I said, ‘There’s still the cheque for my services.’
‘You’ll get it.’
He pressed a wall switch and one of his modern paintings slid aside and on a twenty-one-inch screen I had a view of Paulet and Duchêne in the waiting room, shivering on the camp bed and looking miserable. They were the only two they had managed to pick up.
‘No music?’ I asked. ‘No brass bands?’
‘Wagner. They hate it. But the sound is switched off up here. I hate it too.’
I said, ‘It’s a pity Perkins turned out not to be a traitor. I’d like to see him down there.’
And then it was back to work—without Wilkins because she was still off with Olaf catching up on her holiday.
Some days later, going back to my flat, after a hard day repeatedly turning the basset hound off my desk chair, I found Mrs Meld hanging over the gate enjoying the summer evening.
‘Nice evening, Mr Carver.’
‘Splendid, Mrs Meld.’
‘You look a bit baggy under the eyes these days.’
‘I have worries at the office.’
‘You got one waiting for you up in the flat.’
I went up and into the flat. As I stood at the door, a voice shrieked, ‘Shut that bloody door! Shut that bloody door!’
It was Alfred in his cage on the table, a note from Miggs pinned to it: ‘This bastard is losing me business, so back to you. M.’ Alfred carolled, ‘Bloody! Bloody!’
I ignored him and went into the bedroom. Letta was lying on the bed reading Vogue.
I said, ‘I thought you were in Athens?’
She smiled and said, ‘I was. But now I’ve got two free weeks. If I stay here, though, you’ll have to choose between me and that bird.’
I said, ‘Friend of mine keeps a pub round the comer. He’ll love him.’
‘Good.’
She sat up, her dark hair taking the evening sun through the window in a hundred burnished points.
I said, ‘Isn’t it a bit early in the evening only to be wearing a copy of Vogue?’
She dropped it to the floor.
Outside, Alfred cried, ‘Shut that bloody door!’
I did.
