brooch and white kid gloves. Always the white kid gloves which she held
with her handbag. But who cares about details like those?’
‘I
care,’ said Dave.
‘Do you
really! Do you honestly? — Why?’
‘It
tells you something about the person, details like Earl Grey tea and white kid
gloves.’
‘You’re
right,’ Tom said. ‘You’re absolutely right. But I wouldn’t have expected you to
feel that way. In fact I think they wanted to create a memory of themselves —
Earl Grey tea and white kid gloves.’
Two
days after this, while Dave was alone in his taxi after dropping a fare at
Holborn, a car drew up beside him at a traffic light. Dave glanced as he
waited, at his neighbour, a young man with a nobody-special look and sun-glasses
accompanied by a long-haired mousey girl, in a B.M.W. As he glanced back at the
traffic light, now changing, he was aware of an arm coming out of the window of
the B.M.W. and after that he was aware of little else — some hooting behind him
urging his taxi to move — until he came to full consciousness in hospital.
Dave had lost a small fragment of his skull, his chin was cut with glass from
the broken window, he suffered from shock and concussion, but otherwise was
sound. He was told his life had been saved by a fraction of an inch.
He
could only vaguely describe the hit-man and the girl companion to the police.
The car, he knew, was black and shiny, a three-year-old model.
Had he
any enemies, debts? No, he hadn’t. They searched his house from top to bottom,
much to his wife’s indignation: ‘We’re the victim and they treat us like the
criminal.’ The police found no drugs, no evidence of handling drugs, — they
found nothing.
After
Dave was discharged with his head still in bandages an inspector of police in
plain clothes came to see him. The man took off his glasses, breathed on them
one lens after the other, cleaned them with his handkerchief and put them on
again.
‘You
are quite a friend of Tom Richards, aren’t you?’ said the policeman.
‘That’s
a fact,’ said Dave.
‘I
daresay you’ve wondered if this misfortune of yours might have some connection
with him?’
‘I’ve
wondered,’ Dave said. ‘And so has he. We didn’t want the press and the T.V. to
get hold of the idea.’
‘Well,’
said the man, ‘it’s one of those cases where it even might be helpful if the
press did catch on to it.’
‘It
could be anybody,’ Dave said. ‘How much can a hit-man cost?’
‘A lot,’
said the policeman.
‘That
leaves out a lot of people,’ Dave said. ‘If they wanted to get at Tom through
me, the number is limited. If they only wanted to get at a taxi-driver, a Mr.
Anybody on the street, like they do and you know it, there is no limit to the
category of person.’
‘Who
are Tom Richards’ enemies?’
‘You
have to ask him yourself. There are always cranks who want to hit the famous.’
‘But
they hit you.’
‘Well,
it could have meant a piece of advice for Tom and then again, it couldn’t.’
‘How
are you feeling?’
‘Pretty
rotten. I’ve got a headache. I dream of the hospital, though. The lovely
nurses.’
The
press had been sympathetic, indignant, puzzled.
Tom
said to Claire, ‘We have too much money. It allows us too many possibilities,
endless options. It could be Marigold, quite easily. It’s unlikely to be Jeanne
although she would have some sort of motive. Jeanne couldn’t afford it.
Marigold could.’
‘And
Rose Woodstock?’ Claire said.
‘You
can forget Rose. She got her prize at Venice, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,
but you didn’t wait to see her collect it.’
To the
police, Tom said, ‘It fills me with horror but I find the idea that the bullet
which hit Dave was meant to intimidate me irresistible. What other reason
should bring him into the news like this? What they’re saying is “Next time it
will be you, and we’ll get you.” But Why? Supposing Dave had been killed. Who
would it serve? Cui bono
with her handbag. But who cares about details like those?’
‘I
care,’ said Dave.
‘Do you
really! Do you honestly? — Why?’
‘It
tells you something about the person, details like Earl Grey tea and white kid
gloves.’
‘You’re
right,’ Tom said. ‘You’re absolutely right. But I wouldn’t have expected you to
feel that way. In fact I think they wanted to create a memory of themselves —
Earl Grey tea and white kid gloves.’
Two
days after this, while Dave was alone in his taxi after dropping a fare at
Holborn, a car drew up beside him at a traffic light. Dave glanced as he
waited, at his neighbour, a young man with a nobody-special look and sun-glasses
accompanied by a long-haired mousey girl, in a B.M.W. As he glanced back at the
traffic light, now changing, he was aware of an arm coming out of the window of
the B.M.W. and after that he was aware of little else — some hooting behind him
urging his taxi to move — until he came to full consciousness in hospital.
Dave had lost a small fragment of his skull, his chin was cut with glass from
the broken window, he suffered from shock and concussion, but otherwise was
sound. He was told his life had been saved by a fraction of an inch.
He
could only vaguely describe the hit-man and the girl companion to the police.
The car, he knew, was black and shiny, a three-year-old model.
Had he
any enemies, debts? No, he hadn’t. They searched his house from top to bottom,
much to his wife’s indignation: ‘We’re the victim and they treat us like the
criminal.’ The police found no drugs, no evidence of handling drugs, — they
found nothing.
After
Dave was discharged with his head still in bandages an inspector of police in
plain clothes came to see him. The man took off his glasses, breathed on them
one lens after the other, cleaned them with his handkerchief and put them on
again.
‘You
are quite a friend of Tom Richards, aren’t you?’ said the policeman.
‘That’s
a fact,’ said Dave.
‘I
daresay you’ve wondered if this misfortune of yours might have some connection
with him?’
‘I’ve
wondered,’ Dave said. ‘And so has he. We didn’t want the press and the T.V. to
get hold of the idea.’
‘Well,’
said the man, ‘it’s one of those cases where it even might be helpful if the
press did catch on to it.’
‘It
could be anybody,’ Dave said. ‘How much can a hit-man cost?’
‘A lot,’
said the policeman.
‘That
leaves out a lot of people,’ Dave said. ‘If they wanted to get at Tom through
me, the number is limited. If they only wanted to get at a taxi-driver, a Mr.
Anybody on the street, like they do and you know it, there is no limit to the
category of person.’
‘Who
are Tom Richards’ enemies?’
‘You
have to ask him yourself. There are always cranks who want to hit the famous.’
‘But
they hit you.’
‘Well,
it could have meant a piece of advice for Tom and then again, it couldn’t.’
‘How
are you feeling?’
‘Pretty
rotten. I’ve got a headache. I dream of the hospital, though. The lovely
nurses.’
The
press had been sympathetic, indignant, puzzled.
Tom
said to Claire, ‘We have too much money. It allows us too many possibilities,
endless options. It could be Marigold, quite easily. It’s unlikely to be Jeanne
although she would have some sort of motive. Jeanne couldn’t afford it.
Marigold could.’
‘And
Rose Woodstock?’ Claire said.
‘You
can forget Rose. She got her prize at Venice, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,
but you didn’t wait to see her collect it.’
To the
police, Tom said, ‘It fills me with horror but I find the idea that the bullet
which hit Dave was meant to intimidate me irresistible. What other reason
should bring him into the news like this? What they’re saying is “Next time it
will be you, and we’ll get you.” But Why? Supposing Dave had been killed. Who
would it serve? Cui bono
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