Maurice’s artistic wall.
There was a flash of flame, a barking report and a wisp of smoke travelled lazily up to the putti. The thicket of filaments, arrested in mid-twitch, hung on the wall, inanimate as the corpse in the freezer. Make a wall happy this weekend. Johnson said, ‘Oh dear. What have I done?’
There was a little silence. Then, ‘Made your point,’ said Maurice dryly. ‘Or do I mistake a subtle gesture of reproach when I see one? Take a note. Timothy: a telephone call to the electrician. Also, I think Lord Digham is trying to enter the room.’
I got up and sat down again. It was true. The door had opened and Charles was standing there, his oldest cloak slung over his shoulders and, I suspected, his pyjama top lurking underneath his scarf and sweater. He said, ‘Ruth?’ and then, ‘Christ, I thought I’d never get in. I’ve been standing out there for fifteen bloody minutes, trying to get your bloody staff to knock on that door, Maurice. What do you need, the Keys of Saint Peter to get into the Throne Room?’ He said to me, ‘Are you all right?’
I was used to urbanity. Not having urbanity was, I found, perfectly agreeable too. I said, ‘Yes, I’m all right. Why couldn’t you walk in yourself? Oh, Charles, of course. The Mouse Alarm?’
‘The revolting noise,’ said Charles, ‘that this former matinee idol in his dotage chooses to inflict on human beings because he is frightened of mice. I couldn’t get into the room. I couldn’t get anyone else to come in and tell you to switch the bloody thing off. All I know is that someone tried to kill Ruth in the Dome. What’s been happening?’
‘Dear Charles,’ said Maurice. ‘Matinée idol I may have been, but I don’t recall ever being reduced to using the word bloody three times in six sentences, even in someone else’s feeblest dialogue. If the noise offends you, why are you here entertaining us now?’
‘Because it’s stopped,’ said Charles. ‘It stopped this moment. Ruth? What happened?’
Maurice sat up. ‘You’ve wrecked my Mouse Alarm,’ he said to Johnson.
But Johnson, rising, was leading Charles gently to a seat beside me. ‘I’ve wrecked his Mouse Alarm,’ he said kindly. ‘It’s a long, long story and Ruth and Jacko will tell it. In the meantime—’
The telephone rang and Maurice snatched it up pettishly. He said, ‘ Pronto ?’ and then held it out at arm’s length toward Johnson. ‘I wish,’ he said, ‘that you would ask your friends not to telephone before lunchtime. It spoils my appetite.’
‘For what?’ said Charles dulcetly. The urbanity, I was sorry to see, was making a comeback. Johnson, on the telephone, was saying, ‘Oh? Where? No, but I’ll remember. What number? Right. Thank you.’ He listened for a few moments longer and then said goodbye and hung up. We all looked at him.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
‘You’re going ?’ said Maurice.
‘It was the Pope,’ suggested Jacko.
‘Actually,’ Johnson said, ‘it was a man who knows a man who had his photograph taken recently.’
He wasn’t looking at anybody, but I got up and walked over to him. ‘Mr Paladrini? You’ve got Mr Paladrini’s address? Charles, the man who sold the balloons at the zoo. We’re going to find him.’
‘Why?’ said Maurice’s voice baldly behind us. ‘If, of course, one may ask.’
It was a little difficult to recall why. I stared at Johnson and Johnson said cheerfully. ‘Because there was a message in the balloon Ruth received making a rendezvous of some kind at the Fall Fair. She got it clearly by accident, and didn’t even realize until later what it was. At any rate, we went to the Fall Fair and recognized the balloon trader in superior guise taking part in it. We chased him, and he ran away from us.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Maurice huffily. ‘And for no other reason you are going to call on this gentleman?’
‘Well, for one other reason,’ Johnson
There was a flash of flame, a barking report and a wisp of smoke travelled lazily up to the putti. The thicket of filaments, arrested in mid-twitch, hung on the wall, inanimate as the corpse in the freezer. Make a wall happy this weekend. Johnson said, ‘Oh dear. What have I done?’
There was a little silence. Then, ‘Made your point,’ said Maurice dryly. ‘Or do I mistake a subtle gesture of reproach when I see one? Take a note. Timothy: a telephone call to the electrician. Also, I think Lord Digham is trying to enter the room.’
I got up and sat down again. It was true. The door had opened and Charles was standing there, his oldest cloak slung over his shoulders and, I suspected, his pyjama top lurking underneath his scarf and sweater. He said, ‘Ruth?’ and then, ‘Christ, I thought I’d never get in. I’ve been standing out there for fifteen bloody minutes, trying to get your bloody staff to knock on that door, Maurice. What do you need, the Keys of Saint Peter to get into the Throne Room?’ He said to me, ‘Are you all right?’
I was used to urbanity. Not having urbanity was, I found, perfectly agreeable too. I said, ‘Yes, I’m all right. Why couldn’t you walk in yourself? Oh, Charles, of course. The Mouse Alarm?’
‘The revolting noise,’ said Charles, ‘that this former matinee idol in his dotage chooses to inflict on human beings because he is frightened of mice. I couldn’t get into the room. I couldn’t get anyone else to come in and tell you to switch the bloody thing off. All I know is that someone tried to kill Ruth in the Dome. What’s been happening?’
‘Dear Charles,’ said Maurice. ‘Matinée idol I may have been, but I don’t recall ever being reduced to using the word bloody three times in six sentences, even in someone else’s feeblest dialogue. If the noise offends you, why are you here entertaining us now?’
‘Because it’s stopped,’ said Charles. ‘It stopped this moment. Ruth? What happened?’
Maurice sat up. ‘You’ve wrecked my Mouse Alarm,’ he said to Johnson.
But Johnson, rising, was leading Charles gently to a seat beside me. ‘I’ve wrecked his Mouse Alarm,’ he said kindly. ‘It’s a long, long story and Ruth and Jacko will tell it. In the meantime—’
The telephone rang and Maurice snatched it up pettishly. He said, ‘ Pronto ?’ and then held it out at arm’s length toward Johnson. ‘I wish,’ he said, ‘that you would ask your friends not to telephone before lunchtime. It spoils my appetite.’
‘For what?’ said Charles dulcetly. The urbanity, I was sorry to see, was making a comeback. Johnson, on the telephone, was saying, ‘Oh? Where? No, but I’ll remember. What number? Right. Thank you.’ He listened for a few moments longer and then said goodbye and hung up. We all looked at him.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
‘You’re going ?’ said Maurice.
‘It was the Pope,’ suggested Jacko.
‘Actually,’ Johnson said, ‘it was a man who knows a man who had his photograph taken recently.’
He wasn’t looking at anybody, but I got up and walked over to him. ‘Mr Paladrini? You’ve got Mr Paladrini’s address? Charles, the man who sold the balloons at the zoo. We’re going to find him.’
‘Why?’ said Maurice’s voice baldly behind us. ‘If, of course, one may ask.’
It was a little difficult to recall why. I stared at Johnson and Johnson said cheerfully. ‘Because there was a message in the balloon Ruth received making a rendezvous of some kind at the Fall Fair. She got it clearly by accident, and didn’t even realize until later what it was. At any rate, we went to the Fall Fair and recognized the balloon trader in superior guise taking part in it. We chased him, and he ran away from us.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Maurice huffily. ‘And for no other reason you are going to call on this gentleman?’
‘Well, for one other reason,’ Johnson
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