Mr Rothermere raised one finger. “But money. That is different. That is their zone of sensitivity.”
“David’s?”
“Oh, I think so.”
She shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve never had a chance to kick him really hard in that area.”
Mr Rothermere regarded her narrowly. “Twenty thousand pounds...do you suppose he would feel that?”
“God almighty!” Her sudden harsh laughter brought glances from the stolid steak-eaters. She paid no attention to them.
“Our inquiries indicate that twenty thousand would be just about the maximum he’d pay.”
“For a divorce?”
“He wishes to marry—or so I understand—a young woman called Lintz...”
Julia’s amusement again got out of hand. “Bobby-May!” she managed to gasp.
“That name I was told but did not believe. Now I suppose I shall have to.”
“Perfectly true, it really is. The whole family has a sort of tennis fixation. It comes out in the queerest ways.”
“Your husband,” he reminded her. “There will have to be pressure, of course.”
“If you’re serious about that twenty thousand, you’re going to need boiling oil, never mind pressure.”
Mr Rothermere smiled blandly. “Oh, I don’t think so, Mrs Harton. Conventional, non-violent pressure will suffice, if there is enough of it.”
“Blackmail, do you mean?”
“I most certainly do not. Blackmail might be defined as seeking profit from a threat to disclose. The plan the Bureau has in mind in Mr Harton’s case will operate on the opposite principle.”
Julia peered uncertainly into her glass. “That sounds terribly complicated. You must”—with one finger she made little circles in the air—“unravel it for me.”
“But of course. What we intend is simply to qualify for your husband’s gratitude by rescuing him from an extremely unpleasant situation.”
“Rescuing him?”
“Yes. If he wishes us to. And guarantees that little settlement of twenty thousand pounds on the dissolution of your marriage.”
“And the situation you have in mind?” The finger now was picking out notes upon an imaginary keyboard. “How unpleasant?”
“One of considerable pressure. But not exerted by us, so you need have no qualms, Mrs Harton.”
“By whom, then?”
“By experts, naturally. By the police.”
Julia looked blank. For a few moments, Mr Rothermere regarded her with a kind of twinkling speculation. Then suddenly he beamed and leaned forward.
“On which night this week would it be convenient for you to disappear, Mrs Harton?”
Julia’s face remained impassive. She reached out her glass and held it while Mr Rothermere poured into it more wine. She sipped very slowly, waiting for him to expand the joke, but he said nothing. He was looking now at her shoulders and the rise of her breasts.
The silence, not the scrutiny, irritated her. She lowered her hand. “Go on, then; let’s hear the big strategy.”
For a few seconds more, his gaze was fixed upon the opening of Julia’s dress with a steadiness that somehow turned the examination into a compliment. Then he sighed, leaned back in his chair and signalled the waiter. He ordered Benedictine.
“With such a throat,” he said to Julia, “you deserve jewels. What does your husband spend his money on? Golf clubs, I suppose.”
She smiled, pleased. “I think it’s time you came to the point, Mr Rothermere.”
“Enough formality. Mortimer is my name.”
Julia made a little bow. “Go on, then, Mortimer.”
“The plan?”
“But of course. The plan. The grand strategy.”
“Not here, I think. Perhaps my chambers. Would you be agreeable?”
Her laughter spilled tipsily. “Chambers! Marvellous! And I’ll bet you have etchings.”
“Alas, no longer. My second wife purloined the collection while I was in Helsinki.”
“I suppose you want me to ask what you were doing in Helsinki?”
He shrugged lightly. “Embassy. One cannot take everything.”
“How true.”
“Curiously enough...” The liqueurs had just been placed on the table, and Mr Rothermere was regarding their golden gleam dreamily. “Curiously enough, it was Helga—my third wife—who tried to make me a Benedictine addict. She regarded it as a sort of private love potion and made me drink a glass every night after dinner. ‘For your rheumatism, darling.’ Sweet. I mean, when have I ever had rheumatism? She was a Finn, of course. They think everyone else in the world is impotent. It was terribly funny one night—well, morning, actually—I remember it was light enough to see her hand when she raised it, with her fingers spread out—like that. ‘Oh, darling,’ she said, ‘I’ve been counting, and that was five times! You must never, never let yourself catch rheumatism!’ So sweet...I always pretended it was the Benedictine; you know—just to please her.”
“Mortimer, you are a very gallant fellow.”
Mr Rothermere wrinkled his nose and screwed up his eyes in a fat-cat smile of satisfaction.
“I am, dear Julia, nothing of the kind. I am what your intelligence has divined already—an unprincipled scoundrel much given to venery and the taking of purses. You will see me yet in the Honours List. But”—he raised and wagged a plump finger—“this I tell you quite seriously: if you really want this precious husband of yours beaten to his knees, you are going to have to match his unscrupulousness with something like mine.”
“You are not really so wicked as you pretend.”
“Ah, you are preparing yourself for disappointment. There is no need.”
“It is you who may be disappointed.”
He made a small gesture of deprecation; gold and a jewel glinted in the flurry of white fingers.
“In my chambers,” he said, impishly confiding, “I believe there remains a nearly full bottle of Madeira wine. Let us go and lay our scheme.”
Sleepily and happily acquiescent, she shrugged and looked about her for the handbag she supposed she had brought with her some—how many?—hours before. Was it only that morning the ridiculous letter had arrived? From Mortimer. Dapper Mortimer with the curly brimmed hat and the boulevardier’s air. Happy Endings, for god’s sake. Ah, well, she’d had a bath—that was for sure—and changed into fresh pants. Roll on ye spheres of destiny...
She jerked herself properly awake. The waiter was by her side, offering her a scrap of paper on a tray. He kept his distance, as if the paper was infectious. It was only the bill. Without examining it, she scribbled her signature on one corner. The waiter withdrew.