precisely on his thighs. She had moved so deftly as not even to have disordered her skirt. Her perfume wafted upwards.
'Stop glancing at Vincent,' she gurgled up at him. 'I'll tell you something about Vincent. Though you may think he looks like a Greek God, the simple fact is that he hasn't got what it takes, he's impotent.'
Maybury was embarrassed, of course. All the same, what he reflected was that often there were horses for courses, and often no more to be said about a certain kind of situation than that one thing.
It did not matter much what he reflected, because when she had spoken, Vincent had brusquely left the room through what Maybury supposed to be the service door.
'Thank the Lord,' he could not help remarking naively.
'He's gone for reinforcements,' she said. 'We'll soon see.'
Where were the other guests? Where, by now, could they be? All the same, Maybury's spirits were authentically rising, and he began caressing her more intimately.
Then, suddenly, it seemed that everyone was in the room at once, and this time all talking and fussing.
She sat herself up, none too precipitately, and with her lips close to his ear, said, 'Come to me later. Number 23.'
It was quite impossible for Maybury to point out that he was not staying the night in The Hospice.
Falkner had appeared.
'To bed, all,' he cried genially, subduing the crepitation on the instant.
Maybury, unentangled once more, looked at his watch. It seemed to be precisely ten o'clock. That, no doubt, was the point. Still it seemed very close upon a heavy meal.
No one moved much, but no one spoke either.
'To bed, all of you,' said Falkner again, this time in a tone which might almost be described as roguish. Maybury's lady rose to her feet.
All of them filtered away, Maybury's lady among them. She had spoken no further word, made no further gesture.
Maybury was alone with Falkner.
'Let me remove your cup,' said Falkner courteously.
'Before I ask for my bill,' said Maybury, 'I wonder if you could tell me where I might possibly find some petrol at this hour?'
'Are you out of petrol?' enquired Falkner.
'Almost.'
'There's nothing open at night within twenty miles. Not nowadays. Something to do with our new friends, the Arabs, I believe. All I can suggest is that I syphon some petrol from the tank of our own vehicle. It is a quite large vehicle and it has a large tank.'
'I couldn't possibly put you to that trouble.' In any case, he, May-bury, did not know exactly how to do it. He had heard of it, but it had never arisen before in his own life.
The lad, Vincent, reappeared, still looking pink, Maybury thought, though it was difficult to be sure with such a glowing skin. Vincent began to lock up; a quite serious process, it seemed, rather as in great-grandparental days, when prowling desperadoes were to be feared.
'No trouble at all, Mr Maybury,' said Falkner. 'Vincent here can do it easily, or another member of my staff.'
'Well,' said Maybury, 'if it would be all right. .'
'Vincent,' directed Falkner, 'don't bolt and padlock the front door yet. Mr Maybury intends to leave us.'
'Very good,' said Vincent, gruffly.
'Now if we could go to your car, Mr Maybury, you could then drive it round to the back. I will show you the way. I must apologise for putting you to this extra trouble, but the other vehicle takes some time to start, especially at night.'
Vincent had opened the front door for them.
'After you, Mr Maybury,' said Falkner.
Where it had been excessively hot within, it duly proved to be excessively cold without. The floodlight had been turned off. The moon had 'gone in', as Maybury believed the saying was; and all the stars had apparently gone in with it.
Still, the distance to the car was not great. Maybury soon found it in the thick darkness, with Falkner coming quietly step by step behind him.
'Perhaps I had better go back and get a torch?' remarked Falkner.
So there duly was a torch. It brought to Maybury's mind the matter of the office file with his name on it, and, as he unlocked the car door, there the file was, exactly as he had supposed, and, assuredly, name uppermost. Maybury threw it across to the back seat.
Falkner's electric torch was a heavy service object which drenched a wide area in cold, white light.
'May I sit beside you, Mr Maybury?' He closed the offside door behind him.
Maybury had already turned on the headlights, torch or no torch, and was pushing at the starter, which seemed obdurate.
It was not, he thought, that there was anything wrong with it, but rather that there was something wrong with him. The sensation was exactly like a nightmare. He had of course done it hundreds of times, probably thousands of times; but now, when after all it really mattered, he simply could not manage it, had, quite incredibly, somehow lost the simple knack of it. He often endured bad dreams of just this kind. He found time with part of his mind to wonder whether this was not a bad dream. But it was to be presumed not, since now he did not wake, as we soon do when once we realize that we are dreaming.
'I wish I could be of some help,' remarked Falkner, who had shut off his torch, 'but I am not accustomed to the make of car. I might easily do more harm than good.' He spoke with his usual bland geniality.
Maybury was irritated again. The make of car was one of the commonest there is: trust the firm for that. All the same, he knew it was entirely his own fault that he could not make the car start, and not in the least Falkner's. He felt as if he were going mad. 'I don't quite know what to suggest,' he said; and added: 'If, as you say, there's no garage.'
'Perhaps Cromie could be of assistance,' said Falkner. 'Cromie has been with us quite a long time and is a wizard with any mechanical problem.'
No one could say that Falkner was pressing Maybury to stay the night, or even hinting towards it, as one might expect. Maybury wondered whether the funny place was not, in fact, full up. It seemed the most likely answer. Not that Maybury wished to stay the night: far from it.
'I'm not sure,' he said, 'that I have the right to disturb anyone else.'
'Cromie is on night duty,' replied Falkner. 'He is always on night duty. That is what we employ him for. I will fetch him.'
He turned on the torch once more, stepped out of the car, and disappeared into the house, shutting the front door behind him, lest the cold air enter.
In the end, the front door reopened, and Falkner re-emerged. He still wore no coat over his dinner suit, and seemed to ignore the cold. Falkner was followed by a burly but shapeless and shambling figure, whom Maybury first saw indistinctly standing behind Falkner in the light from inside the house.
'Cromie will soon put things to rights,' said Falkner, opening the door of the car. 'Won't you, Cromie?' It was much as one speaks to a friendly retriever.
But there was little, Maybury felt, that was friendly about Cromie. Maybury had to admit to himself that on the instant he found Cromie alarming, even though, what with one thing and another, there was little to be seen of him.
'Now what exactly seems wrong, Mr Maybury?' asked Falkner. 'Just tell Cromie what it is.'
Falkner himself had not attempted to re-enter the car, but Cromie forced himself in and was sprawling in the front seat, next to Maybury, where Angela normally sat. He really did seem a very big, bulging person, but Maybury decisively preferred not to look at him, though the glow cast backwards from the headlights provided a certain illumination.
Maybury could not acknowledge that for some degrading reason he was unable to operate the starter, and so had to claim there was something wrong with it. He was unable not to see Cromie's huge, badly misshapen, yellow
