The Dirty Duck by Martha Grimes Page B

smart. She’ll track you down, never fear. When she can spare time from the Randolph Biggets.”
    â€œWho’re they?” Jury held out his glass for a refill.
    â€œOur American cousins. Hordes of them. Fortunately, I’ve managed to avoid them. I’ve taken rooms at the Falstaff and left dear Agatha and the Biggets to the Hathaway. Americans go for it; mock-Tudor and mud-and-wattle.”
    Jury smiled. “Not quite. Very expensive place. ‘Rooms at the Falstaff’? How many did you take?”
    â€œAll of them.” At Jury’s raised eyebrow, he added, “Well, I had to, didn’t I? Otherwise, there’d be Biggets spilling out of all the windows. I simply told Agatha I’d got the last room. Which I had, in a manner of speaking. There’re only eight or nine, anyway. Are you going to do anything else about this boy who’s gone missing?”
    â€œThere’s not much else I can do at the moment. I went with his sister, Penny, to Shakespeare’s birthplace. He was supposedly on his way there when he disappeared—but no one remembered seeing him. Anyway, it’s Lasko’s case.”
    They ate in silence for a while. Jury’s mind turned from missing boys to other matters. “You never met Lady Kennington, did you?” He doubted his overly casual tone would fool Melrose Plant.
    â€œNo. I only saw her that one time, you remember. Attractive woman.”
    â€œI suppose so. She’s living in Stratford.”
    â€œOh? You know, she reminded me of Vivian Rivington.”
    It hadn’t occurred to Jury, but Plant was right. There was a resemblance between the two women. Plant was looking at him rather too closely; Jury looked away. The thought of Vivian Rivington still nettled. “Have you heard from her? Is she still in Italy?”
    â€œI get some sort of postcard of a gondola now and again. She said something about returning to England.”
    There was a short silence. “Pass the bread,” said Jury.
    â€œHow romantic. I mention Vivian and you say, ‘Pass the bread.’ ” Melrose shoved the basket across to him.
    â€œOh, God,” said Jury, looking toward the door.
    Melrose followed the direction of Jury’s gaze. The dining room was thinning out, as one table after another left for the theatre. Standing in the doorway was a rather corpulent, sad man who was looking their way. He said something to the hostess and threaded his way through the departing diners.
    â€œSpeak of the devil—” Jury tossed down his napkin.
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    Detective Sergeant Sammy Lasko stood there looking, Jury thought, insincerely apologetic. “Trouble, Richard.”
    â€œSit down and have some wine or coffee. You look beat.”
    Lasko shook his head. “No time. Looks good though,” he added, peering longingly at their plates.
    â€œIt was until you walked in. Something else about the Farraday kid?”
    Sad shake of the head as Lasko turned his bowler hat in his hands. “ ’Fraid not. It’s a little worse.”
    Plant and Jury exchanged looks. “I daresay I’ll be attending the theatre by myself this evening,” said Melrose, glumly.
    â€œLook, Sammy . . .” Jury sighed, giving in. “What is it this time?”
    â€œMurder,” said Lasko, still eyeing the cut of beef.
    They both stared at Lasko, and then at one another. Finally, Jury said, as he got up. “Give me my ticket and meet me in the bar during intermission.”
    Sam Lasko looked at Jury reproachfully. “I don’t think we’ll have the answers by the middle of Hamlet.”
    â€œNeither did Hamlet. Come on, let’s go.”
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    â€œGwendolyn Bracegirdle,” said Lasko, looking down at the spot in the ladies’ toilet where the body had recently lain. He handed the pictures taken by the police photographer to