Текст книги "Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency"
Автор книги: Douglas Noel Adams
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
There seemed to be a great eruption of emotion in the air near to him. A wave of something surged through the room, causing the furniture to flutter in its wake. Dirk watched where it seemed to go, towards a shelf near the door on which, he suddenly realised, stood Richard's own telephone-answering machine. The machine started to jiggle fitfully where it sat, but then sat still as Dirk approached it. Dirk reached out slowly and calmly and pushed the button which set the machine to Answer.
The disturbance in the air then passed back through the room to Richard's long desk where two old-fashioned rotary-dial telephones nestled among the piles of paper and micro floppy disks. Dirk guessed what would happen, but elected to watch rather than to intervene.
One of the telephone receivers toppled off its cradle. Dirk could hear the dialling tone. Then, slowly and with obvious difficulty, the dial began to turn. It moved unevenly round, further round, slower and slower, and then suddenly slipped back.
There was a moment's pause. Then the receiver rests went down and up again to get a new dialling tone. The dial began to turn again, but creaking even more fitfully than the last time.
Again it slipped back.
There was a longer pause this time, and then the entire process was repeated once more.
When the dial slipped back a third time there was a sudden explosion of fury – the whole phone leapt into the air and hurtled across the room. The receiver cord wrapped itself round an Anglepoise lamp on the way and brought it crashing down in a tangle of cables, coffee cups and floppy disks. A pile of books erupted off the desk and on to the floor.
The figure of Sergeant Gilks stood stony-faced in the doorway.
«I'm going to come in again,» he said, «and when I do, I don't want to see anything of that kind going on whatsoever. Is that understood?»
He turned and disappeared.
Dirk leapt for the cassette player and hit the Rewind button. Then he turned and hissed at the empty air, «I don't know who you are, but I can guess. If you want my help, don't you ever embarrass me like that again!»
A few moments later, Gilks walked in again. «Ah, there you are,» he said.
He surveyed the wreckage with an even gaze. «I'll pretend I can't see any of this, so that I won't have to ask any questions the answers to which would, I know, only irritate me.»
Dirk glowered.
In the moment or two of silence that followed, a slight ticking whirr could be heard which caused the sergeant to look sharply at the cassette player.
«What's that tape doing?»
«Rewinding.»
«Give it to me.»
The tape reached the beginning and stopped as Dirk reached it. He took it out and handed it to Gilks.
«Irritatingly, this seems to put your client completely in the clear,» said the sergeant. «Cellnet have confirmed that the last call made from the car was at 8.46 pm last night, at which point your client was lightly dozing in front of several hundred witnesses. I say witnesses, in fact they were mostly students, but we will probably be forced to assume that they can't all be lying.»
«Good,» said Dirk, «well, I'm glad that's all cleared up.»
«We never thought he had actually done it, of course. Simply didn't fit. But you know us – we like to get results. Tell him we still want to ask him some questions, though.»
«I shall be sure to mention it if I happen to run into him.»
«You just do that little thing.»
«Well, I shan't detain you any longer, Sergeant,» said Dirk, airily waving at the door.
«No, but I shall bloody detain you if you're not out of here in thirty seconds, Cjelli. I don't know what you're up to, but if I can possibly avoid finding out I shall sleep easier in my office. Out.»
«Then I shall bid you good day, Sergeant. I won't say it's been a pleasure because it hasn't.»
Dirk swept out of the room, and made his way out of the flat, noting with sorrow that where there had been a large chesterfield sofa wedged magnificently in the staircase, there was now just a small, sad pile of sawdust.
With a jerk Michael Wenton-Weakes looked up from his book.
His mind suddenly was alive with purpose. Thoughts, images, memories, intentions, all crowded in upon him, and the more they seemed to contradict each other the more they seemed to fit together, to pair and settle.
The match at last was perfect, the teeth of one slowly aligned with the teeth of another.
A pull and they were zipped.
Though the waiting had seemed an eternity of eternities when it was filled with failure, with fading waves of weakness, with feeble groping and lonely impotence, the match once made cancelled it all. Would cancel it all. Would undo what had been so disastrously done.
Who thought that? It did not matter, the match was made, the match was perfect.
