Johnson Johnson 04 - Dolly and the Doctor Bird by Dorothy (as Dorothy Halliday Dunnett Page B
Authors: Dorothy (as Dorothy Halliday Dunnett
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Dear Krishtof is coming to stay as my houseguest.”
The Turkish dancer. So that was why he had flown to Nassau. He was on his way to stay with the Begum. “I have not only met Lady Edgecombe: I have danced with her,” said Krishtof Bey cheerfully. The Mongoloid face gave as little away as his hostess’s: the slanting eyes smiled in a manner one could describe without whimsy as evil. His hand, when he gave it to me, was long and thin and stringy with muscle. He wore a cinnamon tunic and trousers with gold Turkish slippers and the discreet bodyguard of his friends, I noticed, was between him and the crowd. I said, “Has Johnson painted you as well, Mr. Krishtof?”
“This he is going to do,” said the dancer. “In the nude, do you think, Doctor MacRannoch? Or with one small flower? ‘The Après-midi d’un Faun’?”
“ ‘The Miracle in the Gorbals’?” I suggested.
He was not abashed. “But nothing is out with a doctor’s experience! The naked man you have seen in his thousands.”
“True,” I agreed. “Mainly cadavers.”
“And that is how you think of us?” He came very close, with his almond eyes trying to mesmerize mine. “Cold? Unresponsive? Repellent?”
The Begum chuckled. Lady Edgecombe, beside me, was visibly out of patience. “On the contrary,” I said shortly. “There are few things more beautiful than the blood vascular system of the grown human body. Until you have dissected two cutaneous arterio-venous anastomoses, you have no idea what elegance is.”
“Give up, Krishtof,” said Johnson’s deep, comfortable voice just behind us. “You can’t outplay Doctor MacRannoch. We’ve all had a shot.”
Krishtof Bey had retreated slightly, but the almond eyes had never left mine. He was smiling. “Pardon, but I do not think,” he said gently, “you have yet found the proper approach.”
“Lunch,” said Johnson hastily.
In the end the Begum took us all to lunch at the Columbus Hotel. I made a telephone call, out of duty, to the Jackson, heard that Sir Bartholomew had been successfully treated and was resting, and after a quick comb through my hair, finally joined the Begum, Lady Edgecombe, Krishtof, and Johnson on the seventeenth floor.
The dining room on the seventeenth floor of the Columbus is three quarters plate glass, and its windows look down on the streaming cars of Biscayne Boulevard and the palm tops of Bayfront Park behind. Beyond that is a blue sheet of water, crossed by the ranks of long, low white bridges which lead to Dodge Island and the rest of Miami on the horizon.
The others were ready to leave the cocktail lounge when I arrived. I told them the news from the hospital while Krishtof Bey got me a tomato juice. I carried it into the dining room, where we sat beside the scarlet swagged curtains and rhapsodized over the view.
Or rather the other four did. Sipping my tomato juice, I reflected that it resembled nothing so much as a child’s cut-out cardboard picture book, brought me once by a dim MacRannoch aunt from Australia. Before us, the swing bridge opened regularly to allow handsome white yachts to speed on their way: between its arches tuna fishing boats were constantly sprinting, like foreshortened twin prams. Beyond the first bridge a sea plane skimmed down and landed, taxiing across to its berth on Dodge Island. A scarlet helicopter, buzzing past the hotel, crossed the inlet and made for the small field, air sock flying, which we had already noted on our way here. You could see the Disneyland scenic railway: the best description of the concrete complication of freeways which we had just finished crossing.
The sun shone out of a cloudless blue sky on all that clean, luxurious activity, and I drank my tomato juice grimly, thinking of Bart Edgecombe lying in the hospital, and Pentecost with the gun in his hand, and the fire swirling up Johnson’s borrowed jacket. Krishtof Bey, as if he had read my thoughts, said gently, “What caused the upset to Sir
The Turkish dancer. So that was why he had flown to Nassau. He was on his way to stay with the Begum. “I have not only met Lady Edgecombe: I have danced with her,” said Krishtof Bey cheerfully. The Mongoloid face gave as little away as his hostess’s: the slanting eyes smiled in a manner one could describe without whimsy as evil. His hand, when he gave it to me, was long and thin and stringy with muscle. He wore a cinnamon tunic and trousers with gold Turkish slippers and the discreet bodyguard of his friends, I noticed, was between him and the crowd. I said, “Has Johnson painted you as well, Mr. Krishtof?”
“This he is going to do,” said the dancer. “In the nude, do you think, Doctor MacRannoch? Or with one small flower? ‘The Après-midi d’un Faun’?”
“ ‘The Miracle in the Gorbals’?” I suggested.
He was not abashed. “But nothing is out with a doctor’s experience! The naked man you have seen in his thousands.”
“True,” I agreed. “Mainly cadavers.”
“And that is how you think of us?” He came very close, with his almond eyes trying to mesmerize mine. “Cold? Unresponsive? Repellent?”
The Begum chuckled. Lady Edgecombe, beside me, was visibly out of patience. “On the contrary,” I said shortly. “There are few things more beautiful than the blood vascular system of the grown human body. Until you have dissected two cutaneous arterio-venous anastomoses, you have no idea what elegance is.”
“Give up, Krishtof,” said Johnson’s deep, comfortable voice just behind us. “You can’t outplay Doctor MacRannoch. We’ve all had a shot.”
Krishtof Bey had retreated slightly, but the almond eyes had never left mine. He was smiling. “Pardon, but I do not think,” he said gently, “you have yet found the proper approach.”
“Lunch,” said Johnson hastily.
In the end the Begum took us all to lunch at the Columbus Hotel. I made a telephone call, out of duty, to the Jackson, heard that Sir Bartholomew had been successfully treated and was resting, and after a quick comb through my hair, finally joined the Begum, Lady Edgecombe, Krishtof, and Johnson on the seventeenth floor.
The dining room on the seventeenth floor of the Columbus is three quarters plate glass, and its windows look down on the streaming cars of Biscayne Boulevard and the palm tops of Bayfront Park behind. Beyond that is a blue sheet of water, crossed by the ranks of long, low white bridges which lead to Dodge Island and the rest of Miami on the horizon.
The others were ready to leave the cocktail lounge when I arrived. I told them the news from the hospital while Krishtof Bey got me a tomato juice. I carried it into the dining room, where we sat beside the scarlet swagged curtains and rhapsodized over the view.
Or rather the other four did. Sipping my tomato juice, I reflected that it resembled nothing so much as a child’s cut-out cardboard picture book, brought me once by a dim MacRannoch aunt from Australia. Before us, the swing bridge opened regularly to allow handsome white yachts to speed on their way: between its arches tuna fishing boats were constantly sprinting, like foreshortened twin prams. Beyond the first bridge a sea plane skimmed down and landed, taxiing across to its berth on Dodge Island. A scarlet helicopter, buzzing past the hotel, crossed the inlet and made for the small field, air sock flying, which we had already noted on our way here. You could see the Disneyland scenic railway: the best description of the concrete complication of freeways which we had just finished crossing.
The sun shone out of a cloudless blue sky on all that clean, luxurious activity, and I drank my tomato juice grimly, thinking of Bart Edgecombe lying in the hospital, and Pentecost with the gun in his hand, and the fire swirling up Johnson’s borrowed jacket. Krishtof Bey, as if he had read my thoughts, said gently, “What caused the upset to Sir
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