Free Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency by Douglas Adams Page A

portrait of the author.
    The other book was more recent, and by an odd coincidence was a guide to the Greek islands.  He thumbed through it idly and a piece of paper fell out.
    ‘Earl Grey or Lapsang Souchong?’ called out Reg.  ‘Or Darjeeling?  Or PG Tips?  It’s all tea bags anyway, I’m afraid.  And none of them very fresh.’
    ‘Darjeeling will do fine,’ replied Richard, stooping to pick up the piece of paper.
    ‘Milk?’ called Reg.
    ‘Er, please.’
    ‘One lump or two?’
    ‘One, please.’
    Richard slipped the paper back into the book, noticing as he did so that it had a hurriedly scribbled note on it.  The note said, oddly enough, ‘Regard this simple silver salt cellar.  Regard this simple hat.’
    ‘Sugar?’
    ‘Er, what?’ said Richard, startled.  He put the book hurriedly back on the pile.
    ‘Just a tiny joke of mine,’ said Reg cheerily, ‘to see if people are listening.’  He emerged beaming from the kitchen carrying a small tray with two cups on it, which he hurled suddenly to the floor.  The tea splashed over the carpet.  One of the cups shattered and the other bounced under the table.  Reg leaned against the door frame, white-faced and staring.
    A frozen instant of time slid silently by while Richard was too startled to react, then he leaped awkwardly forward to help.  But the old  man was already apologising and offering to make him another cup.  Richard helped him to the sofa.
    ‘Are you all right?’ asked Richard helplessly.  ‘Shall I get a doctor?’
    Reg waved him down.  ‘It’s all right,’ he insisted, ‘I’m perfectly well.  Thought I heard, well, a noise that startled me.  But it was nothing.  Just overcome with the tea fumes, I expect.  Let me just catch my breath.  I think a little, er, port will revive me excellently.  So sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’  He waved in the general direction of the port decanter.  Richard hurriedly poured a small glass and gave it to him.
    ‘What kind of noise?’ he asked, wondering what on earth could shock him so much.
    At that moment came the sound of movement upstairs and an extraordinary kind of heavy breathing noise.
    ‘That...’ whispered Reg.  The glass of port lay shattered at his feet.  Upstairs someone seemed to be stamping.  ‘Did you hear it?’
    ‘Well, yes.’
    This seemed to relieve the old man.
    Richard looked nervously up at the ceiling.  ‘Is there someone up there?’ he asked, feeling this was a lame question, but one that had to be asked.
    ‘No,’ said Reg in a low voice that shocked Richard with the fear it carried, ‘no one.  Nobody that should be there.’
    ‘Then...’
    Reg was struggling shakily to his feet, but there was suddenly a fierce determination about him.
    ‘I must go up there,’ he said quietly.  ‘I must.  Please wait for me here.’
    ‘Look, what is this?’ demanded Richard, standing between Reg and the doorway.  ‘What is it, a burglar?  Look, I’ll go.  I’m sure it’s nothing, it’s just the wind or something.’  Richard didn’t know why he was saying this.  It clearly wasn’t the wind, or even anything like the wind, because though the wind might conceivably make heavy breathing noises, it rarely stamped its feet in that way.
    ‘No,’ the old man said, politely but firmly moving him aside, ‘it is for me to do.’
    Richard followed him helplessly through the door into the small hallway, beyond which lay the tiny kitchen.  A dark wooden staircase led up from here; the steps seemed damaged and scuffed.
    Reg turned on a light.  It was a dim one that hung naked at the top of the stairwell, and he looked up it with grim apprehension.
    ‘Wait here,’ he said, and walked up two steps.  He then turned and faced Richard with a look of the most profound seriousness on his face.
    ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘that you have become involved in what is... the more difficult side of my life.  But you are involved now, regrettable