I couldn't speak.
He nodded. “I'm sorry to have broken it to you like that, but there's never an easy way. I know that it will be a shock for you; you and he seemed to get on really well together, so if you want to take the day off, I'll quite understand."
I shook my head.
"I'll carry on,” I said. “I'm sure that that is what Mr. Bascomb would have wanted."
He nodded again.
"What,” I said, not really knowing how to form the dreaded question, “What was it?"
"He suffered a massive haemorrhage, and I understand that his doctors are not really surprised,” said Mr. Calvert. “The thing was, Dorothy, and I hadn't told you this, but Mr. Bascomb was a sick man. He'd been suffering from stomach cancer for some time. Inoperable, apparently. I agreed with Robson's at the outset that he could stay on just as long as he felt capable of working, and we felt that at that stage you would have adapted enough to take over and run things on your own. That was the plan, anyway. But poor old Bascomb dying like this—” He shrugged.
There was a singing in my ears. And my eyes had misted over. I looked at the other desk.
"So,” said Mr. Calvert, “do you think you can cope with things? I'm sure it will be a little strenuous at first, but we'll get you an assistant as soon as we can. In the meantime, we'll give you as much help as you need.
"There's the question of the funeral, of course. He's being cremated on Thursday. I know the staff will want to send a wreath. He was well liked, I'm told. I didn't really get to know him, I'm afraid, but according to most people he was an extraordinarily nice bloke. They called him Mr. Clips, apparently. Did you know that? Of course you did, of course you did. Could you organise the collection?"
I said I could.
"Thanks, Dorothy,” he said. “Well, it's a sad moment, but in situations like this, we all have to pull together.” He shuffled a bit, and on that meaningless note, he left.
I sat at my desk without moving for quite a long time, and it took me a while to stir myself to go about my routine.
Timmy says we couldn't have known.
"It's not our fault, Mum,” he said, when I told him the news tonight. “We weren't to know he was poorly."
He is such a comfort.
* * * *
20 January
Well, the cremation went off well, if you can say that about a cremation. And the church was absolutely full for the funeral service. Who would have thought it? His sister said some nice things about him, and a group of his friends with whom he used to play chamber music, apparently, played a sad and rather beautiful quartet, which I didn't know. It was by an American called Samuel Barber, Mr. Calvert told me afterwards.
It's hard to think of that pale little man with his pocket full of pens playing music as lovely as that.
But it is over. And now things can get back to normal. But they won't. I have, of course, been back to Mr. Mario's every day. But, and there is no reason for it, I have been unable, physically unable to reclaim My Seat. I cannot explain it. Mr. Mario has looked at me sorrowfully once or twice—of course he knows about Mr. Bascomb—and he seems to read into the fact that I have not retaken My Seat some sort of gesture of respect. Mawkish rubbish. It is simply—simply impossible for me to sit in that seat. I have sat miserably opposite, staring through the window, eating without appetite whatever Mr. Mario brings me.
I have told Timmy, and he scoffed at me.
"Don't worry about it,” he said. “Sit in it or don't sit in it, that won't change anything, Mum. It's only a seat after all."
Later he crept up onto my lap, gave me quite a start, asking for his dinner. I realised that I had been sitting staring at the wall for over an hour, and there were tears on my face. I shall ask Dr. Patel for a stronger treatment.
Cats cannot talk. Cats cannot talk. Cats cannot talk.
* * * *
25 January
Another shock this morning. I had been down to the Sales Department to settle this business of Credit Notes once and for all, and when I came back, in the very centre of my blotter was a paper clip twisted very neatly into the shape of a heart. A tiny little heart, perfectly formed. I suspected a practical joke, but no one appeared to claim credit for it.
I pondered the situation for a while until I was interrupted by Lilian Cheatman with some inane query. I realised that I had been pondering for nearly forty minutes. I told Timmy about this absence.
"Don't worry,” he said. That is becoming his favourite phrase these days. “Don't worry. You just had a little holiday, that's all."
