The Dirty Duck by Martha Grimes Page A

sure, was a baseball player), he would probably become a writer. A foreign correspondent. And writing was also something to do to keep your mind busy when you were bored.
    Around the walls a number of pictures had been hung, all of them quite stupid, of Irish setters or cows in meadows. He took down one of the pictures of cows and a shepherd and lay on the bed with the picture overturned, resting on his knees. From his sock he took his pencil and continued his diary. It wasn’t very interesting writing this, but it had to bedone in case his kidnappers moved him and the police came looking for him. With painstaking care he had already managed to work a clue into the picture itself by carefully removing the backing paper and the picture and tearing out the heads of the shepherd and the cow and exchanging them. It had been very difficult and meticulous work and had taken him upwards of two hours, as he had no glue and had to position the heads carefully. They kept sliding around beneath the glass. Finally, he had used spit for glue and was pleased with the result. No one who lived here would notice because no one ever looked at their own pictures. But Scotland Yard would see it and know that it was some sort of clue and look at the back of the picture.
    At the top of the backing paper, which he had restuck round the frame, he had written
    James Carlton Farraday
    in as fancy a script as he could. He went on now with his diary:
    7:13 Brekfs’t Egg, bacon, cereal
    He printed this in small neat letters, under last night’s dinner, which had been served him at 6:22 exactly. They had not taken away his watch.
    Now he went on to his escape plans, listed in the order in which he would probably try them:
    1. Pretend sick—when food comes, moan and groan
    2. Grab his/her wrist through door slot when tray sits down
    3. Figure out way to get out of window. Lower cat?????????
    James Carlton replaced the picture on the wall and did some deep knee bends. It was important to try and keep fit. After that, he shadow-boxed around the room and over to the bed. He threw a few punches at the cat, all the while doing his fancy footwork. The gray cat rolled over on its back, made a few desultory swipes at his fist, got bored and rolled over on its side. James Carlton shadow-boxed off.
    He stopped when he heard the footsteps. At the sound of the tray clattering down on the floor, James Carlton put plan number one into action. He lay down on the floor and began to moan and groan horribly.

8
    T he Dirty Duck’s dining room—that somewhat more luxurious part of the pub called the Black Swan—was crowded with diners who were getting in drinks and dinner before the seven-thirty curtain. The terrace spilled customers onto its steps; in the saloon bar of the Duck there was barely room to lift a glass.
    Melrose interrupted his discourse on the Schoenberg theory to taste the wine their dark-haired waitress had just poured. When he nodded, she filled their glasses and whisked off.
    â€œThat’s the stupidest theory I’ve ever heard. Pass the mustard,” said Jury.
    â€œI haven’t finished. Then he says that maybe Shakespeare had to kill Marlowe, because if he didn’t, Marlowe would kill Shakespeare.” Melrose shoved the mustard pot toward Jury, who dotted his steak-and-kidney pie all over with it. “And then he keeps bringing up Shakespeare’s sonnets on this Ishi—”
    â€œWhat the hell’s that?”
    â€œHis computer.”
    â€œYou mean he’s carrying a computer around Stratford?”
    Melrose cut into his roast beef. “Of course. He couldn’t have a conversation without it. He says there are already computers that you can talk to. Just talk to. Maybe I could get one for Agatha. It could sit with her when she comes over to Ardry End for tea.”
    Jury smiled. “We haven’t met in three years.”
    â€œYou’ll keep it that way if you’re