Touch and Go by Patricia Wentworth

tongue as though it were a sweet whose flavour he disliked.
    â€œNice—nice! Oh, mon dieu , what a word! A nice cup of tea—a nice day—a nice girl—a nice dance—a nice dinner! Oh la la! But now, Sarah, tell me—that Mr. Brown over there who makes his court to the old lady, who is he? Is he a friend of the family?”
    â€œHe’s a client of Mr. Hildred’s. He has come down here to sketch.”
    â€œDoes one sketch in the middle of the night?” said Bertrand.
    â€œWhat do you mean, Ran?”
    They were sitting in the broad window-seat, half turned towards the sunny garden. Their heads were close together and their voices low. Sarah’s breath came a little more quickly.
    â€œRan, what do you mean?”
    â€œWell, he intrigues me, that one. But you have not answered what I asked you—is he the old friend of the family?”
    â€œNo, I told you he wasn’t. Mr. Hildred is a solicitor, and he’s just one of his clients.”
    Bertrand nodded.
    â€œVery well then, he intrigues me very much. He also has a room at my Cow and Bush, you understand.”
    Sarah raised her eyebrows.
    â€œ Your Cow and Bush?”
    â€œ Ma foi , yes—since I am living there. If you had not a heart of stone, you would be touched by my devotion. It is not everyone that would stay at a Cow and Bush for you, my angel. Well, j’y suis et j’y reste . And in the next room to mine there is this Mr. Brown. Do you know this Cow and Bush? See—the stair goes up from the hall, and at the top of the stair on the left-hand side there is my room, and on the right-hand side there is his room. The landlord he shuts his door at half-past ten and we all go to bed. We have drunk beer and we sleep. But me, I do not like beer, and so I do not drink it and I do not go to sleep. I read a book, I sit at my window, I put out my light and look at the moon and think about all sorts of things—perhaps I think about you.”
    â€œFiddlesticks!” said Sarah.
    Bertrand looked hurt.
    â€œI find your disposition very hard and unfeminine. I tell you that I think of you alone at midnight, and you say ‘Fiddlesticks!’”
    Sarah laughed again.
    â€œGet along with your story, my child! You’ve nut in the local colour very nicely. Now let’s get down to what happened. I suppose something really did happen?”
    He nodded.
    â€œI sat there, and I thought how much I hated beer and how much I adored you, and the moon went behind a cloud, and perhaps I got a little sleepy. And then all at once I heard something.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI did not know. I looked out of the window. There was a little light, but not very much. I saw someone get out of Mr. Brown’s window and climb down the wall. There is a pear-tree fastened against it, so it is quite easy for anyone to climb up and down. Well, he went down into the garden, and he went away round the house walking like a cat without any sound at all. I do not know what that first sound was—perhaps he knocks something over. But there were no more sounds. I think to myself, perhaps it is a burglar and he has been stealing Mr. Brown’s money, so I go to his room and I knock upon the door. There is no answer. Then I take a candle and I go in, and there is no one there. And then I wonder about this Mr. Brown, and I go to bed and I go to sleep, and I do not know at what time Mr. Brown comes back. That was the first night that I was here. I have been here three nights, and every night this Mr. Brown has climbed out of his window. I find it irregular, even a little—what do you say?—fishy.”
    It was at this moment that Geoffrey Hildred came back into the room.
    â€œA call from my office,” he explained. “I am on holiday, but unfortunately they know where I am. You can’t really get a holiday unless you can get away from the telephone. Marina, my dear, I’m thinking of