statement?’
‘Of course it’s m-my signature!’
‘That surprises me. Just do a specimen underneath.’
His eyes sparkled through his mane, baffled. Then he grabbed a pen from the desk and jerked off a signature. The same, of course, less a margin for nerves. He slammed down the pen in feeble triumph.
‘Now may I go?’
‘For the present.’
He towed his hair out of the office. Dutt, a silent spectator, gave me a wink. I fanned myself with the twice-signed statement.
‘An interesting customer.’
‘Yes, sir. I’d say that ties in our Peter Robinson.’
‘There’s something else.’
‘The signature, sir?’
I shook my head. ‘He’s left-handed.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
L EFT-HANDED; BUT SO is every tenth person, according to a reliable set of statistics; and adding it together, there didn’t seem much ground for placing Bavents on the list of suspects. He might have loved Mimi and loathed Quarles, but that scarcely qualified as a live motive. He had no prospect of stepping into Quarles’ shoes, and without such bait his interest was marginal.
Or did he have a prospect. . .?
I played with the thought, giving it a chance to attract credibility; trying to visualize his hairy highness as a demon lover for whom Mimi would be content to risk her all. But it wouldn’t focus. Mimi was too sophisticated. She had too much emotional poise. She might give him a tumble for the novelty of it, but that would be the summit for Master Bavents. The Quarleses were her taste, suave and tough: men who didn’t know how to stutter. The rest were to run and serve: lackeys and go-betweens: Baventses.
Which didn’t mean I had lost interest in Bavents, who certainly hadn’t told us all he knew; or that it would be unprofitable to probe there a little, seeking out a perhaps-unsuspected conjunction.
I met Frayling in the hall and invited him into the office.
‘How did you come to employ Adam Bavents?’
Frayling flickered me his harassed, ingratiating smile: a promise of satisfaction in exchange for modest patience.
‘He applied for the job. I’m always short of waiters.’
‘How did he know the job was vacant?’
‘Oh, they run an employment section in the students’ magazine. It lists details of jobs going in the vacations.’
‘You knew why he was sent down?’
‘Of course. I asked him. But things like that don’t count much these days. He seemed a decent sort of youngster, and I haven’t had any complaints.’
‘What are his hours?’
‘Seven to eight-thirty. Two afternoons and one evening off.
‘Which evening?’
‘The evening varies.’
‘Which was it last week?’
Frayling wriggled. ‘Friday.’
One conjunction.
‘Would you know if he went out?’
Frayling’s smile became more harassed. ‘I imagine he did, that’s what one would expect. But he might well have been studying in his room.’
‘Where’s his room?’
‘It’s off the back landing. A room we keep free for temporary staff.’
‘How close to Madame Deslauriers’ room?’
Well . . . next-door, I suppose! But a door shuts-off the landing.’
Two conjunctions?
‘Isn’t Bavents Madame’s favourite?’
‘No, really! That’s putting it too strong. He serves at her table, that’s all. Guests tend to adopt their regular waiter.’
‘But something of that sort?’
‘No, I protest. You must have been listening to staff gossip.’
‘Wouldn’t the staff know?’
But Frayling still protested, so I let him go to get on with ushering dinner.
At dinner I had an opportunity of studying Madame and her waiter together. Mimi had one of the best tables, with a view of the river: rather remote from our late-comer’s corner. She sat alone, but this didn’t prevent her from conversing merrily with her nearest neighbours. Bavents came, went, and did his duty: if anything special passed, I failed to notice it. Had Frayling cautioned him? More than likely. But Frayling could scarcely have cautioned Mimi. Mimi must have
‘Of course it’s m-my signature!’
‘That surprises me. Just do a specimen underneath.’
His eyes sparkled through his mane, baffled. Then he grabbed a pen from the desk and jerked off a signature. The same, of course, less a margin for nerves. He slammed down the pen in feeble triumph.
‘Now may I go?’
‘For the present.’
He towed his hair out of the office. Dutt, a silent spectator, gave me a wink. I fanned myself with the twice-signed statement.
‘An interesting customer.’
‘Yes, sir. I’d say that ties in our Peter Robinson.’
‘There’s something else.’
‘The signature, sir?’
I shook my head. ‘He’s left-handed.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
L EFT-HANDED; BUT SO is every tenth person, according to a reliable set of statistics; and adding it together, there didn’t seem much ground for placing Bavents on the list of suspects. He might have loved Mimi and loathed Quarles, but that scarcely qualified as a live motive. He had no prospect of stepping into Quarles’ shoes, and without such bait his interest was marginal.
Or did he have a prospect. . .?
I played with the thought, giving it a chance to attract credibility; trying to visualize his hairy highness as a demon lover for whom Mimi would be content to risk her all. But it wouldn’t focus. Mimi was too sophisticated. She had too much emotional poise. She might give him a tumble for the novelty of it, but that would be the summit for Master Bavents. The Quarleses were her taste, suave and tough: men who didn’t know how to stutter. The rest were to run and serve: lackeys and go-betweens: Baventses.
Which didn’t mean I had lost interest in Bavents, who certainly hadn’t told us all he knew; or that it would be unprofitable to probe there a little, seeking out a perhaps-unsuspected conjunction.
I met Frayling in the hall and invited him into the office.
‘How did you come to employ Adam Bavents?’
Frayling flickered me his harassed, ingratiating smile: a promise of satisfaction in exchange for modest patience.
‘He applied for the job. I’m always short of waiters.’
‘How did he know the job was vacant?’
‘Oh, they run an employment section in the students’ magazine. It lists details of jobs going in the vacations.’
‘You knew why he was sent down?’
‘Of course. I asked him. But things like that don’t count much these days. He seemed a decent sort of youngster, and I haven’t had any complaints.’
‘What are his hours?’
‘Seven to eight-thirty. Two afternoons and one evening off.
‘Which evening?’
‘The evening varies.’
‘Which was it last week?’
Frayling wriggled. ‘Friday.’
One conjunction.
‘Would you know if he went out?’
Frayling’s smile became more harassed. ‘I imagine he did, that’s what one would expect. But he might well have been studying in his room.’
‘Where’s his room?’
‘It’s off the back landing. A room we keep free for temporary staff.’
‘How close to Madame Deslauriers’ room?’
Well . . . next-door, I suppose! But a door shuts-off the landing.’
Two conjunctions?
‘Isn’t Bavents Madame’s favourite?’
‘No, really! That’s putting it too strong. He serves at her table, that’s all. Guests tend to adopt their regular waiter.’
‘But something of that sort?’
‘No, I protest. You must have been listening to staff gossip.’
‘Wouldn’t the staff know?’
But Frayling still protested, so I let him go to get on with ushering dinner.
At dinner I had an opportunity of studying Madame and her waiter together. Mimi had one of the best tables, with a view of the river: rather remote from our late-comer’s corner. She sat alone, but this didn’t prevent her from conversing merrily with her nearest neighbours. Bavents came, went, and did his duty: if anything special passed, I failed to notice it. Had Frayling cautioned him? More than likely. But Frayling could scarcely have cautioned Mimi. Mimi must have
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