Hand in Glove (8 page)

“She’ll be sorry for herself before long.”

“Why?”

“This cigarette case—”

“P.P.’ll find it somewhere. You’ve no right—”

“I have every right,” Mr. Cartell cried, now quite beside himself with chagrin. “And I tell you this, Connie. The girl is a bad girl. If you’ve any authority over her, you’d better use it. But in my opinion your sensible course would be to let her be brought to book and pay the consequences. She’s got a record, Connie. You’ll be well rid of her. And I promise you that unless this wretched cigarette case is returned before tomorrow, I shall call in the police.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I shall. And the upshot, no doubt, will be jail for the pair of them.”

“You miserable little pipsqueak, Boysie!”

“Very well,” Mr. Cartell said and rose. “That’s my final word, Connie. Good evening to you.”

He strode from the hall into the garden, where he fell over his dog. With some commotion they effected an exit — and returned, presumably, to Mr. Period’s house across the Green.

Désirée wore black for her April Fool’s party. On any other woman of her age it would have been a disastrous dress, but, by virtue of a sort of inward effrontery, she got away with it. Her neck, her bosom and that dismal little region known, unprettily, as the armpit were all so many statements of betrayal, but she triumphed over them and not so much took them in her own stride as she obliged other people to take them in theirs. With her incredible hair brushed up into a kind of bonfire, her carefree makeup, her eyeglass, and her general air of raffishness, she belonged, as Mr. Period mildly reflected, to Toulouse-Lautrec rather than to any contemporary background.

They had dined. The party had assembled, made a great deal of noise and gone off in pairs by car to follow up the clues. Bimbo was driving round the terrain to keep observation, rescue any couple that had become unintentionally lost and whip in the deliberate stragglers.

Everyone was to be in by midnight. Supper was set out in the ballroom, and in the meantime Désirée and Mr. Period sat over a fire in her boudoir enjoying coffee and brandy. It was, Mr. Period noticed, Dé-sirée’s third brandy, but she carried her drink with astonishing bravura. He nursed his own modest potion and cozily lamented his fate.

“Désirée, my dear,” he was saying, “I really don’t know what it is about you, but you have
so
got the gift of drawing one out. Here am I letting my back hair down in the naughtiest way, and about poor old Hal, which is not at all the done thing, considering.”

“Why not?” she said, propping her feet in their preposterously high heels above the fireplace. Mr. Period, as she noticed with amusement, gazed tactfully at the flames. “Why not? I found Harold plain hell to live with, and I don’t know why you should fare any better. Except that you’re nicer than me and have probably got more patience.”

“It’s the
little
things.
Every
morning to tap on one’s door and say, ‘Bath’s empty. For what it’s worth.’
Every
day to clear his throat before he opens his
Telegraph
, and say he may as well know the worst. And his
dog
, Désirée! The noise,” Mr. Period exclaimed, unconsciously plagiarizing, “and the smell! And the destruction!”

“One of those mixed-up dogs that try to marry one’s foot, I’ve noticed.”

Mr. Period gave a little cough and murmured, “Exactly. Moreover, every night, at one o’clock precisely, he takes it out of doors and it sets up the most hideous barking until, and indeed for some time after, he shuts it up. There have been complaints from all over the village. And now,” he added, throwing up his hands, “this afternoon! This afternoon was
too
much.”

“But do tell me, P.P., what happened? With Moppett and her flash friend and the car? I’ve heard Harold’s version, of course, but I’m having my own private war with him and was too angry to pay all that much attention.”

Mr. Period told her the whole story.

“And I do feel, darling Désirée, that you should be warned. It’s plain to be seen that this frightful person, the Leiss, is an out-and-out bad ’un. And indeed, for your ear alone, we most strongly suspect—” Mr. Period looked about him as if the boudoir concealed microphones and began to whisper the story of the cigarette case.

“Oh, no!” Désirée said with relish. “Actually a burglar! And is Moppett his con-girl, do you suppose?”

“I fear, only too probably. And, my dear, here you are, in the kindness of your heart, asking them to your wonderful party.”

“It wasn’t kindness. It was to spite Harold. He won’t give Andy his money. I can’t tell you how livid it makes me.”

