'Mr Arany? No, sir. He was earlier, but he went off about an hour ago.'
'All right,' said Pascoe. 'Now plant your feet outside that door and don't move, not even if a river of lava comes rolling down Maltgate.'
Shaking his head at the lowering of standards amongst the younger recruits to the force, and grinning at himself for shaking his head, Pascoe closed the front door and walked down the vestibule.
'Hello!' called Pascoe.
He pushed open the door of the wrecked bar. Someone, Arany presumably, had done a good tidying-up job. Just inside the door on a chair was a shopping bag and alongside it a gaudily wrapped packet. Pascoe picked it up. It looked as if it (whatever it was) had been gift-wrapped in the shop. A card was attached saying Happy Birthday Sandra. From Uncle Maurice. The bag contained groceries butter, tins of soup, frozen fish. Pascoe picked out a jar of pickled gherkins. He felt a sudden urge to eat one. I must be pregnant, he thought.
'Oh. Hello,' said a voice behind him.
He turned. A girl in her early twenties wearing a denim suit and a flat cap had come into the room.
'Who're you?' asked Pascoe.
'I'm looking for Mr Arany. I'm his secretary,' said the girl.
'From the Agency? How did you get in, Miss..
'Metcalf. Doreen Metcalf. I just walked in. There was no one about. Who are you anyway?'
'Police,' said Pascoe, thinking that the young constable was in for a nasty shock when the girl left.
'Oh, about the break-in, is it?' said the girl curiously. 'Mr Arany mentioned it when he looked in earlier.'
But not the murder. Perhaps that was before he'd heard about Haggard's death. Once again Pascoe decided it wasn't up to him to enlighten anybody.
'What did you want him for?' he asked.
'Well, I get his shopping on a Friday night when I do mine. He gives me time off. He was so quick in and out this morning that he forgot it. I finish at half-twelve so I rang his flat, but he wasn't there. Then I tried to ring here, but the phone's not working. So I thought I'd call in.'
'Very conscientious,' said Pascoe.
'Well, he's a good boss. Normally I wouldn't bother, though, but with the present.'
'Oh yes. I noticed. His niece.'
'Not really. She's just the daughter of one of the club secretaries. He's friendly with most of them.'
'Good for business, I suppose.'
'I suppose so,' she said, slightly surprised as though the notion had not previously occurred to her. 'But it wouldn't matter. I mean, we're the main agency anyway. No, I think he's just naturally friendly.'
It was Pascoe's turn for surprise. Nothing he'd seen of Arany to date had made him suspect the man of amiability.
'You always work on Saturday?' he asked.
'Oh yes. It's one of our busiest days. Everywhere's open on Saturday night, and there's always things to sort out during the day. Artistes going sick, that sort of thing. Look, are you hanging on here a bit?'
'Maybe,' said Pascoe.
'I'll just leave this stuff, then. OK? I'll ring Mr Arany later to see if he's got it. He can always pop up from his flat to pick it up, so you needn't hang about if you don't want to.'
'That's kind of you,' said Pascoe.
'Thanks,' said the girl, 'See you!'
Pascoe listened to her departure, smiling at his own ambiguous feelings. Much concerned with softening the prevailing hard image of the police, he nevertheless felt slightly piqued to be treated with such insouciance by one so young.
He found he had twisted the lid off the gherkin jar. One of the green fruit protruded temptingly above the level of the vinegar. He regarded it thoughtfully. The unity of the quality of life was a question he and Ellie had often debated. Were protests against motorways, contributions to Oxfam, demonstrations against apartheid and discussions of the merits of fresh over bottled mayonnaise part of the same grand whole? Similarly, would the eating of this gherkin put him in the same sub-class as Dr Crippen, the Great Train Robbers, and people who cheated on their TV licences? The gherkin's head was in the air; perhaps its roots lay in the eighth circle of hell.
Such a conceit deserved reward. He removed the gherkin and sank his teeth into it. And behind him something screamed like a mandrake torn from the earth.
Pascoe turned so sharply that the vinegar slopped over his fingers and he dropped the jar. In the doorway stood the devil sent to summon him to pay for his gluttonous theft. It took the shape of a small Siamese cat with dark brown head, tail and paws setting off its sleek ivory coat. Realizing it had caught his attention, it yelled angrily at him once more.
'Hello there,' said Pascoe, recovering his self-possession. 'Come here. Puss puss puss, pretty puss.'
The cat ran forward, and he was congratulating himself on his subtle way with animals when, ignoring his down-stretched hands, it picked up four or five of the spilt gherkins in its mouth and ran from the room.
He went in pursuit, following it up the stairs to the second floor where it entered Haggard's living-room and ran across to the kitchen door.
Here it halted, swallowed what remained of the gherkins and addressed the slightly panting Pascoe once more.