Michael gazed out of the window across the well-manicured Chelsea street and did not care whether what he saw were slimy things with legs or whether they were all Mr A. K. Ross. What mattered was what they had stolen and what they would be compelled to return. Ross now lay in the past. What he was now concerned with lay still further in it.
His large soft cowlike eyes returned to the last few lines of «Kubla Khan», which he had just been reading. The match was made, the zip was pulled.
He closed the book and put it in his pocket.
His path back now was clear. He knew what he must do. It only remained to do a little shopping and then do it.
CHAPTER 22
«You? Wanted for murder? Richard what are you talking about?»
The telephone wavered in Richard's hand. He was holding it about half an inch away from his ear anyway because it seemed that somebody had dipped the earpiece in some chow mein recently, but that wasn't so bad. This was a public telephone so it was clearly an oversight that it was working at all. But Richard was beginning to feel as if the whole world had shifted about half an inch away from him, like someone in a deodorant commercial.
«Gordon,» said Richard, hesitantly, «Gordon's been murdered – hasn't he?»
Susan paused before she answered.
«Yes, Richard,» she said in a distressed voice, «but no one thinks you did it. They want to question you of course, but» —
«So there are no police with you now?»
«No, Richard,» insisted Susan, «Look, why don't you come here?»
«And they're not out searching for me?»
«No! Where on earth did you get the idea that you were wanted for – that they thought you had done it?»
«Er – well, this friend of mine told me.»
«Who?»
«Well, his name is Dirk Gently.»
«You've never mentioned him. Who is he? Did he say anything else?»
«He hypnotised me and, er, made me jump in the canal, and, er, well, that was it really» —
There was a terribly long pause at the other end.
«Richard,» said Susan at last with the sort of calmness that comes over people when they realise that however bad things may seem to be, there is absolutely no reason why they shouldn't simply get worse and worse, «come over here. I was going to say I need to see you, but I think you need to see me.»
«I should probably go to the police.»
«Go to the police later. Richard, please. A few hours won't make any difference. I… I can hardly even think. Richard, it's so awful. It would just help if you were here. Where are you?»
«OK,» said Richard, «I'll be with you in about twenty minutes.»
«Shall I leave the window open or would you like to try the door?» she said with a sniff.
CHAPTER 23
«No, please,» said Dirk, restraining Miss Pearce's hand from opening a letter from the Inland Revenue, «there are wilder skies than these.»
He had emerged from a spell of tense brooding in his darkened office and there was an air of excited concentration about him. It had taken his actual signature on an actual salary cheque to persuade Miss Pearce to forgive him for the latest unwarrantable extravagance with which he had returned to the office and he felt that just to sit there blatantly opening letters from the taxman was to take his magnanimous gesture in entirely the wrong spirit.
She put the envelope aside.
«Come!» he said. «I have something I wish you to see. I shall observe your reactions with the very greatest of interest.»
He bustled back into his own office and sat at his desk.
She followed him in patiently and sat opposite, pointedly ignoring the new unwarrantable extravagance sitting on the desk.
The flashy brass plaque for the door had stirred her up pretty badly but the silly phone with big red push buttons she regarded as being beneath contempt. And she certainly wasn't going to do anything rash like smile until she knew for certain that the cheque wouldn't bounce.
The last time he signed a cheque for her he cancelled it before the end of the day, to prevent it, as he explained, «falling into the wrong hands». The wrong hands presumably, being those of her bank manager.
He thrust a piece of paper across the desk.
She picked it up and looked at it. Then she turned it round and looked at it again. She looked at the other side and then she put it down.
«Well?» demanded Dirk. «What do you make of it? Tell me!»
Miss Pearce sighed.
«It's a lot of meaningless squiggles done in blue felt tip on a piece of typing paper,» she said. «It looks like you did them yourself.»
«No!» barked Dirk, «Well, yes,» he admitted, «but only because I believe that it is the answer to the problem!»
«What problem?»
«The problem,» insisted Dirk, slapping the table, «of the conjuring trick! I told you!»
«Yes, Mr Gently, several times. I think it was just a conjuring trick. You see them on the telly.»
«With this difference – that this one was completely impossible!»
«Couldn't have been impossible or he wouldn't have done it. Stands to reason.»
«Exactly!» said Dirk excitedly. «Exactly! Miss Pearce, you are a lady of rare perception and insight.»
