Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [7]
He should have had the man shot when he’d had the chance.
He stirred in his seat, checked his watch and considered his options. Did he have time to negotiate the lengths of corridor chock-a-block with latecomers on a dash over to the box opposite? And what would he say when he arrived there with the performance about to start? He pictured himself crashing into the box, breathless, perspiring, and in the grip of a Quixotic urge. A ridiculous figure. He had no authority, civilian or military, over Somerton . . . he would have to appeal to the girl directly. But how would he find the words to warn her? There’d be accusations followed by argument, protests, denials. Your remarks are slanderous! I’ll see you in court, Jardine! And – heaven forbid! – suppose the girl turned out to be something entirely innocent such as . . . his niece? George watched surreptitiously as Somerton leaned close and whispered something in her ear, lifting his head slowly and trailing his pomaded moustache lingeringly over her cheek. Almost retching with disgust, George concluded this was no niece.
He pressed down on his arm rests and the chair wobbled under him as he prepared to take action. A moment later he sank back in frustration. He never embarked on any course unless his strategy was clear, his tactics well worked out, the outcome predictable and in his favour; the reason he’d survived for so many years when others had not. And he was not about to abandon the careful habits of a professional lifetime on account of a stab of juvenile sympathy. George could foresee the result of any irruption of his into the box opposite. At the best, he’d be ejected by a hurriedly summoned bouncer; at the worst, he’d be trapped over there with the pair of them until the interval.
His conflict was cut short by an arresting fanfare of notes on a trumpet followed at once by a blaring blue jazz riff from the orchestra pit. He was aware of a simultaneous dimming of the electric house lights. The blonde girl across the way opened her mouth in anticipation and wriggled forward in her seat with the eagerness of a six-year-old at a pantomime. George sighed and came to a decision. In the seconds before the light faded, he did what he could. Oblivious of the hush descending on the crowd, he rose to his feet and slipped on his white gloves. He sought out and held the eye of his opposite number.
Imperious, imperial and impressive, over the width of the auditorium, Sir George Jardine delivered a command.
Chapter Two
Abandon target! Withdraw at once!
The soldier’s silent hand language flashed, eerily blue in the dimming house lights, across to the opposite box. Unmistakable to a man who had been a fellow officer. On the Frontier, grappling often in hand-to-hand combat with lethally savage tribesmen, officers had learned from their enemy that in close proximity you communicated in silence as they did or you got your head shot off. Would Somerton remember and respond? Or would the man summon up what vestiges of self-respect he still had, to affect ignorance or rejection of the old code? George calculated that he could not depend on touching any finer feeling, on awakening any sense of regimental pride across the void. No – ugly threat was the only weapon left in his armoury. To emphasize his point, he added a universally recognized gesture. He drew the forefinger of his left hand slowly across his throat. Do as I say or else . . .
At that, Somerton threw back his head and laughed. Shaking with amusement and hardly able to keep his hands steady, in the moment before the last light went out, he returned the signal: Message received and understood.
Bloody French audiences! George remembered they always took their time settling. But the musicians seemed to be well aware of this and mastering the situation. The trumpet solo had silenced most and there now followed, as the last mutterings faded, the last shuffling subsided, a clarinet performance which stunned George with its fluency. Not his style of