that. In the end he decided against telephoning. It would be a sign of weakness and a man had at least to look strong if he were to survive.
Instead he picked up the file on Arany, carefully removed the sheets of newspaper and began to read.
The writer of the 'Club and Pub' page in the Mid-Yorkshire Courier was called Johnny Hope. Sub-title of his articles was 'Where There's Hope, There's Life.' Pascoe smiled and began to read.
The man had a bright and breezy style in keeping with his job which seemed to involve visiting at least six clubs and/or pubs most nights of the week. Perhaps he drank lemonade. Or perhaps he got down on his knees every morning and thanked God he'd survived to enjoy another splendid day.
So far as Pascoe could see, he made no special claim to critical powers but contented himself with reporting audience reaction with an occasional personal gloss. There were only two references to Arany's act, carefully ringed by Wield. They came from editions of the paper six years old.
Arrived at Littlefield WMC just in time to catch the end of Maurice Arany's act. Perhaps I missed the jokes, but there weren't many laughs in the last two minutes and when he went off, he didn't get much of a hand, just about two fingers, as the late, great Vic (shall-ah-tell-thee-a-poem) Crawley used to say.
A few months later:
Maurice Arany got off to a slow start at the Sledge and Reindeer last Thursday. I hate to see any artiste getting the bird, but the customers pay the money and are entitled to express an opinion. Fortunately better things were to come.
The next sheet was from an edition of January the following year. The ringed item read:
The frost made travelling slow, but I was glad I got to Westgate Social in time to see the Lulus, a trio of exotic dancers new to me. They've been got together by Maurice Arany, the one-time comedian who seems to be destined for more success with this side of the business. These girls were just the job for a cold night!
Alongside was a fuzzy picture of three women in scanty costumes and a lot of feathers.
So much for Arany's career as a performer, thought Pascoe. Obviously there'd been a lot more appearances, but gradually the word gets round – this one's a bummer, watch it or they'll start throwing glasses!
There were two more sheets – one about a year later in which Johnny Hope remarked in passing on the establishment of the Arany Agency, and another some nine months after this in which Wield had underlined all references to the Arany Agency in club advertisements. It was being used by a dozen at least. Pascoe was not very knowledgeable about the club circuit but he assumed this meant good business. He reminded himself to check with Wield who seemed to be the resident expert.
He wondered yet again how Arany and Haggard had come to be mixed up. It was a strange partnership, but most partnerships were, from marriage up, or down.
There were many chains with queerer links than those joining the Misses Andover with, say, the Lulus. He looked again at the three feathery ladies and smiled at the thought of a confrontation. Not that Miss Annabelle at least wouldn't take it in her stride!
And then he looked yet again, taking out his Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass to bring the fixed provocative smiles nearer.
It was six years old. It was very blurred. But it was just possible that the Lulu on the left was Linda Abbott.
He got home at seven o'clock that evening after what felt like a completely wasted day. He ate some cold chicken, drank some cold beer and watched some cold television till Ellie got back shortly before midnight. Her committee meeting had ended with whisky in one of the resident staff rooms. She was in a very militant mood.
'We see Blengdale tomorrow afternoon,' she proclaimed. 'He's in for a shock.'
'Don't make it too strong. I want him when you're finished,' said Pascoe.
'What's he been doing? Cheating at the golf club?' asked Ellie; but she did not stay for an answer, being too taken up with enthusiasm for her own cause.
Pascoe, ever an opportunist, began to wonder if there was a chance of channelling her militancy into sexuality, but she greeted his subtle efforts with a plea of exhaustion.
'You were lively enough just now,' complained Pascoe.
'That's different. That's work. It's like you getting up in the middle of the night when a case breaks. Doesn't matter how knackered you are, does it?'
'I suppose not,' said Pascoe.
They didn't quarrel but there wasn't much loving-kindness between them when, back to back, they fell asleep.
But things looked up in the morning.
'I'm sorry,' said Ellie over the breakfast table.
'So am I, so am I,’ said Pascoe eagerly.
'What for?'
'I don't know, but you don't think I'm daft enough to let you get away with being sorry by yourself,' said Pascoe.
They both laughed. Pascoe glanced at the kitchen clock.
'No,' said Ellie.
'No what?'
'No, there isn't time. But tonight. I'll get one of those little fat ducks from that Farm-shop. You get a bottle of something red and warm. How about it?'
'Oh yes,' said Pascoe. 'Yes, please.'
He kissed her goodbye and she responded so enthusiastically that he began to wonder if there might not be time after all.
'No,' she said pulling away. 'Just keep ticking over nicely through the day. Nothing too strenuous, mind.'
'Oh Christ,' he said. 'I've got to go and have my teeth scraped this morning. By the liberated Lacewing.'
'When she says 'rinse',' breathed Ellie huskily, 'tell her you want to keep the blood on your teeth.'
Nine-thirty was chiming on a near-by church tower as he opened the front door of the dentists' surgery. Before he had time to announce himself to the receptionist, Alison, the dental nurse, came out of the waiting-room and greeted him in some agitation.
'There you are, Mr Pascoe,' she said.
'Yes, here I am,' he admitted. 'I'll just have a read, shall I? I'm up to the colour supplements for 1969, you know.'
But Alison prevented him from going into the waiting-room.
'Ms Lacewing's waiting,' she said. 'She hates patients being late.'
'I'm not late,' he protested. 'It's just half past now. Well, it was till you started talking to me.'
The girl took his arm and drew him through into one of the surgeries. He had only glimpsed Ms Lacewing distantly and fleetingly before and a strangely confused picture had developed in his mind, caused he had decided by the conflict between her gentle name and her violent activities. On first inspection, the name won, hands down. She was small and delicate, with large brown eyes which regarded him gravely from a young girl's unblemished and un-made-up face.
'Mr Pascoe?' she said in a soft, musical voice.
'Right,' said Pascoe.
'Another minute and I should have crossed you from my list, Mr Pascoe,' she said. 'Please try to be punctual in future. Lie down.'
He lay down. The couch shuddered and descended. She hovered over him like a humming-bird seeking where best to pierce the gourd. Then she started.
Her slender wrists with their clearly accentuated bones seemed scarcely strong enough to lift the metal probes, but as she thrust and prodded, seemingly bent on rearranging the whole relationship of his teeth and jaw- bone, he began to wonder if she had been practising with a coal hammer.
When it was all over and he ran his tongue round a mouth which felt as smooth and as strange as the Elgin Marbles, he essayed conversation.
'How do you like it here, Miss, Ms Lacewing?'
'Hardly at all,' she answered. 'Would you please see the girl at the desk as you leave?'
Pascoe was reluctant to accept his dismissal so lightly but he was still seeking a good exit line when outside