«Thank you, sir, can I go now?»
«Wait! I haven't finished yet! Not by a long way, not by a bucketful! You have demonstrated to me the depth of your perception and insight, allow me to demonstrate mine!»
Miss Pearce slumped patiently in her seat.
«I think,» said Dirk, «you will be impressed. Consider this. An intractable problem. In trying to find the solution to it I was going round and round in little circles in my mind, over and over the same maddening things. Clearly I wasn't going to be able to think of anything else until I had the answer, but equally clearly I would have to think of something else if I was ever going to get the answer. How to break this circle? Ask me how.»
«How?» said Miss Pearce obediently, but without enthusiasm.
«By writing down what the answer is!» exclaimed Dirk. «And here it is!» He slapped the piece of paper triumphantly and sat back with a satisfied smile.
Miss Pearce looked at it dumbly.
«With the result,» continued Dirk, «that I am now able to turn my mind to fresh and intriguing problems, like, for instance…»
He took the piece of paper, covered with its aimless squiggles and doodlings, and held it up to her.
«What language,» he said in a low, dark voice, «is this written in?»
Miss Pearce continued to look at it dumbly.
Dirk flung the piece of paper down, put his feet up on the table, and threw his head back with his hands behind it.
«You see what I have done?» he asked the ceiling, which seemed to flinch slightly at being yanked so suddenly into the conversation. «I have transformed the problem from an intractably difficult and possibly quite insoluble conundrum into a mere linguistic puzzle. Albeit,» he muttered, after a long moment of silent pondering, «an intractably difficult and possibly insoluble one.»
He swung back to gaze intently at Janice Pearce.
«Go on,» he urged, «say that it's insane – but it might just work!»
Janice Pearce cleared her throat.
«It's insane,» she said, «trust me.»
Dirk turned away and sagged sideways off his chair, much as the sitter for The Thinker probably did when Rodin went off to be excused.
He suddenly looked profoundly tired and depressed.
«I know,» he said in a low, dispirited voice, «that there is something profoundly wrong somewhere. And I know that I must go to Cambridge to put it right. But I would feel less fearful if I knew what it was…»
«Can I get on now, please, then?» said Miss Pearce.
Dirk looked up at her glumly.
«Yes,» he said with a sigh, «but just – just tell me» – he flicked at the piece of paper with his fingertips – «what do you think of this, then?»
«Well, I think it's childish,» said Janice Pearce, frankly.
«But – but – but!» said Dirk thumping the table in frustration.
«Don't you understand that we need to be childish in order to understand? Only a child sees things with perfect clarity, because it hasn't developed all those filters which prevent us from seeing things that we don't expect to see?»
«Then why don't you go and ask one?»
«Thank you, Miss Pearce,» said Dirk reaching for his hat, «once again you have rendered me an inestimable service for which I am profoundly grateful.»
He swept out.
CHAPTER 24
The weather began to bleaken as Richard made his way to Susan's flat. The sky which had started out with such verve and spirit in the morning was beginning to lose its concentration and slip back into its normal English condition, that of a damp and rancid dish cloth. Richard took a taxi, which got him there in a few minutes.
«They should all be deported,» said the taxi driver as they drew to a halt.
«Er, who should?» said Richard, who realised he hadn't been listening to a word the driver said.
«Er» – said the driver, who suddenly realised he hadn't been listening either, «er, the whole lot of them. Get rid of the whole bloody lot, that's what I say. And their bloody newts,» he added for good measure.
«Expect you're right,» said Richard, and hurried into the house.
Arriving at the front door of her flat he could hear from within the sounds of Susan's cello playing a slow, stately melody. He was glad of that, that she was playing. She had an amazing emotional self sufficiency and control provided she could play her cello. He had noticed an odd and extraordinary thing about her relationship with the music she played. If ever she was feeling emotional or upset she could sit and play some music with utter concentration and emerge seeming fresh and calm.
The next time she played the same music, however, it would all burst from her and she would go completely to pieces.
He let himself in as quietly as possible so as not to disturb her concentration.
He tiptoed past the small room she practised in, but the door was open so he paused and looked at her, with the slightest of signals that she shouldn't stop. She was looking pale and drawn but gave him a flicker of a smile and continued bowing with a sudden intensity.
