The flat was neat and impersonal, and the kitchen was like a small clinic. But she could cook. We had wafer-thin slices of veal done in Gruyère cheese with little slips of anchovy on top, and a bottle of Meursault of which she drank very little.
I said, “Mrs Vadarci and the Saxmann girl are flying to Dubrovnik tomorrow and staying at the Hotel Argentina. I think we ought to do the same, but not on the same plane. Day later, if necessary. Will you fix it?”
“Certainly.” She was peeling a pear with neat movements – and no drip, no mean feat.
“Tell Herr Malacod that I went through the Vadarci suite at the George Cinq. There was nothing there of any interest – unless he’s interested in Edwardian clothes – except a whip.”
“Whip?” There was no surprise in her voice as she cut the pear in half.
“A fancy number, but serviceable.” I described it to her.
When I had finished she said, “Please have some of this. I can’t eat it all.” She put half of the pear on my plate, and went on, “Was it necessary to break into the suite?”
“I wouldn’t know they were taking off otherwise. And break is the wrong word. I borrowed a key.”
“You are very competent.”
I was not sure from her tone whether it was a question or a compliment. I took some of the pear and, as I knew it would, it dribbled down my chin. She reached for my napkin which had fallen to the floor. I suddenly realized what it was about her that kept us in different leagues. She was treating me like a small boy ... peeling fruit, keeping me tidy, pouring my wine ... drink it up like a good boy. I did not mind. Something told me that it made her feel safe with me. With me – and she had shot her husband three times at point-blank range and then calmly telephoned the police!
“I have to be,” I said. She was half-way to the kitchen to do something about coffee.
“Be what?” she said over her shoulder.
“Competent.”
“Oh, that, yes.” She went into the kitchen and came back with a tray. There were a couple of cups on it with those tin percolator things on top that produce a lukewarm brown liquid after fifteen minutes of waiting and banging. As though there had been no break in the conversation, she said, “And thorough?”
“Thorough?”
“Yes.” She held an open cigarette box towards me and when I took one, there was a lighter in her hand, flame waiting. “I presume you have made inquiries about Herr Malacod?”
“Such as I could, yes. His credit rating is very high.”
There was no smile from her.
“He is a very good man. And me?”
“What about you?”
“You have made inquiries about me? It would be natural.”
I said, “Of course not.”
She lit herself a cigarette and said without emotion of any kind, “It is very nice of you to lie. It was unnecessary, but I appreciate it.”
I could not think of anything to say to that, so I rapped the top of my percolator, and she said, “It does no good to do that.” Small boy again, getting impatient.
“In the tourist season,” I said, going on with my tapping, “you can hear this sound from English people all over France.”
There was no smile. I think that was the moment that I made a bet with myself that if I didn’t get a smile out of her in the next five days I would send a cheque for ten pounds to Doctor Barnardo’s Homes.
She said, “Would you like a liqueur?”
“No, thank you.”
“A whisky and soda?”
“Well ...”
She was on her feet and going to the sideboard. With her back to me, she said, “You are armed?”
You had to jump to keep up with her. “Yes,” I said.
“You had better let me have it before we get on the plane. I can get it through the customs much easier than you.”
“If you insist.” But I was thinking that with a girl of her build it was going to make a pretty obvious bulge inside her girdle. I even contemplated saying so but I knew there would be no smile. I was beginning to feel out of my depth. She put me far out into deep water as I left.
I put out my hand, French fashion, and thanked her for the meal and the pleasure of her company. You would have thought that I was wearing velvet pants and a lace collar, remembering to thank my hostess. She took my hand and her fingers were long and cool, and she said, “I very much enjoyed it, Mr Carver, but I think I should make one thing very clear.”
“If you do,” I said, “you’ll be the first one in days.”
“I think,” she said evenly, “that you are a nice person. Naturally, we may see a great deal of one another, but I should like you to know that I have no intention of allowing you to sleep with me.”
She riled me then.
“Was that necessary?” I asked.
“It has been in the past.”
I walked down the stairs feeling like a dog that has been kicked from the step before he has even asked to come in.
As I stepped off the pavement to cross the road, a car coming at speed down the opposite side of the quiet street suddenly swerved at me, flashed up its headlights, and missed me by six inches as I started a backward jump to the pavement. It pulled up ten yards down and a man got out and hurried back to me. I was on my feet before he got to me, but not before his frank, jolly, phoney voice reached me.
“Sorry, lover-boy, but the steering on that old jalopy makes it as crazy as a one-winged snipe at times. No damage done, I hope? Jeez, I might have killed
