17

‘What on earth do you suppose has happened to that blasted woman?’ demanded Miles. ‘Damnation! I’m absolutely certain she’s never going to turn up at all.’

‘Give her a chance, old lad,’ I tried to placate him. ‘After all it’s hardly past ten p.m.’

‘It’s all your fault,’ returned Miles shortly.

‘My fault?’

‘Yes, you’ve told her the wrong date, time, hotel, and seaside resort, I shouldn’t wonder. You always were absolutely hopeless trying to organize anything, even the jam cupboard at school.’

‘That’s a bit hard, I must say! I’ve gone to all this ruddy trouble, just because you want to kick out Connie like a cold hot-water bottle. And I’ve still got to tell Anemone and Dame Hilda no end of fibs on Monday about you and your wife taking over their room for the night. Not to mention what I shall say when the sordid truth comes out in the divorce court. ‘Except that,’ I reflected,’ I shall, of course, be nicely married by then.’

Miles continued to pace angrily up and down our bedroom in the Surfview Hotel.

The Surfview at Whortleton, like the pier and the railway, had been built for the pleasure of our Victorian ancestors, when they decided there was nothing like sea air to cure everything from the green sickness to the galloping scrofula – and, poor chaps, they hadn’t much else to try with. Life at Whortleton had centred mainly round the lobster pots until these ancestors started trundling up and down the beach in their bathing machines, exclaiming that nothing was quite so healthy as the tang of the ozone, though actually it’s only the smell of rotting seaweed and the local sewage. The management of the Surfview, having hit on just the right decor to keep the ancestors happy between dips, hadn’t seen much reason to change it since, and our room contained a couple of beds with brass knobs, a wardrobe hefty enough to resist armour-piercing shells, a curly stand for your hats and umbrellas, a picture of a stag rather puzzled to find itself on a mountain peak, and a framed notice explaining that if anyone swiped your valuables while in residence it was jolly well your own fault.

‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Miles, kicking the commode. ‘I’m somewhat worked up, that’s all. You can hardly blame me.’

‘Perfectly understandable,’ I agreed sportingly. ‘Let’s go straight down and have another recce for Dolores. Besides,’ I remembered, ‘we’ve got to organize those kippers. There’d be no point in the outing at all if the three of us found ourselves picking the bones out of our teeth downstairs in the dining-room.’

‘You go.’ Miles reached for his briefcase. ‘I have some essential lecture notes to prepare. Don’t forget I start again at St Swithin’s on Monday morning.’

‘You might also have a dummy run at your compromising position,’ I suggested. ‘You could practise on the hat stand.’

Miles raised his eyebrows. ‘I shall be observed with my jacket off. I presume that will be enough?’

‘Well – I’d throw in your collar and shoes for good measure.’

As Miles only grunted I went down to the hall and looked hopefully for Dolores among the palms. There was no one in sight at all, except a thin, grey-haired, solemn looking chap in library glasses picking his teeth behind a desk at the door, whom I gathered was the night porter.

‘I suppose there are still plenty of trains from London?’ I asked him, strolling up in a casual way.

‘Last one arrives on Saturday at ten-ten, sir. Except for the three o’clock, of course.’

‘Oh.’ I looked at my watch. ‘I expect Mrs Grimsdyke will arrive on that ten-ten. Perhaps you would kindly show her up to Mr Miles Grimsdyke’s room, number six?

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘Now, about breakfast.’

‘Ah, yes, sir.’

The porter gravely opened his book.

‘Kippers for one, for me, in number ten. Double kippers for Mr Miles Grimsdyke and this ruddy – Mrs Grimsdyke, in number six.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Good lord–’ I felt a wave of alarm. ‘The waiter will actually bring the kippers in, won’t he? I mean, he won’t just leave them on the mat? That is, you follow me they might get cold, mightn’t they? And there’s nothing nastier than a cold kipper, is there?

‘If you would prefer, sir, I shall serve the breakfasts myself.’