With an impeccable timing of which it is very rarely capable the sun chose that moment to burst briefly through the gathering rainclouds, and as she played her cello a stormy light played on her and on the deep old brown of the wood of the instrument. Richard stood transfixed.
The turmoil of the day stood still for a moment and kept a respectful distance.
He didn't know the music, but it sounded like Mozart and he remembered her saying she had some Mozart to learn. He walked quietly on and sat down to wait and listen.
Eventually she finished the piece, and there was about a minute of silence before she came through. She blinked and smiled and gave him a long, trembling hug, then released herself and put the phone back on the hook. It usually got taken off when she was practising.
«Sorry,» she said, «I didn't want to stop.» She briskly brushed away a tear as if it was a slight irritation. «How are you Richard?»
He shrugged and gave her a bewildered look. That seemed about to cover it.
«And I'm going to have to carry on, I'm afraid,» said Susan with a sigh «I'm sorry. I've just been…» She shook her head. «Who would do it?»
«I don't know. Some madman. I'm not sure that it matters who.»
«No,» she said. «Look, er, have you had any lunch?»
«No. Susan, you keep playing and I'll see what's in the fridge. We can talk about it all over some lunch.»
Susan nodded.
«All right,» she said, «except…»
«Yes?»
«Well, just for the moment I don't really want to talk about Gordon.
Just till it sinks in. I feel sort of caught out. It would be easier if I'd been closer to him, but I wasn't and I'm sort of embarrassed by not having a reaction ready. Talking about it would be all right except that you have to use the past tense and that's what's…»
She clung to him for a moment and then quieted herself with a sigh.
«There's not much in the fridge at the moment,» she said, «some yoghurt, I think, and a jar of roll-mop herrings you could open. I'm sure you'll be able to muck it up if you try, but it's actually quite straightforward. The main trick is not to throw them all over the floor or get jam on them.»
She gave him a hug, a kiss and a glum smile and then retreated back to her music room.
The phone rang and Richard answered it.
«Hello?» he said. There was nothing, just a faint sort of windy noise on the line.
«Hello?» he said again, waited, shrugged and put the phone back down.
«Was there anybody there?» called Susan.
«No, no one,» said Richard.
«That's happened a couple of times,» said Susan. «I think it's a sort of minimalist heavy breather.» She resumed playing.
Richard went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He was less of a health-conscious eater than Susan and was therefore less than thrilled by what he found there, but he managed to put some roll-mop herrings, some yoghurt, some rice and some oranges on a tray without difficulty and tried not to think that a couple of fat hamburgers and fries would round it off nicely.
He found a bottle of white wine and carried it all through to the small dining table.
After a minute or two Susan joined him there. She was at her most calm and composed, and after a few mouthsful she asked him about the canal.
Richard shook his head in bemusement and tried to explain about it, and about Dirk.
«What did you say his name was?» said Susan with a frown when he had come, rather lamely, to a conclusion.
«It's, er, Dirk Gently,» said Richard, «in a way.»
«In a way?»
«Er, yes,» said Richard with a difficult sigh. He reflected that just about anything you could say about Dirk was subject to these kind of vague and shifty qualifications. There was even, on his letter heading, a string of vague and shifty-looking qualifications after his name. He pulled out the piece of paper on which he had vainly been trying to organise his thoughts earlier in the day.
«I…» he started, but the doorbell rang. They looked at each other.
«If it's the police,» said Richard, «I'd better see them. Let's get it over with.»
Susan pushed back her chair, went to the front door and picked up the Entryphone.
«Hello?» she said.
«Who?» she said after a moment. She frowned as she listened then swung round and frowned at Richard.
«You'd better come up,» she said in a less than friendly tone of voice and then pressed the button. She came back and sat down.
«Your friend,» she said evenly, «Mr Gently.»
The Electric Monk's day was going tremendously well and he broke into an excited gallop. That is to say that, excitedly, he spurred his horse to a gallop and, unexcitedly, his horse broke into it.
This world, the Monk thought, was a good one. He loved it. He didn't know whose it was or where it had come from, but it was certainly a deeply fulfilling place for someone with his unique and extraordinary gifts.
He was appreciated. All day he had gone up to people, fallen into conversation with them, listened to their troubles, and then quietly uttered those three magic words, «I believe you.»
