Grasping a crystal decanter from a silver-plate tray, he removed the stopper with a practised flick.
"Old boy. Have a drop of this. You're barking up the wrong tree, I'm afraid. Nothing to do with us. Or you. What makes you think you were her only confidant? She probably told her fifteen best friends. You know the old saying: Two people can keep a secret provided one of 'em's dead? This is Cairo. A secret's what everyone knows except you."
Mrs. Ogilvey chose the same moment to enter with her pot of tea. "He may just think he's better with this, darling," she said in a voice pregnant with discretion. "Brandy does odd things to one, when one's het up."
"Actions have consequences, old boy," Ogilvey said, handing him a glass. "First lesson in life."
A crippled man was limping between the tables of the restaurant on his way to the lavatory. He had two walking sticks and was assisted by a young woman. His rhythm discomforted the diners, and nobody was able to go on eating until he was safely out of sight.
"So that night our chum arrived was pretty much all you saw of him, then," Burr suggested, shifting the topic of conversation to Roper's stay at Meister's.
"Apart from good morning and good evening, yes. Quayle said don't press my luck, so I didn't."
"But you did have one more casual conversation with him before he left."
"Roper asked me if I skied. I said yes. He said where. I said Miirren. He asked me how the snow was this year. I said good. He said, 'Pity we haven't got time to pop up there for a few days; my lady's dying to have a shot at it.' End of conversation."
"She was there too, then--his girl--Jemima? Jed?"
Jonathan affects to search his memory while he secretly celebrates her unfurrowed gaze on him. Are you frightfully good at it, Mr. Pine?
"I think he called her Jeds. Plural."
"He's got names for everyone. It's his way of buying them."
It must be absolutely gorgeous, she says, with a smile that would melt the Eiger.
"She's quite a looker, they say," said Burr.
"If you like the type."
"I like all types. What type's she?"
Jonathan acted world-weary. "Oh, I don't know. Good spread of O-levels... floppy black hats... the millionaire urchin look.... Who is she, anyway?"
Burr seemed not to know, or not to care. "Some upper-class geisha, convent school, rides to hounds. Anyway, you got along with him. He won't forget you."
"He doesn't forget anyone. He had all the waiters' names off pat."
"It isn't everyone he asks for their opinion on Italian sculpture, though, is it? I found that rather encouraging." Encouraging to whom or why, Burr did not explain, and Jonathan was not disposed to ask. "He still bought it, though. The man or woman wasn't born yet who could head off the Roper from buying something he fancies." He consoled himself with a large mouthful of veal. "And thanks," he continued. "Thanks for all the hard work. There's some choice observation in those reports of yours to Quayle I've not seen bettered anywhere. Your left-handed gunman, time-piece on the right wrist, changes his knife and fork over when he tucks into his food--I mean, that's classic, that is."
"Francis Inglis," Jonathan recited. "Physical-training instructor from Perth, Australia."
"His name's not Inglis, and he doesn't come from Perth. He's a British ex-mercenary, is Frisky, and there's a price on his nasty little head. It was him taught Idi Amin's lads how to extract voluntary confessions with the aid of an electric cattle prod. Our chum likes them English, and he likes them with a dirty past. He doesn't fancy people he doesn't own," he added as he carefully sliced his roll down the middle and spread butter on it. "Here, then," he went on, jabbing his knife in Jonathan's direction. "How come you got the names of his visitors, with you only working nights?"
"Anyone proposing to go up to the Tower Suite these days has to sign in."
"And hanging around the lobby of an evening?"
"Herr Meister expects it of me. I hang around, I ask
"Old boy. Have a drop of this. You're barking up the wrong tree, I'm afraid. Nothing to do with us. Or you. What makes you think you were her only confidant? She probably told her fifteen best friends. You know the old saying: Two people can keep a secret provided one of 'em's dead? This is Cairo. A secret's what everyone knows except you."
Mrs. Ogilvey chose the same moment to enter with her pot of tea. "He may just think he's better with this, darling," she said in a voice pregnant with discretion. "Brandy does odd things to one, when one's het up."
"Actions have consequences, old boy," Ogilvey said, handing him a glass. "First lesson in life."
A crippled man was limping between the tables of the restaurant on his way to the lavatory. He had two walking sticks and was assisted by a young woman. His rhythm discomforted the diners, and nobody was able to go on eating until he was safely out of sight.
"So that night our chum arrived was pretty much all you saw of him, then," Burr suggested, shifting the topic of conversation to Roper's stay at Meister's.
"Apart from good morning and good evening, yes. Quayle said don't press my luck, so I didn't."
"But you did have one more casual conversation with him before he left."
"Roper asked me if I skied. I said yes. He said where. I said Miirren. He asked me how the snow was this year. I said good. He said, 'Pity we haven't got time to pop up there for a few days; my lady's dying to have a shot at it.' End of conversation."
"She was there too, then--his girl--Jemima? Jed?"
Jonathan affects to search his memory while he secretly celebrates her unfurrowed gaze on him. Are you frightfully good at it, Mr. Pine?
"I think he called her Jeds. Plural."
"He's got names for everyone. It's his way of buying them."
It must be absolutely gorgeous, she says, with a smile that would melt the Eiger.
"She's quite a looker, they say," said Burr.
"If you like the type."
"I like all types. What type's she?"
Jonathan acted world-weary. "Oh, I don't know. Good spread of O-levels... floppy black hats... the millionaire urchin look.... Who is she, anyway?"
Burr seemed not to know, or not to care. "Some upper-class geisha, convent school, rides to hounds. Anyway, you got along with him. He won't forget you."
"He doesn't forget anyone. He had all the waiters' names off pat."
"It isn't everyone he asks for their opinion on Italian sculpture, though, is it? I found that rather encouraging." Encouraging to whom or why, Burr did not explain, and Jonathan was not disposed to ask. "He still bought it, though. The man or woman wasn't born yet who could head off the Roper from buying something he fancies." He consoled himself with a large mouthful of veal. "And thanks," he continued. "Thanks for all the hard work. There's some choice observation in those reports of yours to Quayle I've not seen bettered anywhere. Your left-handed gunman, time-piece on the right wrist, changes his knife and fork over when he tucks into his food--I mean, that's classic, that is."
"Francis Inglis," Jonathan recited. "Physical-training instructor from Perth, Australia."
"His name's not Inglis, and he doesn't come from Perth. He's a British ex-mercenary, is Frisky, and there's a price on his nasty little head. It was him taught Idi Amin's lads how to extract voluntary confessions with the aid of an electric cattle prod. Our chum likes them English, and he likes them with a dirty past. He doesn't fancy people he doesn't own," he added as he carefully sliced his roll down the middle and spread butter on it. "Here, then," he went on, jabbing his knife in Jonathan's direction. "How come you got the names of his visitors, with you only working nights?"
"Anyone proposing to go up to the Tower Suite these days has to sign in."
"And hanging around the lobby of an evening?"
"Herr Meister expects it of me. I hang around, I ask
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