Dalziel 05 A Pinch of Snuff

by Reginald Hill

  He tried the door. It was locked. The cat rolled its eyes at his stupid inefficiency and began to wash itself.

  Pascoe pounced.

  'You're under arrest,' he said sternly, then, softening instantly as the animal began licking his ear, the while purring like a circular saw, he added, 'Let's go back to your place.'

  It was Miss Annabelle Andover who answered the door. She regarded him without surprise.

  'I stumbled on this young fellow,' said Pascoe.

  'Girl. Where've you been, Acrasia? Step inside, Mr Pascoe. Will you have a cup of coffee? I always have one after lunch. Ready ground, I'm afraid, but the beans cost a fortune. It's a bastard this inflation when you're on a fixed annuity. In here. I won't be a tick.'

  She showed him into the Habitat-furnished living-room and a few moments later reappeared with a tray bearing a steaming jug and two French coffee cups the size of small basins.

  'I expect you've heard the sad news about Mr Haggard,' said Pascoe as she poured the coffee with steady hand.

  'Yes. Devastating. Poor Alice was really knocked out. She's gone to bed with what she calls a fit of the vapours.'

  'I'm sorry to hear it.'

  'She'll recover. I'm a tougher old bird, but I must admit I was a bit shaken. What's the news? Are you hot on the trail? The killers, I mean.'

  'Killers?'

  'Yes. Probably a gang, I'd say. Out for kicks. Gilbert wasn't all that old, but old enough to be fragile. Stupid kids. They all know how incredibly rich old folk must be but not how incredibly brittle old bones are.'

  'We're working very hard at it,' said Pascoe. 'Do you mind if we talk about Mr Haggard?'

  'I'll stop you if I do.'

  Pascoe stood up and wandered over to the window.

  'Did you consider yourself a friend of Mr Haggard's?' he asked.

  'I think so,' said Miss Andover.

  'You'd known him . . . how long?'

  'Since he came here.Since he started his school.'

  'Let me see. Twelve years? Thirteen? What did you think when the school closed and the Calliope Club opened, Miss Andover?'

  'No business of mine.'

  'Most people would consider such a major change next door their business. Sergeant Wield seemed to think a few tit-bits for your cats kept you sweet. You know; two dotty old women. I can't see it myself.'

  Miss Andover now rose also.

  'Young man,’ she said in ringing tones. 'I am not accustomed to being insulted in my own home. The Lord Lieutenant of the county has been entertained in this house and his Chief Constable with him. We are not yet without influence and authority.'

  Pascoe grinned widely at her.

  'That sounds like something you picked up from Miss Alice,' he said.

  For a moment she tried to stare him down, then the old lady grinned too and picked up a packet of Park Drive from the mantelshelf.

  'Smoke?' she said. 'No? Very wise. They can't harm me, though. Not at my age. I'm seventy-six, Mr Pascoe, and Alice is seventy-three. We bruise and break more easily than of old, but that apart, what can possibly harm people of our age? When Gilbert came and told us the school was closing down for financial reasons, we were distressed. Put me out of work for one thing! I had a few hundred to spare in the Funds and I went as far as offering to invest these with him, but he refused. I should have realized no one goes bust for want of a few hundred, but he spoke to me as if I had offered a fortune. Well, that's the sort of man he is. Was.

  'For a while it looked as if he might have to sell the house. That did cause us some concern, not because of what it might become, for, as I say, how could offices or even bed-sitters bring any harm to us? No, we were concerned at the thought of losing a kind and considerate neighbour.

  'So when Gilbert told us he was thinking of starting a Club, what could we be but overjoyed?'

  'You knew about the Club before it was given the go-ahead?' interrupted Pascoe.

  'Of course.'

  'And you didn't pass this information on to your neighbours in the Square?'

  'Certainly not!' she said indignantly. 'I do not break confidences so easily.'

  'Did Mr Haggard tell you what kind of Club it would be? I mean, the kind of entertainment that would be shown?'

  She puffed out a jet of smoke and laughed.

  'I was brought up in a world deficient in many ways, Mr Pascoe, but in this at least it got things right. It recognized that men must have their pleasures and, as long as scandal was avoided, it let them get on with them. Alas, it did not accord the same tolerance to women.'

  'I should have thought Mr Haggard's Club scandalized many people, Miss Andover.'

  'You do not know the meaning of the word!' she said scornfully. 'How can you have scandal in an age which has abolished responsibility?'

  'So, you had no objection to Mr Haggard's proposals?'

  'None. Men have always had their whores and these were only on celluloid. Indeed, as I have said, what harm could the real thing have caused to me and my sister? To tell you the truth, Mr Pascoe, in some ways I preferred it to the school! During the day, I could sit out in my garden and listen to such birds as have survived this polluted air, and never find them in competition with a gang of little brats singing hymns or chanting tables.'

