Angelmaker Read Online Free PDF Page A

dive klaxon and blow the tanks! Run silent, run deep!
He wonders why. He glances at the hand still gripping his own, and sees no watch. Gentlemen of this vintage rarely operate without watches, and watches communicate something of one’s identity. Of course, if one wished to avoid such communication … His gaze flicks to Mr. Titwhistle’s waistcoat, and finds what he’s looking for: a fob watch on an unornamented chain. No charms, no Masonic badges, no club marks. No private signs or colophon. Nomilitary insignia. A blank, empty space on an item for display. He looks back at the wrist. Cufflinks. Plain studs. The tie is generic, too. This man is a cypher. He hides himself.
    Joe glances back at Mr. Titwhistle’s face. Gazing into those clear, benevolent eyes, he finds he is sure of exactly one thing: that Mr. Titwhistle, congenial sherry drinker and alderman of the city of Bath, would have precisely the same damp, avuncular expression on his face if he were strangling you with piano wire.
    Unwillingly, he grants the Night Market self a brief leave to remain.
    The formalities dispensed with, Mr. Cummerbund sits and lays out his notepad on his lap. From this angle, he is even more bizarre than when Joe first saw him galloping along Quoyle Street. He has a head shaped almost exactly like a pear. His brain must be squeezed into the narrow place at the top. His cheeks are wide and fatty, so that, if Mr. Cummerbund were a deer or a halibut, they would excite pleasurable anticipation in those fond of rich foods and delicacies. He smells strongly of a thin, high-scented cologne. It is a cologne advertised by young men who surf and then trip lightly into tropical casinos with curvy, dark-eyed women. It comes in a bottle made to look like a crystal glass pineapple. It is too young for him, and does not conceal the stinky
eau de Cummerbund
which is the natural product of his body.
    “A matter of some delicacy?” Joe says.
    “I’m afraid so,” Mr. Titwhistle agrees.
    “Regarding?”
    “Regarding some of your late grandfather’s effects.”
    “My grandfather?” It is an innocuous word, and Daniel Spork was not a firebrand or a red-toothed crook—unlike his son—but it puts Joe a little more on edge.
    “Yes, indeed. Mr. Daniel, I believe.”
    “What about him?”
    “Ah. Well … I am tasked to acquire your grandfather’s journals, and any correspondence you might be willing to part with. Along with any examples of his work or his tools which you might still possess. And any curiosities.”
    “I see.” He doesn’t, or rather, he sees something, but cannot identify it.
    “I’m authorised to negotiate the sale so that it can be done quickly, and to arrange for collection. The new exhibitions usually start inJanuary, and they take a while to prepare, so time is of the essence. Have you been to the Museum?”
    “No, I’m not familiar with it.”
    “So few people are. A great shame. But the curators really do an amazing job. They build up the exhibits in a way which sets them off quite splendidly. You should visit.”
    “It sounds fascinating.”
    “Once I’ve seen the items, of course, I can give you a better idea of what we’d be willing to pay—but I have a considerable budget. American money, you see, not British. Additional zeroes, you understand.”
    “And are there any specific items you might be looking for? I have a small number of rather ordinary tools which belonged to him. Although I think I do have a table clamp he designed for engraving work. The best stuff I’m afraid my father disposed of rather informally, while my grandfather was still alive.” Did he ever. Daniel Spork, measured and frail, shouting fit to raise the roof and shake the foundations. His son was a serpent, a buffoon, a deceiver. He was a crawling bug with no concept of honour, no understanding of humanity’s better urges. He was vile. And Joe’s mother, weeping and holding Mathew’s arm, clutching at the old man.
Don’t