it, and settled my hat back again. ‘No stripes,’ he said. He left his hand on my shoulder. We grinned at one another.
Ferdy said, ‘I told you. She’s in mourning. Listen. We’ve got the hell of a problem…’
I thought we were the only VIPs in the airport’s VIP room.
We weren’t. Before Ferdy could get a chance to mention that the Demon Banana was still on the premises, this voice dropped in from behind him.
It said, ‘Miss Geddes will solve it. Give her a dozen eggs, two bottles of vodka and a piano, and Miss Geddes will solve all your problems, and throw in a gland cocktail now and then for your endocrines. Good afternoon, Miss Geddes.’
I knew before I turned, and before I saw the bifocal glasses.
I remembered the wheelchair at the Lisbon plane.
I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know why. But it was, of course, the Owner.
----
7
« ^ »
Ferdy’s pal Johnson Johnson stood by the hospitality table sportingly provided by the Madeira airport authorities.
He had a glass in one hand, and appeared to be freestanding, although there was a walking stick propped in the neighbourhood.
He was not, as last seen, wearing pyjamas, but got much the same effect with a pair of check trousers and an oatmeal sweater in a struggling cablestitch.
I had seen the pattern, done right, in the
Personality Knitting Quarterly
. I could swear to it.
The black floppy hair was the same, and the tight black eyebrows over a pair of bifocals girdered together like church toilet windows.
The bashed nose and lipless mouth were so ordinary that there would be nothing to see if you took his glasses off. Except, of course, for a lot of bad temper.
He had made a few strides, considering. His base colour had moved from Sallow nearly up to Pale Caucasian Man. The shark conversation hadn’t altered.
Kim-Jim took his hand off my shoulder and said, ‘You know Mr Johnson? He was on my flight from Lisbon. I was going to introduce you.’
‘From
Lisbon
?’ I said.
Ferdy’s pal Johnson Johnson had put down his glass and was fingering bottles and watching me. ‘We found ourselves sitting together. Vodka?’ he said. ‘Still? Or chloride?’
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Ferdy said. ‘If she doesn’t want a vodka, I do. You didn’t tell me you were coming over. What were you doing in Portugal? Wearing that pullover? I bet they’ve bloody deported you.’
‘
Dolly’s
been here for weeks,’ Johnson said. ‘Had her papers to fix on the way. Sorry, Miss Geddes. Didn’t have time to tell Mr Curtis I knew you. Didn’t realise you were his Rita until the end of the flight. You like Madeira?’
‘
Dolly
?’ I said. Somewhere, I’d heard that name before.
The glasses flashed. ‘Boats, unavoidably, are feminine,’ Johnson said. ‘You don’t like Madeira?’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘A bit crowded.’
Ferdy stood on my foot.
‘No need to worry,’ said Johnson. ‘Mr Curtis didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t found out before. Can I give a lift to anybody?’
‘My God,’ said Ferdy. ‘Is that your yacht in the harbour? Flying a British flag?’
‘So Lenny tells me,’ said Johnson.
I looked outside. The car with the uniformed driver was still waiting. I said, ‘Is that your Daimler outside?’
‘I hope so,’ said Johnson.
The twenty-four hours I spent in apartment 17 b came flooding back to me. Names came back.
‘
Where’s
Dolly?’
‘
Still refitting.
’
‘
Why don’t we send Lenny down to sail her out? He could take her to Tenerife and wait till you were ready…
’
And earlier than that:
‘
Mr Johnson
!
It’s Natalie Sheridan. An old friend of Roger van Diemen
.’
I walked up to Ferdy’s pal Johnson, who was pouring vodka one-handed into four glasses, aided by Ferdy.
I said, ‘Did Natalie Sheridan send for you?’
The spectacles turned round, with tonic fizzing all over them. ‘Send for me?’ Johnson said.
Ferdy held out a glass. ‘Don’t be an ass, darling,’ he said.
Ferdy said, ‘I told you. She’s in mourning. Listen. We’ve got the hell of a problem…’
I thought we were the only VIPs in the airport’s VIP room.
We weren’t. Before Ferdy could get a chance to mention that the Demon Banana was still on the premises, this voice dropped in from behind him.
It said, ‘Miss Geddes will solve it. Give her a dozen eggs, two bottles of vodka and a piano, and Miss Geddes will solve all your problems, and throw in a gland cocktail now and then for your endocrines. Good afternoon, Miss Geddes.’
I knew before I turned, and before I saw the bifocal glasses.
I remembered the wheelchair at the Lisbon plane.
I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know why. But it was, of course, the Owner.
----
7
« ^ »
Ferdy’s pal Johnson Johnson stood by the hospitality table sportingly provided by the Madeira airport authorities.
He had a glass in one hand, and appeared to be freestanding, although there was a walking stick propped in the neighbourhood.
He was not, as last seen, wearing pyjamas, but got much the same effect with a pair of check trousers and an oatmeal sweater in a struggling cablestitch.
I had seen the pattern, done right, in the
Personality Knitting Quarterly
. I could swear to it.
The black floppy hair was the same, and the tight black eyebrows over a pair of bifocals girdered together like church toilet windows.
The bashed nose and lipless mouth were so ordinary that there would be nothing to see if you took his glasses off. Except, of course, for a lot of bad temper.
He had made a few strides, considering. His base colour had moved from Sallow nearly up to Pale Caucasian Man. The shark conversation hadn’t altered.
Kim-Jim took his hand off my shoulder and said, ‘You know Mr Johnson? He was on my flight from Lisbon. I was going to introduce you.’
‘From
Lisbon
?’ I said.
Ferdy’s pal Johnson Johnson had put down his glass and was fingering bottles and watching me. ‘We found ourselves sitting together. Vodka?’ he said. ‘Still? Or chloride?’
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Ferdy said. ‘If she doesn’t want a vodka, I do. You didn’t tell me you were coming over. What were you doing in Portugal? Wearing that pullover? I bet they’ve bloody deported you.’
‘
Dolly’s
been here for weeks,’ Johnson said. ‘Had her papers to fix on the way. Sorry, Miss Geddes. Didn’t have time to tell Mr Curtis I knew you. Didn’t realise you were his Rita until the end of the flight. You like Madeira?’
‘
Dolly
?’ I said. Somewhere, I’d heard that name before.
The glasses flashed. ‘Boats, unavoidably, are feminine,’ Johnson said. ‘You don’t like Madeira?’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘A bit crowded.’
Ferdy stood on my foot.
‘No need to worry,’ said Johnson. ‘Mr Curtis didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t found out before. Can I give a lift to anybody?’
‘My God,’ said Ferdy. ‘Is that your yacht in the harbour? Flying a British flag?’
‘So Lenny tells me,’ said Johnson.
I looked outside. The car with the uniformed driver was still waiting. I said, ‘Is that your Daimler outside?’
‘I hope so,’ said Johnson.
The twenty-four hours I spent in apartment 17 b came flooding back to me. Names came back.
‘
Where’s
Dolly?’
‘
Still refitting.
’
‘
Why don’t we send Lenny down to sail her out? He could take her to Tenerife and wait till you were ready…
’
And earlier than that:
‘
Mr Johnson
!
It’s Natalie Sheridan. An old friend of Roger van Diemen
.’
I walked up to Ferdy’s pal Johnson, who was pouring vodka one-handed into four glasses, aided by Ferdy.
I said, ‘Did Natalie Sheridan send for you?’
The spectacles turned round, with tonic fizzing all over them. ‘Send for me?’ Johnson said.
Ferdy held out a glass. ‘Don’t be an ass, darling,’ he said.
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