Read Online The Old Wine Shades by Martha Grimes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Martha Grimes
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Wiggins smiled a bit. ‘Well, with respect, sir, I can’t see the sense to it. I mean, if you’re telling someone in advance you’re lying–?’ To dramatize his frustration with his sergeant’s thick-headedness, Jury brought his fist down on the desk. ‘Don’t you see it’s a paradox! If you say ‘I’m lying’ the very statement itself means you aren’t; therefore, you’re telling the truth!’
Wiggins pondered. Jury sighed. ‘Do you know anything about physics, Wiggins?’
‘A lot. I keep telling you, that some of these, for instance, would be good for you.’ He held up a packet of black biscuits.
‘Not that kind of physic. Not medicine. I’m talking about energy, matter, the study of their relation to each other.’
Enlightened, Wiggins leaned back. ‘Well, I must admit, I was never good at math or science in school. Physics is harder still.’
‘Then you’ve never heard of Schrödinger’s cat?’ At the moment, Jury felt like the canary, what with Wiggins, the cat, sitting over there looking sure of himself.
‘No.’ Wiggins drank his blue stuff. ‘Schrö–?’
‘Schrödinger. See, this is a hypothetical cat we’re talking about. Pretend you’re putting the cat in a box...’ Jury told him the rest of it as well as he could, and he thought he remembered pretty well.
Wiggins listened and chortled. Only Wiggins could chortle that way, a throaty sound, the way baboons might laugh. ‘Really taking the piss out, isn’t he?’
‘What? You mean Harry Johnson?’
‘No, this other chap.’
‘Schrödinger?’
‘Yes. That’s pretty good, that is. Cat’s dead and alive at the same time.’ Wiggins flapped his hand in a gesture of disbelief.
‘Join the circus, that cat should.’
Jury was up and pulling on his jacket.
‘Don’t forget the guv’nor, sir,’ Wiggins called after him.
‘He’s in a right mood, he is.’ Fiona Clingmore sat zipping a large-grained fingernail file across her nails.
‘When isn’t he?’
Fiona pursed her lips. ‘Well, right before his club lunch, he feels pretty good.’
‘The question was rhetorical.’ Jury looked around the outer office. No sign of the cat Cyril. ‘Where’s Cyril?’
Fiona shook her head. ‘Here, there, everywhere. Dunno.’ Zip zip zip. ‘Go on in.’ She yawned.
Racer glanced up, head in hands, told Jury to sit down and returned to contemplation of a pile of papers on his desk.
Jury sat. He scanned the ceiling molding for a sign of Cyril, who favored the cozy area between molding and wall designed for the recessed lighting. It was a spot he liked to catnap in. Jury didn’t see him, which meant zip, as Cyril could be hiding anywhere, like the questionable cat of the equation. Cyril could be anywhere, anytime, too. The cat’s dead, the cat’s alive.
‘Ever hear of Schrödinger’s cat?’ Jury asked.
The bald top of Racer’s head came up, head still held between Racer’s hands as if Jury had disturbed his morning matins. He tossed down his Mont Blanc pen, sat back and, having been reminded of a cat, sussed out the room’s hiding places.
Jury said, ‘Schrödinger’s cat is a famous thought experiment in quantum physics.’
Racer glared. ‘Really? The CID could use a thought experiment on the Soho murder–that is, when you’re ready.’
‘I take it that’s a no about Schrödinger’s cat. But let me explain.’ Jury did so.
‘Dead and alive? A vial of cyanide? Have you completely lost it, Jury?’ Composing himself (as best he could), Racer sat back with arms folded and said, ‘What are you doing about this Danny Wu case?’ His crossed arms resembled a railway crossing sign.
‘Waiting to be reinstated. I’m in a state of what seems to be semisuspension; neither suspended nor unsuspended. A little like Schrödinger’s cat. So I’m doing nothing.’ Jury crossed his own arms.
‘Oh, don’t be dramatic. You think it’s going to help your review? Sitting around reading textbook physics? Danny
Wiggins pondered. Jury sighed. ‘Do you know anything about physics, Wiggins?’
‘A lot. I keep telling you, that some of these, for instance, would be good for you.’ He held up a packet of black biscuits.
‘Not that kind of physic. Not medicine. I’m talking about energy, matter, the study of their relation to each other.’
Enlightened, Wiggins leaned back. ‘Well, I must admit, I was never good at math or science in school. Physics is harder still.’
‘Then you’ve never heard of Schrödinger’s cat?’ At the moment, Jury felt like the canary, what with Wiggins, the cat, sitting over there looking sure of himself.
‘No.’ Wiggins drank his blue stuff. ‘Schrö–?’
‘Schrödinger. See, this is a hypothetical cat we’re talking about. Pretend you’re putting the cat in a box...’ Jury told him the rest of it as well as he could, and he thought he remembered pretty well.
Wiggins listened and chortled. Only Wiggins could chortle that way, a throaty sound, the way baboons might laugh. ‘Really taking the piss out, isn’t he?’
‘What? You mean Harry Johnson?’
‘No, this other chap.’
‘Schrödinger?’
‘Yes. That’s pretty good, that is. Cat’s dead and alive at the same time.’ Wiggins flapped his hand in a gesture of disbelief.
‘Join the circus, that cat should.’
Jury was up and pulling on his jacket.
‘Don’t forget the guv’nor, sir,’ Wiggins called after him.
‘He’s in a right mood, he is.’ Fiona Clingmore sat zipping a large-grained fingernail file across her nails.
‘When isn’t he?’
Fiona pursed her lips. ‘Well, right before his club lunch, he feels pretty good.’
‘The question was rhetorical.’ Jury looked around the outer office. No sign of the cat Cyril. ‘Where’s Cyril?’
Fiona shook her head. ‘Here, there, everywhere. Dunno.’ Zip zip zip. ‘Go on in.’ She yawned.
Racer glanced up, head in hands, told Jury to sit down and returned to contemplation of a pile of papers on his desk.
Jury sat. He scanned the ceiling molding for a sign of Cyril, who favored the cozy area between molding and wall designed for the recessed lighting. It was a spot he liked to catnap in. Jury didn’t see him, which meant zip, as Cyril could be hiding anywhere, like the questionable cat of the equation. Cyril could be anywhere, anytime, too. The cat’s dead, the cat’s alive.
‘Ever hear of Schrödinger’s cat?’ Jury asked.
The bald top of Racer’s head came up, head still held between Racer’s hands as if Jury had disturbed his morning matins. He tossed down his Mont Blanc pen, sat back and, having been reminded of a cat, sussed out the room’s hiding places.
Jury said, ‘Schrödinger’s cat is a famous thought experiment in quantum physics.’
Racer glared. ‘Really? The CID could use a thought experiment on the Soho murder–that is, when you’re ready.’
‘I take it that’s a no about Schrödinger’s cat. But let me explain.’ Jury did so.
‘Dead and alive? A vial of cyanide? Have you completely lost it, Jury?’ Composing himself (as best he could), Racer sat back with arms folded and said, ‘What are you doing about this Danny Wu case?’ His crossed arms resembled a railway crossing sign.
‘Waiting to be reinstated. I’m in a state of what seems to be semisuspension; neither suspended nor unsuspended. A little like Schrödinger’s cat. So I’m doing nothing.’ Jury crossed his own arms.
‘Oh, don’t be dramatic. You think it’s going to help your review? Sitting around reading textbook physics? Danny
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