Bloodhounds

by Peter Lovesey

  Rupert had been slightly thrown by Sid's observation. "The point I was about to make—I think—is that the sort of thing you people enjoy doesn't deserve to be called a crime novel. The only crime novelists worthy of the name are writers you've probably never heard of, let alone read. Ellroy, Vachss, Raymond—the ones bold enough to lift stones and show us the teeming activity underneath. Not country houses, but ghettos where young kids carry guns and murder for crack and even younger kids are sodomized. Corrupt cops taking bribes from pimps and beating confessions out of luckless Irish boys. Rape victims infected with AIDS. Squats littered with used syringes and verminous mattresses and roaches feeding on stale vomit."

  "I don't have the slightest desire to read about stale vomit," said Miss Chilmark. "You get enough of that on the television."

  "Precisely," said Rupert. "You switch channels and watch some sanitized story about a sweet old lady who makes nanas of the police through amateur detective work. The same formula week in, week out."

  "As a matter of fact, I hardly ever watch television these days," Miss Chilmark told him loftily. "I don't know why I still keep the set in my drawing room."

  Rupert's eyes glittered at the mention of Miss Chilmark's drawing room.

  Polly cleared her throat and said, "Did anyone wish to say any more about the classic detective story?"

  "Is that what we were discussing?" Milo said with a disdainful look at Rupert. "You could have fooled me. Yes, one of us obviously has to speak up for the story that challenges the reader, and as usual, it's me. I put it to you that the Golden Age writers between the wars brought the art of mystification to perfection. Regardless of what some of you were saying just now, I could name a dozen novels of that time, and probably more, that for the brilliance of their plotting stand comparison with anything written in the last half century. You may talk about the intricacy of a le Carre novel or the punching power of your hard-boiled Americans, but for me and for many others the test is whether the writer has the courage to lay out a mystery—a fair puzzle with clues—and say to the reader, 'Solve this if you can'—and then pull off a series of surprises topped by a stunning revelation at the end."

  "But at the cost of many of the other merits one looks for in a decent novel," said Jessica with more restraint than Rupert.

  "Such as . . . ?"

  "Character, pace, sharp dialogue, and, above all, credibility. The books you're talking about were excellent in their time, Milo, but they were never more than pleasant diversions."

  "Pastimes," suggested Shirley-Ann, and got a nod from Jessica.

  "That's a word you don't hear so much these days," said Polly abstractedly. "Pastimes. Nice word."

  Milo was not to be overridden. "Of course, the most basic and fascinating form of detective puzzle is the locked room mystery."

  Rupert groaned and slid down in his chair with his long legs extended.

  Milo ignored him. "The master of the locked room mystery was John Dickson Carr. The 'hermetically sealed chamber'— as he called it—was a feature of many of his finest novels. I don't know which of you has read The Hollow Man."

  Shirley-Ann gingerly raised a hand. The only other reaction came, surprisingly, from Sid, who gave a nod without removing his gaze from his flat cap.

  Milo said, "In that case, I shall definitely bring my copy with me next week. Quite apart from being one of the most entertaining detective stories ever written, The Hollow Man has a famous chapter devoted to locked room mysteries. Dr. Fell, Dickson Carr's sleuth, holds up the action to deliver a lecture on the subject that is a delight from beginning to end. Am I right?" He looked toward Sid, who gave another nod.

  "Yes, why not?" Milo went on. "I shall read it to you next week, and I'll warrant that Dr. Fell will make some converts among you, even if I can't."

  Rupert confided loudly to Shirley-Ann, "He's hooked on this hogwash, poor fellow. We'll never get him off it. Belongs to the Clue Klux Christie and the Daughters of Dorothy L. and the Stately Holmes Society. Quite mad. They think of themselves as scholars, these people. Believe me, my dear, the only fan club worth joining is the Sherlock Holmes Society of Australia. They meet once a year, get totally plastered, fire guns in the air and sing, 'Happy Birthday, Moriarty, you bastard, happy birthday to you!' "

  Shirley-Ann felt some sympathy for Milo. He had been outnumbered even before Rupert's arrival.

