Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency Box Set

by Douglas Adams

  “Very strange people, physicists,” he said as soon as they were outside again. “In my experience the ones who aren’t actually dead are in some way very ill. Well, the afternoon presses on, and I’m sure that you are keen to get away and write your article, Miss, er. I certainly have things urgently awaiting my attention and patients awaiting my care. So, if you have no more questions—”

  “There is just one thing, Mr. Standish.” Kate decided, to hell with it. “We need to emphasize that it’s up to the minute. Perhaps if you could spare a couple more minutes we could go and see whoever is your most recent admission.”

  “I think that would be a little tricky. Our last admission was about a month ago, and she died of pneumonia two weeks after admission.”

  “Oh, ah. Well, perhaps that isn’t so thrilling. So. No new admissions in the last couple of days. No admissions of anyone particularly large or blond or Nordic, with a fur coat or a sledgehammer perhaps. I mean, just for instance.” An inspiration struck her. “A re-admission perhaps?”

  Standish regarded her with deepening suspicion.

  “Miss, er—”

  “Schechter.”

  “Miss Schechter, I begin to get the impression that your interests in the hospital are not—”

  He was interrupted at that moment by the swing doors just behind them in the corridor being pushed open. He looked up to see who it was, and as he did so his manner changed.

  He motioned Kate sharply to stand aside while a large trolley bed was wheeled through the doors by an orderly. A sister and another nurse followed in attendance and gave the impression that they were the entourage in a procession rather than merely nurses about their normal business.

  The occupant of the trolley was a delicately frail old man with skin like finely veined parchment.

  The rear section of the trolley was inclined upward at a very slight angle so that the old man could survey the world as it passed him, and he surveyed it with a kind of quiet, benevolent horror. His mouth hung gently open and his head lolled very slightly, so that every slightest bump in the progress of the trolley caused it to roll a little to one side or the other. Yet in spite of his fragile listlessness, the air he emanated was that of very quietly, very gently, owning everything.

  It was the one eye which conveyed this. Each thing it rested on, whether it was the view through a window or the nurse who was holding back the door so that the trolley could move through it without impediment, or whether it was on Mr. Standish, who suddenly was all obsequious charm and obeisance, all seemed instantly gathered up into the domain ruled by that eye.

  Kate wondered for a moment how it was that eyes conveyed such an immense amount of information about their owners. They were, after all, merely spheres of white gristle. They hardly changed as they got older, apart from getting a bit redder and a bit runnier. The iris opened and closed a bit, but that was all. Where did all this flood of information come from? Particularly in the case of a man with only one of them and only a sealed-up flap of skin in place of the other.

  She was interrupted in this line of thought by the fact that at that instant the eye in question moved on from Standish and settled on her. The grip it exerted was so startling that she almost yelped.

  With the frailest of faint motions the old man signaled to the orderly who was pushing the trolley to pause. The trolley drew to a halt and when the noise of its rolling wheels was stilled there was, for a moment, no other noise to be heard other than the distant hum of an elevator.

  Then the elevator stopped.

  Kate returned his look with a little smiling frown as if to say, “Sorry, do I know you?” and then wondered to herself if in fact she did. There was some fleeting familiarity about his face, but she couldn’t quite catch it. She was impressed to notice that though this was only a trolley bed he was in, the bed linen that his hands lay on was real linen, freshly laundered and ironed.

  Mr. Standish coughed slightly and said, “Miss, er, this is one of our most valued and, er, cherished patients, Mr.—”

  “Are you quite comfortable, Mr. Odwin?” interrupted the Sister helpfully. But there was no need. This was one patient whose name Standish most certainly knew.

  Odin quieted her with the slightest of gestures.

  “Mr. Odwin,” said Standish, “this is Miss, er—”

  Kate was about to introduce herself once more when she was suddenly taken completely by surprise.

  “I know exactly who she is,” said Odin in a quiet but distinct voice, and there was in his eye for a moment the sense of an aerosol looking meaningfully at a wasp.

  She tried to be very formal and English.

  “I’m afraid,” she said stiffly, “that you have the advantage of me.”

  “Yes,” said Odin.

  He gestured to the orderly, and together they resumed their leisurely passage down the corridor. Glances were exchanged between Standish and the Sister, and then Kate was startled to notice that there was someone else standing in the corridor there with them.

  He had not, presumably, appeared there by magic. He had merely stood still when the trolley moved on, and his height, or rather his lack of it, was such that he had simply hitherto been hidden behind it.

  Things had been much better when he had been hidden.

  There are some people you like immediately, some whom you think you might learn to like in the fullness of time, and some that you simply want to push away from you with a sharp stick. It was instantly apparent into which category, for Kate, the person of Toe Rag fell. He grinned and stared at her, or rather, appeared to stare at some invisible fly darting round her head.

  He ran up, and before she could prevent him, grabbed hold of her right hand in his and shook it wildly up and down.