The effect had invariably been electrifying. It wasn't that people on this world didn't occasionally say it to each other, but they rarely, it seemed, managed to achieve that deep timbre of sincerity which the Monk had been so superbly programmed to reproduce.
On his own world, after all, he was taken for granted. People would just expect him to get on and believe things for them without bothering them. Someone would come to the door with some great new idea or proposal or even a new religion, and the answer would be «Oh, go and tell that to the Monk.» And the Monk would sit and listen and patiently believe it all, but no one would take any further interest.
Only one problem seemed to arise on this otherwise excellent world.
Often, after he had uttered the magic words, the subject would rapidly change to that of money, and the Monk of course didn't have any – a shortcoming that had quickly blighted a number of otherwise very promising encounters.
Perhaps he should acquire some – but where?
He reined his horse in for a moment, and the horse jerked gratefully to a halt and started in on the grass on the roadside verge. The horse had no idea what all this galloping up and down was in aid of, and didn't care. All it did care about was that it was being made to gallop up and down past a seemingly perpetual roadside buffet. It made the best of its moment while it had it.
The Monk peered keenly up and down the road. It seemed vaguely familiar. He trotted a little further up it for another look. The horse resumed its meal a few yards further along.
Yes. The Monk had been here last night.
He remembered it clearly, well, sort of clearly. He believed that he remembered it clearly, and that, after all, was the main thing. Here was where he had walked to in a more than usually confused state of mind, and just around the very next corner, if he was not very much mistaken, again, lay the small roadside establishment at which he had jumped into the back of that nice man's car – the nice man who had subsequently reacted so oddly to being shot at.
Perhaps they would have some money there and would let him have it.
He wondered. Well, he would find out. He yanked the horse from its feast once again and galloped towards it.
As he approached the petrol station he noticed a car parked there at an arrogant angle. The angle made it quite clear that the car was not there for anything so mundane as to have petrol put into it, and was much too important to park itself neatly out of the way. Any other car that arrived for petrol would just have to manoeuvre around it as best it could. The car was white with stripes and badges and important looking lights.
Arriving at the forecourt the Monk dismounted and tethered his horse to a pump. He walked towards the small shop building and saw that inside it there was a man with his back to him wearing a dark blue uniform and a peaked cap. The man was dancing up and down and twisting his fingers in his ears, and this was clearly making a deep impression on the man behind the till.
The Monk watched in transfixed awe. The man, he believed with an instant effortlessness which would have impressed even a Scientologist, must be a God of some kind to arouse such fervour. He waited with bated breath to worship him. In a moment the man turned around and walked out of the shop, saw the Monk and stopped dead.
The Monk realised that the God must be waiting for him to make an act of worship, so he reverently danced up and down twisting his fingers in his ears.
His God stared at him for a moment, caught hold of him, twisted him round, slammed him forward spreadeagled over the car and frisked him for weapons.
Dirk burst into the flat like a small podgy tornado.
«Miss Way,» he said, grasping her slightly unwilling hand and doffing his absurd hat, «it is the most inexpressible pleasure to meet you, but also the matter of the deepest regret that the occasion of our meeting should be one of such great sorrow and one which bids me extend to you my most profound sympathy and commiseration. I ask you to believe me that I would not intrude upon your private grief for all the world if it were not on a matter of the gravest moment and magnitude.
Richard – I have solved the problem of the conjuring trick and it's extraordinary.»
He swept through the room and deposited himself on a spare chair at the small dining table, on which he put his hat.
«You will have to excuse us, Dirk» – said Richard, coldly.
«No, I am afraid you will have to excuse me,» returned Dirk. «The puzzle is solved, and the solution is so astounding that it took a seven-year-old child on the street to give it to me. But it is undoubtedly the correct one, absolutely undoubtedly. „What, then, is the solution?“ you ask me, or rather would ask me if you could get a word in edgeways, which you can't, so I will save you the bother and ask the question for you, and answer it as well by saying that I will not tell you, because you won't believe me. I shall instead show you, this very afternoon.
Rest assured, however, that it explains everything. It explains the trick. It explains the note you found – that should have made it perfectly clear to me but I was a fool. And it explains what the missing third question was, or rather – and this is the significant point – it explains what the missing first question was!»
