Buried for Pleasure Read Online Free PDF Page B

with no special conviction, that it did, and particularly in the case of detective stories. ‘I read a good many of them,’ he said, ‘and I must know yours. May I ask your name?’
    â€˜Judd,’ the man replied, ‘my name is Judd. But I write’ – he hesitated, in some embarrassment – ‘I write under the pseudonym of “Annette de la Tour”.’
    â€˜Ah, yes,’ said Fen. Annette de la Tour’s books, he remembered, were complicated, lurid, and splendidly melodramatic. And certainly they made no concessions to the Baal of characterization. He said: ‘Your work has given me a great deal of pleasure, Mr Judd.’
    â€˜Has it?’ said Mr Judd eagerly. ‘Has it really? I’ve been writing for twenty years, and no one has ever said anything like that to me before. My dear fellow, I’m so grateful.’ His eyes sparkled with innocent pleasure. ‘And it’s all the better coming, as it evidently does, from an intelligent man.’
    Upon this shameless quid pro quo he paused expectantly, and Fen, feeling that he was required to identify himself, did so. Mr Judd clapped his hands together with excitement.
    â€˜But how splendid!’ he exclaimed. ‘Of course I’ve followed all your cases. We must have a very long talk together, a very long talk indeed. Are you staying here?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜For long?’
    â€˜Until after polling day. I’m standing for Parliament.’
    Mr Judd was taken aback.
    â€˜ Standing? ’ he repeated dazedly. ‘For Parliament ?’
    â€˜It is my wish to serve the community,’ Fen said.
    Confronted with this pronouncement, Mr Judd showed himself either more credulous or more courteous than Diana had been.
    â€˜Very commendable,’ he murmured. ‘To tell you the truth, I had rather forgotten there was a by-election in progress. . . . What interest do you represent?’
    â€˜I’m an Independent.’
    â€˜Then you shall have my vote,’ said Mr Judd, narrowly forestalling a primitive attempt at canvassing on Fen’s part. ‘And if I had fifty votes,’ he added lyrically, ‘you should have them all. Tell me, which of my books do you think the best?’
    Fen rummaged in his mind, seeking not for that book of Mr Judd’s which he thought the best, but for the one which Mr Judd was likely to cherish most. ‘ The Screaming Bone ,’ he said at last.
    â€˜Admirable!’ said Mr Judd, and Fen was pleased that his diagnosis had been correct. ‘I’m so glad you enjoyed that one, because the critics were very down on it, and yet I’ve always thought it the finest thing I’ve done. Mind you, the critics are down on all my books, because they haven’t any psychology in them, but they were particularly harsh about that one. . . . You’re very perceptive, Professor Fen, very perceptive indeed.’ He beamed approval. ‘Still, we mustn’t waste time talking about my nonsense,’ he concluded insincerely. ‘Where are you heading for?’
    â€˜I think’ – Fen glanced at his watch – ‘that it’s about time I was strolling back to the village.’
    Mr Judd’s face fell. ‘What a pity – I have to go in the opposite direction, or we could have walked along together and talked,’ he said with great simplicity, ‘about my books. Still, you must come and have a meal with me – I live in a cottage only a quarter of a mile from here. What about lunch today?’
    Fen said: ‘I’m afraid, you know, that I’m going to be very busy during the coming week,’ but Mr Judd’s disappointment was so manifest and poignant that he was moved to add: ‘But I dare say we can fit something in.’
    â€˜Please try,’ said Mr Judd earnestly. ‘Please try. My telephone number is Sanford 13, and you needn’t