'All right,' muttered Bert apathetically.
'Only somebody worked it out and tried to make it public tonight. I wonder who.'
'Who what?'
'Who sprayed the words over Jessica's gallery window.'
'Someone with one of those aerosols, I expect,' said Bert in an interval of clarity.
'Well, you don't have to tell me that,' she said.
'Must have got some on their clothes,' added Bert. 'You can't use one of those things outdoors without some of the spray getting on your clothes.' It was his last contribution that night.
She pondered that for a time. Then something stirred in her memory that would keep her awake another two hours. She pressed her hands to her face and said, 'I thought it was dandruff. Well, would you ever?'
Chapter Twenty-four
So comprehensively has Bath been facelifted in the last twenty years that it is quite a treat to discover streets that have escaped the restorers and stonewashers. One charmingly down-at-heel example is Hay Hill, north of the center, which is actually just a convenient shortcut from Lansdown Road to the Vineyards and the Paragon. A shortcut for pedestrians, that is to say, for no cars run through it. You know that Hay Hill will give some relief from Georgian formality as soon as you reach the betting office on the corner of Lansdown Road. A strip of worn paving descends between undistinguished eighteenth-century artisan houses. The dozen or so dwellings are irregular in style, height, and coloring, and the railings fronting most of them supply only a semblance of order. The rest of the iron-work on view-basement grills, inspection covers, lampposts, and drainpipes-is a hotchpotch. Few of the windows match in style; in fact, some have been bricked up. Here and there graffiti scar the walls, but it might be argued that the people who painted one of the buildings in layers of pink, yellow, and brown, like a monstrous cake, were guilty of vandalism before the marker pen writers got to work.
To Hay Hill, then, came Diamond and Julie Hargreaves the next morning to call on Rupert Darby. Rupert's house was the one with more flake and crumble than any other, and with weeds growing up the walls.
The bell push on the door may have been working; it was difficult to hear for the noise of traffic cruising down Lansdown Road. Anyway, there was no response. Diamond tried rattling the letter flap and instantly wished he hadn't. It was a plastic thing that fell off. A low, vibrating noise like a power drill driving into wood came from inside. As he bent to look through the gap there was an almighty thump against the door, and he found himself inches from the bared teeth of a large dog.
He stepped back and turned his attention to the window, which was coated in dust. A faded gingham curtain blocked any view of the interior. After some unproductive tapping on the glass-the main panel had a crack the width of the frame- he went back to the door, tried the handle, and discovered that it opened.
Julie warned, 'I wouldn't if I were you.'
But he had a confident way with dogs. Opening the door a fraction, he presented the back of his right hand for inspection. There was some sniffing, some contact with a moist nose, and then a reassuring warm lick. He increased the gap just enough for Marlowe's brown head to look out. With German shepherd in its genes, this beast wasn't going to roll over and have its chest scratched, but it had quit growling.
'Show him your hand, Julie.'
This sounded like an order. He thought of adding, 'Trust me,' but he wasn't certain she would take encouragement from that.
She had two dogs of her own, and she knew enough to be cautious in a situation like this. After some hesitation she did as Diamond had done. There was no rending of flesh. By degrees Diamond opened the door fully, and Marlowe padded out to the pavement. The big dog didn't growl anymore, but neither did it make any concessions to friendship. It sniffed at their shoes, circled them, trotted to the house opposite, and sprayed the neighbors' wall. Diamond took this as approval. He stepped through the open door.
A first impression of the interior was that this place was more of a crash pad than a home. It smelled of stale beer and old socks and dog. The board floor was littered with clothes, books, papers, crockery, beer cans, and cardboard boxes. In the far corner was a mattress, and on it a body was lying covered by an army greatcoat.
Julie went to the window to admit more light. Dust peppered her hands when she tugged at the curtain. It hadn't been disturbed in months.
The body under the greatcoat spoke. A voice as mellifluous as Gielgud's, totally out of keeping with the surroundings, told them, 'Please go away, whoever you are, and try again at some civilized hour.'
Diamond said, 'It's gone ten, Mr. Darby, and we're the police.'
Marlowe heard his master's voice and lolloped in from the street. Picking up a tin plate between his teeth, the big dog carried it across the room, leaped on the mattress, and put in a claim for breakfast. There was a clang as the plate struck Rupert's head.
Rupert misinterpreted the knock. 'I can report you for this,' he said without stirring. 'It's police brutality, and it's outrageous.'
'It's your dog,' Diamond told him. 'It's asking for food.'
'The hell with it. What's a dog for, if it doesn't keep the fuzz from marching into one's home?'
'Do you want us to feed it while you wash?'
'If you can find one of his cans. There might be some under the window.' Rupert gave a moan and stretched. One of his feet, wearing a striped sock, appeared from under the great-coat. He propped himself up on one elbow, rubbed his eyes, and said, 'Is it the state of my head, or is one of you wearing a skirt?'
Diamond formally spoke their ranks and names. Expecting the usual snide remarks about female cops, Julie busied herself locating some tins of Pal under a beret and opening one for Marlowe.
Rupert was too sleepy for snide remarks. He needed all his concentration to stand up. His night attire (and no doubt the basis of his day attire also) was a T-shirt and boxer shorts. He tottered to an open doorway that must have led to whatever passed for a bathroom in this unedifying setup.
Diamond warned him, 'We haven't got all day.'
Rupert riposted over the sound of running water, 'My day doesn't start till noon.'
He emerged after a few minutes wrapped in a gray blanket and cradling a mug of coffee. 'I'd offer you some, but I can't find a spare cup. You're welcome to look if you wish.'
Diamond spoke for them both. 'I don't think we want any. What we'd appreciate is a place to sit down.'
Two chairs had to be cleared of the items heaped on them. Rupert found his beret and jammed it on his head. Apparently it was a vital accessory, though like everything else in this place it looked shabby, speckled with white particles that he didn't bother to brush off. He squatted on his mattress wrapped in the blanket, looking like an exotic species of toadstool.
'Convenient place you have here,' Diamond said politely, since there was nothing polite he could say about the way it looked.
'You mean with the Lansdown Arms at one end and the Paragon Bar and Bistro at the other?' said Rupert, with a grin. 'Yes, that was a consideration, I admit. Tell me what this is about.'
'We're inquiring into the death of Sidney Towers.'
His face lit up. 'Thank God for that. I thought it was something I'd done.'
'Isn't it?' said Diamond.
'Certainly not.' The shrill note in his voice made it sound as if he were the last person you ought to suspect of anything.
'You're one of this group who call themselves Bloodhounds, right?'
'That's no crime, is it?' said Rupert, now ready to defend his reputation. 'Well, the name may be a crime, I grant you. A gift for the gutter press. It wasn't my suggestion, officer. If I had my way, we'd call it the Crime Noir Club and attract a different class of member.'
'When did you join?'
'At least three years ago. I think only Polly Wycherley and Milo were ahead of me. No, I tell a lie. The Grand Duchess was already in.'
'You must mean Miss Chilmark.'
