Deadly Petard Read Online Free Page B

about you is that touch of ice.’
    She moved away, forcing him to drop his arm. ‘D’you want a drink?’
    ‘Have you ever heard me say no?’
    She led the way into the sitting-room, crossed to the very short, very narrow passage which ran on the north side of the huge central double chimney and joined the sitting-room to the dining-room. Since the dining-room could also be reached through the kitchen, she used this passage to house the elegant reproduction cabinet in which she kept the drinks. ‘What would you like?’ she called out.
    ‘A Scotch. And don’t worry about making it too strong . . . Gertie, d’you mind if I use your phone?’
    ‘Go right ahead.’
    She brought out from the cabinet and put on the top two glasses, a bottle of whisky, and a bottle of sweet white vermouth. As she finished pouring the Scotch, she heard him say: ‘Would it be possible to have a word with Miss Tufton?’
    She added soda. He said: ‘Sandra? . . . Who else d’you think it could be? . . . I’ll believe that when they abolish income tax . . . Is it OK? . . . Usual time, usual place. Lots of.’
    She gave herself a vermouth and soda and added a slither of lemon peel. She put the glasses on a small plated silver salver and returned to the sitting-room. He was standing by the window, looking out. He turned. ‘That’s all right, then, they can do a service. It’s a hell of a sweat these days, isn’t it, getting a car looked after? You’d think you were doing the garage the service, instead of vice versa.’ He chuckled at the slight play on words. ‘Well—what’s your news? How are the paintings going? By the score?’
    ‘Why not by the yard?’
    ‘Don’t take offence, Gertie. You know me—can’t tell a Rubens from a Picasso. But I do like your paintings.’
    ‘Is that intended as a compliment or an insult?’
    ‘Come on, darling, relax. Stop taking things so seriously. You’ve obviously been painting too many nymphs and shepherds and need a break from such bucolic frivolities. Tell you what, lunch tomorrow at Leon’s: the only nymph you’re likely to run into there is the odd nyphomaniac’
    ‘No.’
    He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Have it your way. But you know what they say? All work and no play, how the hell can you stay gay?’
    He’d called again a week later, after dark, so she’d switched on the outside light and waited to identify him through the hall window before unlocking the front door. When he entered, drops of water slid off his mackintosh on to the brick floor. ‘By God, it’s filthy outside! Rain’s positively lashing down and even the ducks must be shouting uncle.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’re looking like a million dollars. Know that?’
    She knew she was her usual plain, untidy self. There was a brittleness to his manner, she thought, as if he were under considerable tension.
    ‘Gertie, I’ve a confession to make. I’ve come to ask a favour. You will help me, won’t you?’
    To do what?’
    He didn’t answer, but instead took off his mackintosh. ‘Can I drape this over the banisters? When the good God invented rain, He got carried away with his own enthusiasm.’
    ‘Come into the warm,’ she said abruptly.
    They went into the sitting-room, where a large wood and coal fire was burning.
    ‘What will you drink?’ she asked.
    ‘Nothing for me.’
    Her astonishment was obvious.
    He jammed his hands in the pockets of his trousers and stood with his back to the fire. He looked directly at her. ‘You know I often have a flutter on the horses?’
    ‘No, I didn’t,’ she answered, as she crossed to a chair and sat.
    ‘Of course you do,’ he snapped. ‘Normally, I reckon to make a couple of fivers or if the worst comes to the worst, break even, but recently the bloody nags I’ve fancied have been running like hobbled donkeys . . . Cutting a long story short, I’ve ended up owing a bloke a packet and he’s the type who gets nasty if he’s not paid sharp on time. You