India Black and the Gentleman Thief by Carol K. Carr Page B

case.”
    Around eleven o’clock French breezed into the room, slapping his gloves against his thigh, and plunked down in the bedroom’s only chair.
    “You’re getting rather familiar considering that we haven’t been familiar yet,” I said, snapping the paper closed in irritation.
    “Plenty of time for that later,” he said. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”
    I looked at him with some pity. “Really, French. Surely by now you know that the only effect of that peremptory tone of yours is to ensure that I will do exactly the opposite of what you command.”
    “Inspector Allen’s been round to see me. He thinks that you and Mayhew were conducting a torrid affair and in a fit of jealousy I carved up the colonel.”
    I burst out laughing. Callous, I know, but the image of French getting worked up enough to slash a chap to death was ludicrous.
    “You find the fact that I’m a suspect amusing?”
    “Yes, I do. But then I know you rather better than the inspector. And when he dropped by here yesterday, he accused
me
of being the killer. He hypothesized that Mayhew was blackmailing me over some indiscretion and I had killed him when the colonel threatened to tell you.”
    “Clearly the inspector has his lines out and is fishing for all he’s worth. You didn’t mention the bill of lading, did you?”
    “There are times when you annoy me more than others, French, and never more so than when you imply that I am an idiot.”
    He smiled fondly at me. “Your eyes blaze like blue stars when you’re angry, India. It’s a most stimulating sight.”
    That was more like it. I leaned back invitingly against the pillows. It was about time the poncy bastard fixed bayonets and charged the line.
    He leaned forward until we were tantalizingly close and I could smell the bay rum from his morning’s ablutions. His eyes were dancing as he looked into mine. I felt an uncharacteristic fluttering in my stomach.
    Then he seized my tea cup and drained the liquid from it.
    “Five minutes,” he said, standing. “Vincent is waiting downstairs.”
    I swatted him with a pillow and he retreated, laughing. Well, a playful French was an improvement over the stuffy, dour type who’d first presented himself at Lotus House last fall.
    Couple that with French’s declaration of interest or love or whatever it had been, and I felt there was a good chance we’d tumble onto a mattress sometime in this century.
    I took my own sweet time dressing, as any self-respecting female would, and sauntered down the stairs thirty minutes later. I found Vincent, French and Mrs. Drinkwater in the kitchen. My cook was pottering about happily among her pots and pans and piling inedible buns and biscuits in front of French, who was making a valiant effort not to wince at the sight. When Mrs. Drinkwater’s back was turned, Vincent spirited away the offerings and stuffed them into his pockets. He mumbled a greeting to me through a mouthful of crumbs.
    “I assume you have a task for the three of us,” I said to French.
    “We’re off to the docks again.”
    “The
Comet
sailed last night.”
    “Other shipping companies might have carried cargo for the Bradley Tool Company. It seems our only chance of catching up to the fellow, since your clumsiness prevented me from getting my hands on him yesterday.”
    I ignored that jab. “Do you have any idea how many shipping companies operate in London? It will be like finding a needle in a haystack.”
    “So you’d rather do nothing about those fellows who burst in here and delivered a good kicking to us? I’m not ready to forgive and forget just yet. I’d like another crack at them. But if you want to stay here where it’s safe, I understand.”
    “I know exactly what you’re doing, French. You’re manipulating me, or attempting to, and doing a damned poor job of it. India Black is not easily provoked by shallow taunts.”
    At this remark, French lifted an eyebrow and he and Vincent exchanged a smirk.
    I