«What missing question?» exclaimed Richard, confused by the sudden pause, and leaping in with the first phrase he could grab.
Dirk blinked as if at an idiot. «The missing question that George III asked, of course,» he said.
«Asked who?»
«Well, the Professor,» said Dirk impatiently. «Don't you listen to anything you say? The whole thing was obvious!» he exclaimed, thumping the table, «So obvious that the only thing which prevented me from seeing the solution was the trifling fact that it was completely impossible. Sherlock Holmes observed that once you have eliminated the impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the answer. I, however, do not like to eliminate the impossible. Now. Let us go.»
«No.»
«What?» Dirk glanced up at Susan, from whom this unexpected – or at least, unexpected to him – opposition had come.
«Mr Gently,» said Susan in a voice you could notch a stick with, «why did you deliberately mislead Richard into thinking that he was wanted by the police?»
Dirk frowned.
«But he was wanted by the police,» he said, «and still is.»
«Yes, but just to answer questions! Not because he's a suspected murderer.»
Dirk looked down.
«Miss Way,» he said, «the police are interested in knowing who murdered your brother. I, with the very greatest respect, am not. It may, I concede, turn out to have a bearing on the case, but it may just as likely turn out to be a casual madman. I wanted to know, still need desperately to know, why Richard climbed into this flat last night.»
«I told you,» protested Richard.
«What you told me is immaterial – it only reveals the crucial fact that you do not know the reason yourself! For heaven's sake I thought I had demonstrated that to you clearly enough at the canal!»
Richard simmered.
«It was perfectly clear to me watching you,» pursued Dirk, «that you had very little idea what you were doing, and had absolutely no concern about the physical danger you were in. At first I thought, watching, that it was just a brainless thug out on his first and quite possibly last burgle. But then the figure looked back and I realised it was you – and I know you to be an intelligent, rational, and moderate man.
Richard MacDuff? Risking his neck carelessly climbing up drainpipes at night? It seemed to me that you would only behave in such a reckless and extreme way if you were desperately worried about something of terrible importance. Is that not true, Miss Way?»
He looked sharply up at Susan, who slowly sat down, looking at him with an alarm in her eyes which said that he had struck home.
«And yet, when you came to see me this morning you seemed perfectly calm and collected. You argued with me perfectly rationally when I talked a lot of nonsense about Schrodinger's Cat. This was not the behaviour of someone who had the previous night been driven to extremes by some desperate purpose. I confess that it was at that moment that I stooped to, well, exaggerating your predicament, simply in order to keep hold of you.»
«You didn't. I left.»
«With certain ideas in your head. I knew you would be back. I apologise most humbly for having misled you, er, somewhat, but I knew that what I had to find out lay far beyond what the police would concern themselves with. And it was this – if you were not quite yourself when you climbed the wall last night… then who were you, – and why?»
Richard shivered. A silence lengthened.
«What has it got to do with conjuring tricks?» he said at last.
«That is what we must go to Cambridge to find out.»
«But what makes you so sure —?»
«It disturbs me,» said Dirk, and a dark and heavy look came into his face.
For one so garrulous he seemed suddenly oddly reluctant to speak.
He continued, «It disturbs me very greatly when I find that I know things and do not know why I know them. Maybe it is the same instinctive processing of data that allows you to catch a ball almost before you've seen it. Maybe it is the deeper and less explicable instinct that tells you when someone is watching you. It is a very great offence to my intellect that the very things that I despise other people for being credulous of actually occur to me. You will remember the… unhappiness surrounding certain exam questions.»
He seemed suddenly distressed and haggard. He had to dig deep inside himself to continue speaking.
He said, «The ability to put two and two together and come up instantly with four is one thing. The ability to put the square root of five hundred and thirty-nine point seven together with the cosine of twenty-six point four three two and come up with… with whatever the answer to that is, is quite another. And I… well, let me give you an example.»
He leant forward intently. «Last night I saw you climbing into this flat. I knew that something was wrong. Today I got you to tell me every last detail you knew about what happened last night, and already, as a result, using my intellect alone, I have uncovered possibly the greatest secret lying hidden on this planet. I swear to you that this is true and that I can prove it. Now you must believe me when I tell you that I know, I know that there is something terribly, desperately, appallingly wrong and that we must find it. Will you go with me now, to Cambridge?»
