Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency

CHAPTER 10

Richard made the hastiest departure that politeness would allow.

He said thank you very much and what a splendid evening it had been and that any time Reg was coming up to London he must let him, Richard, know and was there anything he could do to help about the horse. No? Well, all right then, if you're sure, and thank you again, so much.

He stood there for a moment or two after the door finally closed, pondering things.

He had noticed during the short time that the light from Reg's room flooded out on to the landing of the main staircase, that there were no marks on the floorboards there at all. It seemed odd that the horse should only have scuffed the floorboards inside Reg's room.

Well, it all seemed very odd, full stop, but here was yet another curious fact to add to the growing pile. This was supposed to have been a relaxing evening away from work.

On an impulse he knocked on the door opposite to Reg's. It took such a long time to be answered that Richard had given up and was turning to go when at last he heard the door creak open.

He had a slight shock when he saw that staring sharply up at him like a small and suspicious bird was the don with the racing-yacht keel for a nose.

“Er, sorry,” said Richard, abruptly, “but, er, have you seen or heard a horse coming up this staircase tonight?”

The man stopped his obsessive twitching of his fingers. He cocked his head slightly on one side and then seemed to need to go on a long journey inside himself to find a voice, which when found turned out to be a thin and soft little one.

He said, “That is the first thing anybody has said to me for seventeen years, three months and two days, five hours, nineteen minutes and twenty seconds. I've been counting.”

He closed the door softly again.

Richard virtually ran through Second Court.

When he reached First Court he steadied himself and slowed down to a walking pace. The chill night air was rasping in his lungs and there was no point in running. He hadn't managed to talk to Susan because Reg's phone wasn't working, and this was another thing that he had been mysteriously coy about. That at least was susceptible of a rational explanation. He probably hadn't paid his phone bill.

Richard was about to emerge out on to the street when instead he decided to pay a quick visit to the porter's lodge, which was tucked away inside the great archway entrance into the college. It was a small hutchlike place filled with keys, messages and a single electric bar heater. A radio nattered to itself in the background.

“Excuse me,” he said to the large black-suited man standing behind the counter with his arms folded. “I…”

“Yes, Mr MacDuff, what can I do for you?”

In his present state of mind Richard would have been hard-pressed himself to remember his own name and was startled for a moment. However, college porters are legendary for their ability to perform such feats of memory, and for their tendency to show them off at the slightest provocation.

“Is there,” said Richard, “a horse anywhere in the college — that you know of? I mean, you would know if there was a horse in the college, wouldn't you?”

The porter didn't blink.

“No, sir, and yes, sir. Anything else I can help you with, Mr MacDuff, sir?”

“Er, no,” said Richard and tapped his fingers a couple of times on the counter. “No. Thank you. Thank you very much for your help. Nice to see you again, er… Bob,” he hazarded. “Good-night, then.”

He left.

The porter remained perfectly still with his arms folded, but shaking his head a very, very little bit.

“Here's some coffee for you, Bill,” said another porter, a short wiry one, emerging from an inner sanctum with a steaming cup. “Getting a bit colder tonight?”

“I think it is, Fred, thanks,” said Bill, taking the cup.

He took a sip. “You can say what you like about people, they don't get any less peculiar. Fellow in here just now asking if there was a horse in the college.”

“Oh yes?” Fred sipped at his own coffee, and let the steam smart his eyes. “I had a chap in here earlier. Sort of strange foreign priest. Couldn't understand a word he said at first. But he seemed happy just to stand by the fire and listen to the news on the radio.”

“Foreigners, eh.”

“In the end I told him to shoot off. Standing in front of my fire like that. Suddenly he says is that really what he must do? Shoot off? I said, in my best Bogart voice, ‘You better believe it, buddy.’”

“Really? Sounded more like Jimmy Cagney to me.”

“No, that's my Bogart voice. This is my Jimmy Cagney voice — ‘You better believe it, buddy.’”

Bill frowned at him. “Is that your Jimmy Cagney voice? I always thought that was your Kenneth McKellar voice.”

“You don't listen properly, Bill, you haven't got the ear. This is Kenneth McKellar. ‘Oh, you take the high road and I'll take the low road…’”

“Oh, I see. I was thinking of the Scottish Kenneth McKellar. So what did this priest fellow say then, Fred?”

“Oh, he just looked me straight in the eyes, Bill, and said in this strange sort of…”

“Skip the accent, Fred, just tell me what he said, if it's worth hearing.”

“He just said he did believe me.”

“So. Not a very interesting story then, Fred.”

“Well, maybe not. I only mention it because he also said that he'd left his horse in a washroom and would I see that it was all right.”