by Desmond Cory
“In his own line, I quite agree.”
There was a short silence. Then the V.I.P. uncrossed his legs, meticulously adjusted his trouser-cuffs, saying, “How are you so sure something’s in the offing? People do retire normally, y’know, and take up market-gardening in Chipping Sodbury. It’s been known to happen, anyway.”
“There’s a lot more to his story than meets the eye, especially with regard to the goings-on at Weill’s flat. Whatever it is, the girl’s in it somewhere.”
“Girl? Woman called Kane, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, no. Davida Kane, you mean. Definitely a back number. She became Davida Dewes several months ago, and Johnny danced at the wedding. Most improper, but the sort of thing he would do… No, this is a French bit he’s taken up with. Name of Marie-Andrée Duveyrier. A nice kid, but rather given to trifling with the truth.”
“Oh, yes? In what way?”
“Well, she swears Johnny found his own way to the flat after the combustion. Johnny agrees with that, but the doctor tells me that after the big bang he wouldn’t know if he was on his head or his heels… On the other hand, spectators swear there were two people dodging about on the roof. And one of the broken rafters there had a bit of silk stocking stuck to it; escaped burning by some miracle. I noticed the young lady had cut her leg pretty recently.”
“Funny,” said the V.I.P. tonelessly.
“Uproarious… Well, I’ve got my own ideas. But I won’t air them in case I’m quite, quite wrong.”
The V.I.P. stood up and took from the desk his trilby hat, a pair of lemon-coloured gloves and an umbrella. “All right, Peter; I’ll leave it to you. Keep an eye on him and let me know what happens. If he pops off anywhere, put a couple of good men on to him. No rough stuff, of course; just to let us know what’s afoot, apart from twelve inches.”
“Right. I’ll do that.”
“And give him a pat on the back. If that’s his last job for us, it was still a good one. The Hamper specifications are going through next week.”
“Good,” said Holliday. “The way things are going out Joe’s way, we’re going to need those jets.”
“You’ve done a wonderful job here,” said the editor.
His eyes wandered benignly down the long galley-proofs on the desk before him. “One of the best stories we’ve had in years. Only hope they’ll let us print it.”
“I don’t see why not,” said Marie-Andrée.
“No; nor do I, to be frank. How is Monsieur Fedora, by the way?”
Marie-Andrée dimpled. “He seemed fine when I left him just now.”
“Good – very good. Captain Gervais is fully recovered, of course. I managed to snap up the sole rights of his story, on your recommendation. If we serialise it, we should increase our sales enormously over a considerable period. Oh, I’m delighted with your work, m’selle – quite delighted.”
“I’m so glad. It’s rather out of my usual line. I was hoping I’d covered the angles correctly.”
“Yes – there’s another thing. Never mind the angles, young lady; what have you been covering your curves with?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“This photograph here. That sports-jacket affair you’re wearing – now that’s caused a minor sensation. The Fashion Department’s been swamped with questions about it; caused a regular furore. Who designed the outfit?”
“I suppose I did.”
“You did? Remarkable! Why, the fashion houses will be on to it like a shot. You’ll make a fortune, quite apart from the bonus – the handsome bonus – which the Board of Directors considered you should receive.”
“But how wonderful. It’s extremely kind of you.”
“Not at all,” said the editor. “By no means. And now, what have you in mind? After your arduous experiences, I expect you’d like a short holiday.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I’m retiring.”
“Retiring?”
“Yes,” said Marie-Andrée. “I’m getting old. Time I settled down.”
“Good heavens… You surprise me. I thought –”
Johnny, sound asleep in the hospital, was awakened by the nurse. “Time,” she explained, “to take your temperature.”
“Oh, yes,” said Johnny, accepting the thermometer obediently.
The nurse took his wrist firmly between her fingers and measured his pulse, deducting ten beats to allow for her personality. Satisfied, she replaced it and eyed her patient severely.
“There was a telephone message for you,” she said. “Came in a few minutes ago.”
“Gurgle –?”
“Yes. From a Mademoiselle Duveyrier.” The nurse whipped away the thermometer, examined it and flourished it through the air triumphantly.
“Yes, what did it say?”
“Oh, you’re perfectly normal. No need to worry.”
“Oh, no; I meant the message.”
“Oh, that,” said the nurse, with distaste. “She just said: ‘Darling, we’re rich.’ That’s all.”
Johnny snuggled down into the sheets again.
“Dummkopf,” he said contentedly.
Photograph of Desmond Cory
The author as he looked at the time when composing ‘This Traitor, Death’. Photograph taken during his undergraduate days at St Peter’s College, Oxford, circa 1950.
Other books available in Kindle:
SECRET MINISTRY: Johnny Fedora’s first assignment. Visit the Kindle store to download your copy now.
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