He did what he was told and opened the door. The cat walked across the kitchen, sat down by the door in the far wall and repeated the instruction.
'Well well well,' said Pascoe, understanding.
He tried the door. It was locked. The cat rolled its eyes at his stupid inefficiency and began to wash itself.
Pascoe pounced.
'You're under arrest,' he said sternly, then, softening instantly as the animal began licking his ear, the while purring like a circular saw, he added, 'Let's go back to your place.'
It was Miss Annabelle Andover who answered the door. She regarded him without surprise.
'I stumbled on this young fellow,' said Pascoe.
'Girl. Where've you been, Acrasia? Step inside, Mr Pascoe. Will you have a cup of coffee? I always have one after lunch. Ready ground, I'm afraid, but the beans cost a fortune. It's a bastard this inflation when you're on a fixed annuity. In here. I won't be a tick.'
She showed him into the Habitat-furnished living-room and a few moments later reappeared with a tray bearing a steaming jug and two French coffee cups the size of small basins.
'I expect you've heard the sad news about Mr Haggard,' said Pascoe as she poured the coffee with steady hand.
'Yes. Devastating. Poor Alice was really knocked out. She's gone to bed with what she calls a fit of the vapours.'
'I'm sorry to hear it.'
'She'll recover. I'm a tougher old bird, but I must admit I was a bit shaken. What's the news? Are you hot on the trail? The killers, I mean.'
'Killers?'
'Yes. Probably a gang, I'd say. Out for kicks. Gilbert wasn't all that old, but old enough to be fragile. Stupid kids. They all know how incredibly rich old folk must be but not how incredibly brittle old bones are.'
'We're working very hard at it,' said Pascoe. 'Do you mind if we talk about Mr Haggard?'
'I'll stop you if I do.'
Pascoe stood up and wandered over to the window.
'Did you consider yourself a friend of Mr Haggard's?' he asked.
'I think so,' said Miss Andover.
'You'd known him how long?'
'Since he came here. Since he started his school.'
'Let me see. Twelve years? Thirteen? What did you think when the school closed and the Calliope Club opened, Miss Andover?'
'No business of mine.'
'Most people would consider such a major change next door their business. Sergeant Wield seemed to think a few tit-bits for your cats kept you sweet. You know; two dotty old women. I can't see it myself.'
Miss Andover now rose also.
'Young man, she said in ringing tones. 'I am not accustomed to being insulted in my own home. The Lord Lieutenant of the county has been entertained in this house and his Chief Constable with him. We are not yet without influence and authority.'
Pascoe grinned widely at her.
'That sounds like something you picked up from Miss Alice,' he said.
For a moment she tried to stare him down, then the old lady grinned too and picked up a packet of Park Drive from the mantelshelf.
'Smoke?' she said. 'No? Very wise. They can't harm me, though. Not at my age. I'm seventy-six, Mr Pascoe, and Alice is seventy-three. We bruise and break more easily than of old, but that apart, what can possibly harm people of our age? When Gilbert came and told us the school was closing down for financial reasons, we were distressed. Put me out of work for one thing! I had a few hundred to spare in the Funds and I went as far as offering to invest these with him, but he refused. I should have realized no one goes bust for want of a few hundred, but he spoke to me as if I had offered a fortune. Well, that's the sort of man he is. Was.
'For a while it looked as if he might have to sell the house. That did cause us some concern, not because of what it might become, for, as I say, how could offices or even bed-sitters bring any harm to us? No, we were concerned at the thought of losing a kind and considerate neighbour.
'So when Gilbert told us he was thinking of starting a Club, what could we be but overjoyed?'
'You knew about the Club before it was given the go-ahead?' interrupted Pascoe.
'Of course.'
'And you didn't pass this information on to your neighbours in the Square?'
'Certainly not!' she said indignantly. 'I do not break confidences so easily.'
'Did Mr Haggard tell you what kind of Club it would be? I mean, the kind of entertainment that would be shown?'
She puffed out a jet of smoke and laughed.
'I was brought up in a world deficient in many ways, Mr Pascoe, but in this at least it got things right. It recognized that men must have their pleasures and, as long as scandal was avoided, it let them get on with them. Alas, it did not accord the same tolerance to women.'
'I should have thought Mr Haggard's Club scandalized many people, Miss Andover.'
'You do not know the meaning of the word!' she said scornfully. 'How can you have scandal in an age which has abolished responsibility?'
'So, you had no objection to Mr Haggard's proposals?'
'None. Men have always had their whores and these were only on celluloid. Indeed, as I have said, what harm could the real thing have caused to me and my sister? To tell you the truth, Mr Pascoe, in some ways I preferred it to the school! During the day, I could sit out in my garden and listen to such birds as have survived this polluted air, and never find them in competition with a gang of little brats singing hymns or chanting tables.'