Free Johnson-Johnson 06 – Dolly and the Nanny Bird by Dorothy Dunnett Page B

you he isn’t, either,’ I said. ‘Maybe he’s just feeling henpecked. Maybe someone’s painting his portrait. You didn’t find a small, valuable article called the Lesnovo ikon when you were hunting through your clients’ house, did you?’
    There was a pause. ‘Well, go on,’ said Johnson. ‘The paralysed silence means you’ve got my attention.’
    ‘I wondered,’ I said. ‘Because I’ve just fished up a smashed ikon from Bunty Cole’s loo, and when I brought it over here, Rosamund burned it.’
    ‘All right,’ said Johnson. ‘You win.’ And sitting down, said politely, ‘Please tell me all that happened in the Carl Schurz Park, followed by all that happened in Bunty Cole’s loo.’ So I did, not missing out Comer or Beverley Eisenkopp, or Sukey and Grover, or Grandfather, or the gorilla-clad Hugo Panadek.
    ‘Panadek? What nationality’s that?’ Johnson asked.
    ‘Yugoslav,’ I said. ‘Claims to be an ex-Count from a long line of vampires. I have two questions to ask you. The Department set me up, you set me up, everyone set me up in this job because they hope I’m going to be approached by Mike Widdess’s killers. If I’m the target, who’s gunning for Benedict?’
    ‘Coincidence,’ Johnson said. ‘He’s got a rich grandmother in England. What’s the other question?’
    ‘I’ve asked it before. What are you doing on my board, if you’re playing a different game?’
    ‘I do apologise,’ Johnson said, ‘for intruding. But it’s rather difficult not to, when you’re playing with the same pieces. Can’t I have access to all your splendid inside information about the family Booker-Readman and their neighbours? All you have to do is talk into the ball and I’ll retrieve it.’
    ‘Why not move in?’ I said. I could hear the edge in my voice. ‘Rosamund asked you.’
    ‘Ah,’ said Johnson. ‘But it wouldn’t do, would it, for me or anyone else to take a close interest in the Booker-Readmans, or you, or the baby? Our strong point is our seeming ignorance. We don’t know Mike was murdered. We don’t know someone’s discovered your hobby. We’re simple British, weak in the bogglecogs. What was that stuff in the hall, incidentally?’
    I wondered at what stage in my ironing he had been pussy-footing up and down the stairs. I said, picking out the most controversial article, ‘It was Grover’s dummy.’
    ‘I allow Grover the benefit of the doubt. And this?’ Johnson said, holding up three torn bits of paper.
    I didn’t recognise them. ‘I emptied my pocket,’ I said. ‘Join them together and I’ll try to remember, if it matters.’
    ‘It matters,’ he said. He was practically on the floor, lying sprawled in the nursing chair I’d been using. He leaned over and arranged the papers in sequence.
    The words at the top said
    MISSY’S GOLDEN AMERICAN WONDERLAND
    The text down below invited him to bring the kids to spend the most wonderful day of their lives in Missy’s Magical Garden, all-day tickets eight dollars inclusive: sample the Skyride, the Aqua Spectacle, the Great Wheel, the Safari Park, the Antique Car Ride.
    Between the two was a map of the Wonderland, upon which had been inked in an arrow beside a thing called The Great Shoot-Out. The arrow was blurred. ‘Well,’ said Johnson.
    I said, ‘It’s wet, but I don’t remember fishing it out, of the loo. I’ve never seen it before.’
    Johnson leaned forward again. This time he reversed the three pieces of paper and fitted them together once more. Facing me was the blank side of the notice, with some words typewritten across it. They said.
Shoot it out. Wear an M.M.A. badge. Don’t tell the cops or you’ll never see the kid again living
.
    ‘The kidnap note,’ Johnson said. ‘Now you tell me how it got into your pocket. And if you think what I think an M.M.A. badge is.’
    I said, ‘It could be Metropolitan Museum of Art. The tin badge they give you instead of a ticket. Anyone can get them… I think I