‘Haven’t seen it around,’ said Dimble. ‘Leastways, not up until the day before yesterday. I’ll ask and give you a ring.’
‘Thanks.’ I took back the photograph.
‘Where would it have come from?’
I gave him Mrs Stankowski’s address and he fished out a cheap notebook and wrote it down. He picked up his glass and drank carefully, timing himself for his departure for the Chandos Arms.
‘How’s Miss Wilkins?’
‘Blooming.’
‘Heart of gold that girl’s got. Always sends me a Christmas card.’
‘Once you’re on the list, only death gets you off.’ I stood up to go.
He cocked his head up at me and said, ‘You didn’t ought to carry that other photo round with you. Say you got knocked down and they went through your pockets? Look bad. I mean, at the hospital, and so on.’
I walked through the passageway under Charing Cross Station and got a taxi in Villiers Street. The cabby told me there was a sharp nip in the air and I gave him Mrs Stankowski’s address.
I didn’t believe in making appointments. That always gave people an hour or so to think about what they would say or not say. If she were not at home I could always call again. And again, and again, I decided, as I sat in the back of the taxi and studied her photograph. It was neither disgusting, as Wilkins had said, nor calculated to shock any doctor or nurse, as Dimble had suggested. It was just a reasonably modest study of a naked girl richly endowed by Mother Nature.
The cabby slid back the glass partition and from the corner of his mouth said, ‘What you think of this business in China then? Old Mao and the Red Guards and seven hundred million of the little yellow bastards all trying to make up their kinky little minds which way to go. Some situation, eh? That’s if you’re interested in international affairs. Worry you stiff really, international affairs, I mean, if you thought about it.’
I always got the chatty ones. Always. Years ago I had decided that it was some sort of punishment settled on me by the gods and only they knew for what.
I said, ‘The only thing worrying me at the moment is that you’re going a long way round to get to my destination. That makes you a deviationist too.’
He closed the glass partition and frowned at me in the driving mirror. I put Mrs Stankowski away and smiled back at him. Suddenly I realized that I was feeling better, only a little, but better.
Upper Grosvenor Street it was; a fourth-floor flat in a place called Eaton House. The door was opened by a maid, about thirty-odd, with a strong Scots accent and an unfriendly glint in her eye. I gave her my card and asked if Mrs Stankowski would be kind enough to see me about her recent jewel robbery. She said she would find out, not letting any hope slip into her voice, and shut the door on me. I stood in the narrow hallway that served the three or four flats on that floor and waited. A plump woman, cuddling a miniature poodle inside her mink coat, came out of one of the other flats and I reached out and punched the lift button for her. The poodle yapped bad-temperedly at me. The woman nodded bleakly at me, then kissed the beast on its muzzle and stepped into the lift. I felt unwanted. What was I doing here anyway, I asked myself? At the moment I had plenty of money, which was unusual for me; although I admit that you can’t really have too much of the stuff or fuss overmuch about the way you get it. But the last thing I wanted at this moment was a job.
The flat door opened and the James Barrie character said something like, ‘Will ye cum in the noo.’
I did, wiping my feet without being told.
I didn’t pay much attention to the hall, which was about the size of a large pantry, except for a semi-circular, marble-topped table with ormolu-crusted legs. I stumbled against this as a rug slipped under my feet and had to make a quick grab to stop a heavy eight-branched silver candelabra from going over. The Highland number frowned, not sure whether I was drunk or about to make a quick snatch-and-run.
The main lounge was very big, overheated, the air faintly laced with scent. The maid announced me and I looked around and made a quick inventory of the main features. Either side of the fireplace, on small tables, were a couple of porcelain lemon trees, the soft light gilding the yellow fruit. In a corner was a television set with the biggest screen I had ever seen. Next to it was a bar alcove, hard stuff on the lower shelf, a bottle of Chivas Regal rubbing shoulders with a Glenlivet, and the shelf above holding the biggest private collection of liqueurs and aperitifs I’d seen in a long time. The Slivovitz was half empty and the Strega Alberti unopened. The whole alcove was backed with mirrors and flooded with concealed pink lighting. I felt thirsty. The carpet was ivory and I could feel myself slowly sinking in it. Just off centre of the room was a low walnut table with some coffee-table books on it, and a centrepiece in silver of a benign Buddha holding one hand on his navel and looking as though he wanted, or had just taken, a dose of bicarbonate. At an angle to the window wall was a black-and-ivory-striped settee big enough to hold about six people and ensure that each had complete privacy. Sitting on this, her legs curled under her, and wedged up on either side with black-and-white silk cushions, was Mrs Stankowski. I had saved her until last, which was just as
