In the Teeth of Adversity (15 page)

It was a time for desperate measures, and as his stubby fingers probed into my mouth just ahead of the drill, I took them. My teeth clamped over those fingers – if he couldn't get them out, he couldn't get the drill in.

As it happened, he nearly dropped the drill. His scream, I was surprised to note, was nearly as soprano as his wife's. “You bit me!” He wrenched his fingers away. “You
bit
me!”

“Sorry about that,” I said feebly. “Reflex action, you know.” He didn't look as though he believed me.

“You deliberately bit me!” he said. You'd think a dentist would be used to that sort of thing, but it seemed to be preying on his mind. “You hate me!”

“No, no.” Smiling ingratiatingly, I tried to get out of the chair while he was still brooding.

I didn't make it. He did something with his foot again and the chair tilted and swerved as though it had some diabolic life of its own. They were both in league against me.

“Well, let me tell you.” He slammed me against the back of the chair with the flat of one hand. The other hand held a madly whirring drill. “I hate you lousy rotten patients, too!”

As he moved in, I was torn between closing my eyes and hoping the Lord that looked after fools, children, and drunkards would fit me in somewhere amongst them, or keeping my eyes wide open and fighting to the last ditch.

Neither of us heard the surgery door open. “Oh, sorry.” Inspector Rennolds stood in the doorway. “I wanted to speak to you. I didn't realize you were busy. I'll come back later –”

“Eh?” Zayle turned away to peer muzzily at the figure hovering in the doorway.

“No, no.” While his attention was distracted, I lunged from the chair. “I'll come now. Always glad to do my duty as a citizen.” He hadn't said which of us he wanted to speak to, so I was going to claim the honour before Zayle could.

“Besides, I have something to tell you.” I made the doorway in a standing broad jump and grabbing his arm, whirled him about and gained the safety of the corridor. “Vital information to impart,”

I babbled. “Delay might be fatal. Let's have a talk right now.”

He was still gazing over his shoulder at Zayle in a puzzled way as I dragged him up the stairs. As I shut the living room door, I saw that he was now looking at me with the same puzzled gaze. There was suspicion in his look, as well, for which I couldn't blame him. I had never voluntarily sought an interview with him before. I doubt if many people had.

“Well.” I let go of his arm and gave him a placating smile. “This is better.” I suspected that was even more of a lie than I intended. It was better than the dental chair, but it was beginning to feel like out of the frying pan into the fire.

“What” – I took the initiative – “did you want to see me about?”

“I didn't.” His steady gaze was unnerving. “I wanted to talk to the dentist.”

“Oh, well, in that case –” I started for the door. “I'll clear out of your way and let you get on with it.” I almost made it. I had my hand on the doorknob when his hand fell on my shoulder and turned me back.

“You said you had something to tell me,” he reminded me. “ ‘Vital information to impart.' ”

“Oh, that.” I winced at the direct quotation. “On second thought –”

“Why don't we sit down and talk it over.” He moved me inexorably away from the door. “Perhaps you'll have a third thought.”

I couldn't say he actually pushed, but I found myself floundering on the sofa while he took the straight chair opposite. “All right,” he said, “begin.”

Begin. I rummaged wildly through my store-cupboard of guilty knowledge – which was uncomfortably crowded – for some fairly innocuous piece of information I could toss to him. There wasn't much. I decided to opt for the obvious and give him something he might already have noticed for himself.

“Endicott Zayle,” I said. “I thought I ought to talk to you about him. I mean, I've known him for some time, and you've never seen him before?” I waited for his affirmative nod, then continued, “There's something wrong about him lately. Odd, I mean. He hasn't been himself. He keeps getting these strange ideas and can't be talked out of them –” I stopped. Rennolds had leaned back, a pained expression on his face.

“I see,” he said. “So that's it. You're working up to a ‘detained at the Queen's pleasure.' I might have known it.”

