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“Any useful links? Like something Katzenberg, Prong and Cripps had in common.”
“Aside from them all being killed in unexplained explosions?”
“Yes.”
Ashley consulted his list for a moment. “No. Not a single one. By the way,” he continued, “I’m still waiting for Bart-Mart to get back to me, and Goldy’s car hasn’t been reported abandoned or anything.”
“Thanks.”
“And Agatha Diesel dropped in to say hello while you were both out.”
“Did she?” said Jack, making a face. “What did she want?”
“It was most odd,” said Ashley thoughtfully. “She said she wanted to talk to you about a charity benefit in aid of distressed gentlefolk she was pla
“Yes, you’re probably right,” agreed Jack after a moment, “and most graphically realized, too.” He pushed away Ashley’s digit, which detached with a faint pop. “And please, don’t do that mind-merging stuff on me, okay?”
“Sorry. Do you find it intrusive?”
“Not at all—it’s just that I can see what you’re thinking in the background.”
“Oops,” gulped Ashley, flicking a look toward Mary, who thankfully wasn’t paying much attention. “Right you are, then.”
The phone rang.
“Spratt, NCD…”
It was Briggs, so Jack just carried on talking.
“…isn’t in right now, but if you’d like to leave a message when you hear the tone, please do so…. Beeeeep. ”
“That old pretending-to-be-an-answering-machine stuff doesn’t fool me, Spratt,” said Briggs angrily.
“Sorry, sir.”
“What are you doing in the office?”
“I was with the quack for my psychiatric evaluation, sir. I just popped in to brief Mary about the Rumpelstiltskin parole hearing.”
“Hmm. Well, put her on.”
He handed the phone to Mary, who listened for a moment and then said, “Yes, sir, I was very impressed you didn’t fall for the answering-machine gag.”
She looked up at Jack, who made a sign for her to call him and then crept out the door. Briggs had been known to walk around the building on a cell phone pretending he was in his office, and Jack had just about had his fill of threshold guardians for the day.
Jack walked down to his car and noticed that the door mirror had mended itself in his absence. He drove out of the garage, meaning to visit Dorian Gray and have a word with him in person. He’d called him several times, but had continued to get the “number disco
A few miles down the road, and after the brief a
“I’m going home to watch Columbo , sir,” he said without waiting to hear who it was. “Oh, sorry, Mary—what’s up?”
He slowed the car as he listened, then pulled into a lay-by.
“Excellent,” he said at last. “I’ll meet you at the northern entrance in twenty minutes.”
He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, signaled and pulled out into the afternoon traffic, heading rapidly off in the direction of Andersen’s Wood. As he did so, he noticed for the first time that the odometer on the Allegro was going backward —and the fuel gauge was still on the three-quarters mark. He shrugged. Clearly a glitch of some sort.