‘Nathan, dear,’ said Lucinda, as he rejoined her at their table, ‘is everything all right? You look flustered.’
He was very flustered indeed: otherwise, the fact that she had used the word ‘dear’ — the first verbal token of affection to have passed her lips in the whole of their friendship — would have sent him into a swoon of excitement. As it was, he barely noticed it.
‘The case has been taken out of my hands,’ he said. ‘And I fear that DCI Capes is about to make a mess of it. And after all that work …’ He sighed heavily. ‘This has been a terrible evening.’
‘Really?’ said Lucinda. She sounded hurt. ‘But it’s been so nice, with all these famous people here, and this lovely food, and … well, I thought you liked spending time with me.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ he said, clasping her hand earnestly.
‘I mean, I know there’s been that mix-up with the bedrooms …’
‘No, it’s not that. I didn’t mean to sound gloomy. It’s just that I had a feeling tonight — an instinct — I was convinced I was going to find a clue that would crack the whole case wide open. And so far … nothing.’
‘The night isn’t over yet,’ she pointed out.
‘True,’ he said, despondent.
She squeezed his hand. ‘Come on, darling. Just relax and enjoy yourself. Have another glass of wine.’
Darling! He had graduated from ‘dear’ to ‘darling’ in the space of a few seconds. And still it made no impression on him. Abandoning the attempt to cheer him up, Lucinda turned her attention to Dorian, their talking menu, who was on the point of making another announcement.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, and — as I think I may now call you — friends, your dessert is about to be served. Our chef thought you might be feeling a little full by now, so he has prepared something light for you. You will be presented with shot glasses, each containing a delicate layer of cream cheese flavoured with blueberries, a further layer of cream cheese — as frothy as a soufflé — flavoured with Meyer lemons, topped with Alaskan blueberries garnished with a Meyer lemon zest, all served on a bed of crushed all-butter Highland shortbread.’
‘Mmm, delicious,’ said Lucinda, as her shot glass was laid before her. ‘I adore cheesecake. That’s what this is, isn’t it?’
The question was addressed to Dorian, who admitted: ‘Quintessentially, yes, madam: this is a cheesecake.’
And now, in an instant, Nathan was jerked out of his reverie. He looked straight across at Dorian and knew, with a thrilling but also terrifying certainty, that he was looking into the eyes of ChristieMalry2. He knew, as well, that Ryan Quirky was in mortal danger. The words from the blog came rushing back to him:
I hate these fucking middleclass liberal-left comedians and so should you. It seems to me quintessential that they are all wiped off the face of this planet, or we are never going to summon up the energy to overthrow our current rotten, corrupt and soul-destroying political establishment. Down with comedy!
How he had obtained employment at this dinner, and secured a place at table number 11, was not yet clear. What was clear, however, was that he had come here with no other intention than to commit murder. There was no time to lose.
Nathan dived under the table. The movement was quick, but not particularly elegant, since he banged his head loudly against it as he did so, thereby attracting everyone’s attention. Without pausing, despite the pain he was in, he lunged at Dorian’s legs and seized them in an uncompromising grip. The resulting spectacle, from the diners’ point of view, was bizarre, as the disembodied head suddenly found itself being yanked downwards through the hole in the table, a movement Dorian resisted by clinging on to the edges with his hands and screaming out for help. Two or three of the guests — including Ryan Quirky — grabbed on to his arms and tried to pull him to safety, resulting in a violent human tug-of-war and, ultimately, the overturning of the entire table amidst a cacophony of shrieks and screams.
‘Stop that man!’ shouted Nathan, as Dorian broke free and ran for the exit. Sure enough, a barrier of security guards appeared, and Dorian found his way blocked. At the same time, DCI Capes and his henchmen came back into the room to see what all this noise was about.
‘Who is this?’ said the detective.
‘This,’ said Nathan, having scrambled to his feet and made his way, panting and dishevelled, to the scene of the capture, ‘is your stand-up comedian murderer. And this is the weapon with which he intended to continue his campaign tonight.’
With that, he opened what appeared to be a spectacles case, which had fallen out of Dorian’s pocket in the course of their struggle. It contained a long syringe filled with a transparent liquid. DCI Capes took it from Nathan’s outstretched hand, his face a picture of bafflement.
‘I suggest,’ said PC Pilbeam (and he could not believe that already, so early in his career, he was using a phrase which he had always dreamed of using), ‘that you send this down to the lab.’
*
Two hours later, Nathan and Lucinda were having a final nightcap at the bar of the Hyatt Regency when DCI Capes came by.
‘We’ve extracted a full confession,’ he told them. ‘These pinkos soon crumble under pressure. No backbone, you see.’
‘Can I interest you in a brandy, sir?’
‘Well, why not. It’s been a long evening, after all. But a highly successful one, thanks to you.’
‘To both of us, I’d say, sir.’
‘All in a day’s work, Pilbeam. They don’t call me “The Caped Crusader” for nothing.’
He threw the potential nickname out hopefully, but Pilbeam had already turned his back to get the barman’s attention, and the effort once again seemed to have been wasted. What in God’s name would it take, DCI Capes thought, to persuade people to start calling him that? He gave a disgruntled sigh and took the proffered brandy glass from his junior colleague.
‘So it was merely a verbal tic, was it, that gave him away to you?’
‘Indeed.’
‘But what about his motive? How had you come across him in the first place?’
‘Well, there, sir, if you will allow me to show off a little, you find the vindication of my methods. Cases like this are best approached from the intellectual point of view. The key to the entire problem lay in the history and theory of comedy. So that was where I concentrated all of my research. I began with Aristotle, of course, although sadly the half of his Poetics that deals with comedy has been lost. However, it’s still possible to re-create something of his think —’
Fascinated as he was by PC Pilbeam’s discourse, DCI Capes was distracted at this point by the appearance of two uniformed constables walking through the bar towards the lobby, carrying a couple of cardboard boxes.
‘Ah — evening, Jackson,’ he said. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the first constable. ‘The suspect is safely locked up in the cells at Newtown Station. We’ve cleared out his room on the seventh floor and taken everything away.’
‘Excellent. Find anything interesting?’
‘Not really, sir. Just a few clothes and toiletries. Oh — and this book.’
From the top of the box, the constable produced a battered, well-thumbed paperback: an old Pelican edition of Sigmund Freud’s Jokes and Their Relation to the Unconscious.
Nathan allowed himself a knowing smile, and said:
‘Pretty conclusive evidence, wouldn’t you agree, sir?’
DCI Capes shook his head in puzzlement. He was yet to be convinced. ‘I rather think a syringe full of liquid cyanide will stand up better in court. I wouldn’t have given much for Quirky’s chances once he got that in his leg.’ He drained the glass of brandy and rose to his feet. ‘Well, I’d probably better go along with these two for now. Goodnight, Pilbeam. You’ve been a credit to the force this evening.’