Anansi Boys

THE IMPLACABLY CHEERFUL REPRESENTATIVE OF THE Saint Andrews Police force sat in the hotel front office with Daisy and Fat Charlie, and listened to everything each of them had to say with a placid but unimpressed smile on his wide face. Sometimes he would reach up a finger and scratch his moustache.

They told the police officer that a fugitive from justice called Grahame Coats had come in to them while they were eating dinner, and threatened Daisy with a gun. Which, they were also forced to admit, nobody but Daisy had actually seen. Then Fat Charlie told him about the incident with the black Mercedes and the bicycle, earlier that afternoon, and no, he hadn’t actually seen who was driving the car. But he knew where it came from. He told the officer about the house on the cliff top.

The man touched his pepper-and-salt moustache, thoughtfully. “Indeed, there is a house where you describe. However, it does not belong to your man Coats. Far from it. You are describing the house of Basil Finnegan, an extremely respectable man. For many years, Mr. Finnegan has had a healthy interest in law and order. He has given money to schools, but more important, he contributed a healthy sum toward the construction of the new police station.”

“He put a gun to my stomach,” said Daisy. “He told me that unless we came with him, he’d shoot.”

“If this was Mr. Finnegan, little lady,” said the police officer, “I’m sure that there is a perfectly simple explanation.” He opened his briefcase, produced a thick sheaf of papers. “I’ll tell you what. You think about the matter. Sleep on it. If, in the morning, you are convinced that it was more than high spirits, you simply have to fill in this form, and drop off all three copies at the police station. Ask for the new police station, at the back of the city square. Everyone knows where it is.”

He shook both of their hands and went on his way.

“You should have told him you were a cop too,” said Fat Charlie. “He might have taken you more seriously.”

“I don’t think it would have done any good,” she said. “Anyone who calls you ‘little lady’ has already excluded you from the set of people worth listening to.”

They walked out into the hotel reception.

“Where did she go?” asked Fat Charlie.

Benjamin Higgler said, “Aunt Callyanne? She’s waiting for you in the conference room.”

“THERE,” SAID ROSIE. “I KNEW I COULD DO IT, IF I JUST KEPT swinging.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“He’s going to kill us anyway.”

“It won’t work.”

“Mum. Have you got a better idea?”

“He’ll see you.”

“Mum. Will you please stop being so negative? If you’ve got any suggestions that would help, please say them. Otherwise just don’t bother. Okay?”

Silence.

Then, “I could show him my bum.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Er. Instead of?”

“In addition to.”

Silence. Then Rosie said, “Well, it couldn’t hurt.”

“HULLO, MRS. HIGGLER,” SAID FAT CHARLIE. “I WANT THE feather back.”

“What make you think I got your feather?” she asked, arms folded across her vast bosom.

“Mrs. Dunwiddy told me.”

Mrs. Higgler seemed surprised by this, for the first time. “Louella did tell you I got the feather?”

“She said you had the feather.”

“I keeping it safe.” Mrs. Higgler gestured toward Daisy with her mug of coffee. “You can’t expect me to start talkin’ in front of her. I don’t know her.”

“This is Daisy. You can say anything to her you’d say to me.”

“She’s your fiancée,” said Mrs. Higgler. “I heard.”

Fat Charlie could feel his cheeks starting to burn. “She’s not my—we aren’t, actually. I had to say something to get her away from the man with the gun. It seemed the simplest thing.”

Mrs. Higgler looked at him. Behind her thick spectacles, her eyes began to twinkle. “I know that,” she said. “It was during your song. In front of an audience.” She shook her head, in the way that old people like to do when pondering the foolishness of the young. She opened her black purse, took out an envelope, passed it to Fat Charlie. “I promised Louella I keep it safe.”

Fat Charlie took out the feather from the envelope, half-crushed, from where he had been holding it tightly the night of the séance. “Okay,” he said. “Feather. Excellent. Now,” he said to Mrs. Higgler, “What exactly do I do with it?”

“You don’t know?”