Read Online One Damn Thing After Another by Nicolas Freeling - Free Book Online

has anyuse for you.” She didn’t need to ask why he had come: he’d come to be pitied.
    â€œThere’s nothing in view?”
    â€œNothing. Why bother, now? The advantage of a great misery is that you forget, at least, about the small ones.” A sad little smile. He tapped the briefcase. “All this is still intact, or just. Rub cream into the leatherwork: keep things polished, brushed, pressed. Good quality stuff, wears well. But a few more months and even that … little signs. They show up when people look for them, and in business the eyes are pretty sharp. A suit begins to look a bit dated …” The shoes look mended, the tie begins to fray; imperceptibly a dingy, shabby air hangs about things. “I’m dressing for dinner in the jungle.” It was flooding him now, and she had to put a stop to it.
    â€œAll right,” said Arlette. “You’re still fleeing. There comes a moment when you stop fleeing. Touching bottom, as the platitude has it, there’s no place to go but up. But you’re still looking backwards.”
    Arthur, who had a phrase for most things, would have said Ichabod. Fair Ichabod ol’ man; there’s no going back to things like that. Mr Polly said it first. The woman had been right in that at least. “I’m not saying she was right – far from it. But having done as she did, she was right to warn you not to try to follow her. Where do you live?”
    He did not hesitate.
    â€œRound the corner – in the Rue de Flandre,” the smile brittle.
    And, she guessed, with no telephone.
    â€œYes, you hadn’t far to come. Handy – I haven’t far to go. I’ll come and see you. One has to drain the abscess, you know. And here – this is too formal. I mean, I’m in my office, behind the desk, and you are very stiff and tight. I’ll come and see you – say, tomorrow afternoon. You come to see me, that’s fine, breaks the ice. So, tomorrow, we’ll talk about it.”
    â€œMoney,” bleakly.
    â€œTomorrow,” said Arlette.

Chapter 7
Watch the cat out of the tree
    Arthur, coming home for lunch, found lunch ready, which was very agreeable. No sweaty wife panicking about in the kitchen trying to race against time, with a lot of nasty things spilt on the stove top which, against all justice, he would later have to clear up. Arthur’s notion of justice was that hating the dishwasher, a thing that went rumble-belly interminably and was both extravagant and inefficient, he washed the dishes. Women’s view of things is that the dish-washer cleans the stove: men’s view isn’t.
    Instead, he found his wife standing stock-still in the middle of the livingroom, which meant she was staring at nothing and thinking. He stopped in the doorway to admire this vision. Female in office skirt and navy-blue jumper. Looking her years but wearing well; good bones and good carriage. Tallish, thinnish; a cinders-blonde with big brown eyes that go green without green eyeshadow. High-bridged Phoenician nose. Looks good sitting down and better still walking. A really good walk is very rare in women. He was pleased by what he saw.
    â€œYou forgot to empty the mailbox.”
    â€œSo I did. I’ve had quite a busy morning, and I’ve three different sorts of oddball, and my mind wasn’t really on the mailbox.”
    â€œWho are all these people writing to you from Germany?” She frowned: she’d seen that neat small printing in red ballpoint before. Inside the envelope was a half-sheet of paper.
    â€˜It’s silly, you know, shutting your eyes to things and hoping they’ll just go away.’ She showed this to Arthur, who looked blank.
    â€œMeans nothing to me. Mildly deranged in the sense thatquite a sensible commonplace remark becomes dotty when put in a dotty context.”
    â€œI’ve another, full of vague hints and warnings. Since it means nothing to me