of a bearded, middle-aged man.
‘Conrad?’
‘Joseph Conrad, the novelist, Inspector. That’s his picture.’
‘I know who Joseph Conrad is, Mr Browne. I meant which Conrad story. I’ve read some.’ One, anyway, about someone on a boat.
‘Have you? Not too many, I hope. They have a very bad effect. No. I meant it was like a Conrad story. One thought of Mallow and Kurtz, or “The Secret Sharer”— one of those “he - and - I - shared - a - knowledge - that -was - never - to - be - divulged - between - us” themes.’
‘I see. A story Conrad never wrote.’
‘No, no. The one he wrote interminably. Please don’t take me too literally. I doubt the presence of a ghastly secret. One just thinks in these ways after years of trying to find useful analogies for first-year students.’
The phone rang and Browne answered it. ‘Yes, my dear. I hadn’t forgotten. Yes, my dear. I’ll buy one at the Cakemaster.’ He put the phone down. ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘Reminding me that it is my daughter’s birthday. I have to buy the cake. You thought I was a bachelor? I wallow in uxorious delight, Inspector. I have six daughters, one better than Mr Bennet. You assumed I was a bachelor because I still polish my shoes? It is possible to maintain one’s standards within the nuptial bonds, you know. Conrad taught me that.’ Browne was having a wonderful time.
Salter said, ‘Nothing surprises me any more, Mr Browne. See? Another cliché. Now, where can I find these people? Carrier or Usher first, I think.’
‘They are waiting for you. I’ve arranged interviews with everyone who was with David in Montreal. They are upset, but you are used to that I expect. Marika is in misery.’
‘And his buddy,—Hillock?’
‘Pollock. He’s here, too.’ Browne stood up with a little jump and started to bustle. ‘Now I can’t ask you for lunch because I always bring my own.’
‘Diet, sir?’ Salter asked rudely, curious to know what kept this shining beauty in trim.
‘Wrong again. I like myself the way I am. So does my wife. See?’ He opened the brown paper bag. Inside were four jelly doughnuts and a pint of chocolate milk. ‘I pick them up on the way to work and I look forward to them all morning. I’m in my office all the time if you need me.’
‘Will you be at the funeral?’
‘Yes. Will you be there?’
‘I expect so, sir. The killer always turns up, doesn’t he? I read that somewhere.’
‘Ha, ha, ha. I get it. Another cliché.’
‘Would you keep our conversation confidential, sir? And try to stop any speculation around the office.’
‘Mum’s the word, Inspector. Good luck.’ He looked forlorn for a moment. ‘I hope it turns out to be a passing thug and not someone we know.’ His voice was quavering slightly. Through the sparkle, Browne was keeping the horror at bay.
‘It usually does, sir,’ Salter said, resisting a mild impulse to give Browne a pat. ‘Goodbye.’
Carrier was next. He sat behind his desk without speaking as Salter sat down in a chair opposite him. A tidy man in his early forties with fair, thinning hair, he was wearing a neat checked sports shirt and khaki trousers. He had his own teapot and cup beside him on a little table, and a packet of Peek Frean’s biscuits. On the wall, three posters under glass gave the appearance of a matched set, although their subjects didn’t seem connected as far as Salter could see. One was a portrait of a delicate young man with lace around his wrists, probably Shelley or someone; the second was a reproduction of a lot of writing—a page from the oldest book in the world? The third picture looked familiar, being an advertisement of an art gallery exhibit with a reproduction of a picture of a red checked tablecloth. What luck, Salter thought; as he recognized the only Canadian painting he had ever looked at closely. The original belonged to some cultured friends of his wife, and Salter had frequently studied it and failed to find any reason for its artistic and (huge) monetary worth. He introduced himself and pointed to the poster.
‘Have you followed de Niverville’s career, Dr Carrier?’ he asked, one connoisseur to another.
‘Yes,’ Carrier said.
‘Interesting painter,’ Salter said, trying to remember a single fact about him.
‘Yes,’ Carrier said.
So much for art, the key that opens all doors, thought Salter. ‘Now, sir,’ he said, ‘I want to ask you a few questions about Professor Summers. First, I’d like you to tell me what happened when you were all together on Thursday. You were with Professor Summers for dinner, I think. Who else was there?’
‘Usher, Dunkley, Marika Tils and I. That’s all. Nothing happened. We just had dinner.’
‘Wasn’t it unusual, Professor, for Summers and Dunkley to be having dinner together?’
‘Yes.’
There was a long pause.
‘Well?’ Salter’ asked.
‘Yes, it was unusual.’
‘Then why were they together?’
‘We all were.’
‘So you say. But normally Dunkley and Summers avoided each other.’
‘Yes.’
‘But not this time.’
‘No.’
Jesus Christ. ‘Mr Carrier. I’m trying to find out who killed a man. I’d be glad of any help. Could you tell me, please, why, on this particular night these two old enemies were together?’
‘Summers invited him along with the rest of us.’
‘Ah. Why?’ Could you perhaps offer an interpretation? Rack your trained, scholarly brain, Salter thought.
‘He said that tonight was his night. He said the gods were smiling on him. So he insisted we all go out to dinner. Including Dunkley.’
‘What did he mean by “The gods were smiling”?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He never said?’
‘No. He just seemed very happy.’
‘I see. He just said, “The gods are smiling; this is on me”?’
‘I don’t remember exactly what he said. We were all having a drink in a bar after the last paper.’
‘All of you, including Dunkley?’
‘Yes. He had just read a paper.’
‘Read a paper?’
‘Yes.
