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Five o'clock

Il tichettio della pendola Smith-Enfield sistemata sull'architrave the fireplace was a counterpoint to the clinking of spoons in the old Royal Doulton cups with drawings of fox hunting. In cups, the infusion of Lapsang Souchoung Fukien sweetened with just a hint of orange blossom honey and neroli. In the house, the smell of beeswax mixed with lavender drawer. An old gramophone, with the volume at least, was out feebly Le Petit Negre by Debussy. Outside in the garden, it was always him Yorkshire Yorkshire, with its elm leaves in the roads, the sudden gusts of wind and dry stone walls, dark in the countryside. The gray sky, with fleeting glimpses of blue between dark clouds, harbingers of rain.
The clock marked the Smith-Enfield 17. The trill of the phone which disturbed a quiet seemed millennia.
"Yes?"
"I Tixo"
"Mm"
"It 's been a Marlowe. A Humphrey Bogart look-alike who is a policeman private"
"I threatened?"
"No way"
"What did you say?"
"I invented a pantomime, I told him that it was all the fault of the computer"
"So the story of the password ..."
"Hey, how do you know the password?"
"Do not worry about it. Rather, if you drink?"
"I do not think I was not paid"