I also told him about the paper clip heart.
"Hmm,” he said, “that's serious, that is. But it could be anybody. You've no idea?"
"None,” I said.
"Here,” he said, “perhaps it's you. Perhaps you've done it—wassername?—unconsciously."
"Ridiculous,” I said. “I couldn't."
"You watched him do it enough times,” he said again, “but I'll have to think about that. Perhaps it's just a joke, and whoever it is will get tired of it."
Which wasn't very satisfactory, but what can you do?
I am going to start locking my diary away. I know it's silly, but I have had the distinct impression that Timmy has been reading it in my absence. I know cats cannot read any more than they can talk, but I shall take precautions in future.
* * * *
30 January
Well, it isn't a joke any longer, if it ever was, and it hasn't stopped. Every day the same little wire heart on my blotter. I have done everything I can think of to catch whoever it is in the act, going out of my office on a make-believe errand and then rushing back along the corridor, hiding behind my big stock cupboard, everything.
I suspect people have been talking about me. Mr. Calvert made an impromptu and unfortunate stop-off at my office yesterday. I was behind the cupboard and heard someone come in ever so quietly. I heard Mr. Bascomb's swivel-chair squeak, and I jumped out very quickly to find Mr. Calvert staring at me with fear and surprise.
"Dorothy,” he said, “are you all right?"
I explained that there had been an increasing amount of petty pilfering going on, and I was determined to stamp it out. I had thought him a malign spirit in search of stationery items. He seemed to accept this.
"But are you all right, Dorothy?” he said again. “I mean, the pressure's not getting too much for you or anything? Someone was saying the other day you were looking a little tired."
"Mr. Calvert,” I said, “I have never been one to crack under pressure."
"No,” he said. “Right. Righto. Just as long as you're—all right."
And he left. I shall have to be more circumspect. And I shall have to find out who it is.
* * * *
5 February
Timmy knows who it is. He explained it to me last night after our dinner.
"I think,” he said, stretching out lazily in front of the fire, “I think it's him."
"It's who?” I asked.
"Him. Bascomb."
"But that's absurd,” I said. “Mr. Bascomb died. I told you. Don't you remember?"
"He's back."
"What do you mean back? How can he be back?"
"Dunno,” said Timmy. “He's found a way. He's come back. Think about it, who else could it be?"
I thought about it. Could he be right? What other explanation could there be? Some enemy knowing Mr. Bascomb's penchant for twisting paper clips and suspecting me of something or other was leaving little twisted hearts? To what end? To provoke guilty feelings? It doesn't hold water.
Timmy said, “See? Who else could it be? It's him and he's back. He's back disguised as somebody else."
"But I saw him cremated,” I said. “I was there."
Timmy sneered.
"All you saw was a box,” he said, “could have been anyone or anything. Mark my words, he's back, passing for someone else."
"Who?” I said.
"Could be anyone,” he sa
id. “You got to keep an eye out."
I am going to bed. I feel troubled in my mind. And Timmy is being very little help.
* * * *
7 February
This is very difficult to say, but I have the feeling that Timmy might be right. There seems to be no other explanation. Mr. Bascomb is back. Every day the paper clip heart is on my desk. And no one has claimed responsibility. He is back.
"But who?” I said to Timmy.
"Could be anyone,” he said, “anyone at all."
"Are you really sure?” I said. “Is it actually possible?"
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Mum,” he said. “Stranger things have happened, as well you know."
"What can we do?” I said.
"Same as before,” he said, “all of them."
* * * *
10 February
I have come home early today, which was a surprise for Timmy. I really couldn't bear to stay any longer in the office. It had become unbearably stuffy, and I had great difficulty breathing.
But despite everything, Mission Accomplished. So that's one thing out of the way. I don't think we'll have any more of those silly little hearts.
