moved to obey. With much assistance, Brodie was led to a seat and plied with water, a fan, smelling salts, and good advice. It was a full five minutes before she could bring herself to leave. She staggered out into the fresh air and was overwhelmed with relief to see Stockwell looking triumphant, and pretending not to know her, as the curator let go of her arm, and suggested very forcefully that she did not return.
“The atmosphere is not good for you, Madam,” he said, between thin lips. “I think for your health, you should refrain from such enclosed spaces. Good day.”
The following morning Pamela and Freddie went with Bertie and Violet Welch-Smith to see the formal opening of the exhibition. Both men were very excited about it, and Pamela felt she had to balance Violet’s disinterest by feigning an enthusiasm herself. They were accompanied by Harrison, a just reward for his many hours of work in helping to construct the General’s machine, and for his care and maintenance of it.
When they got there, it was very difficult. Almost all the exhibits seemed to be French. There were electric jewels invented by Monsieur Trouve of Paris, largely for use on stage. Next to that was an optical theatre designed by a Monsieur Reynaud. There were other French inventions: a portable shower-bath, created by Monsieur Gaston Bozetian; a device to prevent snoring; a construction for reaching the North Pole by balloon; and an invention by Dr Varolt — again of Paris — for electroplating the bodies of the dead so that they were covered with a millimetre thick layer of metallic copper of a brilliant red colour, so that the remains of a beloved could be preserved indefinitely. Violet became even more appreciative, praising them vociferously, and making Pamela feel more and more irritated.
At eleven o’clock the French Ambassador arrived, a neat and elegant man immaculately dressed and carrying a furled umbrella as if he did not trust the mild and delightful spring day. He declared the exhibition open, made several remarks about the service that inventors performed for humanity, and then proceeded to walk around the various exhibits and examine each in turn. He was followed by a small crowd of people.
He reached the boot polishing machine at about a quarter to twelve.
“Oh! And this is the English invention!” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. He looked at it carefully, and it was apparent he was highly dubious about its value, but it would be a national insult if he did not try to use it.
Pamela watched, as gingerly, he put his foot on the pedal and reached for the switch to turn it on. She saw Harrison, his face alight with jubilation, as if a great moment of triumph had at last arrived.
The Ambassador’s finger was on the button.
“No! It is a bomb!” someone yelled wildly, and a dark-haired, dark-faced man leaped from the crowd, waving his arms, and hurled himself on the Ambassador, carrying him forward on to the machine, and the whole edifice collapsed beneath them in a pile of fractured metalwork and flailing arms and legs.
There was an indrawn breath of horror around the room. The women screamed. Someone had hysterics. One woman fainted and had to be dragged out — she was too big to carry.
“Send for the fire brigade!” the curator shouted. “Bring water!”
A quick-witted man fetched a fire bucket of sand and threw it at the Ambassador and the other man on the floor, knocking them back again and sending them sprawling.
“A bomb! A bomb!” the shouts were going around.
Pamela stared at Freddie, and saw the complete bewilderment in his face.
“What on earth is going on?” she demanded fiercely. Then she looked farther across and saw consternation in Harrison’s face, and thought perhaps she glimpsed an understanding.
Someone else arrived with a pail of water from the tearooms opposite. Without asking anyone, he also threw it over the Ambassador and the man, who was even now attempting to rise to his feet. They were both drenched.
“I say, old fellow,” Bertie moved forward in some concern. He put out his hand and hauled the Ambassador to his feet. He was sodden wet, covered with sand and mud, and purple in the face. “I say,” Bertie repeated. “I can’t imagine what this is all about, but it really won’t do.” He looked at the other man. “Who are you, sir, and what the devil are you playing at? This is a machine for polishing the boots of gentlemen, not dangerous in the least … and certainly not a bomb! You had better explain yourself, if you can!”
The man saluted smartly and addressed himself to the Ambassador, ignoring Bertie.
“Auguste Larrey, sir, of the French Surete. I had every reason to believe that this device would explode the moment you pressed the switch, and that you would be killed … sir …”
“Balderdash!” Freddie said loudly.
The Ambassador tried to straighten his coat, but it was hardly worth the effort, and he gave up. He looked like a scarecrow that had barely weathered a storm, and he knew it.
“Monsieur Larrey,” he said with freezing politeness. “As you may observe, I have met with great mischance, and in front of our neighbours and friends, the English, but the machine, it has not exploded. It has imploded, under the combined weight of your body and mine. It is wrecked! We owe the English a profound apology! You, sir, will offer it!”
“Yes, Monsieur,” Auguste stammered wretchedly. “Indeed, Monsieur.” He looked at the assembled company. “I am most deeply sorry, ladies and gentlemen — most deeply. I have made a terrible mistake. I regret it and beg your forgiveness.”
“Really?” Brodie said with wide eyes when Pamela told her of the incident that evening, when they were alone in the withdrawing room, the others having retired. Stockwell was just leaving to see if the footmen had locked up. She looked at Stockwell and caught his answering glance. “How very regrettable” she said with quiet sobriety.
Pamela looked at her narrowly, but said nothing further.
Stockwell cleared his throat. “Indeed,” he said with shining eyes and a rather pink face. “Most regrettable, Madam.
Forty Morgan Silver Dollars
MAAN MEYERS
The idea arrived with the mashed potatoes, gravy, plantation stew and biscuits, that week’s house lunch special at the Fred Harvey in Dearborn Station, Chicago, though it had been simmering for a while now.
South America.
They were two travellers, not much different from any of the others, except their hands were gnarled and calloused, their eyes a little more knowing than the travelling salesmen they sat among at the counter.
The one with heavy red side-whiskers had deep-set, wary eyes. The other’s eyes were blue, his hair and handlebar moustache black. They spoke in short sentences, as if they’d been together a long time and knew what the other would say.
Harvey’s food was good and gave value for the money, but Red Whiskers was getting fidgety. He had the itch to get moving. Damn, he couldn’t keep track of all the stuff hopping around in his head. They were almost out of money, and his partner was sitting there shovelling stew and biscuits into his mouth like there was no tomorrow,