She looked rather fixedly at Mr. Period. “You’re a trustee, P.P. Have you discussed it with Hal, or with Andrew?”

Mr. Period said uncomfortably: “Not really
discussed
it, my dear.”

“Don’t tell me you disapprove, too!”

“No, no, no!” he said in a hurry. “Not
disapprove
exactly. It’s just — leaving the Brigade and so on. For that
rather
outré world. Art…the Chelsea set…Not that Andrew…But there! ’Nuff said.”

“We’re not going to quarrel over it, I hope?”

“My
dear
. Quarrel!”

“Well,” she said, suddenly giving Mr. Period a kiss. “Let’s talk about something more amusing.”

They embarked on a long gossip and Mr. Period eased up. He was enjoying himself immensely, but he did not wish to stay until the return of the treasure hunters. He looked at his watch, found it was eleven o’clock, and asked if he might telephone for the Bloodbath.

“No need,” Désirée said, “my car’s outside. I’d love to take you. Don’t fuss, P.P., I’d really like to. I can have a cast around the village and see how the hunt’s going. By the way, one of Bimbo’s clues leads to your sewage excavation. It says:
All your trouble and all your pain will only land you down the drain
. He’s not very good at poetry, poor sweet, but I thought that one of his neater efforts. Come on, darling. I can see you’re in a fever lest Slick Len and his moll should get back with the first prize before you make your getaway.”

They went out to her car. Mr. Period was a little apprehensive because of the amount of liqueur brandy Désirée had consumed, but she drove with perfect
expertise
and all the way to Little Codling they talked about Mr. Cartell. Presently they turned into Green Lane. A red lantern marked the end of the open ditch. They passed an elderly sports car, parked in the rough grass on the opposite side.

“Andy,” said his mother, giving a long hoot on her horn. “He’s going to fall in love with your secretary, I can see.”

“Already!” ejaculated Mr. Period.

“Going to. Heavily, I fancy. I took to the girl rather.”

“Charming! A
really
nice gel. I’m delighted with her.”

“P.P.,” Désirée said, as they drew near the house, “there’s something extra Harold’s done to inflame you, isn’t there?”

There was a silence.

“Don’t tell me if you’d rather not, of course.”

“It’s very painful to me. Something he said. One shouldn’t,” Mr. Period added in a constrained and unnatural voice, “let such things upset one, but — No, dearest Désirée, I shan’t bore you with it. It was nothing. I prefer to forget it.”

“Fair enough,” she said and pulled up.

Mr. Period did not immediately get out of the car. He made another little speech of thanks for his entertainment and then, with many hesitations and apologetic noises, hinted obscurely at bereavement.

“I haven’t said anything, my dear,” he murmured, “because I felt you preferred
not
. But I wouldn’t like you to think — But never mind, I only wanted you to know…” He waved his hands and was silent.

“Do you mean about Ormsbury?” she said in her direct way. Mr. Period made a small confirmatory sound. “You didn’t say anything,” he added. “So, of course—”

“There are some sorrows,” Désirée said and it was impossible to catch any overtones in her voice, “that go too deep for words.”

Mr. Period gave a little groan of sympathy, kissed her hand, and left her.

He went in by the side gate. She watched him, by the light of her headlamps, pick his way in a gingerly fashion over the planks that had been laid across the ditch. He was safely inside his house and Désirée was about to drive away when she caught sight of a figure in an upper window. She stopped her engine and got out of the car.

By midnight the winning pair had presented themselves with their prize, a magnum of champagne. They were, inevitably, Moppett and Leonard, all smiles, but with a curious tendency to avoid looking at each other. Leonard was effulgent in the matter of cuff links and lapels and his tie was large and plum-coloured. Bimbo looked upon him with loathing, gave them both drinks and put a jazz record on the machine. Leonard with ineffable grace extended his hands towards Désirée. “May we?” he said and in a moment was dancing with her. He was a superb dancer. “Much too good,” she said afterwards. “Like the really expensive gigolos used to be. He smells like them too: it quite took me back. I adored it.”

Bimbo, sulking, was then obliged to dance with Moppett, who made businesslike passes at him. These exercises were interrupted by the arrival in straggling pairs of the rest of the treasure hunters, Nicola and Andrew being the last to come in — both looking radiantly pleased with themselves.

