`Freshen up your glass?'
Dalby skipped into the room, followed by Diana, who now had a single rose projecting from between her breasts. She had a dreamy look as she sank into her arm chair.
`Not for me, thank you. I'm driving,' Tweed replied. 'Find a weed?' he asked Diana as Dalby replenished her glass. `Nary one. And I looked!'
`No champagne then,' Dalby said crisply. 'Thought that I was safe.' He refilled his own glass, sat down and gestured towards the French windows. 'We could have gone out that way, but it would have taken an hour to deal with the security locks.'
`Your Doukhobor lady is coming back?' Tweed enquired. 'I saw signs of a meal being prepared in the kitchen.'
`That was me. It's her day off, blast the woman. I hate cooking.' He smiled briefly. 'Never do anything in life if you can get someone else to do it for you. The road to achievement. And may I ask when can we all get back to our respective headquarters, get on with something worthwhile?'
He was the only one of the four who had asked that question. A sign of his impatience. Again, par for the course with Dalby. `Soon,' Tweed replied. 'I'll be in touch.'
`Are the natives friendly round here?' Diana asked.
`Not if I can help it. Bunch of robots. Don't know why those little yen men have to invent mechanical versions. I'm surrounded with them.'
`Robots? I don't believe I understand,' Diana queried.
`See the keep-fit merchants walking past that window at the front every weekday. And it's quite a hike to Woking station. All dressed alike. Regulation uniform. Brief-case at the ready. Executives they call themselves. Work for one of the big corporations up in town. A lot in oil, as they say. At a party they even talk alike, use the same jargon. Like a code language only the initiated understand. Robots. Maybe they manufacture them on some huge conveyor belt at a secret factory.'
`What an absolutely lovely description. But it must be lonesome for you,' she suggested.
`I'm hardly ever here. The Doukhobor has a key. Keeps the place up to scratch while I insure the world against imaginary perils.'
`Imaginary?'
`Guy is a cynic,' Tweed explained. 'And I think we'd better get back. We have a dinner date. With a couple of pheasants.'
`Then I'm ready!' Diana jumped up out of her chair. 'You must excuse my manners,' she said to Dalby and smiled with her eyes half-closed. 'It's just that I adore pheasant.'
`Mustn't keep the gentleman waiting then.' Dalby stood up. `Bathroom before you go?'
`Yes, please. No! Don't show me. I saw it. Off the hall by the front door…'
There was a brief silence between the two men as they waited. Dalby walked over to the French windows, right hand thrust into his jacket pocket, thumb protruding. It reminded Tweed of pictures he'd seen of Hitler. The drooping catlick served to heighten the impression.
`I'll be glad to get back to Bern,' Dalby said quietly. He turned suddenly, grunted with pain and grabbed at his right kneecap, stooping over. Then he straightened up and shook his head.
`Touch of arthritis. Catches you when you least expect it. Ah, here is your lady…'
He escorted them to their car, shook hands formally with Diana and opened the door for her. He said 'Goodbye,' left it at that as she swung her legs inside and made sure her dress had come in with her. Tweed nodded, got behind the wheel and turned into the drive beyond the house leading to a double garage, backing out again into the road.
Dalby stood quite still, then turned on his heel, went back inside the house and closed the door as Tweed drove off. They had passed through West Byfleet, heading back to London, when Diana made her remark.
`He was very quiet when we left.'
`That's Dalby. He'd said 'Goodbye', observed the courtesies, so there was nothing to add. Very sparing with words, our Guy. What did you think of him?'
`Very balanced, very normal… What's the matter?' Tweed had swerved slightly on a deserted stretch of straight road. Normal. The very word he had himself applied to Dalby.
He glanced at the rose at her breast.
`Nothing. Go on.'
`Oh, it's the rose!' She was amused. 'It doesn't mean a thing.
I made a big fuss about his roses. He asked me in his clipped way whether I'd like one to take back. I said yes. He went into a shed he's got right at the end of the garden, came out with a pair of garden gloves and secateurs. He snipped off a rose, used his gloves to break off the thorns and handed it to me. Then he went off back to the shed to leave the gloves and clippers. He couldn't have been more matter-of- fact.'
What is his attitude to women?'
`Indifference. He's polite, courteous, but his main interest in life is his job. Women come a poor second. I think that's all I can say about him. There were moments when I thought he was playing a part – the part of a man with iron self-discipline. Just normal. Very normal.'
They came to a three-way roundabout. Tweed swung the wheel and took the second turn-off. `I think this time we'll avoid Weybridge, go a different way back. Along the Portsmouth Road. Hope you're a good sailor.'
'Why?'
`A section called the Seven Hills ahead. Regular switchback. Here we go.'
`Can we call at the flat before we have dinner? I'd like to change into something devastating.'
`Can't wait…'
In the large sitting-room inside Newman's flat Tweed found himself humming a tune. Diana was changing in the bedroom. What the devil was the tune he thought as he picked up off a couch her handbag? That blasted tango. Jealousy.
He rifled through the handbag quickly with expert hands – careful to disturb nothing. Under her suede cosmetic sac he found a thick bundle of twenty-pound notes. He counted them quickly. Six hundred and fifty pounds. Since he'd previously checked she'd acquired from somewhere another four hundred pounds. He closed the bag, replaced it exactly as he'd found it on the couch. She came into the room thirty seconds later.
`Is my handbag somewhere here? Yes, there it is.' She was wearing a flimsy dressing gown. She tucked the bag under her arm. `Give me five minutes and I'll devastate you.'
Thirty-Three
They again dined at Tweed's favourite restaurant, and again occupied the same booth for four people, sitting by the wall and facing each other. Diana looked round as she sipped at her aperitif, Cinzano. Tweed had contented himself with a glass of the white house wine.
`I love this place,' Diana enthused. 'And not just the food. The atmosphere too. I'm not sure how they've done it.'
`The pink table cloths and napkins, the intimate layout, the attentive service,' Tweed diagnosed. `Spend a fortune in Harrods?' he enquired jocularly.
`Not one penny! I'm saving up.' She smiled. 'Being so very strong-willed.'
`How are you off for money? Still some travellers' cheques left?'
`Don't use them.' She drank the rest of the Cinzano. 'You will chide me, but I only carry cash. That's why I always carry my handbag with me. No, I haven't a banking account in London. Years since I've been here. Ooh! Here's the pheasant. You spoil me, Tweedy.'
She waited until they were served before asking the question.
`When do we fly back to Germany? You were a bit vague when Dalby asked. Dedicated man. Obviously champing at the bit to get back to Bern. And you will be coming back with me, won't you?'
`Eat your pheasant before it gets cold.'
`I chatter too much, don't I? It's just that I'm enjoying myself so much.'
