or we wouldn't be here, but another reason for coming is to get recommendations from each other of marvelous books we haven't read. Don't let's rob any book of its mystery.'

'I deliberately mentioned The Mousetrap because it isn't a book,' Jessica pointed out.

'Yes, and we appreciate your restraint, but just in case some of us haven't seen the play…'

'Is that a ruling from the chair?'

'No, we don't go in for rules,' Polly said serenely. 'If you want to criticize the puzzle story in general terms, my dear, I'm positive that you can do it, and still make the points you wish to.'

'All right,' offered Jessica. 'What I'm saying without mentioning any titles-'

'Thank you, dear,' murmured Polly.

'is that in order to mystify people, really fox them, I mean, writers were forced into concocting story lines that were just plain silly, like one very well-known whodunit in which the person who tells the story is revealed as the killer in the last chapter.'

'The last chapter but two, if my memory serves me right,' put in Shirley-Ann.

Jessica widened her eyes. 'I can see we're going to have to watch what we say in future.'

Shirley-Ann felt herself reddening and was relieved when Jessica softened the remark with a smile.

Milo was not smiling. 'What's wrong with the narrator doing it?'

'Because that's a trick,' said Jessica. 'A piece of literary sleight-of-hand. She had to go to absurd lengths to make it work. I mean, the writer did. This is so difficult, Polly.'

'It didn't trouble me,' said Milo. 'And it didn't trouble millions of other people, judged by the success of the book you're talking about. It's still in print after seventy years.'

'Is that how long ago it was written?' said Polly, dangerously close to offending the principle she had recommended a second or two before. But it seemed she was only steering the discussion in a less adversarial direction. Her piloting couldn't be faulted.

Miss Chilmark, the dragon empress, who had been silent up to now, waded in. 'There's really no reason why a puzzle story shouldn't have other merits. I can think of a work with a wonderful, intricate puzzle that is intellectually pleasing as well as theologically instructive. A novel of character, with a respect for history…'

'Any guesses? I never got past page forty-two,' murmured Jessica, unheard by Miss Chilmark, who continued to rhapsodize on the merits of The Name of the Rose until she was interrupted by the barking of a dog.

'This will be Rupert,' Jessica informed Shirley-Ann.

'With a dog?'

'The dog isn't the problem,' said Milo.

As it turned out, Milo was mistaken. The dog was a problem. Everyone looked toward the door, and a large brown mongrel, perhaps a cross between a setter and a German shepherd, stepped in and sniffed the air. It had a thick, wavy coat gleaming from the drenching it had got, and it trotted directly to the center of the circle and shook itself vigorously. Everyone was spattered. There were shrieks of outrage, and the meeting broke up in disorder. A chair was overturned, and Polly's handbag tipped upside down. The dog, excited by the commotion, rolled on its back, got up, and barked some more.

Miss Chilmark cried, 'Somebody take it outside. My dress is ruined.'

The owner appeared, a tall, thin, staring man in a black leather jacket, dark blue corduroys and a black beret, and rapped out a command.

'Marlowe, heel!'

The dog wagged its tail, gave another shimmy, and distributed more moisture.

'It takes no notice of you whatsoever,' Miss Chilmark complained. 'You ought to have it on a leash. Or, better still, leave it at home.'

'That's a flint-hearted attitude, if I may say so, madam,' Rupert replied in an accent redolent of one of the better public schools. 'Coming here is the high point of Marlowe's week. He's merely doing what dogs do to dry themselves.'

Milo said, 'And what about all the other things dogs do? Are we going to be treated to those? I can't bear the suspense.'

'What have you got against dumb animals?' said Rupert. 'How would you like to sit here in a sopping wet coat?'

'How would you like it if I sent you the dry-cleaning bill?' Miss Chilmark riposted.

'Call yourselves Bloodhounds, and you panic when a real dog turns up,' Rupert said, with a grin that displayed more gaps than teeth.

Polly Wycherley judged this as the proper moment to restore order. 'Why don't we all go back to our seats? Then Marlowe ought to settle down. He's usually no trouble.'

'The chairs are wet,' Miss Chilmark objected. 'I refuse to sit on a wet chair.'

A cloth was produced, the seats were wiped, and the meeting resumed with Marlowe in disgrace, anchored