hungry.”
“You’re dieting?”
“Not at the
moment.”
“I’m relieved.
It would be a terrible mistake. Every one of your pounds is important. There’s
not one wasted.”
“I suppose you
intend that as a compliment,” said Ann. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.
I’m not the heavy-handed lout I seem.”
“You don’t seem
heavy-handed,” said Ann. “Just light-headed.”
Tarr grinned and
ate his hamburgers. Presently he said, “Now you know what happened to the
mortgage.”
Ann shuddered. “If
I were Jehane I’d have hated him.”
“And Alexander
wants his chess set back—which is rubbing it in.”
“He’s willing to
pay for it, or so he says.”
“Everyone is so
fair,” said Tarr cynically. “But somewhere among the group is a blackmailer.”
“Why ‘among the
group’? It seems to me it might have been practically anyone.”
“The blackmailer
took great pains to conceal his identity—which argues that he, or she, is someone
your father knew well. I’d certainly like to talk to your mother.”
“You probably
can in a day or so.”
Tarr looked up. “How
come?”
“Her letter said
as much.”
“Oh, the letter.”
Tarr seemed to lose interest. He leaned back in the booth. “You’re a wealthy
gal now. A poor slob of a cop doesn’t stand much of a chance.”
Ann laughed. “Which
slob did you have in mind?”
“I was referring
to Inspector Tom Tarr. I have scruples, but luckily they don’t stand in the way
of living off my wife.”
“My father tried
it,” said Ann. “He didn’t seem to like it.”
“I’m of a
different temperament. More independent.”
“More independent?”
“Certainly. Your
father couldn’t figure out how to adapt.”
“You’re
confusing ‘independence’ and ‘hypocrisy.’ ”
“There may be a
difference,” conceded Tarr. “Still, it all seems simple enough to me. Pearl
served roast duck with oranges, admittedly a vile concoction, when he wanted
bread and cheese. Why not tell her so in a nice way, instead of suffering so
dramatically? He’d have had his bread and cheese; his wife would be happy. It
seems to me your father was being unnecessarily difficult.”
“He was a hard
man to live with, no doubt about it.”
“Now me, I’m
not. If I wanted bread and cheese, everybody within twenty miles would know it,
including: my wife.”
“That’s not so
good, either, unless you’re married to somebody like Pearl.”
A short, paunchy
man came into the coffee shop. “My lord,” muttered Tarr, “here’s Cooley.”
Cooley wore
heavy black-rimmed eyeglasses; black hair rose in a tuft from a narrow forehead.
“Hey, there, Tom!” he called cheerfully. “Out feeding the missus on the
taxpayer’s money, I see. That’s the spirit! Show no mercy.”
Tarr said to
Ann, “This is Ben Cooley, photographer with the city police. Until they canned
him.”
“I never thought
they’d do it,” said Cooley without embarrassment. “Nichevo. I took the wrong kind of pictures of
the wrong kind of people.”
“Cooley put
enterprise ahead of discretion,” Tarr told Ann.
“In my business,
enterprise is what counts,” said the photographer. “Now what would you do? I
ask you, Mrs. Tarr. Here’s the situation. Picture a naked man running down the
street, with a dog chasing him. You’ve got your camera ready. Would you take
the picture or wouldn’t you?”
“If I could hold
the camera steady, I’d certainly take it.”
“So did I. Turns out the man was visiting the home of a friend, and the
friend arrives unexpectedly. So the man jumps out the window. I won’t mention
any names—that’s not my style—but it turns out he’s one of the big shots in the
Police Department. I should have recognized him, but without clothes he didn’t
look the same. One thing led to another, and I was allowed to resign.”
“Dirty shame,” said
Tarr.
“I’m through
with this damned city. As soon as the Civil Service exams for the county
“You’re dieting?”
“Not at the
moment.”
“I’m relieved.
It would be a terrible mistake. Every one of your pounds is important. There’s
not one wasted.”
“I suppose you
intend that as a compliment,” said Ann. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.
I’m not the heavy-handed lout I seem.”
“You don’t seem
heavy-handed,” said Ann. “Just light-headed.”
Tarr grinned and
ate his hamburgers. Presently he said, “Now you know what happened to the
mortgage.”
Ann shuddered. “If
I were Jehane I’d have hated him.”
“And Alexander
wants his chess set back—which is rubbing it in.”
“He’s willing to
pay for it, or so he says.”
“Everyone is so
fair,” said Tarr cynically. “But somewhere among the group is a blackmailer.”
“Why ‘among the
group’? It seems to me it might have been practically anyone.”
“The blackmailer
took great pains to conceal his identity—which argues that he, or she, is someone
your father knew well. I’d certainly like to talk to your mother.”
“You probably
can in a day or so.”
Tarr looked up. “How
come?”
“Her letter said
as much.”
“Oh, the letter.”
Tarr seemed to lose interest. He leaned back in the booth. “You’re a wealthy
gal now. A poor slob of a cop doesn’t stand much of a chance.”
Ann laughed. “Which
slob did you have in mind?”
“I was referring
to Inspector Tom Tarr. I have scruples, but luckily they don’t stand in the way
of living off my wife.”
“My father tried
it,” said Ann. “He didn’t seem to like it.”
“I’m of a
different temperament. More independent.”
“More independent?”
“Certainly. Your
father couldn’t figure out how to adapt.”
“You’re
confusing ‘independence’ and ‘hypocrisy.’ ”
“There may be a
difference,” conceded Tarr. “Still, it all seems simple enough to me. Pearl
served roast duck with oranges, admittedly a vile concoction, when he wanted
bread and cheese. Why not tell her so in a nice way, instead of suffering so
dramatically? He’d have had his bread and cheese; his wife would be happy. It
seems to me your father was being unnecessarily difficult.”
“He was a hard
man to live with, no doubt about it.”
“Now me, I’m
not. If I wanted bread and cheese, everybody within twenty miles would know it,
including: my wife.”
“That’s not so
good, either, unless you’re married to somebody like Pearl.”
A short, paunchy
man came into the coffee shop. “My lord,” muttered Tarr, “here’s Cooley.”
Cooley wore
heavy black-rimmed eyeglasses; black hair rose in a tuft from a narrow forehead.
“Hey, there, Tom!” he called cheerfully. “Out feeding the missus on the
taxpayer’s money, I see. That’s the spirit! Show no mercy.”
Tarr said to
Ann, “This is Ben Cooley, photographer with the city police. Until they canned
him.”
“I never thought
they’d do it,” said Cooley without embarrassment. “Nichevo. I took the wrong kind of pictures of
the wrong kind of people.”
“Cooley put
enterprise ahead of discretion,” Tarr told Ann.
“In my business,
enterprise is what counts,” said the photographer. “Now what would you do? I
ask you, Mrs. Tarr. Here’s the situation. Picture a naked man running down the
street, with a dog chasing him. You’ve got your camera ready. Would you take
the picture or wouldn’t you?”
“If I could hold
the camera steady, I’d certainly take it.”
“So did I. Turns out the man was visiting the home of a friend, and the
friend arrives unexpectedly. So the man jumps out the window. I won’t mention
any names—that’s not my style—but it turns out he’s one of the big shots in the
Police Department. I should have recognized him, but without clothes he didn’t
look the same. One thing led to another, and I was allowed to resign.”
“Dirty shame,” said
Tarr.
“I’m through
with this damned city. As soon as the Civil Service exams for the county
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