Hedgeclipper Clinton beamed at his most favoured guest. “What a lovely afternoon, Mrs Pargeter.”
“Indeed. And how’s Erasmus behaving himself?”
The hotel manager shook his head and tutted. “He’s been a little tinker this morning, I’m afraid. Smeared an orange all over my William and Mary walnut chair. Still…” he went on with an indulgent shrug, “not a lot one can do about it, is there?”
Gary’s instinctive answer to this too was prevented by a look from Mrs Pargeter. Instead, the chauffeur nodded amiably to his former colleague. “Just saying you done a lovely job here, Hedge – ” A look from the hotelier froze off the second half of the word. “Mr Clinton,” Gary corrected himself.
Mr Clinton was once again wreathed in smiles. “Thank you so much. I’m delighted you like it. And all well with you, Mrs Pargeter?” he asked solicitously.
“Fine, thank you.”
“No more trouble, I trust, from Fossilface O’Donahue?”
“Not a squeak out of him. Seems to have once again vanished off the face of the earth.”
“Good, I’m so pleased to hear that. Let’s hope things stay that way,” Hedgeclipper Clinton said as he pressed an unseen button for the lift doors to open. “And, though it’s perhaps selfish of me, may I say that I do hope that dream house of yours isn’t coming along too quickly. Greene’s Hotel doesn’t like to lose a guest of your calibre, Mrs Pargeter.”
She grimaced wryly. “Have no worries on that score. Whatever the house is doing, it certainly isn’t coming along too quickly.”
As the lift rose, Gary continued his musing about the success of Greene’s Hotel. “No, Hedgeclipper really knows what’s what. Got taste, that’s what it is, taste. Anyone who was taught by your husband really learnt the lot. I mean, there’s no way Hedgeclipper could be running a place like this without what Mr Pargeter done for him. No way I could be doing the car-hire business.”
“Any more bookings, by the way?” asked Mrs Pargeter, always concerned about the health of Gary’s business.
“Just rung Denise,” he replied with satisfaction. “Got a wedding this weekend.”
“Great.”
“Someone she knows. Local too, so that’s good. No, excellent thing to get into, weddings. Want a bit more of that kind of business.” He was silent for a moment. “I’m thinking of buying something old for the weddings.”
“How do you mean – something old?” asked Mrs Pargeter as Gary drew back the lift doors and let her out on to the landing.
“Old car. Roller, Bentley, something like that. Vintage touch. Lot of girls these days want to arrive in the church in something a bit classy.”
“Well, if you want a loan to buy the thing, you have only to say the word.”
“No, Mrs Pargeter, wouldn’t seem right borrowing from you.”
“Wouldn’t be borrowing. I’d regard it as an investment in your business.”
Gary shook his head. “Kind of you, but no thanks. I’ll save up what I need out of my profits. That’s the best way.”
“If you’re sure…”
“Course I am. Something your husband used to say to me quite often: ‘Neither a lender nor a borrower be’.”
“Ah yes.”
“Always had a way with words, Mr Pargeter. Kept making up clever little sayings like that, you know.”
“Mm,” Mrs Pargeter agreed, a little wistfully.
They had reached the door to her suite. She opened it with her key and ushered the chauffeur inside. The sitting room bore not a single trace of the devastation Erasmus had wreaked on it. Gary neatly lined up the Harrods carriers on a luggage bench.
“Thank you so much for doing that.”
“Pleasure, Mrs Pargeter. And you’ll call me when you next need the car?”
“Of course.” She looked at him with sudden beadiness. “By the way, Gary, you haven’t sent me an invoice yet.”
He coloured. “No, well, I –”
“Do it.”
“Yes, Mrs Pargeter,” he said meekly.
“Otherwise,” she continued, “it’s going to be a very long time before you can afford to buy that Roller.”
“Yes, yes, I know. It’s just that I feel I owe you such a lot for –”
“I expect an invoice in tomorrow’s post, Gary. If you don’t collect what’s owing to you, you’ll never save any money.”
There was no arguing with that tone in Mrs Pargeter’s voice.
“Of course not. ‘Nother thing I always remember your husband used to say: ‘Look after the pennies and the pounds’ll look after themselves’.” Gary looked envious. “Wish I could come up with neat little things like that.”
“Don’t worry,” Mrs Pargeter said kindly. “We’ve all been blessed with different gifts. With my husband it was words…”
“Amongst other things.”
“Amongst other things, yes. With you, though, it’s driving. My husband never actually passed his driving test, you know, so you’ve got the advantage of him there.”
“Yes. Yes, I have, haven’t I?” The thought seemed to cheer him. He moved to the door. “OK, give me a bell if you need me. And I’ll see you get an invoice in the morning.”
“Bye, Gary. And if you change your mind about the loan for the Roller…”
The chauffeur shook his head, but with marginally less conviction than he had before. After he’d gone, Mrs Pargeter went through into the bedroom and looked benignly down at her late husband’s photograph. “You did a good job with that boy,” she said. “Gary’s heart’s in the right place, no question.”
Suddenly she remembered something and hurried out into the sitting room. She came back, holding a bright silk blouse against her ample frontage, and again faced the photograph. “Nice one, this, isn’t it? Really
She hung the blouse in the mahogany wardrobe, and was thoughtful for a moment. Then, turning back to the photograph, she mused, “You know, I’m drifting on this Concrete Jacket case. No forward momentum. I think the time has come for me to
She grinned. “As you always used to say, love: ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.”
“Hm,” she chuckled as she reached for the Yellow Pages, “and no doubt Gary thinks you made up that one too.”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ?
Seventeen
The two youths wore sleeveless T-shirts and the bulges of their biceps left no doubt that they worked out. Their blonded hair was as short as Velcro over their scalps, and though the only weapons they carried were wet rags and sponges, they looked menacing enough for the majority of motorists, whether they wanted their windscreens cleaned or not, to hand over the price of a quick getaway when the lights changed.
The younger youth swaggered across to the battered brown Maxi that drew up at the head of the queue just as the green light gave way to red.
“Do your windscreen, guv?” The voice was abrasive South London and what it said was a classic example of
