The Bat Read Free Page B

and pointed to the cigarette paper.
    “But if we’d hoovered the ashtrays I wouldn’t mind betting we’d have found traces of cannabis.”
    “Why wasn’t it done? Didn’t the SOC people come here?”
    “First of all, there’s no reason to believe that this was the scene of the crime. Second of all, smoking marijuana is nothing to shout about. Here in New South Wales we have a more pragmatic attitude to marijuana than in certain other Australian states. I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that the murder could be drugs-related, but the odd reefer or two is hardly relevant in this context. We can’t know for sure if she used other drugs. There’s a fair bit of coke and designer drugs on the go in the Albury, but no one we’ve spoken to has mentioned anything, and there wasn’t a trace of anything in the blood tests. At any rate, she wasn’t on the serious stuff. There were no needle marks, and we have a reasonable overview of the hard-core users.”
    Harry looked at him. Andrew cleared his throat.
    “That’s the official version, anyway. There is one thing they thought you could help us with though.”
    There was a letter in Norwegian. “Dear Elisabeth,” it started and obviously wasn’t finished. Harry skimmed through it.
    Well, I’m just fine, and even more important, I’m in love! Of course, he’s as handsome as a Greek God with long, curly brown hair, a pert bum and eyes that tell you what he’s already whispered to you: he wants you now—this minute—behind the closest wall, in the loo, on the table, on the floor, anywhere. Hisname’s Evans, he’s 32, he’s been married (surprise, surprise) and has a lovely little boy of 18 months called Tom-Tom. Right now he doesn’t have a proper job, but drifts around doing things.
    And, yes, I know you can smell trouble, and I promise not to let myself be dragged down. Not for the time being, anyway.
    Enough about Evans. I’m still working at the Albury. “Mr. Bean” stopped inviting me out after Evans was in the bar one night, and that at least is progress. But he still follows me with those slimy eyes of his. Yuk! Actually I’m beginning to get sick of this job, but I’ll just have to hang on until I can have my residence permit extended. I’ve had a word with NRK—they’re planning a follow-up to the TV series for next autumn and I can carry on if I want. Decisions, decisions!
    The letter stopped there.

4

A Clown
    “Where are we going now?” Harry asked.
    “To the circus! I promised a friend I would pop by one day. And today is one day, isn’t it.”
    At the Powerhouse a small circus troupe had already started the free afternoon performance for a sparse but young and enthusiastic audience. The building had been a power station and a tram hall when Sydney had trams, Andrew elucidated. Now it was functioning as a kind of contemporary museum. A couple of well-built girls had just completed a not very spectacular trapeze number, but had reaped a great round of friendly applause.
    An enormous guillotine was rolled in as a clown entered the stage. He was wearing a brightly colored uniform and a striped hat, obviously inspired by the French Revolution. He tripped and got up to all sorts of pranks to the huge amusement of the children. Then another clown came onto the stage wearing a long white wig, and it gradually dawned on Harry that he was meant to be Louis XVI.
    “By unanimous vote, sentenced to death,” announced the clown with the striped hat.
    Soon the condemned man was led to the scaffold where he—still to the amusement of the children—laid his head, after much screaming and yelling, on the block below the blade. There was a brief roll of the drums, the blade fell and to everyone’s amazement, Harry’s included, it cut off the monarch’s head with a sound reminiscent of an ax blow in the forest on a bright winter’s morning. The head, still bearing the wig, fell and rolled into a basket. The lights went out, and when they were