to droop as he got it back to Ian. 'I'd be obliged if you'd tell the Indian Army out here that I'm friendly. Because they're beginning to frighten me.' He opened the door wider, to reveal Mr Malik's fearsome brother at his shoulder and the equally terrifying cousin at his other side.
Ian nodded at them. 'Thank you, gentlemen.'
Mr Malik's brother stood to attention. 'You want anything, sir — you just ring.'
'Phew!' Mitchell closed the door with evident relief. 'They dummy2
were waiting for me outside the phone-box. I thought they were going to mug me. Then one of them mentioned your name . . . But he still looked as though he'd rather thump me
— even after I'd told him I was a friend of yours.'
'And are you a friend of ours?' Jenny had recovered her glass but not her temper, from the cold hostility in her voice. 'Mr Mitchell, is it — ?'
'I beg your pardon?' Mitchell smiled at her uneasily. 'Miss Fielding-ffulke, I presume?'
'Plain 'Fielding' will do, Mr Mitchell.'
'Not 'plain', Miss Fielding. And my friends call me Paul.
That being my name.'
'Is that so? And we are friends?'
'I would have thought so — yes. I'm undoubtedly
'But I already have friends, Mr Mitchell. Lots of them. And in high places, too.'
'Ah . . . yes.' Somehow, as Jenny had become less angry and more confident, Mitchell seemed to have become the opposite. 'But now you may need one in a low place, perhaps
— don't you think?'
'Meaning you, Mr Mitchell?'
'Meaning me, Miss Fielding.' Mitchell gave Ian a slightly puzzled glance.
dummy2
'But I really don't know you, Mr Mitchell. I don't know who you are. And I don't know what you do.'
Mitchell's head inclined slightly, as though from weariness.
'Oh, come on, Miss Fielding — I know I was only away for five minutes. But I can't believe that you've been discussing the menu with Ian here. Or the weather. Or your last joint royalty statement. Or ... even your next advance, on the book you're planning to write.'
'How d'you know we're planning to write a book?' Jenny knew she was winning.
'Isn't that what you do?' By the same token, Mitchell seemed to think that he was losing. 'You dig the dirt . . . or should I say pan the gold — ?'
For the first time, Jenny smiled at Mitchell. But not sweetly.
'Isn't that where gold is found — in dirt? But we don't make the dirt, Mr Mitchell. People like you do that. We merely
Because that is what we do. So what?'
'Unless someone stops you.'
'Stops us? Who's going to stop us?' Jenny seemed delighted that he'd picked up her gauntlet so quickly (Ian felt the metaphor shift from gold-mining to single combat: and that would please her, of course!). 'Not you — you're a friend of ours, you said.'
dummy2
'Not me, no.' Mitchell nodded towards Ian. 'He does the writing, doesn't he? And someone damn nearly wrote 'The End' to his book this afternoon, Miss Fielding. Ask him if you don't believe me.'
'I see.' She didn't even look at Ian. 'Would you like a drink, Mr Mitchell?'
Thank you.' Mitchell didn't relax. 'I would like a drink — yes.'
He watched her pour a generous glass of Mr Malik's plonk.
'So you're just here to frighten us — is that it?' She thrust the glass at him, spilling it as usual in the process.
'Am I?' Mitchell drank thirstily, swallowing and then making a face. 'I think you ought to be frightened.'
'But you don't mind us writing, though? And publishing — ?'
Mitchell considered the question and the wine together, and neither seemed to his taste. 'It all depends on what you write, I suppose.' But he drank, nevertheless.
'Usually we settle for the truth, Mr Mitchell. Our lawyers find that less complicated to defend.' Jenny watched the man drink again. 'And we try not to be too economical with it.'
'Then, you've been fortunate to find such a lot of it. I've always found it somewhat elusive, myself.'
'Like gold?' Her mock innocence was transparent. 'Another drink — ?'
'Sometimes like fool's gold, Miss Fielding. And even the real stuff . . . since we're into metaphor again ... it can be just like a little knowledge — dangerous.' He nodded towards Ian as dummy2