  Pascoe finished his coffee and replaced the cup on the glass-topped table.

  'Thank you, Miss Andover,' he said. 'I won't keep you any longer. Thank you for speaking so frankly to me. I hope Miss Alice soon recovers.'

  'She will. I'm feeding her on raw eggs beaten up in a little sherry. That always gets her back on her feet.'

  'I should imagine it does,' said Pascoe, smiling. 'Oh, one thing more. I didn't tell you where I'd found Acrasia, did I? She was next door in Wilkinson House and she seemed to imagine she'd come through the communicating door which leads into Mr Haggard's kitchen. Now that wouldn't be possible, would it?'

  'Hardly. Damn thing's been locked up for years. But Acrasia is a bit of a mental defective, poor love. She was born on a Cumberland farm and reckons she's a trail hound.'

  'I see. Well, take care of her in case she strays again. Goodbye, Miss Andover.'

  It wasn't till Pascoe was walking back to the station that he remembered the cat had eaten Arany's gherkins. Not only the cat. He felt a momentary pang of guilt. Perhaps he should replace them. He slowed down as he crossed the road and a horn blared as a car swerved to avoid him. Pascoe turned, raised both hands and gave the angry driver the double figs, recalling that this had been the thief Fucci's gesture to God from the Eighth Circle.

  It fitted. Fortitude was the only virtue, and submission the only sin. It was a reasonable thought to take into a conference with Dalziel.

  Chapter 8

  In fact it wasn't until the following day that Pascoe saw Dalziel. On Saturday afternoon the fat man had been summoned by the Assistant Chief Constable to a top-level conference on matters too high for the likes of detective-inspectors. Whatever they had discussed, it hadn't put Dalziel in a good mood, and he listened with unconcealed scorn to the reports of those concerned in the Haggard case.

  'That's a day's work, is it?' he demanded. 'No wonder this country's in a mess!'

  No one replied. There was nothing to say. Nothing that Forensic had produced was any help, no one in the Square had heard or seen anything suspicious. Pascoe had rung Blengdale's house again and this time spoken to his wife, who told him Blengdale was not expected home till late that night, that he had a very heavily scheduled morning, but that he should be available for a while on Monday afternoon.

  'Big of him,' was Dalziel's laconic comment.

  Fair enough, thought Pascoe. If he doesn't want to lean, why the hell should I, a mere seven-stone weakling, apply my weight?

  'So no one's got any ideas?' said Dalziel. 'Inspector Pascoe, we usually rely on you for the intellectual academic angle.'

  'Well, there's some interesting relationships,' said Pascoe. 'This man, Arany . . .'

  'The ref
ugee? What's interesting about him? Did you ever hear him tell a joke? He didn't escape from Hungary, they paid him to leave!'

  'Ha ha,' said Pascoe. 'You know the clubs then?'

  'I know every bloody thing. But I don't know why I waste my time on you lot!'

  The conference had broken up soon after. Pascoe had been left with a curious feeling that Dalziel, beneath his bluster, was more uncertain than any of them about how best to proceed with the enquiry.

  He returned to his office and sat for a while wondering if he should ring Ellie again. It should have been his Sunday off, and he'd half planned to join Ellie in Orburn at her parents' house, but Haggard's death had put paid to 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 he heard a crash, men's voices raised in anger and a woman shrieking.

  'Seems you aren't the only one who doesn't like it,' he said as he threw open the door.

  The woman shrieking was Alison.

  The cause of her distress was Jack Shorter, who was leaning drunkenly against the open doorway of his surgery clutching his stomach, with blood streaming from his nose and retching groans coming from his mouth.

  The cause of his distress was three men in donkey jackets and overalls who were standing round him getting in each other's way as they threw punches wildly at his face and body.

  Beyond the group in the surgery a patient was trying to raise himself from the couch, his eyes wide with fright and amazement, his mouth clanging and hissing with all the ugly appurtenances of a dental operation.

  'Hold it!' cried Pascoe in his most authoritative tones.

  They ignored him. It flashed through his mind that his best bet was to set Ms Lacewing on them, but he also remembered the Home Office injunction against the use of excessive violence in effecting an arrest.

  'Police!' he yelled seizing the nearest of Shorter's assailants and pushing him against the other two.

  One of them, a burly, stubble-haired man with a dark, round face contorted now with a tremendous rage, swung a punch in Pascoe's direction.

  'POLICE!' bellowed Pascoe again, determined that they wouldn't be able to deny knowing who they'd attacked.

  The burly man's second punch was withheld.

  'Police?' he said.

  'That's right,' said Pascoe, flashing his warrant card to reinforce his claim.

  'Just the man I want to see,' said the burly man. It seemed an unlikely claim to Pascoe but he nodded encouragingly.