‘Lots of people aren’t, you don’t seem to grasp that. Getting sticky is it, Cliff?’
‘It’ll do.’ I considered telling Grant about Erica and decided against it; if I needed a policeman on hand I had Frank Parker. Grant knew better than to pump me for more information.
‘I’ll get back to you if anything comes through. Anything else I can do?’
‘Yeah. Keep a job as bottle washer open at the vineyard. I think that might be the kind of work I’m fit for.’
The idea that had come to me while Grey was accusing me of extra knowledge was simply that if Mountain was writing again, he might get in touch with his agent. It wasn’t much of an idea but it was something. The other one or two writers I knew phoned their agents almost every day as if they expected them to wipe their noses and smooth life’s stormy passage. Mountain seemed to make his own rules, but there was a chance he might conform in his way.
I phoned the Brent Carstairs Agency and at the mention of Mountain’s name I was put through at wire- melting speed to a Mr Lambert.
‘L’mb’t here, y’s?’
A New Zealander, hardly a vowel to his name. ‘My name is Hardy, Mr Lambert. I’d like to talk to you about Bill Mountain. I’d say from the way they put me through to you that you’d be interested.’
‘Most certainly, Mr Hardy. Where is he?’
‘Hold on, why the interest? When I phoned a week ago some girl told me he was on holiday; she sounded as if she was just about on holiday herself. Why’s everyone so keen now?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that,’ he said sharply.
‘You’d better discuss it. If you want to find him with all his typing fingers still attached, I’m your best bet.’
‘I can’t take that on faith. Who are you, exactly?’
‘I’m a private detective, exactly. I also know Mountain slightly. I also know that he’s writing again.’
Mr Lambert said: ‘Mmm.’ If you wanted caution he was your boy.
‘I’ll give you a sample. He’s been to Marseilles and Nice recently, very recently. He’s got inside a very dirty world that ninety-nine per cent of writers just read about in the papers. He’s in danger. Do we talk?’
‘Yes. Can you come to my office at once, please?’
The last literary agent I’d talked to had wanted me to follow his client day and night and report on her doings. He’d been careful not to touch anything I touched, and he had never once said please. The way Mr Lambert sounded, he might even say thank you.
The Falcon hadn’t been disabled at all, another of the light, classy touches of Mr Grey, like returning my gun. I drove to Paddington through traffic that was light and good-tempered, unlike myself. I was feeling sour and under pressure-hostage-taking was one fashion I could do without. The agency was in one of those cute, twisting little thoroughfares off Oxford Street that are always one way in the direction you don’t want. I worked my way to the right end and back up the street to park as close as I could. The street featured tall terraces with nose-in-the-air iron lace and fences with all the spear tops intact. There were offices that used to be houses and houses that used to be shops.
The agency office presented a lot of timber and lead-light glass to the street as if it was pretending to be an English pub. I pushed open the stripped and varnished timber door and walked into a carpeted space that was all soft lights and good taste. It looked more like an upmarket bookshop than an office; the walls were lined with the best-sellers and instant remainders of Brent Carstairs clients. There was a rogues’ gallery of writers’ photographs with a heavy emphasis on those who had won awards and those whose works had made it to the large and small screens.
The only worker in sight was sitting at a desk in the deep bay window at the front of the place. She was wearing a severe grey suit, a white blouse and pearls. She lifted her head from the typescript she was reading and gave me a wintery smile.
‘Yes?’
‘Hardy,’ I said, ‘but not the writer. No plays, no poems, no novellas. I had an essay on shoe cleaning published in my school magazine, but that was a long time ago.’
‘You’re a humorist.’
‘I wanted to see if I could make you smile.’
‘You failed.’
‘I’m a detective, here to see Mr Lambert. Smile at that.’
She didn’t, but she did react. ‘Oh, yes. About the Mountain manuscript; please go through there. Mr Lambert’s waiting.’
She pointed a long, thin, grey arm at the apparently blank wall at the end of the room but I didn’t obey. I leaned close down to her, not expecting any perfume and not getting any. ‘Manuscript?’ I said.
‘Oh, God, I’m talking out of turn. Please see Mr Lambert. He’ll explain everything.’
I straightened up and peered at the wall. ‘I’ve been waiting all my life for someone who could explain everything.’
‘Please!’
Two pleases was urgent stuff from the likes of her; I followed her stabbing finger, and after walking across a few thousand dollars’ worth of carpet paid for by the authors whose books I passed, I found a door discreetly hidden in the wall. I knocked and Lambert called out: ‘Come in!’ as if I was David Williamson come to sign up for life. He was half way across his office towards the door by the time I got it open. His hand came out so fast I nearly ducked and countered.
‘Mr Hardy, come in, come in.’ We shook hands and he practically donated his to me. He stuck his head through the open door and asked the woman behind the desk to bring us some coffee. Lambert’s office was a smaller version of the other room: bearded faces gazed out from dust jackets, review headlines announced biting wit and experimental irony.
Lambert was a medium-sized man with a thick waist and lank hair that was greying and thinning as if there was a race on to make him either white or bald. He didn’t help matters by wearing a spotted bow tie and a patterned vest that had food and drink stains on it. He ushered me into a chair, scooted behind his desk and plopped his glasses down in front of him. The lenses were heavily smudged.
‘Your phone call intrigued me, Mr Hardy, I must say.’
‘So I see. What’s the name of the woman outside?’
‘Maud.’
‘I’d never have guessed that. She’s very jumpy, and so are you.’
To prove he wasn’t jumpy he picked up his glasses and put them on. Then he took them off again. Before he could demonstrate any more sang froid. Maud came in with a silver tray on which sat china cups and bowls and a big pot of coffee. As she was pouring, I recalled that I’d had mainly whisky for dinner and no breakfast.
‘Would you have a biscuit or anything about?’ I said. ‘I haven’t eaten in quite a while.’ I took a thirsty slurp of the coffee. It always impresses people to tell them you haven’t eaten; it makes you look busier than them. Lambert reacted as if he would’ve sent out for steak and eggs.
‘I’m quite sure we’d have something. Could you see to it, Maud?’
Maud said she would, and I drained my cup and poured another, adding sugar and stirring. Lambert sipped his and waited. He used a napkin to wipe his glasses and only succeeded in spreading the goo around. Maud trotted back in with a plate of ginger nuts and I had two dipped and up to the mouth before she reached the door
I got the biscuits down before I started talking. ‘Bill Mountain’s writing again; he’s sent you something that’s got you all excited-a novel?’
He nodded, then he shook his head. ‘A synopsis,’ he breathed, ‘an absolutely brilliant outline of a sure-fire best seller. Amazing!’
I reached across the desk for the pot and Lambert took his bum off the seat to push it towards me; he’d have given me the pot and the tray if I’d asked for them.
‘You seem surprised that he could write a book,’ I said.
Lambert sipped his milky coffee and spilled some biscuit crumbs down his vest. ‘I thought he was washed up except for TV writing, and he seemed to be losing his grip on that-missing deadlines, messing around with the characters. He’s a terrible drinker.’