  Polly nudged the tiller again. The best way to focus the discussion, she said, might be to move on to the part of the evening when members spoke about particular books they had read recently. Miss Chilmark offered to begin, but the resourceful Polly remembered that Milo had somehow missed his turn at the previous meeting, so he went first. His announcement that his chosen text was The Hound of the Baskervilles was received with an enormous, deeply embarrassing yawn. For a moment no one escaped suspicion. Then the dog, Marlowe, lying on his side, yawned again, and there were suppressed giggles.

  Undaunted, Milo made a spirited claim that The Hound of the Baskervilles refuted the arguments leveled against the classic detective story. The power of Conan Doyle's setting and the drama of the plot far outweighed the whodunit puzzle, which was revealed long before the final chapters.

  Rupert went next, after first admitting that he, too, admired much of Conan Doyle's work, but found The Hound one of the least satisfying examples. He spoke about an Andrew Vachss novel, Blossom, based on a real case about the tracking of a sniper who murdered teenagers for sexual kicks. Vachss, he told the Bloodhounds, was a New York child abuse lawyer who drew on genuine case histories and whose books unashamedly crusaded on behalf of young victims. They were written in anger, with a missionary zeal.

  The evening was drawing on, Marlowe had given up yawning and was whimpering intermittently, and Miss Chilmark could be constrained no longer. Milo objected that they had often before been lectured on The Name of the Rose, but Rupert, his face radiant with mischief, pointed out that it was a multilayered book. He gave Marlowe a push, and the dog rolled on his back and went quiet. Miss Chilmark was allowed to continue on the understanding that she would talk about aspects she had not touched on before. To her credit, she had some insights to offer on Eco's use of the monastery library, symbolically and as a device to enhance the mystery. All this did take longer than anyone else's contribution, and as a consequence Shirley-Ann wasn't called upon.

  "Care for a drink?" Jessica asked her when the meeting closed. "The Moon and Sixpence is just across the street."

  She wasn't used to pubs, and said so. The only thing she knew about the Moon and Sixpence was that there was a plaque on the wall outside stating that it was the address from which the world's first postage stamp had been posted. This piece of philatelic history was open to dispute; there was another notice making a similar claim for the postal museum higher up the street. They were currently exhibiting the famous stamp, on special loan from its owner. Shirley-Ann knew next to nothing about stamp collecting, but she'd been highly amused one Sunday morning at discovering the conflicting statements. Trivia of that kind fascinated her.

  Jessica pointed out that it was still raining, so they might as well take shelter in the pub and see if it stopped. "That is, if your partner isn't expecting you, or something."

  Shirley-Ann was flattered to be asked. She'd placed Jessica in a more sophisticated league than her own. Obviously this chic creature had never once seen the inside of a charity shop, the source of most of Shirley-Ann's clothes. Jessica, she felt sure, was one of that select breed of women who dressed out of the classiest boutiques—where the sales staff started by showing you to a chair and serving you with coffee in bone china cups. It had emerged during the meeting that Jessica was assertive and resourceful and confident at dealing with men. Shirley-Ann told her that Bert wouldn't be back from the sports center for at least another hour.

  So they skirted the front of the church and nipped across Broad Street and through the cobbled passage to the Moon and Sixpence. "Some of the people here are far too h
earty for my taste," Jessica confided as they went in. "I prefer the crowd across the street in the Saracen's Head, but there's one drawback."

  "What's that?"

  "The Saracen's is Rupert's favorite watering hole. He dives straight in there after Bloodhounds. Rupert can be fun, but in small doses, as I imagine-his wives discovered."

  "Wives?"

  Jessica held up the four fingers and thumb of her right hand.

  Trade was.brisk in the bar of the Moon and Sixpence. It took them some time to get served. "You don't know who tt>blame most," said Jessica in a carrying voice. "The blokes piling in like a loose scrum or the barmaids who refuse to catch your eye." Promptly they were served with their halves of lager. Jessica spotted a corner table just vacated by a middle-aged couple.

