'Oh, forget it,' Cecil snapped. 'What the hell, I was just curious. Shall we join the mothers?'
Robilotti darted a glance at him, not friendly. After all, who was the host? 'I was about to ask,' he said, 'if anyone wants more coffee. No?' He left his chair. 'We will join them in the music room and escort them downstairs and it is understood that each of us will dance first with his dinner partner. If you please, gentlemen?'
I got up and shook my pants legs down.
Chapter Three
I’ll be darned if there wasn’t a live band in the alcove-piano, sax, two violins, clarinet, and traps. A record player and speaker might have been expected, but for the mothers, spare no expense. Of course, in the matter of expense, the fee for the band was about balanced by the saving on liquids-the soda water in the cocktails, the pink stuff passing for wine at the dinner table, and the brandy ban-so it wasn’t too extravagant. The one all-out splurge on liquids came after we had been dancing an hour or so, when Hackett appeared at the bar and began opening champagne, Cordon Rouge, and poured it straight, no dilution or adulteration. With only an hour to go, apparently Mrs Robilotti had decided to take a calculated risk.
As a dancing partner Rose Tuttle was not a bargain. She was equipped for it physically and she had some idea of rhythm, that wasn’t it; it was her basic attitude. She danced cheerfully, and of course that was no good. You can’t dance cheerfully. Dancing is too important. It can be wild or solemn or gay or lewd or art for art’s sake, but it can’t be cheerful. For one thing, if you’re cheerful you talk too much. Helen Yarmis was better, or would have been if she hadn’t been too damn solemn. We would work into the rhythm together and get going fine, when all of a sudden she would stiffen up and was just a dummy making motions. She was a good size for me, too, with the top of her head level with my nose, and the closer you get to her wide, curved mouth the better you liked it-when the corners were up.
Robilotti took her for the next one, and a look around showed me that all the guests of honour were taken, and Celia Grantham was heading for me. I stayed put and let her come, and she stopped at arm’s length and tilted her head back.
'Well?' she said.
The tact, I figured, was for the mothers, and there was no point in wasting it on the daughter. So I said, 'But is it any better?'
'No,' she said, 'and it never will be. But how are you going to avoid dancing with me?'
'Easy. Say my feet hurt, and take my shoes off.'
She nodded. 'You would, wouldn’t you?'
'I could.'
'You really would. Just let me suffer. Will I never be in your arms again? Must I carry my heartache to the grave?'
But I am probably giving a false impression, though I am reporting accurately. I had seen the girl-I say 'girl' in spite of the fact that she was perhaps a couple of years older than Rose Tuttle, who was twice a mother-I had seen her just four times. Three of them had been in that house during the jewellery hunt, and on the third occasion, when I had been alone with her briefly, the conversation had somehow resulted in our making a date to dine and dance at the Flamingo, and we had kept it. It had not turned out well. She was a good dancer, very good, but she was also a good drinker, and along towards midnight she had raised an issue with another lady, and had developed it to a point where we got tossed out. In the next few months she had phoned me off and on, say twenty times, to suggest a rerun, and I had been too busy. For me the Flamingo has the best band in town and I didn’t want to get the cold stare for good. As for her persisting, I would like to think that, once she had tasted me, no other flavour would do, but I’m afraid she was just too pigheaded to drop it. I had supposed that she had long since forgotten all about it but here she was again.
'It’s not your heart,' I said. 'It’s your head. You’re too loyal to yourself. We’re having a clash of wills, that’s all. Besides, I have a hunch that if I took you in my arms and started off with you, after one or two turns you would break loose and take a swing at me and make remarks, and that would spoil the party. I see the look in your eye.'
'The look in my eye is passion. If you don’t know passion when you see it you ought to get around more. Have you got a Bible?'
'No, I forgot to bring it. There’s one in the library.' From my inside breast pocket I produced my notebook, which is always with me. 'Will this do?'
'Fine. Hold it flat.' I did so and she put her palm on it. 'I swear on my honour that if you dance with me I will be your kitten for better or for worse and will do nothing that will make you wish you hadn’t.'
Anyway, Mrs Robilotti, who was dancing with Paul Schuster, was looking at us. Returning the notebook to my pocket, I closed with her daughter, and in three minutes had decided that every allowance should be made for a girl who could dance like that.
The band had stopped for breath, and I had taken Celia to a chair, and was considering whether it would be tactful to have another round with her, when Rose Tuttle approached, unaccompanied, and was at my elbow. Celia spoke to her, woman to woman.
'If you’re after Mr Goodwin I don’t blame you. He’s the only one here that can dance.'
'I’m not after him to dance,' Rose said. 'Anyway I wouldn’t have the nerve because I’m no good at it. I just want to tell him something.'
'Go ahead,' I told her.
'It’s private.'
Celia laughed. 'That’s the way to do it.' She stood up. 'That would have taken me at least a hundred words, and you do it in two.' She moved off towards the bar, where Hackett had appeared and was opening champagne.
