“I do hope,” she said, “that you have not caught a cold in this treacherous climate.”
He regarded her blankly. “No. I’m OK.”
“Prohibition,” said Miss Teatime, “would be hopelessly impractical in a country with England’s weather. I fear the population would be decimated in a fortnight were it not for these innocent prophylactics of ours.”
For the first time since his arrival, Mr Tudor gave sign of being able to respond to suitable social stimulus. A glint of happy recollection, of pride, shone in the nearly black eyes.
“Don’t you knock prohibition, Looce,” he growled. “Don’t you ever knock that.”
Had Mr Tudor smiled for an instant? Miss Teatime was almost certain that he had. Then she saw that he was holding out his cup, apparently expecting her to refill it in mid-air. Rather lumber-camp-ish, she reflected, but perhaps intimating a desire to be friendly.
“Mack says you are doing all right in this, this Flaxborrow.”
“Oh, I manage quite happily,” responded Miss Teatime. “This town is more restful than London, of course. And yet more interesting. I am not sure that I could explain the paradox to anyone from so stimulating a city as New York.”
Mr Tudor shrugged. “We get our dead days.” He set his cup somewhat dangerously on the fat, chintz-dressed arm of his chair. “So what is going for you here? How do you make your bread?”
“I have one or two little irons in the fire,” said Miss Teatime, modestly. “What keeps me chiefly busy, perhaps, is my work as a charity organiser. I think I can claim some success in having put several good works on a business footing. The English, of course, respond eagerly to appeals of this kind, particularly when the welfare of animals is at issue. You would be surprised, Mr Tudor, to learn how much is contributed every year in this little town alone towards the provision of homes for the poor work-broken ponies of San Francisco.”
“Ponies?” Mr Tudor’s upper lip drew away from his teeth in disbelief. “Frisco?”
“Those street cars, you know,” explained Miss Teatime. “The ponies haul on the cables beneath the roadway.” She frowned and shook her head. “Perpetual darkness, I understand.”
Mr Tudor stared at her ruminatively for a moment, then, seemingly having decided not to risk making himself look foolish by labouring whatever subtle British joke had been intended, he said:
“My cousin Dino’s boy, Johnnie, once ran all the Santa Clauses on the West Side.”
This was the longest speech Mr Tudor had made so far.
Miss Teatime smiled. “Quite a coincidence, is it not, that you should have a charity organiser in your own family.”
“They used to call him Johnny Ding Dong,” said Mr Tudor, sadly.
Miss Teatime sensed that she had strayed into an area of bereavement. She changed the subject.
“Is Uncle Macnamara still making a name for himself in the merchant banking world? We had time only for a few fleeting pleasantries over the telephone.”
“He’s doing great,” her visitor confirmed, suddenly stirred into something like animation. “I tell you something, Looce. He has no problems, that Mack. Everything legitimate.” Mr Tudor nodded, pursing his full lips.
“Everything?” The first syllable was delicately stressed.
“Sure. No shakedowns. No whorehouses any more. No muscle.” A fat, hair-backed forefinger rose and wagged from side to side. “Just real estate and stocks. Jeez, that office, Looce! Like a church. I tell you—a church!”
“Ah, yes: a man of parts,” declared Miss Teatime, adding, in silent parenthesis, Mostly private. Aloud, she asked:
“And what brings you to Flaxborough, Mr Tudor? It is not purely a social visit, I understand.”
“Business.” It sounded distasteful to him. “Family business. Trouble maybe. I hope not.”
“Oh, dear. Do you suppose I might be of assistance?”
He considered a moment, then gave an extra loud sniff and leaned forward in his chair. He addressed himself less to Miss Teatime than to the palms of his hands, which he held before him and closely scrutinised.
“The word comes to my family from a good customer, who happens to be a cop, that some enforcement is going to get done that it looks like nobody knows about. And where? In Britain, for God’s sake.” He glanced up, scowling. “Right here in this village.”
“Town,” murmured Miss Teatime, loyally, but Mr Tudor was looking at his hands again and flexing them, deaf to so trivial an amendment.
“If what we hear is right,” Mr Tudor continued, “it is the worst sort of business. The worst. Like the President says, this Anglo-American thing is OK. Ask any of our men of honour back home. Men of respect. You know what I mean? They don’t want this thing bust up just because some crazy button man thinks he can make a hit over here like it was Hoboken. What does he want, this fink? That every guy with a U.S. passport should get frisked?”
Mr Tudor’s sudden volubility was impressive after the initial difficulties of their conversation. Miss Teatime hastened to show herself sympathetic.
“How pleasant it is in this cynical age,” she exclaimed, “to hear that the cooperation of our two countries is valued by honest men.”
Her guest frowned. “That I did not say, Looce. I said men of honour.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.” By offering at that moment a box of small cigars, Miss Teatime covered as best she could what she admitted to herself had been a gauche confusion of terms.
Mr Tudor said he did not smoke, but would like more coffee. She poured him another cup and lit a cigar for herself. He looked on with disapproval.
“I gain the impression,” she said, “that the ladies in that family of yours do not smoke.”
“Years ago,” said Mr Tudor, “I found my little sister Teresa in our momma’s closet smoking a cigarette. I put that cigarette out. So. Just here.” He turned his head a little and pointed to a spot just below his left ear. “She still has the mark.” He nodded. “But she don’t smoke.”
“Family affection does not run quite so strongly in this comparatively effete society,” observed Miss Teatime. “Tell me, though, Mr Tudor—do you have any children of your own?”
She had scarcely completed the question when a wallet was being opened by stubby but surprisingly deft fingers and two photographs offered for her approval. The first pictured a sullen-faced man in his early thirties, with bold, very dark eyes and a fat neck that gave him that neanderthal hunch characteristic of the classic police “wanted” poster.
“Giacomo,” said Mr Tudor, proudly.