Clutch of Constables Read Free

suitcase and wearing a jaunty air, Troy noticed that he limped, swinging a built-up boot. “Morning all,” he said. “Lovely day, innit?”
    Troy and Mr Bard agreed and Miss Rickerby-Carrick repeated: “Lovely! Lovely!” on an ecstatic note.
    “Pollock’s the name,” said the new arrival, easily. “Stan.” They murmured.
    Mr Bard introduced himself and the ladies. Mr Pollock responded with sideway wags of his head.
    “That’s the ticket,” he said. “No deception practised.”
    Miss Rickerby-Carrick said: “
Isn’t
this going to be
fun
,” in a wildish tone that modulated into one of astonishment. Her gaze had shifted to the passenger from the second taxi who, with his back to the group, was settling his fare. He was exceedingly tall and very well-dressed at High Establishment level. Indeed his hat, houndstooth checked overcoat and impeccable brogues were in such a grand conservative style that it surprised—it almost shocked—Troy to observe that he seemed to be wearing black gloves like a Dickensian undertaker. Some yards distant, his bell-like voice rang out enormously. “Thank you. Good morning to you. Good morning.”
    He lifted his suitcase and turned. His hat tilted a little forward: the brim shadowed his face but could not be seen to do so as the face itself was darker than a shadow: the latest arrival was a coloured man.
    Miss Rickerby-Carrick gave out an ejaculation. Mr Bard after the briefest glance continued talking to Troy. Mr Pollock stared, faintly whistled and then turned aside with a shuttered face. The motor-cyclists for some private reason broke into ungentle laughter.
    The newcomer advanced, lifted his hat generally and moved through the group to the wharf’s edge where he stood looking upstream towards the bend in the river: an incongruous but impressive and elegant figure against a broken background of river-craft, sliding water and buildings advertising themselves in a confusion of signs.
    Troy said quickly: “That makes five of us, doesn’t it? Three more to come.”
    “One of whom occupies that very affluent-looking car, no doubt,” said Mr Bard. “I tried to peer in as I came past but an open newspaper defeated me.”
    “Male or female, did you gather?”
    “Oh the former, the former. A large manicured hand. The chauffeur is one of the stony kind. Now what is your guess? We have a choice of two from our passenger list, haven’t we? Which do you think?” He just indicated the figure down by the river.
    “Dr Natouche? Mr J. de B. Lazenby? Which is which?”
    “I plump for J. de B. L. in the car,” Troy said. “It sounds so magnificent.”
    “Do you? No: my fancy lies in the contrary field. I put Dr Natouche in the car. A specialist in some esoteric upper reaches of the more impenetrable branches of medicine. An astronomical consulting fee. And I fetch our friend on the wharf from Barbados. He owns a string of hotels and is called Jasper de Brabazon Lazenby. Shall we have a bet on it?”
    “Well,” Troy said, “propose your bet.”
    “If I win you have a drink with me before luncheon. If you win, I pay for the drinks.”
    “Now then!” Troy exclaimed.
    Mr Bard gave a little inward laugh.
    “We shall see,” he said. “I think that I might—‘ He smiled at Troy and without completing his sentence walked down to the quay.
    “Are you,” Troy could just hear him say, “joining us? I’m sure you must be.”
    “In the
Zodiac
?” the great voice replied. “Yes. I am a passenger.”
    “Shall we introduce ourselves?”
    The others all strained to hear the exchange of names.
    “Natouche.”
    “Dr Natouche?”
    “Quite so.”
    Mr Bard sketched the very vaguest and least of bows in Troy’s direction.
    “I’m Caley Bard,” he said.
    “Ah. I too have seen the passenger list. Good morning, sir.”
    “Do,” said Caley Bard, “come and meet the others. We have been getting to know each other.”
    “Thank you. If you wish.”
    They turned together. Mr Bard