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?”
“My landlord’s tarting the building up, reckons he can get five times what he paid for it a couple of years back if he sells it as a single dwelling.” The writer showed his uneven teeth in a canine grin. “But he’s got to get shut of me first, hasn’t he?”
While these pleasantries were being exchanged, Hat took a look around.
The flat, so far as he could work out without being too obvious, consisted of a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and the room they were in. High-ceilinged and with a deep bay window which gave a good view (even framed in scaffolding) over the interesting roofscape of the older part of town, it had a sense of spaciousness which not even the detritus of a determined bookman could disguise. There was a huge desk in the bay, its surface completely hidden by papers and books which overflowed on to the floor a couple of metres in all directions. At the other side of the room stood a green-baized antique card table with a rotatable top on which very neatly laid out was a large board in the shape of a five-pointed star, marked in squares, some coloured, some bearing strange symbols, flanked by a dish full of letter tiles and three wooden tile racks.
They really must enjoy this game, him and Dee, thought Hat. A board each! Maybe there were more. Presumably there’d be one in Dee’s home too, and God knows where else.
Then his attention was diverted to the wall directly behind the table on which hung a framed photograph. It showed three boys standing close together, arms round each other. It was the same picture he’d seen on Dick Dee’s desk, except that this print was much larger. The enlarging had exaggerated the fuzziness caused by the poor focus to produce a strange otherworldly effect, so that the boys appeared like figures seen in a dream. They were standing on grass and in the background were trees and a tall castellated building, like a castle in a misty forest. The two outer boys were almost of a height, one perhaps two or three inches taller than the other, but they were both a good six inches taller than the boy in the centre. He had a mop of curly blond hair and a round cherubic face which was smiling with undisguised delight at the camera. The shorter of the other two, the one who looked like Dee, was smiling also, but a more inward-looking, secretively amused kind of smile, while the third wore an unambiguous scowl which Hat saw again as a voice snarled, “Having a good poke around, are you?” and he turned to look at Charley Penn.
“Sorry, it was just the game,” he said, indicating the board. “Rye-Miss Pomona, mentioned it…some funny name…para something…”
“Paronomania,” said Penn, regarding him closely. “So Ms. Pomona mentioned it, did she? Yes, I recall her taking an interest when she saw me and Dick playing one day. But I told her that like all the best games, only two could play.”
He smiled salaciously, his gaze fixed on Hat, who felt his face flush.
“Some kind of Scrabble, is it?” said Pascoe.
“Oh yes. Like chess is some kind of draughts,” sneered Penn.
“Fascinating. My young daughter loves board games,” murmured Pascoe. “But we mustn’t detain you any longer than necessary, Mr. Penn. Just a couple of questions…”
But before he could begin there was a loud knock at the outer door.
Penn left them and a moment later they heard the outbreak of a loud and increasingly acrimonious discussion between the writer and the foreman of the renovators, who required access to the windows of Penn’s flat and seemed to think some written instruction from his employer gave him a legal right to this.
Pascoe moved across to a tall bureau and examined the books on the shelves. All of Penn’s Harry Hacker series were there.
“Read any of these, Hat?” enquired Pascoe.
“No, sir. Better things to do.”
Pascoe regarded him curiously then said, “Maybe you should. You can learn a lot about a writer from his books.”
He reached up and took from a shelf not a book but one of two leather-cased files marked SKULKER. Opening it, he found bound inside copies of a magazine with that name. It was clearly an amateur production, though well organized and laid out. He opened a page at random. A Riddle My first is in Dog House, though not in demand:
My second’s incrassate until it’s in hand:
My whole is in Simpson when it isn’t in Bland
(Answer on p. 13)
Hat was looking over his shoulder.
“A riddle,” he said excitedly. “Like in the Second Dialogue.”
“Don’t get excited,” said Pascoe. “This is a different kind of riddle, though it is not the kind of riddle it at first appears to be. It sounds as if it should be one of those simple spelling conundrums. But in fact it isn’t.”
“So what is it?”
“Let’s look at the answer and see, shall we?”
He turned to page thirteen.
Answer: Lonesome’s loblance
“What the hell does that mean?” said Hat.
“I would guess it’s a schoolboy joke,” said Pascoe.
But before he could speculate further, Penn came back in.
“Make yourselves at home, do,” he snarled. “I keep my private correspondence in the filing cabinet.”
“Naturally, which is why I did not anticipate finding anything private on your bookshelves,” said Pascoe urbanely. “But I apologize.”
He replaced the volume and said, “Now, those few questions…”
Penn quickly recovered his equilibrium and readily confirmed Rye’s account of the sequence of events. He explained in unnecessary detail that on his arrival in the reference library, he’d approached the desk in search of Mr. Dee but, seeing he was busy in his office, he’d returned to his seat, inadvertently leaving some of his work on the counter where Ms. Pomona had found it. He even produced the translated poem for them to read.
“I got the impression,” he added, eyes fixed sardonically on Hat, “that she might have mistook it for a billy- doo. Kind of billy-doo lots of lasses would like to get, I reckon. Not enough old-style romance around these days, is there?”
Hat’s hardly suppressed indignation came out as a plosive grunt and he might have got down to some really hostile interrogation if Pascoe hadn’t said, “That’s been very helpful, Mr. Penn. I don’t imagine we’ll need a written statement. We can see ourselves out.”
In the street he said, “Hat, it’s not a good idea to let your personal animosity towards a witness shine through quite so clearly,” adding, to soften the reproof, “I speak from experience.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry. But he really rubs me up the wrong way. I know it’s not evidence, but I can’t help feeling
