Mr Rinyo-Clacton's Offer

22. So Many Are

‘Hello,’ said a man’s voice at the Derek Engel number. The word was spoken in a suave and leisurely drawl, with the first syllable stretched out and the second on a rising inflection. ‘Hehh-lo?’

‘Is this Derek Engel?’ I said.

‘Speaking.’

‘Oh. You’re Derek Engel himself?’

‘So far.’

‘Sorry — I was expecting a telephonist.’

‘Would you like me to go away?’

‘No, please — it’s just that I didn’t want to take up your time; I thought perhaps your publicity department could answer my query.’

‘Which is?’

‘Have you got an author named Rinyo-Clacton?’

‘Ah, what are we all but clay!’

‘Odd that you should say that.’

‘Well, Mr …?’

‘Fitch, Jonathan Fitch.’

‘Mr Fitch. The only Rinyo-Clacton I know of is Late Neolithic pottery. You say there’s an author by that name?’

‘There’s a man who uses that name. I thought he might be one of your authors.’

‘An interesting deductive leap. Has he written something you think we should publish?’

‘I think he might be in the process of writing something now.’

‘So many are.’

‘Just one more question and I’ll go away — do you think Dr von Luker might have any connection with Mr Rinyo-Clacton?’

‘Why should he?’

‘It’s just another of my deductive leaps.’

‘Dr von Luker’s here now; I’ll ask him.’ He put down the phone. ‘Ernst,’ I heard him say, ‘know anyone by the name of Rinyo-Clacton?’

A second voice said, ‘No.’

‘He says, “No,”’ said Engel.

‘Thank you. Well, I mustn’t keep you.’

‘No, my authors do that, more or less. I shall be on the lookout for Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s effort, Mr Fitch, and if it comes flying over the transom I’ll make sure it gets read. Thank you for this advance notice.’

‘Thank you, Mr Engel.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

As soon as I put down the phone I hurried to the tube station, took the Edgware train to Notting Hill Gate, changed to the Central line to Tottenham Court Road, and headed for Bedford Square. Turning into Great Russell Street I saw Dr von Luker’s face advancing towards me. I had imagined him to be tall and broad, to be, in fact, Mr Rinyo-Clacton without a wig and with a beard but von Luker’s head was on the shoulders of a man about as big as Toulouse-Lautrec.

I caught his eye. ‘Dr Lautrec!’ I said. He favoured me with a cold stare. ‘I mean, Dr von Luker!’

This brought him to a halt. ‘What do you want?’ he said, speaking as from a considerable height.

‘I just wanted to tell you how much I’m enjoying your new book.’

‘Thank you,’ he said without an accent. He nodded and continued on his way. I went back to the corner, crossed Tottenham Court Road, mooched about in the Virgin Megastore for a while, then went home.

Thursday morning, this was, the day after the night when Serafina and I slept together apart.