The Tropical Issue by Dorothy Dunnett Page B

I turned round.
    I’d forgotten why I was in the VIP lounge in the first place. I was so busy saving Kim-Jim that I’d forgotten Kim-Jim would be here.
    I was terrified for him. I was so glad to see him.
    Kim-Jim Curtis was no Adler; just pleasant-looking. He was tall, the way all my friends seem to be beanstalks, and had what was once roaring red hair, and light eyelashes, and blue, crinkly eyes with granny glasses in front of them.
    He was fifty-two. And I don’t know what he saw in a dwarf with punk hair and hockey legs.
    Or I’m lying: I do. We shared a trade. We understood one another. And though we’d kept in touch, in close touch since the film we made, we’d never met again until now.
    And it was the same, which was great.
    I turned round and this guy was smiling down at me, smelling of cigarette smoke and airport biscuits and looking like an American out on vacation, as he always did, in his sharp doeskin blazer, and the fingernail specs, and this Japanese camera round his neck.
    Kim-Jim always carried a camera. And usually, a miniature tape. Everything Kim-Jim did was recorded and registered, ready for use when next wanted. He was the best secretary Natalie Sheridan had ever had.
    He lifted the brim of my hat, looked at my cheek, kissed it, and settled my hat back again. ‘No stripes,’ he said. He left his hand on my shoulder. We grinned at one another.
    Ferdy said, ‘I told you. She’s in mourning. Listen. We’ve got the hell of a problem . . .’
    I thought we were the only VIPs in the airport’s VIP room.
    We weren’t. Before Ferdy could get a chance to mention that the Demon Banana was still on the premises, this voice dropped in from behind him.
    It said, ‘Miss Geddes will solve it. Give her a dozen eggs, two bottles of vodka and a piano, and Miss Geddes will solve all your problems, and throw in a gland cocktail now and then for your endocrines. Good afternoon, Miss Geddes.’
    I knew before I turned, and before I saw the bifocal glasses.
    I remembered the wheelchair at the Lisbon plane.
    I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know why. But it was, of course, the Owner.

 
     
Chapter 7
    Ferdy’s pal Johnson Johnson stood by the hospitality table sportingly provided by the Madeira airport authorities.
    He had a glass in one hand, and appeared to be freestanding, although there was a walking stick propped in the neighbourhood.
    He was not, as last seen, wearing pyjamas, but got much the same effect with a pair of check trousers and an oatmeal sweater in a struggling cablestitch.
    I had seen the pattern, done right, in the Personality Knitting Quarterly. I could swear to it.
    The black floppy hair was the same, and the tight black eyebrows over a pair of bifocals girdered together like church toilet windows.
    The bashed nose and lipless mouth were so ordinary that there would be nothing to see if you took his glasses off. Except, of course, for a lot of bad temper.
    He had made a few strides, considering. His base colour had moved from Sallow nearly up to Pale Caucasian Man. The shark conversation hadn’t altered.
    Kim-Jim took his hand off my shoulder and said, ‘You know Mr Johnson? He was on my flight from Lisbon. I was going to introduce you.’
    ‘From Lisbon ?’ I said.
    Ferdy’s pal Johnson Johnson had put down his glass and was fingering bottles and watching me. ‘We found ourselves sitting together. Vodka?’ he said. ‘Still? Or chloride?’
    ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ Ferdy said. ‘If she doesn’t want a vodka, I do. You didn’t tell me you were coming over. What were you doing in Portugal? Wearing that pullover? I bet they’ve bloody deported you.’
    ‘ Dolly’s been here for weeks,’ Johnson said. ‘Had her papers to fix on the way. Sorry, Miss Geddes. Didn’t have time to tell Mr Curtis I knew you. Didn’t realise you were his Rita until the end of the flight. You like Madeira?’
    ‘Dolly?’ I said. Somewhere, I’d heard that name before.
    The glasses flashed.