  "I brought Sid here a couple of times," she told Shirley-Ann.

  "The quiet man?"

  "Yes, silent Sid. He's slightly better at communicating one-to-one. The poor guy's impossibly shy."

  Shirley-Ann said, "I noticed Polly is very gentle with him."

  "She mothers us all. What a bunch!"

  "Why did Sid join if it's such an ordeal?"

  "Someone told him he should get out and meet people, or he might easily flip his lid. He reads crime, so he found his way to us. It must have taken incredible guts to come down those stairs the first time."

  "What sort of crime?"

  "The lot, like you, everything from Wilkie Collins to Kinky Friedman. And he knows what he likes. He's quite an authority on John Dickson Carr, the writer Milo was on about."

  "Does he ever say anything about himself?"

  Jessica laughed. She had the whitest teeth possible. "Does he ever say anything? I think he might loosen up in thirty years if I worked at it. He does security work, I gather. Not Ml6. Just a glorified night watchman. That's when he gets his reading done, I expect."

  "He isn't married?"

  "Doubt it. I haven't asked." Jessica took a sip of lager and gave a penetrating look. "You said you aren't?"

  "Married?" Shirley-Ann shook her head. "Bert and I live together, and that's enough for the time being."

  "How did you meet?"

  "I joined a self-defense class he was running."

  "And he got through your defense?"

  She smiled. "No trouble. How about you?"

  A sigh from Jessica. "I'm cash and carried, as they say. Nine years. Barnaby works in ceramics. Well, that's the way he tells it, and it sounds impressive. Actually he makes those miniature houses. You know? About this high. They sell quite well. People will collect anything. They finish up with a whole village on top of the telly." She spoke of her husband without warmth, Shirley-Ann noted. She'd had no difficulty sounding warm over almost everything else she'd mentioned.

  "And do you have a job yourself?"

  Without conceit Jessica told her, "I manage an art gallery in Northumberland Place. It's called the Walsingham, but really it's mine."

  "Gracious. I've passed it hundreds of times."

  "Come in next time. I won't sell you anything, honest to God. I might even offer you a sherry."

  "You must know a lot about art."

  "Just certain things I specialize in."

  "Modern?"

  "Contemporary. You have to be careful over terms. I don't deal in abstracts, which is most people's idea of modern. I'm a shop window for some talented young artists who can actually manage to produce landscapes without zip-fasteners across the middle, or bits of newspaper pasted onto them."

  "Local artists?"

  "From all over."

  "Do you paint?"

  "God, no."

  "But you obviously know what's good."

  "It's ninety percent bluff, darling." Jessica bent her right hand and inspected her long fingernails. "What did you make of the Bloodhounds, then? A rum lot, aren't we?"

  "I enjoyed the discussion," Shirley-Ann answered with tact.

  "You'll get weary of it. We have that argument about escapism versus realism every week in some form or other. The puzzle versus the police procedural. Country houses versus mean streets. It's never resolved. Never will be. Milo and Rupert are at opposite poles. I'm somewhere between, I suppose, but I refuse to give support to either of them."

  "I expect it's amicable."

  Jessica dissented by letting out a breath and vibrating her lips at the same time. "I wouldn't count on it. They're capable of murder, both of them."

  Shirley-Ann laughed.

  "I'm serious."

  "You can't be."

  She put her hand lightly over Shirley-Ann's. "Darling, if ever I've met a group of potential murderers anywhere, it's the Bloodhounds. It wouldn't take much. They've read about killing, come to terms with it in their minds. I mean, aren't we all participating mentally when we read a crime novel?"

  "I'm not sure," said Shirley-Ann. "I've never thought of it like that myself."

  "We're the experts, we people who read them steadily. We know all the plots. We've read the gory bits. We know what the police look out for. If anyone could do the job and get away with it, one of us could."