‘Would you?’ I took a good look at the chap. ‘Yes, I think that would be just the ticket. I suppose,’ I added, very cunningly, ‘you wear glasses only for reading?’

‘Yes, sir. The doctor tells me I suffer from a degree of myopia, sir.’

‘Excellent! Long sight perfect, I take it? And I expect you’re an observant sort of chap – I mean, in a hotel, with things going on all round, you have to be, don’t you?’

‘My hobby in the afternoons is bird watching, sir.’

‘That’s absolutely capital. And you must have a pretty sharp memory for faces?’

‘That is essential in my job, sir.’

‘I thought so. Good. Well. Perhaps you’ll see that Mr Miles Grimsdyke has a good breakfast tomorrow morning?’ I slipped the chap a quid. ‘Extremely keen on his breakfast, Mr Miles Grimsdyke.’

‘That is very kind of you, sir. You are one of Lynx’s new men, I take it, sir?’

‘One of – one of what?’

‘The Lynx Detective Agency, sir. They generally use us. I said to the manager only the other day, sir,’ he added with a fatherly smile, ‘we might as well put their sign outside along with the A.A. and R.A.C., sir.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

I stared at him indignantly, though taking my hat off to the chap for rumbling my little scheme.

‘Oh, come, sir.’ The porter gave another paternal smirk. ‘Honeymoons and divorces, you can spot them a mile off. Not that we get anything like the divorce trade we used to, sir. I remember the days – it’s long ago now – when some weekends you couldn’t get in the Snuggery Bar for detectives. They don’t seem to go in for that style of divorce any more, sir. Different class of people taken it up, I suppose. You see it everywhere. Times change. Mind you, I like to see a divorce done proper, with dignity. If I had my way there’d be a little ceremony in the Court, with the judge passing back the bride to her father and the detective at the husband’s side to pocket the ring–’

‘All right,’ I interrupted. ‘I might as well be perfectly frank and confess what we’re up to. But if the blasted co-respondent doesn’t turn up we’ll just have to scratch the fixture and arrange a replay later, won’t we?’

‘Don’t lose heart, sir. There’s still time yet, and some of these ladies are extremely busy in the evenings, sir.’

I pottered round the lounge, looking at my watch. I turned over the magazines and stared at those booklets putting overseas holidaymakers right about Britain, all timbered inns and groaning boards and jolly landlords quaffing it round the dear old stocks. But by ten-thirty I began to feel dully that Dolores was definitely a non-runner.

‘I’m going to have a mooch round outside,’ I told the porter. ‘If a skinny brunette called Dolores shows up, deliver her to number six, with my compliments.’

Being Saturday, the nightlife of Whortleton was reaching its weekly climax. The therapeutic charms of the place had now been rather ousted by other attractions, and all round were establishments dripping with fairy lights providing everything necessary for a happy seaside holiday – rock, fish teas, funny hats, rude postcards, jellied eels, dodgems, insecticides, and palmists. I wandered among the crowds on the prom, and buying a bag of shrimps absently peeled a few leaning against the rail. I felt like Napoleon when the guards cut and ran at Waterloo. All that trouble and nothing to show for it, I reflected moodily, except Miles’ enjoying an extra kipper for his breakfast.

‘Damn Dolores,’ I muttered into the shrimps. ‘I should have known better than bank on one of Basil’s ruddy camp followers.’

I turned to stare out to sea for inspiration.

‘By jove – !’

The end of the pier announced in coloured lights:

 

THE WHORTLETON PIERROTS

SPECIAL ATTRACTION

THIS WEEK – FAMOUS TV STARS

THE JELLYBONE SISTERS

 

Five minutes later I was in Gertie’s dressing-room.

‘Why, hello, Doctor!’ she exclaimed, putting down her Guinness. ‘This is a surprise, and no mistake.’

‘Gertrude,’ I said earnestly, without wasting time. ‘I have a rather peculiar request to make of you.’