Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [56]
“Hullo.”
She tipped her head a fraction, and asked, “Do you have an English accent now?”
“Didn't I before?”
“I suppose you did, and I'd forgotten. You live in England, then? So what are you doing here?”
“She's touring the world,” Mrs Greenfield broke in. “I opened the paper this morning to the society page and what should jump out at me from under the ‘gossip from hotel lobbies' section but the name Miss Mary Russell, and I just knew it had to be her, had to be. So I had Jeeves send for a car and went right down to welcome her home. We've just had breakfast, although we'd have waited if I'd known you were on your way.”
Flo grimaced, making me suspect that there might be a link between the red of her eyes and her lack of enthusiasm over Mrs La Tour's cooking. “Thanks but no thanks,” she said. “So, Mary—shall I call you Mary?”
“Of course.”
“What are you doing in the City?”
“There's some business to take care of here; my father's holdings need attention. As I was sailing the Pacific, it was easy enough to stop here for a few days.”
“But is that all?” Mrs Greenfield cried. “You must stay longer and see your old friends. Flo, tell her she must stay on.”
“I'd be happy to show you something of the night life, such as it is,” Flo drawled, and stifled a yawn.
“Oh, what a good idea!” exclaimed her mother. “I was going to invite some of her mother's friends over for a morning tea and perhaps treat her to a night at the theatre, but you young things might have a better time dancing and having fun.”
Neither jazz-dancing nor provincial theatre was high on my list of passions, particularly while inhabiting a skull that still gave twinges of protest at the previous day's crack on the pavement, but it was difficult to say so in the face of the mother's enthusiasm. Or of the daughter's flagging attention. Flo yawned again hugely, not bothering to pardon herself, then stood up to grind her cigarette out in an ash-tray.
“There's a party on for tomorrow night that doesn't sound too frightful. Shall we pick you up at nine, then?” she asked me. “That's early, I know, but we could have a bite to eat first.”
Nine o'clock as the opening hour of a night's adventures sounded ominous, but I was trapped for the moment. Well, I thought, I could always telephone to the house and say I had developed a sudden rash from oysters or something. “That would be grand,” I told her.
She merely nodded, and directed her steps towards the door-way, already half asleep on her feet.
Mrs Greenfield shot me an apologetic smile. “She's a good girl, just going through a silly phase. She worked so hard with the decorator, when it was finished she was at something of a loss what to do. Blowing off steam, you know?”
I nodded to say I knew, although it seemed to me the girl might find a manner of release less destructive to both body and possessions. But Flo's involvement in the renovations wrought on the house did explain the style better than if Mrs Greenfield had been supervising them. And I thought that, once a person got used to the vigorous style, there was an appeal in Deco. In small doses, preferably.
Flo's departure gave an excuse for my own, although it took many promises and an acceptance of the Greenfield telephone number to free me from the establishment. Mrs Greenfield told Jeeves to have the motor brought up, but I countermanded the order.
“No, really, I'd rather walk a bit. It's a lovely morning, and I could use the exercise.”
“Oh, you young girls,” she gushed, “it's all faddishness with you, isn't it? Exercise and education—why, next thing you'll be running for public office and joining the Army!”
The descending seven notes of her laugh followed me down the steps to the drive.
Running for office; what a mad idea.
I suppose Mrs Greenfield thought I was strolling the five streets over to my house, but in fact, I had an appointment with Mr Norbert and two managers at ten o'clock. I stood at the gates to the house, searching up and down the street for waiting figures. I had more or less decided that whoever took a shot at me had