  From across the room came a peal of laughter. Someone had reached the punch line of a joke. It seemed well timed. Shirley-Ann looked to see if Jessica was smiling, but her face was serious.

  Chapter Five

  On Thursday, another meeting was hastily arranged. Putting on his glasses and picking up a file, the new Assistant Chief Constable said, "Gentlemen, I'm sorry about the short notice, but this is a matter of some urgency. You'll recall that we had an encouraging report from Mr. Wigfull only last Monday evening on crime prevention here in Avon and Somerset." He nodded toward Wigfull.

  "Sir?" said Wigfull brightly.

  Peter Diamond, seated opposite, surprised himself by recalling another verse from long ago: "How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour." Wisely he didn't speak it aloud.

  The ACC was thinking along the same lines. "This has Bumblebee written all over it. Yesterday we received a tip-off that a major crime is being planned in Bath. A theft. Just out of interest, I wonder if any one of you could name the most valuable piece of property owned by the city."

  "A building?" said Tom Ray, the Chief Constable's staff officer.

  "Portable property."

  "Something in the Roman Baths, sir?" suggested Wigfull, his whiskers positively twitching with the challenge. "A gold torque?"

  "Not so ancient as that."

  "Precious metal in some form?"

  "No."

  "An antique object?"

  "You could describe it as such, but antiquity is not what makes it so valuable."

  "A work of art, then?"

  The ACC bestowed a smile on Wigfull. "You're almost there. Anyone else with a suggestion?"

  It was apparent from the faces around the table that there would be no takers except Wigfull.

  "I don't know a lot about art, sir. Where is it housed? In the Pump Room?"

  "The Victoria Gallery." Sensing astutely that he had reached the limit of his officers' knowledge of fine art, the ACC unveiled the truth. "It is Turner's painting of the Abbey. A watercolor. Anyone been to see it?"

  Total silence.

  He added, "It's worth over a million."

  "One picture?" said Tom Ray, rolling his eyes.

  "J.M.W Turner was probably the greatest painter our nation has ever produced. This was one of his earliest works, completed before he was twenty-one."

  "Hope it's insured," said Diamond.

  The ACC gave him a shocked look. "We're not giving anyone the chance to steal it."

  "Isn't the gallery guarded by Impregnable?"

  Impregnable was the private security firm entrusted with the safety and security of the mayor, the officers, and all the public buildings of Bath. Among the police, there was an unending series of jokes about Impregnable.

  "Yes, but that doesn't mean we abdicate our responsibility."

  "Good Lord, no," said Wigfull. "If the T
urner was taken, we'd get stuffed by the press, not Impregnable."

  "Who's Deep Throat?" asked Diamond.

  "Deep who?"

  "Your source, sir."

  "That's uncertain," the ACC admitted. "The tipoff reached us by an indirect route. A CID officer in Bristol— Sergeant Plant—seeking information on another matter, picked it up from one of his snouts."

  "I like it," said Diamond, his belly quivering with amusement.

  "What?"

  "Sergeant Plant, our plainclothes man. Who was the snout—Mr. Grass?"

  The ACC reddened ominously. "You'd do well to take this seriously, Superintendent. Plant is a promising young officer."

  Diamond made an effort to contain his amusement by thinking about the list of jobs waiting to be done in his new home in Weston. This meeting shouldn't drag on much longer if the Turner was the only topic.

  "The point is," the ACC resumed, "we have the opportunity to prevent a major theft. I'm ordering a review of security at the gallery. Mr. Wigfull, the Bumblebee team will be responsible. You can liaise with Impregnable. We're not trying to score points here. The painting is kept upstairs in the permanent collection. Check the windows, the roof, all points of access. See that the alarms are functioning and the guards are aware of the threat. Art thieves are among the most professional of all the criminal fraternity."

  "Right, sir," said Wigfull. "If you don't mind my asking, is the prime objective to scare them off?"

  The ACC hesitated. "Well, I see this as an exercise in crime prevention, don't you?"

  "Absolutely, but ..." His voice trailed away.