quietness.
‘Why
don’t you get out while you can? Get back to Canada,’ said a girl. — ‘We’ll be
seeing you in the courtroom,’ said another. Some joked as they left, some
overturned chairs as they went. From everywhere came the last-minute flashes of
the cameras recording the policeman, the overturned chairs, and recording
Harvey standing in the middle of it, an image to be reproduced in one of next
morning’s papers under the title, ‘Don’t Wake the Baby’. But at last they had
gone. The wiry red-faced woman said sadly to Harvey as she passed him, ‘I’m
afraid you’ll get a very bad press.’
The
policeman followed them out and chivied them down the drive from his car.
Before he shut the door Harvey noticed something new in the light cast from the
hall: a washing-line had been slung well in evidence of the front portico.
Anne-Marie had just finished taking baby clothes from it, had evidently been
photographed doing so. She came towards him.
‘Not
very convincing,’ Harvey said. ‘Nobody hangs washing within sight of the
approach to a château.’
‘Nobody
used to,’ Anne-Marie said. ‘They do now. We, for example, are doing it. Nobody
will find it in the least suspect.’
‘Didn’t she tell you the
hotel where she was going to in Paris?’ Harvey said.
‘Not
me,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘I think she’ll ring you if she said she would. In any
case, the inspector is sure to know where she’s staying.’
It was
nine-thirty, and Anne-Marie was leaving for the night, anxious about being
extraordinarily late in returning home; she lived several miles away. A car
driven by a plain-clothes policeman was waiting at the door. She hurried away,
banged the car door, and was off.
Stewart
Cowper had arrived about an hour before, full of travel-exasperation and
police-harassment; he had been frisked and questioned at the entrance to the
house; he had been travelling most of the day and he was cold. At present he
was having a shower.
Harvey
and Anne-Marie had together put the living room to rights. Ruth had not yet
rung him from Paris as she had promised. Where was she? Harvey then noticed
something new in the room, a large bowl of early spring flowers, professionally
arranged, beautiful. Irises, jonquils, lilies, daffodils; all too advanced to
be local products; they must have come from an expensive shop in Nancy.
Anne-Marie must have put them there at some time between the clearing up of the
mess and her leaving, but Harvey hadn’t noticed them. They stood on a low round
table, practically covering it as the outward leaves of the arrangement bent
gracefully over the edge of the bowl. Harvey hadn’t noticed them, either, while
he was sitting having a drink with Stewart, trying to calm him down, nor while
Anne-Marie, anxious about the time, laid out a cold supper that was still
sitting on the small dining-table, waiting for Stewart to wash and change.
Where did those flowers come from? Who brought them, who sent them? Anne-Marie
hadn’t left the house. And why should she order flowers?
Stewart
came in and went to get himself another drink. He was a man of medium height,
in his mid-forties with a school-boy’s round face and round blue eyes; but this
immature look was counteracted by a deep and expressive quality in his voice,
so that as soon as he spoke the total effect was of a certain maturity and
intelligence, cancelling that silly round-eyed look.
‘Did
you bring these flowers?’ said Harvey.
‘Did I
bring what?’
‘These
flowers — I don’t know where they’ve come from. The maid — and by the way
she’s a policewoman — must have put them there some time this evening. But why?’
Stewart
brought his drink to the sofa and sat sipping it.
Harvey’s
mind was working fast, and faster. ‘I think I know why they’re there. Have you
ever heard of a vase of flowers being bugged?’
‘Rather
an obvious way to plant a bug if the flowers weren’t there already,’
‘Why
don’t you get out while you can? Get back to Canada,’ said a girl. — ‘We’ll be
seeing you in the courtroom,’ said another. Some joked as they left, some
overturned chairs as they went. From everywhere came the last-minute flashes of
the cameras recording the policeman, the overturned chairs, and recording
Harvey standing in the middle of it, an image to be reproduced in one of next
morning’s papers under the title, ‘Don’t Wake the Baby’. But at last they had
gone. The wiry red-faced woman said sadly to Harvey as she passed him, ‘I’m
afraid you’ll get a very bad press.’
The
policeman followed them out and chivied them down the drive from his car.
Before he shut the door Harvey noticed something new in the light cast from the
hall: a washing-line had been slung well in evidence of the front portico.
Anne-Marie had just finished taking baby clothes from it, had evidently been
photographed doing so. She came towards him.
‘Not
very convincing,’ Harvey said. ‘Nobody hangs washing within sight of the
approach to a château.’
‘Nobody
used to,’ Anne-Marie said. ‘They do now. We, for example, are doing it. Nobody
will find it in the least suspect.’
‘Didn’t she tell you the
hotel where she was going to in Paris?’ Harvey said.
‘Not
me,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘I think she’ll ring you if she said she would. In any
case, the inspector is sure to know where she’s staying.’
It was
nine-thirty, and Anne-Marie was leaving for the night, anxious about being
extraordinarily late in returning home; she lived several miles away. A car
driven by a plain-clothes policeman was waiting at the door. She hurried away,
banged the car door, and was off.
Stewart
Cowper had arrived about an hour before, full of travel-exasperation and
police-harassment; he had been frisked and questioned at the entrance to the
house; he had been travelling most of the day and he was cold. At present he
was having a shower.
Harvey
and Anne-Marie had together put the living room to rights. Ruth had not yet
rung him from Paris as she had promised. Where was she? Harvey then noticed
something new in the room, a large bowl of early spring flowers, professionally
arranged, beautiful. Irises, jonquils, lilies, daffodils; all too advanced to
be local products; they must have come from an expensive shop in Nancy.
Anne-Marie must have put them there at some time between the clearing up of the
mess and her leaving, but Harvey hadn’t noticed them. They stood on a low round
table, practically covering it as the outward leaves of the arrangement bent
gracefully over the edge of the bowl. Harvey hadn’t noticed them, either, while
he was sitting having a drink with Stewart, trying to calm him down, nor while
Anne-Marie, anxious about the time, laid out a cold supper that was still
sitting on the small dining-table, waiting for Stewart to wash and change.
Where did those flowers come from? Who brought them, who sent them? Anne-Marie
hadn’t left the house. And why should she order flowers?
Stewart
came in and went to get himself another drink. He was a man of medium height,
in his mid-forties with a school-boy’s round face and round blue eyes; but this
immature look was counteracted by a deep and expressive quality in his voice,
so that as soon as he spoke the total effect was of a certain maturity and
intelligence, cancelling that silly round-eyed look.
‘Did
you bring these flowers?’ said Harvey.
‘Did I
bring what?’
‘These
flowers — I don’t know where they’ve come from. The maid — and by the way
she’s a policewoman — must have put them there some time this evening. But why?’
Stewart
brought his drink to the sofa and sat sipping it.
Harvey’s
mind was working fast, and faster. ‘I think I know why they’re there. Have you
ever heard of a vase of flowers being bugged?’
‘Rather
an obvious way to plant a bug if the flowers weren’t there already,’
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