Devices and Desires Read Free Page A

risible efforts of arguably Britain’s worst poet ever. A fellow poet had once given Dalgliesh his own explanation: “The poor devil has to read so much incomprehensible modern versethat you can’t wonder that he needs an occasional dose of comprehensible nonsense. It’s like a faithful husband occasionally taking therapeutic relief at the local cat-house.” Dalgliesh thought the theory ingenious but unlikely. There was no evidence that Costello read any of the verse he so assiduously promoted. He greeted his newest candidate for media fame with a mixture of dogged optimism and slight apprehension, as if knowing that he was faced with a hard nut to crack.
    His small, rather wistful and childish face was curiously at odds with his Billy Bunter figure. His main problem was apparently whether to wear his belt above or below his paunch. Above was said to indicate optimism, below a sign of depression. Today it was slung only just above the scrotum, proclaiming a pessimism which the subsequent conversation served only to justify.
    Eventually Dalgliesh said firmly: “No, Bill, I shall not parachute into Wembley Stadium holding the book in one hand and a microphone in the other. Nor shall I compete with the station announcer by bawling my verses at the Waterloo commuters. The poor devils are only trying to catch their trains.”
    “That’s been done. It’s old hat. And it’s nonsense about Wembley. Can’t think how you got hold of that. No, listen, this is really exciting. I’ve spoken to Colin McKay and he’s very enthusiastic. We’re hiring a red double-decker bus, touring the country. Well, as much of the country as we can in ten days. I’ll get Clare to show you the rough-out and the schedule.”
    Dalgliesh said gravely: “Like a political-campaign bus: posters, slogans, loudspeakers, balloons.”
    “No point in having it if we don’t let people know it’s coming.”
    “They’ll know that all right with Colin on board. How are you going to keep him sober?”
    “A fine poet, Adam. He’s a great admirer of yours.”
    “Which doesn’t mean he’d welcome me as a travelling companion. What are you thinking of calling it? Poets’ Progress? The Chaucer Touch? Verse on Wheels—or is that too like the WI? The Poetry Bus? That has the merit of simplicity.”
    “We’ll think of something. I rather like Poets’ Progress.”
    “Stopping where?”
    “Precincts, village halls, schools, pubs, motorway cafés, anywhere where there’s an audience. It’s an exciting prospect. We were thinking of hiring a train, but the bus has more flexibility.”
    “And it’s cheaper.”
    Costello ignored the innuendo. He said: “Poets upstairs; drinks, refreshments downstairs. Readings from the platform. National publicity, radio and TV. We start from the Embankment. There’s a chance of Channel Four and, of course, Kaleidoscope. We’re counting on you, Adam.”
    “No,” said Dalgliesh firmly. “Not even for the balloons.”
    “For God’s sake, Adam, you write the stuff. Presumably you want people to read it—well, buy it anyway. There’s tremendous public interest in you, particularly after that last case, the Berowne murder.”
    “They’re interested in a poet who catches murderers, or a policeman who writes poetry, not in the verse.”
    “What does it matter as long as they’re interested? And don’t tell me that the Commissioner wouldn’t like it. That’s an old cop-out.”
    “All right, I won’t, but he wouldn’t.”
    And there was after all nothing new to be said. He had heard the questions innumerable times and he had done his best to answer them, with honesty if not with enthusiasm. “Why does a sensitive poet like you spend his time catchingmurderers?” “Which is the more important to you, the poetry or the policing?” “Does it hinder or help, being a detective?” “Why does a successful detective write poetry?” “What was your most interesting case, Commander? Do you ever feel like