home?”
“He was terribly depressed about his wife’s death,” said George Droysen. “You remember she got killed last year, fell out of a window or something. He was quite shattered.”
“Well, that’s a possible motive,” said Ducane. “He didn’t leave a note, did he?”
“No,” said Octavian. “That’s a bit odd too. He was such a one for writing minutes about every damn thing. You’d think he’d have left us a minute about his own death!”
“If we could discover exactly why he did it, that should settle the Security point. It looks as if we shall have to find out a lot about Radeechy. Did you know him well, Biranne?”
“Scarcely knew him at all,” said Biranne. “We just met in the office, and not much even there. No, I didn’t know him.”
“I never saw much of him myself,” said Ducane, “but I confess I’m surprised about this Helen of Troy story. I shouldn’t have thought Radeechy was that sort of chap.”
“Any man is that sort of chap,” said Biranne, and giggled.
Ducane ignored him. “He seemed to me much more the cranky scientist type. The last conversation I had with him was about poltergeists. He had some theory about their being connected with the water table.”
“He communed with spirits,” said George Droysen.
“After all,” said Octavian, “spiritualism and magic and all that are connected with sex, always have been. Sex comes to most of us with a twist. Maybe that was just his twist.”
Ducane was not sure whether sex came to most of us with a twist. He could not help wondering whether it came to Octavian with one. “Has he any close family?” he asked.
“Apparently there’s no one except a sister who’s been living in Canada for years.”
“I’d better see the police,” said Ducane, “and look over whatever they’ve got, though I imagine that won’t amount to much. Would you see that I’m OK’d with Scotland Yard, Octavian? And perhaps you’d get back to Fleet Street, Droysen, and track down that story for us, and also find out who gave it to the press.”
“Back to the old pubs!” said Droysen. “It’s a pleasure.”
“You’d better write me an official letter, Octavian.”
“I’ve already drafted one.”
“Well, put into it, would you, that I can use my own discretion about not revealing anything which I think is not germane to the purpose of the enquiry.”
“I suppose that’s all right?” said Octavian dubiously.
“Of course it is. After all, we aren’t investigating poor Radeechy’s morals. What was his first name, by the way?”
“Joseph,” said Biranne.
“Are you going to Dorset, Octavian?”
“Certainly! What’s more, you are too. There’s no point in starting in until young Droysen has done his detective work.”
“All right. Ring me as soon as you get anything.” He gave Droysen the Trescombe telephone number. “Well, that’s all, friends.”
Ducane stood up. Droysen stood up too. Biranne remained seated, looking at Octavian with a deferential air.
Ducane cursed his own bad manners. He had become so used to being, in his friendship with Octavian, the acknowledgedsuperior that he had for a moment forgotten that this was Octavian’s room, Octavian’s meeting, and not his. But his chief feeling at that instant was hostility to Biranne. Once, many years ago, across a partition in a restaurant, Ducane had overheard Biranne talking about him, Biranne was speculating about whether Ducane was homosexual. Cursing himself too for the persistence of this memory, Ducane recalled the particular quality of Biranne’s mocking laughter.
Five
“H OW did they cook eggs in ancient Greece?” Edward Biranne asked his mother.
“Do you know, I’m not sure,” said Paula.
“What’s Greek for a poached egg?” said Henrietta.
“I don’t know. There are references to eating eggs but I can’t recall any references to cooking them.”
“Perhaps they ate them raw,” said Henrietta.
“Not very likely,”
“He was terribly depressed about his wife’s death,” said George Droysen. “You remember she got killed last year, fell out of a window or something. He was quite shattered.”
“Well, that’s a possible motive,” said Ducane. “He didn’t leave a note, did he?”
“No,” said Octavian. “That’s a bit odd too. He was such a one for writing minutes about every damn thing. You’d think he’d have left us a minute about his own death!”
“If we could discover exactly why he did it, that should settle the Security point. It looks as if we shall have to find out a lot about Radeechy. Did you know him well, Biranne?”
“Scarcely knew him at all,” said Biranne. “We just met in the office, and not much even there. No, I didn’t know him.”
“I never saw much of him myself,” said Ducane, “but I confess I’m surprised about this Helen of Troy story. I shouldn’t have thought Radeechy was that sort of chap.”
“Any man is that sort of chap,” said Biranne, and giggled.
Ducane ignored him. “He seemed to me much more the cranky scientist type. The last conversation I had with him was about poltergeists. He had some theory about their being connected with the water table.”
“He communed with spirits,” said George Droysen.
“After all,” said Octavian, “spiritualism and magic and all that are connected with sex, always have been. Sex comes to most of us with a twist. Maybe that was just his twist.”
Ducane was not sure whether sex came to most of us with a twist. He could not help wondering whether it came to Octavian with one. “Has he any close family?” he asked.
“Apparently there’s no one except a sister who’s been living in Canada for years.”
“I’d better see the police,” said Ducane, “and look over whatever they’ve got, though I imagine that won’t amount to much. Would you see that I’m OK’d with Scotland Yard, Octavian? And perhaps you’d get back to Fleet Street, Droysen, and track down that story for us, and also find out who gave it to the press.”
“Back to the old pubs!” said Droysen. “It’s a pleasure.”
“You’d better write me an official letter, Octavian.”
“I’ve already drafted one.”
“Well, put into it, would you, that I can use my own discretion about not revealing anything which I think is not germane to the purpose of the enquiry.”
“I suppose that’s all right?” said Octavian dubiously.
“Of course it is. After all, we aren’t investigating poor Radeechy’s morals. What was his first name, by the way?”
“Joseph,” said Biranne.
“Are you going to Dorset, Octavian?”
“Certainly! What’s more, you are too. There’s no point in starting in until young Droysen has done his detective work.”
“All right. Ring me as soon as you get anything.” He gave Droysen the Trescombe telephone number. “Well, that’s all, friends.”
Ducane stood up. Droysen stood up too. Biranne remained seated, looking at Octavian with a deferential air.
Ducane cursed his own bad manners. He had become so used to being, in his friendship with Octavian, the acknowledgedsuperior that he had for a moment forgotten that this was Octavian’s room, Octavian’s meeting, and not his. But his chief feeling at that instant was hostility to Biranne. Once, many years ago, across a partition in a restaurant, Ducane had overheard Biranne talking about him, Biranne was speculating about whether Ducane was homosexual. Cursing himself too for the persistence of this memory, Ducane recalled the particular quality of Biranne’s mocking laughter.
Five
“H OW did they cook eggs in ancient Greece?” Edward Biranne asked his mother.
“Do you know, I’m not sure,” said Paula.
“What’s Greek for a poached egg?” said Henrietta.
“I don’t know. There are references to eating eggs but I can’t recall any references to cooking them.”
“Perhaps they ate them raw,” said Henrietta.
“Not very likely,”
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