I have been watching certain people for the last few days, and there are those who really do seem to be acting suspiciously. I had great difficulty in waiting for Mrs. Panting to come round in the afternoon, but at last I heard the squeak of her trolley wheels and the jingle of cups. I waited a little while to make sure that she had gone into the office next door to gossip with her friend Mrs. Mallet in the post room. And then I went out, and there right in front of me, as though it had been specially arranged, was the trolley and the tea urn. That big tea urn. Holding what, ten gallons? Enough for the whole building, in any case. Enough for all of them. I looked at the urn and then went quickly back into my office.
It took no time at all.
The office was very quiet as I put on my coat and left and came home to report to Timmy, who was strangely silent, very much as if he had decided not to talk to me anymore.
I think I shall not go in to work tomorrow. Or the day after that. I have been ignoring the telephone all evening, and I have ignored the knocking on the door. We have been sitting in the dark, Timmy and I, in front of the empty fireplace. Waiting for the ringing and the rat-tat-tatting to stop and the people, whoever they are, to go away.
I have the funniest feeling about Timmy. He has been looking at me very oddly tonight. Can he have been reading my diary? I was sure I had hidden it securely enough, but some of the pages seem to have tiny scratches on them, as if he had been turning them with his little claws.
I shall make his dinner soon. I am glad now that I kept back some of the crystals for my own private use. I realise that I am perhaps being rather cruel, and I feel a little ashamed of what I am going to do.
But needs must, it has to be faced, it has to be done.
Timmy, after all, has been my closest companion for years. He has been my confidant. He knows my secrets. He knows everything about me. And if those people, whoever they are, ever come back and start asking him questions, one thing is absolutely certain.
Timmy will talk.
Copyright © 2007 Neil Schofield
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by WILLIE ROSE
Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.
OWFK WS EXEC'K VSK OFJ WDO MDBS CD DCS SAJS JFO WSI SQSJ VSK KWFK MIFRQ VASFB OWSC JWS JFO F JGFIZ.
—ZIXJKXCS ZFKWIQC ILJMW
CIPHER ANSWER: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
[Back to Table of Contents]
BOOKED AND PRINTED by ROBERT C. HAHN
Humor comes in many forms, and this month's column deals with three very different but very effective approaches that together constitute a satisfying medley of laughter.
Jeffrey Archer has proven himself adept at inventing riveting plots with more than a dozen novels to his credit including such bestsellers as Shall We Tell the President? and Kane and Abel. In his latest collection of short stories, due out in June, CAT O’ NINE TALES AND OTHER STORIES (St. Martin's, $27.95), he showcases another talent—the ability to take someone else's story and transmute it into gold.
* * * *
* * * *
Archer served a prison sentence for perjury, and during his incarceration he met many inmates who wanted to share either their own story or to tell him someone else's story. In this collection, Archer has fashioned a dozen tales (nine heard while he was in prison and three learned after his release)—most told to him by other inmates while he shared their institutional space—which have been beautifully polished and can be classified as humorous more for their droll charm and style than for their innate content.
Some are tales of ingenious plans that go awry for trivial and unexpected reasons; some are poignant as desperate people search for a criminal solution to problems beyond other resolution. But what these tales do have in common is their humanity: They are motivated by love, by greed, by avarice, by jealousy, and each story seems blessed with the perfect reward or punishment—for justice does not always require punishment.
Archer's favorite story in the collection is “In the Eye of the Beholder” in which an Italian football star inexplicably marries the obese daughter of the team's wealthy owner—inexplicably because the obvious reason doesn't apply.
"It Can't Be October Already” is a touching story of the détente achieved by minions of the law on the one hand and a habitual but relatively harmless criminal. In “Maestro,” an enterprising chef's efforts to evade the taxman aren't entirely successful, but he remains undaunted.
There isn't a bad story in the collection; each one is accompanied by marvelous illustrations by Ronald Searle, which provides an added piquancy. All in all, this is a sterling collection of generally unsuccessful criminal undertakings.