He stopped me cold with that one. After a moment, I got my mouth closed again, but still couldn't think of anything to say. I needn't have bothered. He was in full spate and quite bitter about it all.

“You're planning to bring in the psychiatrists to prove it all goes back to an unhappy childhood; then you'll get the trendies, who'll moan about cruel treatment and police brutality. And then there'll be the bleeding hearts, who think he ought to be given a medal because he only knocked off a couple of people who irritated him instead of running amok down Regent Street with a machine gun during rush hour. After that, you'll parade the do-gooders to claim –”

“He didn't do it.” I found my voice at last. “My client is innocent.”

That stopped
him
cold. “All the indications point to Endicott Zayle,” he said almost irritably.

“He didn't do it.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounded firm and convincing. It almost stilled the little quiver of doubt deep within me. Almost.

“You think so?” He stared at me reflectively for a moment, then moved suddenly. I didn't know what was coming, but tried not to flinch. He reached out and snatched the forgotten white bib from around my neck and tossed it onto the coffee table between us. “That's been distracting me,” he said in not quite apology.

“I'd forgotten it,” I admitted, glancing at it where it lay on top of a pile of papers he had obviously been working on, partially obscuring them. Or was that the idea? Was there something there he didn't want me to see? But it looked innocent enough – what I could see of it – largely magazines, what looked like a couple of theatre programmes, and – probably the real meat – a small sheaf of nondescript carbon flimsies. I wondered what he'd do if I were to pick up the bib and fold it neatly, replacing it on the table beside the pile of papers, so that I could read the top ones.

“Can you prove it?” he demanded, startling me out of any further plans for prying.

“Prove what?”

“That he's innocent?” It was like a gauntlet flung down before me. I wondered whether he was challenging me to work against him. If so, I didn't want to know.

“That's your job,” I said hastily. “I have enough to do in my own. PR keeps me busy enough without taking on amateur sleuthing as well.”

“Good.” He settled back in his chair. “You just hold on to that attitude.” He seemed mollified, and although I couldn't say he was exactly friendly, he seemed at least to have shifted into neutral toward me. It was a big improvement.

“We
are
working, you know.” He was almost chatty. “You – the public – never realize how much background work goes on. We're working, always working, digging into the pasts of everyone involved in a case.
That's
where you get most of your real information – and your motives.”

He paused; his mouth twisted oddly, smoothed out, and twisted again. I lost the slight sense of comfort I had had. Was he making faces at me? Was I supposed to gather something from those expressions? If I was, I needed more time to work on it. We'd never been on the same wavelength and this wasn't helping matters.

“I'm sure you're right,” I said, and watched his mouth contort again. It was beginning to hold a hypnotic fascination for me. What did he imagine he was conveying? Was there someone listening at the door, so that he was telling me one thing while warning me to pay no attention to whatever he said? But he hadn't said anything pertinent.

“That's where most cases are solved – in the past,” he emphasized. His cheek bulged briefly and returned to normal. “Inquiries are proceeding – you may be sure of that. Now” – he changed tone so abruptly that I was further unnerved – “was there something else you wanted to tell me?”

“No, no,” I disclaimed hastily. “I'm sure I couldn't tell you a thing you don't already know. You're doing a great job. Just keep it up and –”

I was afraid I was overdoing it. His mouth seemed to try to tie itself into a knot. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, he was still staring at me suspiciously.

“All right.” I decided to be honest and throw myself on his mercy – if any. “It was all a load of old codswallop. I don't have anything to tell. I just wanted to get out of that chair before Zayle started drilling.”

“Why? What's the matter?” His voice rose on a note of panic. “Isn't he a good dentist?”

“One of the best,” I assured him quickly. His reaction had suddenly given me the key to the situation. All those faces and mouths twistings were the result of a man probing a tender tooth with his tongue. No wonder he'd wanted to speak to the dentist, he'd probably been trying to arrange an appointment.