  “I, too, have the advantage of you, Miss Schechter,” he said, and gleefully skipped away up the corridor

  12

  THE LARGE, SERIOUS-LOOKING gray van moved smoothly down the driveway, emerged through the stone gates and dipped sedately as it turned off the gravel and onto the asphalt of the public road. The road was a windy country lane lined with the wintry silhouettes of leafless oaks and dead elms. Gray clouds were piled high as pillows in the sky. The van made its stately progress away down the lane and soon was lost among its further twists and turns.

  A few minutes later the yellow Citroën made its less stately appearance between the gates. It turned its splayed wheels up onto the camber of the lane and set off at a slow but difficult rate in the same direction.

  Kate was rattled.

  The last few minutes had been rather unpleasant. Standish was clearly an oddly behaved man at the best of times, but after their encounter with the patient named Odwin, he had turned unequivocally hostile. It was the frightening hostility of one who was himself frightened—of what, Kate did not know.

  Who was she? he had demanded to know. How had she wheedled a reference out of Alan Franklin, a respected man in the profession? What was she after? What—and this seemed to be the big one—had she done to arouse the disapprobation of Mr. Odwin?

  She held the car grimly to the road as it negotiated the bends with considerable difficulty and the straight sections with only slightly less. The car had landed her in court on one occasion when one of its front wheels had sailed off on a little expedition of its own and nearly caused an accident. The police witness in court had referred to her beloved Citroën as “the alleged car” and the name had subsequently stuck. She was particularly fond of the alleged car for many reasons. If one of its doors, for instance, fell off, she could put it back on herself, which is more than you could say for a BMW.

  She wondered if she looked as pale and wan as she felt, but the rearview mirror was rattling around under the seat so she was spared the knowledge.

  Standish himself had become quite white and shaky at the very idea of anybody crossing Mr. Odwin and had dismissed out of hand Kate’s attempts to deny that she knew anything of him at all. If that were the case, he had demanded of
her, why then had Mr. Odwin made it perfectly clear that he knew her? Was she accusing Mr. Odwin of being a liar? If she was, then she should have a care for herself.

  Kate did not know. The encounter with Mr. Odwin was completely inexplicable to her. But she could not deny to herself that the man packed some kind of punch. When he looked at you you stayed looked at. But beneath the disturbing quality of his steady gaze had lain some even more disturbing undercurrents. They were more disturbing because they were undercurrents of weakness and fear.

  And as for the other creature . . .

  Clearly he was the cause of the stories that had arisen recently in the more extremely abhorrent sectors of the tabloid press about there being “Something Nasty in the Woodshead.” The stories had, of course, been offensive and callously insensitive and had largely been ignored by everybody in the country except for those very few millions who were keen on offensive and callously insensitive things.

  The stories had claimed that people in the area had been “terrorized” by some repulsively deformed “goblinlike” creature who regularly broke out of the Woodshead and committed an impressively wide range of unspeakable acts.

  Like most people, Kate had assumed, insofar as she had thought about it at all, that what had actually happened was that some poor bewildered mental patient had wandered out of the grounds and given a couple of passing old ladies a bit of a turn, and that the slavering hacks of Wapping had done the rest. Now she was a little more shaky and a little less sure.

  He—it—had known her name.

  What could she make of that?

  What she made of it was a wrong turning. In her preoccupation she missed the turning that would take her onto the main road back to London, and she then had to work out what to do about it. She could simply do a three-point turn and go back, but it was a long time since she had last put the car into reverse gear, and she was frankly a bit nervous about how it would take to it.

  She tried taking the next two right turns to see if that would set her straight, but she had no great hopes of this actually working, and was right not to have. She drove on for two or three miles, knowing that she was on the wrong road, but at least, judging from the position of the lighter gray smear in the gray clouds, going in the right direction.

  After a while she settled down to this new route. A couple of signposts she passed made it clear to her that she was merely taking the B route back to London now, which she was perfectly happy to do. If she had thought about it in advance, she would probably have chosen to do so anyway in preference to the busy trunk road.

  The trip had been a total failure, and she would have done far better simply to have stayed soaking in the bath all afternoon. The whole experience had been thoroughly disturbing, verging on the frightening, and she had drawn a complete blank as far as her actual objective was concerned. It was bad enough having an objective that she could hardly bring herself to admit to, without having it completely fall apart on her as well. A sense of stale futility gradually closed in on her along with the general grayness of the sky.

  She wondered if she was going very slightly mad. Her life seemed to have drifted completely out of her control in the last few days, and it was distressing to realize just how fragile her grip was when it could so easily be shattered by a relatively minor thunderbolt or meteorite or whatever it was.

  The word “thunderbolt” seemed to have arrived in the middle of that thought without warning and she didn’t know what to make of it, so she just let it lie there at the bottom of her mind, like the towel lying on her bathroom floor that she hadn’t been bothered to pick up.

  She longed for some sun to break through. The miles ground along under her wheels, the clouds ground her down, and she found herself increasingly thinking of penguins. At last she felt she could stand it no more and decided that a few minutes’ walk was what she needed to shake her out of her mood.