Désirée had a talent for parties. Sometimes they began presentably and ended outrageously, sometimes they were presentable almost all the time and sometimes they began, continued and ended outrageously. It was for the last sort that she had gained her notoriety. This one was, at the moment, both gay and decorous, possibly because Andrew had unexpectedly said he hoped it would be.

They were all dancing, and the time was a quarter past one, when a rumpus broke out on the drive. Bimbo was changing records, so the noise established itself readily: it was that of a multiple dogfight.

Growls, yaps, full-blooded barking and strangulated cries of anguish mounted in a ragged crescendo.

Désirée said: “A rival show, it seems”—and then: “Bimbo! Ours! They must have got out!”

Bimbo swore, pulled back curtains and went through French windows to the terrace, followed by Andrew, Désirée and most of the men.

Nicola found herself on the terrace in a group composed of all the other ladies and Leonard.

The combat was joined among parked cars at the head of the drive and was illuminated by lights from the house. All was confusion. Some six or seven contestants bit at each other in a central engagement, others rolled together under cars. One very large, isolated dog sat on its haunches howling dispassionately, and one could be discerned bolting down the drive screaming its classic cry of “pen-and-ink.”

Bimbo, Andrew and an advance guard went down into the arena and at first added greatly to the confusion. They shouted, swore, grabbed and kicked. Désirée suddenly joined them, was momentarily hidden, but emerged carrying an outraged poodle by the scruff of its neck. Servants ran out, offering hunting crops and umbrellas. Expressions of human as well as canine anguish were now perceptible. Andrew detached himself, dragging two frenzied Aberdeens by their collars. They were Baynesholme dogs and were thrust with the poodle into a cloakroom, where they got up a halfhearted row on their own account.

Bimbo now appeared carrying an air-gun. He waved the other men aside and presented his weapon at the central mêlée. There was a mild explosion, followed by cries of distress, and suddenly the arena had emptied and the night was plangent with the laments of rapidly retreating dogs.

Only one remained. Exhausted, gratified, infamous and complacent, her tongue lolling out of one side of her mouth, and her lead trailing from her collar, sat a boxer bitch: Mr. Cartell’s Pixie, the Helen of the engagement. When Bimbo approached her she gathered herself together and bit him.

The next morning Connie Cartell woke slowly from a heavy sleep. She experienced that not unusual sensation, during half-consciousness, in which the threat of something unpleasant anticipates the recollection of the thing itself. She lay, blinking and yawning for a second or two. She heard her Austrian maid stump along the passage and knock on a door.

Damn! Connie thought. I forgot to tell her not to disturb either of them.

Then the full realization of all the horrors of the preceding evening came upon her.

She was not an imaginative woman, but it hadn’t taken much imagination, after her brother’s visit, to envisage what would happen to Moppett if Mr. Period’s cigarette case was not discovered. Connie had tried to tackle Moppett, and, as usual, had got nowhere at all. Moppett had merely remarked that P.P. and Mr. Cartell had dirty minds. When Connie had broached the topic of Leonard Leiss and his reputation, Moppett had reminded her of Leonard’s unhappy background and of how she, Moppett, was pledged to redeem him. She had assured Connie, with tears in her eyes and a great many caresses, that Leonard was indeed on the upward path.

If Connie herself had had any experience at all of the Leiss milieu and any real inclination to cope with it, she might possibly have been able to bring a salutary point of view to bear on the situation. She might, it is not too preposterous to suppose, have been able to direct Moppett towards a different pattern of behaviour. But she had no experience and no real inclination. She only doted upon Moppett with the whole force of her unimaginative and uninformed being. She was in a foreign country, and, like many another woman of her class and kind, behaved stupidly, as a foreigner.

So she bathed and dressed and went down to breakfast in a sort of fog, and ate large quantities of eggs, bacon and kidneys indifferently presented by her Austrian maid. She was still at her breakfast when she saw Alfred, in his alpaca jacket and the cloth cap he assumed for such occasions, crossing the Green with an envelope in his hand.

In a moment he appeared before her.

“I beg pardon, Miss,” Alfred said, laying the envelope on the table, “for disturbing you, but Mr. Period asked me to deliver this. No answer is required, I understand.”