“Do let us, or we’ll think,” Moppett urged engagingly, “that we really are being hideously in the way. Please.”
“Well—” Désirée said, not looking at her husband, “if you really don’t mind it would, I must say, be the very thing.”
“Andrew!” Bimbo ejaculated. “He’ll do it. Where is he?”
“He’s gone. Do you know, darling, I’m afraid we’d better accept the kind offer.”
“Of course!” Moppett cried. “Come on, Face! Is there anything else to be picked up, while we’re about it?”
Désirée said, with a faint twist in her voice: “You think of everything, don’t you? I’ll talk to the kitchen.”
When she had gone, Bimbo said: “Isn’t that the Scorpion Copper had in his garage?”
“The identical job,” Leonard agreed, man-to-man. “Not a bad little heap by and large, and the price is O.K. Like to have a look at her, Mr. Dodds? I’d appreciate your opinion.”
Bimbo, with an air of mingled distaste and curiosity, intimated that he would, and the two men left Moppett in the drawing-room. Standing well back from the French window, she watched them at the car: Leonard talking, Bimbo with his hands in his pockets. Trying, thought Moppett, not to be interested, but he is interested. He’s a car man. He’s married her for his Bentley and his drinks and the grandeur and fun. She’s old. She can’t have all that much of what it takes. Or, by any chance, can she?
A kind of contempt possessed her: a contempt for Désirée and Bimbo and anybody who was not like herself and Leonard. Living dangerously, she thought, that’s us. She wondered if it would be advisable to ask Leonard not to say “appreciate,” “O.K.,” “Pardon me,” and “appro.” She herself didn’t mind how he talked, she even enjoyed their rows when he would turn foul-mouthed, adderlike, and brutal. Still, if they were to crash the County — They’ll have to ask us, she thought, after this. They can’t not. We’ve been clever as clever.
She continued to peer slantways through the window.
When Désirée returned, Moppett was looking with respect at a picture above the fireplace.
Désirée said there would be a parcel at the grocer’s in Little Codling. “Your quickest way to the station is to turn right, outside the gates,” she said. “We couldn’t be more obliged to you.”
She went out with Moppett to the car, and when it had shot out of sight down the avenue, linked her arm in her husband’s.
“Shockers,” she said, “aren’t they?”
“Honestly, darling, I can’t think what you’re about.”
“Can’t you?”
“None of my business, of course,” he muttered. She looked at him with amusement.
“Don’t you like them?” she asked.
“Like them!”
“I find myself quite amused by them,” she said, and added indifferently, “They do know what they want, at least.”
“It was perfectly obvious from the moment they crashed their way in that they were hell-bent on getting asked for tonight.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to pretend not to notice their hints?”
“Oh,” she said with a faint chuckle, “I don’t think so. I expect I’ll ask them.”
Bimbo said: “Of course I never interfere—”
“Of course,” she agreed. “And how wise of you, isn’t it?” He drew away from her. “You don’t usually sulk either.”
“You let people impose on you.”
“Not,” she said gently, “without realizing it,” and he reddened.
“That young man,” he said, “is a monster. Did you smell him?”
“In point of fact, he’s got quite a share of what it takes.”
“You can’t mean it!”
“Yes, I do. I never tell lies about sex, as such. I should think he’s probably a bad hat, wouldn’t you?”
“I would. As shifty as they make them.”
“P’raps he’s a gangster and Moppett’s his moll.”
“Highly probable,” he said angrily.
“I can’t wait to hear Leonard being the life and soul of my party.”
“I promise you, if you do ask them, you’ll regret it.”
“Should we hire a detective to keep an eye on the spoons?”
“At least you can come in and help me with the bloody poetry.”
“I think I shall ask them,” she said, in her rather hoarse voice. “Don’t you think it could be fun? Would you really not want it?”
“You know damn’ well what I want,” he muttered, staring at her.
She raised her eyebrows. “I forgot to tell you,” she said. “Ormsbury’s dead.”
“Your brother?”
“That’s right. In Australia.”
“Ought you to—”
“I haven’t seen him for thirty years, and I never liked him. A horrid, dreary fellow.”
Bimbo said: “Good God, who’s this?”
“The Bloodbath,” Désirée said calmly. “So it isn’t out of commission. Bad luck for Leonard.”
It came slowly roaring and boiling up the long drive with George Copper at the wheel and Noakes beside him.
“Do you see who’s in the back seat?” Désirée asked her husband. “It’s Harold.”
“It can’t be.”
“But it is. His first visit since we had our final row and he shook my dust from his boots forever. Perhaps he’s going to claim me back from you after all these years.”
“What the hell can he want?”
“Actually I’m livid with him. He’s being beastly to Andrew about that money. I shall pitch into him.”
“Why’s he got Noakes? I’ll never get my clues done,” Bimbo complained.
“You bolt indoors. I’ll cope.”
Bimbo said: “Fair enough,” and did so.
The car drew up with a jerk. Sergeant Noakes got out and opened the rear door for Mr. Cartell, who was clearly flustered.
“Harold!” Désirée said with amusement. “How are you? I recognized your hat. Good afternoon, Mr. Copper. Good afternoon, Mr. Noakes.”
“I wonder,” Mr. Cartell began as he removed his hat, “if you could spare me a moment.”
“Why not? Come in.”
Bareheaded, baldish and perturbed, he followed her distrustfully into the house.
“What do we do?” Mr. Copper asked Noakes.
“Wait. What else? The Scorpion’s not here, George.”
“You don’t say,” Mr. Copper bitterly rejoined, looking round the open expanse of drive.
Noakes walked to the front of the Bloodbath and looked at the surface of the drive. He laid his hand pontifically on the bonnet and snatched it away with an oath.
“She’s boiling,” Mr. Copper observed.
“Ta for the information.”
“You would insist on the hurry. She can’t take it.”
“All right. All right. I said I ought to come on the bike. Stay where you are, George.”
Mr. Copper watched him with resentment. Doubled forward, he cast about the drive.
“The Scorpion,” he said, “drips her grease rather heavy, doesn’t she?”
“That’s right.”
“And she’s shod on three feet with Griprich and on the off hind with Startread. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“She’s came,” Sergeant Noakes said, “and went. Look for yourself.”
Mr. Copper said: “So what do we do? Roar after her with the siren screaming? If we had a siren.”
“We’ll follow it up for you through the usual channels. Don’t worry.”
“What’ll I say to the owner? Tell me that. I’m selling her on commission, mind! I’m responsible!”
“No need to panic. They might come back.”
“More likely to be halfway to London with changed number plates. Who started the panic, anyway? You, with your police records. Come back? Them!”
The front door opened and Mr. Cartell appeared, white-faced, in the entrance.
“Oh — Noakes,” he said. “I’ve a little further business to discuss indoors, but will join you in a moment. Will you stay where you are and deal with the car situation when they return?”
“Sir?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Cartell. “There’s no immediate need for alarm. They are coming back.”
With a sharp look at both of them he returned indoors.
“There you are,” Sergeant Noakes said. “What did I tell you? You leave this one to me.”