Ngaio Marsh - Hand in Glove

“You know damn’ well what I want,” he muttered, staring at her.

She raised her eyebrows. “I forgot to tell you,” she said. “Ormsbury’s dead.”

“Your brother?”

“That’s right. In Australia.”

“Ought you to—”

“I haven’t seen him for thirty years, and I never liked him. A horrid, dreary fellow.”

Bimbo said: “Good God, who’s this?”

“The Bloodbath,” Désirée said calmly. “So it isn’t out of commission. Bad luck for Leonard.”

It came slowly roaring and boiling up the long drive with George Copper at the wheel and Noakes beside him.

“Do you see who’s in the back seat?” Désirée asked her husband. “It’s Harold.”

“It can’t be.”

“But it is. His first visit since we had our final row and he shook my dust from his boots forever. Perhaps he’s going to claim me back from you after all these years.”

“What the hell can he want?”

“Actually I’m livid with him. He’s being beastly to Andrew about that money. I shall pitch into him.”

“Why’s he got Noakes? I’ll never get my clues done,” Bimbo complained.

“You bolt indoors. I’ll cope.”

Bimbo said: “Fair enough,” and did so.

The car drew up with a jerk. Sergeant Noakes got out and opened the rear door for Mr. Cartell, who was clearly flustered.

“Harold!” Désirée said with amusement. “How are you? I recognized your hat. Good afternoon, Mr. Copper. Good afternoon, Mr. Noakes.”

“I wonder,” Mr. Cartell began as he removed his hat, “if you could spare me a moment.”

“Why not? Come in.”

Bareheaded, baldish and perturbed, he followed her distrustfully into the house.

“What do we do?” Mr. Copper asked Noakes.

“Wait. What else? The Scorpion’s not here, George.”

“You don’t say,” Mr. Copper bitterly rejoined, looking round the open expanse of drive.

Noakes walked to the front of the Bloodbath and looked at the surface of the drive. He laid his hand pontifically on the bonnet and snatched it away with an oath.

“She’s boiling,” Mr. Copper observed.

“Ta for the information.”

“You would insist on the hurry. She can’t take it.”

“All right. All right. I said I ought to come on the bike. Stay where you are, George.”

Mr. Copper watched him with resentment. Doubled forward, he cast about the drive.

“The Scorpion,” he said, “drips her grease rather heavy, doesn’t she?”

“That’s right.”

“And she’s shod on three feet with Griprich and on the off hind with Startread. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“She’s came,” Sergeant Noakes said, “and went. Look for yourself.”

Mr. Copper said: “So what do we do? Roar after her with the siren screaming? If we had a siren.”

“We’ll follow it up for you through the usual channels. Don’t worry.”

“What’ll I say to the owner? Tell me that. I’m selling her on commission, mind! I’m responsible!”

“No need to panic. They might come back.”

“More likely to be halfway to London with changed number plates. Who started the panic, anyway? You, with your police records. Come back ? Them!”

The front door opened and Mr. Cartell appeared, white-faced, in the entrance.

“Oh — Noakes,” he said. “I’ve a little further business to discuss indoors, but will join you in a moment. Will you stay where you are and deal with the car situation when they return?”

“Sir?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Cartell. “There’s no immediate need for alarm. They are coming back.”

With a sharp look at both of them he returned indoors.

“There you are,” Sergeant Noakes said. “What did I tell you? You leave this one to me.”

“What I can’t see,” Désirée said, turning her enormous lacklustre eyes upon her former husband, “is why you’ve got yourself into such a state. Poor Mr. Copper’s been told that you and P.P. and Connie won’t guarantee the sale. All he’s got to do is take the car away from them.”

“ If they return it,” Mr. Cartell amended. “I hope, Harold darling, you’re not suggesting that they’ll make a break for Epping Forest and go native on Magnums’ smoked salmon! That really would be too tiresome. But I’m sure they won’t. They’re much too anxious to worm their way into my party.”

“You can’t,” Mr. Cartell said in a hurry, “possibly allow that, of course.”

“So everybody keeps telling me.”

“My dear Désirée—”

“Harold, I want to tackle you about Andrew.”

Mr. Cartell gave her one sharp glance and froze. “Indeed,” he said.

“He tells me you won’t let him have his money.”

“He will assume control of his inheritance at the appointed time, which is on the sixth of October next.”

“He did explain, didn’t he, why he needs it now? About the Grantham Gallery for sale and wanting to buy it?”

“He did. He also explained that he wishes to leave the Brigade in order to manage the Gallery.”

“And go on with his own painting.”

“Precisely. I cannot agree to anticipating his inheritance for these purposes.”

“He’s gone into it very carefully and he’s not a baby or a fool. He’s twenty-four and extremely levelheaded.”

“In this matter I cannot agree with you.”

“Bimbo’s been into it, too. He’s prepared to put up some of the cash and go in as a partner.”

“Indeed. I am surprised to learn he is in a position to do so.”

She actually changed colour at this. There was a short silence, and then she said: “Harold, I ask you very seriously to let Andrew have his inheritance.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You may remember,” she said, with no change of manner, “that when I do fight, it’s no holds barred.”

“In common with most—”

“Don’t say ‘with most of my delightful sex,’ Harold.”

“One can always omit the adjective,” said Mr. Cartell.

“Ah, well,” Désirée said pleasantly and stood up. “I can see there’s no future in sweet reasonableness. Are you enjoying life in P.P.’s stately cottage?”

Mr. Cartell also rose. “It’s a satisfactory arrangement,” he said stiffly, “for me. I trust, for him.”

“He won’t enjoy the Moppett-Leonard crise , will he? Poor P.P., such a darling as he is and such a Godalmighty snob. Does he know?”

“Know what?” Mr. Cartell asked unguardedly.

“About your niece and her burglar boyfriend?”

Mr. Cartell turned scarlet and closed his eyes. “She is NOT,” he said in the trembling voice of extreme exasperation, “my niece.”

“How do you know? I’ve always thought Connie might have popped her away to simmer, and then adopted her back, as you might say.”

“That is a preposterous and possibly an actionable statement, Désirée. The girl — Mary Ralston — came from an extremely reputable adoption centre.”

“Connie might have put her there.”

“If you will forgive me, I’ll have a word with Noakes. I regret very much that I have troubled you.”

“P.P. is dining with us. He and I are going to have a cozy old chum’s gossip before my treasure hunt party arrives.”

Mr. Cartell said: “I am not susceptible to moral blackmail, Désirée. I shall not reconsider my decision about Andrew.”

“Look,” Désirée said. “I fancy you know me well enough to realize that I’m not a sentimental woman.”

“That,” said Mr. Cartell, “I fully concede. A woman who gives a large party on the day her brother’s death is announced—”

“My dear Hal, you know you looked upon Ormsbury as a social scourge and so did I. By and large, I’m not madly fond of other people. But I am fond of Andrew. He’s my son and I like him very much indeed. You watch out for yourself, Harold. I’m on the warpath.”