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general look of the place, this was no rookery for the poor.
Marble steps led to glass double doors revealing a foyer lined by sofas and
pot-plants. I shook the door handles but the doors appeared to be locked.
'Riff raff,' Brother Zebediah said. 'Keeps out.' He was looking at a sort of
grid in the marble wall composed of small boxes with buttons and little
illuminated labels. There was a grille to one side.
'Number?' he asked.
'Thirty-five,' I told him. He ran his finger down the little plastic windows.
His fingernails were long and soiled. However, I thought the better of saying
anything.
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'Here,' he said. 'Thirty. Five. Says. Mr. Mrs. Coyle.' He pressed the
button.
'& Yes?' a female voice said from the grille after a short delay.
'Excuse me, Brother,' I said to Zeb, taking his place. 'Good morning, madam,'
I said into the grille. 'I am sorry to disturb you but I am looking for Ms
Morag Whit, the internationally renowned baryton soloist.'
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'& Excuse me?'
'Morag Whit, the internationally renowned baryton soloist' I repeated. 'She is
my cousin. Does she still live here? This is the last address we have for
her.'
'No. I'm sorry. The lady who used to live here left a couple of months ago.'
'I see. It's just that I'm her cousin, you see, and my family are rather
anxious to trace her. Did she leave a forwarding address?'
'Not really. Might I ask who that other gentleman is there with you?'
I straightened and looked, with a degree of consternation, I'll admit, at Zeb.
He nodded over our heads to a small box just inside glass doors.
'Camera,' he said.
'Good grief!' I said. 'Are we on television?'
'Closed circuit,' Zeb said.
'Lordy!' I gulped. 'Is that a much-watched show?' My mouth had gone a little
dry.('& Hello?' said the small voice from the grille.)
Zeb stared at me, frowning with incomprehension. Then he grimaced. 'Not
broadcast
,' he said, sounding exasperated. 'Security. For flats. Private.'
I thought I understood and quickly turned back to the grille, blushing and
flustered. 'I do beg your pardon, madam. I misunderstood. This is my
half-brother, Brother Zebediah, another Luskentyrian.'
'I'm sorry?' said the female voice. Zeb sighed behind me and I caught him
shaking his head out of the corner of my eye. 'Another what?
'Another Luskentyrian,' I replied, feeling my face colour again. Explaining
these things to Blands could be time-consuming. 'It's complicated.'
'I'm sure. Well,' the voice said with an unmistakable note of finality, 'I'm
very sorry I can't help you.'
'She left no forwarding address?' I said desperately. 'We just want to make
sure she's all right.'
'Well& '
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'Please.'
'& She did leave the address of her agent, or& manager or something, for
anything urgent. But just the address, not phone or fax.'
'That would be wonderful!' I said. 'Oh, thank you!'
'Well, just hold on; I'll go get it.' There was a click.
I turned, feeling relieved, to Zeb, who was looking vaguely out at the trees
between us and the road.
'There we are!' I said, and clapped him enthusiastically on the back. He
stumbled forward, coughing, and had to jump down a couple of steps before he
could regain his balance. He glared back at me.
'& Hello?' said the metallic voice from the wall.
*
Our journey from Finchley was relatively simple, taking the Northern Line
south to Tottenham Court
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Road and then walking along Oxford Street and down Dean Street to Brewer
Street.
The premises corresponding to the address we had been given for Cousin Morag's
agent - a Mr Francis
Leopold - did not look very encouraging.
'Dirty books?' Zeb said, and made another forlorn attempt to pull his hand
through the topological - and trichological - nightmare that was his hair. We
stood on the pavement looking at the oddly blank window of something calling
itself an Adult Book Shop.
'Well,' I said, looking to one side. 'The number may refer to this
establishment.'
Zeb glanced. 'Porn cinema.'
'Or here?'
Zeb stuck his head into the doorway. 'Peep show. Downstairs. Upstairs. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]