somewhere in the middle of the vast polished expanse. Strong grip.
‘Sit down, Mr Hardy, I can’t give you long.’
I thought he stressed give the way a man who charges a fortune by the hour might, but I could have been wrong. ‘This won’t take long. Doctor.’ I’d noticed the leather couch as soon as I entered the room but I was careful to avoid even touching it. I sat in a matching leather chair. The chair seemed to have been made exactly for the comfort of my often-stressed back. It immediately relaxed me which made me immediately wary.
He picked up a pencil. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Hardy?’
His voice was one of the best I’ve heard, rich and rewarding. If this voice gave you the news that you were dying of cancer it wouldn’t feel so bad.
‘I gather you haven’t come to see me in my professional capacity.’
‘No, more in mine, although I guess that’s semi-professional.’
He smiled showing the strong white teeth I’d have expected. ‘You’re defensive.’ He looked down at a note pad and touched it with his pencil. ‘A private enquiry agent. Interesting activity?’
‘Occasionally. Your professional path has crossed with my defensive semi-professional one-you have a patient named William Mountain.’
He nodded; on his scale of fees that was probably a ten dollar nod. It forced me to go on.
‘I need some information about him.’
A shake of the head-another ten bucks.
‘Or at least your opinion.’
‘I can’t discuss my patients with you, Mr Hardy. How could I? This is the most confidential branch of the medical profession as you must be aware.’
‘I doubt that it’s more confidential than mine though. Maybe it is. Let’s see. Maybe we can trade confidences.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘I leaned forward from the too-comfortable chair across the table. The table had a beautiful surface and some padding around its edges, like the good doctor. ‘A few days ago William Mountain beat a man to death using, among other things, a bottle. This is known to me and a very few other people. It is not known to the police. Can you get more confidential than that?’
His big, fleshy lips pursed and he ran a broad, capable-looking hand through his bushy hair. ‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Are you surprised?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, that tells me something. You think he’s a dangerous man?’
‘You can’t outfox me, Mr Hardy. I’m not going to confirm your guesses.’
‘Look, I’m not here to play word games. I’m trying to find this man. He’s in bad trouble and he needs help. His girlfriend wants to help him. I’m more concerned about other things, but I’ve seen some of the harm he’s done and I don’t only mean physical harm.’
That got a lifted eyebrow. No charge.
I think it’s better that he doesn’t do any more harm. There are two paths ahead of him-one leads to court and the other to the crematorium. Believe me. Either way you’re going to be called to talk to the authorities. If he gets a bullet in the head, it could be your fault for not talking to me now.’
‘You’re persuasive, Mr Hardy.’
I’m trying to be. I’m also telling you the truth.’
‘I believe you might be. Who would kill Mountain?’
‘Criminals, obviously.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s involved in something big and dirty. He’s being foolish. He’s threatening people who don’t know about turning cheeks.’
‘It doesn’t surprise me.’ He leaned back in his chair and then came abruptly forward. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘They’re your lungs.’
He got a long thin cigar out of a drawer, unwrapped it and lit. it with a gold lighter. The smoke went down into his barrel chest and came out in a thin hard stream that floated up towards the extravagant ceiling rose. With the cigar in his hand and framed against a big window that ran from knee height almost to the ceiling, he looked like a wrestler on his day off.
‘William Mountain is a very disturbed man. It’s hard to give a name to his central problem. You could call it an identity crisis but it would take a very broad definition of the word “identity” for that to cover it.’
‘Can you predict a likely outcome?’
‘To what?’
I gave him a summary of Mountain’s movements and actions; he drew on his cigar and listened patiently. I held back on the notes Mountain had kept on his sessions with Holmes, because I thought of that as a card I could play if I needed to. When I finished he sat quietly and puffed smoke. I assumed he was thinking, and God knows what his rate was for that. I let my eyes travel around the room taking in the bookcases with the glass fronts, the slimline electric typewriter on the desk and the Impressionist paintings on the walls. He stubbed out the cigar in an ashtray which he put back in the drawer he’d taken the cigar from.
‘It’s very difficult,’ he said melodiously. ‘I wish I could talk to him.’
‘Me too. Is he a likely suicide?’
He spread his hands non-committally.
‘What would you be advising him to do if he was here now?’
‘I don’t advise. I listen.’
‘Jesus, you’re doing pretty well out of listening.’
‘Don’t be offensive.’
For no good reason I looked again at the elegant typewriter on Holmes’ desk. I was letting my mind run free on the subject of Mountain, who had no doubt lain on the couch a few feet away and told Holmes a lot of things, some of them things it could be useful to know. I wondered if Holmes typed up his notes and where he kept them. Holmes followed my gaze. He looked impatiently at his watch.
‘Mr Hardy…’
I got up and took a closer look at the typewriter. It had a sheet in it with a couple of lines of typed verse about a red knight and blue blood that didn’t mean a thing to me. The typeface looked very similar to that on Bill Mountain’s postcard.
‘This is a super-portable, isn’t it-for travelling?’
Holmes sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘Mountain wrote a note on a slip of paper and stuck it to a postcard. I thought he might have pecked it out in a shop but these cost a mint; they don’t leave demo models around.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘Mountain’s got a traveller’s typewriter, expensive one. Means he expects to be writing.’
‘He’s a writer, isn’t he?’
‘Yeah, but he was totally blocked. He was obsessed with writing a novel; he couldn’t write it and it was eating at him. Right?’
Holmes nodded. ‘One of his obsessions.’
‘If he was actually writing this book, would that make a difference to him, to his behaviour?’
‘Conceivably. If it went well it could absorb him, calm him down. If it went badly it could push him in any direction.’
‘What if it went well and he managed to stay off the grog?’
‘That’s unlikely. Alcohol is one of his favourite, I might say most cherished, obsessions. And in case you think you’ve opened me up, I’d point out that Mountain is on the public record about that.’
‘Mm. But just say he was sober and writing well?’
He put the capable-looking hands on the desk and examined them as if he’d never seen them before. Then he looked at his watch.