“Endicott Zayle,” I said firmly, “is one of the top dentists in London.
And
he takes a few patients on the National Health. I'm one, and Gerry is another. We have every confidence in him.”

“Ummm,” the inspector said dubiously. Our recommendation didn't carry much weight with him.

“How long has it been bothering you?” I asked. This was better, bringing an immediate response. Talking about dental troubles with people who have them is nearly as satisfying as discussing the finer points of surgery with a postoperative case.

“Two or three days. It started with just a niggling ache and I thought it would go away.” I'd never heard him so forthcoming before. “Then it got worse and worse and aspirin doesn't help anymore. I think the stopping's going to fall out. It's loose. It wobbles when I touch it.” He demonstrated with his tongue and winced again.

“Yes, yes,” I said quickly before he opened his mouth and invited me to look inside. That was usually the next step and I'd sooner leave it to Zayle – that was the sort of thing
he
got paid for doing.

“Come with me.” I stood up. “We'll go and see Endicott Zayle right now.” Then I remembered the condition Zayle was in. “Er – perhaps we ought to speak to the receptionist first.”

But he was halfway to the door. That tooth must really be bothering him. I'd never seen anyone so eager to leap into a dentist's chair.

Then he faltered and I thought a normal reaction was setting in at last. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I can't have it attended to now. I have to get over to the House.”

For a moment I wondered whether some sudden emergency had arisen at home requiring his presence, then I realized what he meant.

“Make her give you tea on the terrace,” I said. “It's a nice afternoon for it.” We were in the downstairs hallway now and he was looking around indecisively, as though he might still prefer the dentist to the call of duty. He wouldn't if he got a good look at the dentist right now – a thing I had to prevent. I ought also to check on how many patients were in the waiting room and have a quiet word with the receptionist before hunting out a source of black coffee and making sure Zayle drank enough of it to do him some good. It's one of the more depressing aspects of public relations – the amount of time we have to spend simply trying to protect the client from himself.

“
If
you'll pardon me ...” We were blocking the top of the stairs and Morgana Fane was trying to edge past us. Behind her, Penny was signalling to me with a worried look on her face. Gerry, looking even more worried, brought up the rear – I could see that Penny had explained the situation to him with more clarity than she had explained it to me.

“Oops, sorry.” I managed to block Morgana's way still further, while shaking my head to Penny and Gerry. “Sorry again.” We went into one of those sidestepping encounters in which I kept blocking her way every time she tried to pass. They usually happen only by accident and it took some pretty tricky footwork on my part to keep blocking her; she was a lot more nimble-footed than I was.

“Get Adele!” I mouthed to Penny over Morgana's head. Penny nodded and slipped past us as we waltzed over to the left.

“Now see here.” Morgana stopped abruptly and faced me, eyes glittering as dangerously as her medallion. “I have only half an hour before my next session. I
must
see my dentist now – without wasting any time. He promised to fit me in.”

It would take more than half an hour to sober him up. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that what I was doing was for her own good, as well as our client's.

“Terribly sorry,” I said. “In fact, he intended to fit you in, but he miscalculated. Rather, there was a sudden emergency and he couldn't reach you in time to put you off. He's closeted with the emergency right now.”

Behind me, I was aware that Inspector Rennolds stirred restlessly, as though he might be going to say something contradictory. I stepped backward sharply and felt my heel come down on his toe.

“Sorry,” I apologized over my shoulder. Ignoring his snort of outrage, I shifted position to block Morgana as she tried advancing again.

It was an impasse and we had another brief waltz, during which her temper didn't improve. I was feeling a bit fraught myself.

“There you are,” a voice thundered behind me. Those of us not facing that way swiveled about to see General Sir Malcolm bearing down on us.

“Yes, sir.” Determined to keep in good with at least one figure of authority, I saluted. But he paid no attention to me.

“I have something for you,” he continued. Gerry flinched and sidled away, but he wasn't the target this time.