couldn’t get into the room. I couldn’t get anyone else to come in and tell you to switch the bloody thing off. All I know is that someone tried to kill Ruth in the Dome. What’s been happening?”
“Dear Charles,” said Maurice. “Matinée idol I may have been, but I don’t recall ever being reduced to using the word
bloody
three times in six sentences, even in someone else’s feeblest dialogue. If the noise offends you, why are you here entertaining us now?”
“Because it’s stopped,” said Charles. “It stopped this moment. Ruth? What happened?”
Maurice sat up. “You’ve wrecked my Mouse Alarm,” he said to Johnson.
But Johnson, rising, was leading Charles gently to a seat beside me. “I’ve wrecked his Mouse Alarm,” he said kindly. “It’s a long, long story and Ruth and Jacko will tell it. In the meantime —”
The telephone rang and Maurice snatched it up pettishly. He said, “Pronto?” and then held it out at arm’s length toward Johnson. “I wish,” he said, “that you would ask your friends
not
to telephone before lunchtime. It spoils my appetite.”
“For what?” said Charles dulcetly. The urbanity, I was sorry to see, was making a comeback. Johnson, on the telephone, was saying, “Oh? Where? No, but I’ll remember. What number? Right. Thank you.” He listened for a few moments longer and then said goodbye and hung up. We all looked at him.
“Well,” he said. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re
going
?” said Maurice.
“It was the Pope,” suggested Jacko.
“Actually,” Johnson said, “it was a man who knows a man who had his photograph taken recently.”
He wasn’t looking at anybody, but I got up and walked over to him. “Mr. Paladrini? You’ve got Mr. Paladrini’s address? Charles, the man who sold the balloons at the zoo. We’re going to find him.”
“Why?” said Maurice’s voice baldly behind us. “If, of course, one may ask.”
It was a little difficult to recall why. I stared at Johnson and Johnson said cheerfully, “Because there was a message in the balloon Ruth received making a rendezvous of some kind at the Fall Fair. She got it clearly by accident, and didn’t even realize until later what it was. At any rate, we went to the Fall Fair and recognized the balloon trader in superior guise taking part in it. We chased him, and he ran away from us.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Maurice huffily. “And for no other reason you are going to call on this gentleman?”
“Well, for one other reason,” Johnson said. “The balloon may have been intended for one of the men from the Villa Borghese. It is, at least, a possible link with them. And anything which might lead to an explanation of what has happened so far in the Dome can’t be altogether a bad thing, I imagine. That is, unless you want to call in the police. Pacifists, vegetarians and anti-blood-sport enthusiasts, make your opinions known. I don’t like murders and I like nice girls like Ruth Russell, but we can all go home and finish our knitting if the majority verdict prefers it. Charles?”
“To hell with knitting,” said Charles. “I’ll come with you. But not Ruth. She’s had enough trouble.”
“You can’t come,” I said. “Charles, you have to retake all those pictures this morning.”
Charles stared at me. “I’m coming,” he said.
“I beg your pardon,” Johnson said mildly. “I’m not asking for volunteers, merely a vote of confidence. Jacko? Timothy? Maurice? Paladrini or policemen?”
“You don’t mean — ” said Timothy. “Not Mr. Paladrini who was so nice to the weenies?”
“The same,” answered Johnson.
“Oh but do go,” said Timothy. “You have his address?”
“Sit down, Timothy,” said Maurice. “You aren’t going. I don’t see why anyone need go. Wheel the body out of your meat safe, and I shall tell the gardener to bury it. There are plenty of places in the garden.”
“And the police?” Jacko said.
“This,”
“Dear Charles,” said Maurice. “Matinée idol I may have been, but I don’t recall ever being reduced to using the word
bloody
three times in six sentences, even in someone else’s feeblest dialogue. If the noise offends you, why are you here entertaining us now?”
“Because it’s stopped,” said Charles. “It stopped this moment. Ruth? What happened?”
Maurice sat up. “You’ve wrecked my Mouse Alarm,” he said to Johnson.
But Johnson, rising, was leading Charles gently to a seat beside me. “I’ve wrecked his Mouse Alarm,” he said kindly. “It’s a long, long story and Ruth and Jacko will tell it. In the meantime —”
The telephone rang and Maurice snatched it up pettishly. He said, “Pronto?” and then held it out at arm’s length toward Johnson. “I wish,” he said, “that you would ask your friends
not
to telephone before lunchtime. It spoils my appetite.”
“For what?” said Charles dulcetly. The urbanity, I was sorry to see, was making a comeback. Johnson, on the telephone, was saying, “Oh? Where? No, but I’ll remember. What number? Right. Thank you.” He listened for a few moments longer and then said goodbye and hung up. We all looked at him.
“Well,” he said. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re
going
?” said Maurice.
“It was the Pope,” suggested Jacko.
“Actually,” Johnson said, “it was a man who knows a man who had his photograph taken recently.”
He wasn’t looking at anybody, but I got up and walked over to him. “Mr. Paladrini? You’ve got Mr. Paladrini’s address? Charles, the man who sold the balloons at the zoo. We’re going to find him.”
“Why?” said Maurice’s voice baldly behind us. “If, of course, one may ask.”
It was a little difficult to recall why. I stared at Johnson and Johnson said cheerfully, “Because there was a message in the balloon Ruth received making a rendezvous of some kind at the Fall Fair. She got it clearly by accident, and didn’t even realize until later what it was. At any rate, we went to the Fall Fair and recognized the balloon trader in superior guise taking part in it. We chased him, and he ran away from us.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Maurice huffily. “And for no other reason you are going to call on this gentleman?”
“Well, for one other reason,” Johnson said. “The balloon may have been intended for one of the men from the Villa Borghese. It is, at least, a possible link with them. And anything which might lead to an explanation of what has happened so far in the Dome can’t be altogether a bad thing, I imagine. That is, unless you want to call in the police. Pacifists, vegetarians and anti-blood-sport enthusiasts, make your opinions known. I don’t like murders and I like nice girls like Ruth Russell, but we can all go home and finish our knitting if the majority verdict prefers it. Charles?”
“To hell with knitting,” said Charles. “I’ll come with you. But not Ruth. She’s had enough trouble.”
“You can’t come,” I said. “Charles, you have to retake all those pictures this morning.”
Charles stared at me. “I’m coming,” he said.
“I beg your pardon,” Johnson said mildly. “I’m not asking for volunteers, merely a vote of confidence. Jacko? Timothy? Maurice? Paladrini or policemen?”
“You don’t mean — ” said Timothy. “Not Mr. Paladrini who was so nice to the weenies?”
“The same,” answered Johnson.
“Oh but do go,” said Timothy. “You have his address?”
“Sit down, Timothy,” said Maurice. “You aren’t going. I don’t see why anyone need go. Wheel the body out of your meat safe, and I shall tell the gardener to bury it. There are plenty of places in the garden.”
“And the police?” Jacko said.
“This,”
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