But it was no use. She said, readily enough, that she would tackle Moppett, but almost at once she began to defend her — and before long they had both lost their tempers and had become a middle-aged brother and sister furiously at odds.
“The trouble with you, Boysie, is that you’ve grown so damned selfish. I don’t wonder Désirée got rid of you. All you think of is your own comfort. You’ve worked yourself up into a stink because you’re dead-scared P.P. will turn you out.”
“That’s an insufferable construction to put on it. Naturally, I don’t relish the thought—”
“There you are, you see.”
“Nonsense, Constance! Will you realize that you are entertaining a young man with a criminal record?”
“Moppett has told me all about him. She’s taken him in hand, and he’s going as straight as a die.”
“You’ve made yourself responsible for Mary, you appear to be quite besotted on her — and yet you can allow her to form a criminal association—”
“There’s nothing like that about it. She’s sorry for him.”
“She’ll be sorry for herself before long.”
“Why?”
“This cigarette case—”
“P.P.’ll find it somewhere. You’ve no right—”
“I have every right,” Mr. Cartell cried, now quite beside himself with chagrin. “And I tell you this, Connie. The girl is a bad girl. If you’ve any authority over her, you’d better use it. But in my opinion your sensible course would be to let her be brought to book and pay the consequences. She’s got a record, Connie. You’ll be well rid of her. And I promise you that unless this wretched cigarette case is returned before tomorrow, I shall call in the police.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I shall. And the upshot, no doubt, will be jail for the pair of them.”
“You miserable little pipsqueak, Boysie!”
“Very well,” Mr. Cartell said and rose. “That’s my final word, Connie. Good evening to you.”
He strode from the hall into the garden, where he fell over his dog. With some commotion they effected an exit — and returned, presumably, to Mr. Period’s house across the Green.
Désirée wore black for her April Fool’s party. On any other woman of her age it would have been a disastrous dress, but, by virtue of a sort of inward effrontery, she got away with it. Her neck, her bosom and that dismal little region known, unprettily, as the armpit were all so many statements of betrayal, but she triumphed over them and not so much took them in her own stride as she obliged other people to take them in theirs. With her incredible hair brushed up into a kind of bonfire, her carefree makeup, her eyeglass, and her general air of raffishness, she belonged, as Mr. Period mildly reflected, to Toulouse-Lautrec rather than to any contemporary background.
They had dined. The party had assembled, made a great deal of noise and gone off in pairs by car to follow up the clues. Bimbo was driving round the terrain to keep observation, rescue any couple that had become unintentionally lost and whip in the deliberate stragglers.
Everyone was to be in by midnight. Supper was set out in the ballroom, and in the meantime Désirée and Mr. Period sat over a fire in her boudoir enjoying coffee and brandy. It was, Mr. Period noticed, Dé-sirée’s third brandy, but she carried her drink with astonishing bravura. He nursed his own modest potion and cozily lamented his fate.
“Désirée, my dear,” he was saying, “I really don’t know what it is about you, but you have so got the gift of drawing one out. Here am I letting my back hair down in the naughtiest way, and about poor old Hal, which is not at all the done thing, considering.”
“Why not?” she said, propping her feet in their preposterously high heels above the fireplace. Mr. Period, as she noticed with amusement, gazed tactfully at the flames. “Why not? I found Harold plain hell to live with, and I don’t know why you should fare any better. Except that you’re nicer than me and have probably got more patience.”
“It’s the little things. Every morning to tap on one’s door and say, ‘Bath’s empty. For what it’s worth.’ Every day to clear his throat before he opens his Telegraph, and say he may as well know the worst. And his dog, Désirée! The noise,” Mr. Period exclaimed, unconsciously plagiarizing, “and the smell! And the destruction!”
“One of those mixed-up dogs that try to marry one’s foot, I’ve noticed.”
Mr. Period gave a little cough and murmured, “Exactly. Moreover, every night, at one o’clock precisely, he takes it out of doors and it sets up the most hideous barking until, and indeed for some time after, he shuts it up. There have been complaints from all over the village. And now,” he added, throwing up his hands, “this afternoon! This afternoon was too much.”
“But do tell me, P.P., what happened? With Moppett and her flash friend and the car? I’ve heard Harold’s version, of course, but I’m having my own private war with him and was too angry to pay all that much attention.”
Mr. Period told her the whole story.
“And I do feel, darling Désirée, that you should be warned. It’s plain to be seen that this frightful person, the Leiss, is an out-and-out bad ’un. And indeed, for your ear alone, we most strongly suspect—” Mr. Period looked about him as if the boudoir concealed microphones and began to whisper the story of the cigarette case.
“Oh, no!” Désirée said with relish. “Actually a burglar! And is Moppett his con-girl, do you suppose?”
“I fear, only too probably. And, my dear, here you are, in the kindness of your heart, asking them to your wonderful party.”
“It wasn’t kindness. It was to spite Harold. He won’t give Andy his money. I can’t tell you how livid it makes me.”
She looked rather fixedly at Mr. Period. “You’re a trustee, P.P. Have you discussed it with Hal, or with Andrew?”
Mr. Period said uncomfortably: “Not really discussed it, my dear.”
“Don’t tell me you disapprove, too!”
“No, no, no!” he said in a hurry. “Not disapprove exactly. It’s just — leaving the Brigade and so on. For that rather outré world. Art…the Chelsea set…Not that Andrew…But there! ’Nuff said.”
“We’re not going to quarrel over it, I hope?”
“My dear. Quarrel!”
“Well,” she said, suddenly giving Mr. Period a kiss. “Let’s talk about something more amusing.”
They embarked on a long gossip and Mr. Period eased up. He was enjoying himself immensely, but he did not wish to stay until the return of the treasure hunters. He looked at his watch, found it was eleven o’clock, and asked if he might telephone for the Bloodbath.
“No need,” Désirée said, “my car’s outside. I’d love to take you. Don’t fuss, P.P., I’d really like to. I can have a cast around the village and see how the hunt’s going. By the way, one of Bimbo’s clues leads to your sewage excavation. It says: All your trouble and all your pain will only land you down the drain. He’s not very good at poetry, poor sweet, but I thought that one of his neater efforts. Come on, darling. I can see you’re in a fever lest Slick Len and his moll should get back with the first prize before you make your getaway.”
They went out to her car. Mr. Period was a little apprehensive because of the amount of liqueur brandy Désirée had consumed, but she drove with perfect expertise and all the way to Little Codling they talked about Mr. Cartell. Presently they turned into Green Lane. A red lantern marked the end of the open ditch. They passed an elderly sports car, parked in the rough grass on the opposite side.