For sheer manic humor it would be hard to top Tim Dorsey's HURRICANE PUNCH (Morrow, $24.95). Take your eye off the page for a second and you're likely to miss something. The pace is frenetic, the humor both broad and pointed so that some jokes may pierce your funny bone while others knock the wind out of you with belly laughs.
Dorsey's hero, if you can call him that, is the Florida serial killer Serge A. Storms (last seen in The Big Bamboo), whose whirlwind antics are mostly harmless until he encounters one of those aggravating types that the world would be better off without. Those he removes in bizarre, innovative, and painful ways. As Serge explains: “Everyone has the wrong idea. I don't want to do what I do. I need a very good reason. Unfortunately, people in this state keep providing them. But I am not a serial killer!"
Serge couples his love of Florida history and folklore and his fascination with hurricanes in this adventure that takes him to Hollywood, along with his sidekick, Coleman, the drug and drink-addled foil in all Serge's misadventures. Also present is Serge's nemesis Agent Mahoney still affecting the garb and lingo of the pulp fiction detectives he admires.
Name a topical target and Dorsey is bound to at least nick it with a stray burst of rapid-fire wit. But when he zeroes in on a target such as the media or psychiatrists, he obliterates them with repeated bursts. The excesses of TV news coverage of approaching hurricanes or the corporate approach to newspaper publishing are detailed with devastating accuracy.
Hurricane Punch is a road story with Serge one step ahead of Agent Mahoney, two steps ahead of the law, and leagues ahead of the boors he demolishes with wit and panache.
For those who prefer a more restrained humor, try Maggie Barbieri's very promising debut, MURDER 101 (St. Martin's, $23.95), a romantic comedy of mystery. Recently divorced English prof Alison Bergeron, a dead student, and a good-looking cop add up to a cosy mix of campus mayhem.
Alison teaches at the small Catholic school St. Thomas, in the Bronx, where she was once a stu
dent. Her ordinary life takes an abrupt turn when her battered old Volvo is stolen, then recovered the same week—but with the body of a murdered coed stuffed into its trunk.
* * * *
* * * *
In spite of some predictable elements—Alison becomes a suspect and one of the investigating detectives is a handsome, available, and interested romantic prospect—Barbieri's handling of them is charming. Although Alison's involvement in the case is purely circumstantial, she of course gets drawn into it more deeply and more dangerously.
The modest academic environment is rendered nicely, and Alison and her relationship with her newly ex-husband Ray, also a teacher at St. Thomas, is developed both realistically and humorously.
If some of the plot devises are a bit transparent, and if the most obvious suspect is a little too obvious, those minor faults are more than compensated for by the strong characterizations of Alison, the charming Detective Robert Crawford, and Alison's best friend, vivacious Maxine Rayfield.
* * * *
ALL POINTS BULLETIN: Award-winning novelist S. J. Rozan follows up the critically acclaimed book Absent Friends with her latest novel of suspense IN THIS RAIN ($24), published as a Delacort Press Hardcover this January. Shamus Award—winning character Sugawara Akitada sleuths again in I. J. Parker's latest Japanese historical BLACK ARROW ($14), out from Penguin last November. Author Stephen Lindley first introduced us to Kubiak, a Chicago ex-cop, in the pages of AHMM. Now Kubiak is back, starring in Lindley's first novel KUBIAK'S DAUGHTER (Avalon Books, $21.95). Old stories and old graves can't be buried in Alan Gordon's new historical THE LARK'S LAMENT, due out from St. Martin's Minotaur this spring. PERFECT CRIMES AND IMPOSSIBLE MYSTERIES ($14.95), a collection of new, unpublished, and previously hard to find stories, from Carroll & Graf this January, digs up little-known tales from Edward D. Hoch, Bill Pronzini, Robert Randisi, J. A. Konrath, Barry Longyear, and many more. Busted Flush Press, the new small mystery press specializing in reprints of thrillers and hard-boiled crime fiction, expanded its collection of limited edition books in November with STONE CITY ($18) by Mitchell Smith, which was published in 1990.
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