  She stopped the car at the side of the road, and the elderly Jaguar which had been following her for the last seventeen miles ran straight into the back of hers, which worked just as well.

  13

  WITH A DELICIOUS shock of rage Kate leaped, invigorated, out of her car and ran to harangue the driver of the other car, who was, in turn, leaping out of his in order to harangue her.

  “Why don’t you look where you’re going?” she yelled at him. He was a rather overweight man who had been driving wearing a long leather coat and a rather ugly red hat, despite the discomfort this obviously involved. Kate warmed to him for it.

  “Why don’t I look where I’m going?” he replied heatedly. “Don’t you look in your rearview mirror?”

  “No,” said Kate, putting her fists on her hips.

  “Oh,” said her adversary. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s under the seat.”

  “I see,” he replied grimly. “Thank you for being so frank with me. Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact,” said Kate. She said it with vim and hauteur.

  “Is he any good?” said the man in the hat. “I’m going to need one. Mine’s popped into prison for a while.”

  “Well, you certainly can’t have mine.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t be absurd. It would be a clear conflict of interest.”

  Her adversary folded his arms and leaned back against the bonnet of his car. He took his time to survey the surroundings. The lane was growing dim as the early winter evening began to settle on the land. He then leaned into his car to turn on his hazard warning indicators. The rear amber lights winked prettily on the scrubby grass of the roadside. The front lights were buried in the rear of Kate’s Citroën and were in no fit state to wink.

  He resumed his leaning posture and looked Kate up and down appraisingly.

  “You are a driver,” he said, “and I use the word in the loosest possible sense, i.e., meaning merely somebody who occupies the driving seat of what I will for the moment call—but I use the term strictly without prejudice—a car while it is proceeding along the road, of stupendous, I would even say verging on the superhuman, lack of skill. Do you catch my drift?”

  “No.”

  “I mean you do not drive well. Do you know you’ve been all over the road for the last seventeen miles?”

  “Seventeen miles!” exclaimed Kate. “Have you been following me?”

  “Only up to a point,” said Dirk. “I’ve tried to stay on this side of the road.”

  “I see. Well, thank you, in turn, for being so frank with me. This, I need hardly tell you, is an outrage. You’d better get yourself a damn good lawyer, because mine’s going to stick red-hot skewers in him.”

  “Perhaps I should get myself a kebab instead.”

  “You look as if you’ve had quite enough kebabs. May I ask you why you were following me?”

  “You looked as if you knew where you were going. To begin with, at least. For the first hundred yards or so.”

  “What the hell’s it got to do with you where I was going?”

  “Navigational technique of mine.”

  Kate narrowed her eyes.

  She was about to demand a full and instant explanation of this preposterous remark when a passing white Ford Sierra slowed down beside them.

  The driver wound down the window and leaned out.

  “Had a crash then?” he shouted at them.

  “Yes.”

  “Ha!” he said and drove on.

  A second or two later a Peugeot stopped by them.

  “Who was that just now?” the driver asked them, in reference to the previous driver who had just stopped.

  “I don’t know,” said Dirk.

  “Oh,” said the driver. “You look as if you’ve had a crash of some sort.”

  “Yes,” said Dirk.

  “Thought so,” said the driver and drove on.

  “You don’t get the same quality of passersby these days, do you?” said Dirk to Kate.

  “You get hit by some real dogs, too,�
� said Kate. “I still want to know why you were following me. You realize that it’s hard for me not to see you in the role of an extremely sinister sort of a person.”

  “That’s easily explained,” said Dirk. “Usually I am. On this occasion, however, I simply got lost. I was forced to take evasive action by a large gray oncoming van which took a proprietorial view of the road. I only avoided it by nipping down a side lane in which I was then unable to reverse. A few turnings later and I was thoroughly lost. There is a school of thought which says that you should consult a map on these occasions, but to such people I merely say, ‘Ha! What if you have no map to consult? What if you have a map but it’s of the Dordogne?’ My own strategy is to find a car, or the nearest equivalent, which looks as if it knows where it’s going and follow it. I rarely end up where I was intending to go, but often I end up somewhere that I needed to be. So what do you say to that?”

  “Piffle.”

  “A robust response. I salute you.”

  “I was going to say that I do the same thing myself sometimes, but I’ve decided not to admit that yet.”

  “Very wise,” said Dirk. “You don’t want to give away too much at this point. Play it enigmatic is my advice.”

  “I don’t want your advice. Where were you trying to get before suddenly deciding that driving seventeen miles in the opposite direction would help you get there?”

  “A place called the Woodshead.”

  “Ah, the mental hospital.”

  “You know it?”

  “I’ve been driving away from it for the last seventeen miles and I wish it was further. Which ward will you be in? I need to know where to send the repair bill.”

  “They don’t have wards,” said Dirk. “And I think they would be distressed to hear you call it a mental hospital.”

  “Anything that distresses ’em is fine by me.”

  Dirk looked about him.

  “A fine evening,” he said.