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Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
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by Wallace Brady, had appeared at our table. As the performers freed themselves and presently approached, Denise bright-eyed and laughing, Johnson mopping his brow, Brady held out two brimming glasses. ‘Sir. we haven’t met, but I hope you’ll accept this in heartfelt tribute. Denise. I want to buy shares.”
‘Wallace Brady,’ I said to Johnson, to make everything clear. I added. ‘You have our congratulations, for as long as your diastolic pressure will allow you to enjoy it.’
He grinned and sat down beside me , accepting the alcohol. ‘Look: no blood.” he observed in reply. And for the next five minutes, blandly, he parried Lady Edgecombe’s intensive if lilting inquiries, while I waited for the music to strike up so that I could make my diminished cordiality to Wallace Brady perfectly clear.
My plan misfired completely. As the band returned, settled, and emitted the first notes of a tango, a brilliant figure arrived at our table, smiled at me and addressed itself to Lady Edgecombe. ‘Dr MacRannoch will tell you I had the honour of meeting your husband on his flight yesterday from New York to Nassau. I come to inquire if he finds himself better?’
He wore a silver rope bracelet and a tunic suit in plain violet silk. Krishtof Bey , the Turkish dancer, came to induce Denise Edgecombe to dance.
She did. She had already performed longer that evening than I personally would have suggested. I doubt, however, if the sure foreknowledge of a major cardiovascular event would have stopped her.
She did well, and her partner’s muscular processes, I admit, were an exceptional treat. They were wildly applauded.
Wallace Brady watched their encore in a trance, his champagne dripping unnoticed on to his shirt cuff. Johnson, catching my eye, made a brief face indicative of deeply sympathetic emotion and excused himself to dry off in the washroom.
Brady came to , mopped up his cufT, and said to me, ‘I want to explain.”
I have no time for tedious repetitions. I said, ‘Do you build bridges?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then there is nothing to explain,’ I said. There was no point in thanking him for the champagne, since I was drinking fruit squash.
‘Yes, there is,’ he said. He sounded quite firm, which surprised me. ‘I do make bridges, Dr MacRannoch, and tunnels, and other major constructions which people are fortunately quite pleased to pay for. I have no need to tout for my business, even such important business as The MacRannoch of MacRannoch could give me. In point of fact, as I would have told you if you hadn’t rushed off in such a hurry, I know the Begum Akbar not through your father but because I happen to be doing a job for her on Crab Island. I regard her as a great and elegant lady. I admire a professional in whatever field it may be, and I felt an equal admiration, Dr MacRannoch, for the way you dealt with Bart Edgecombe at that airport, which was why I asked you to golf with me. Not to mention the hypodermic syringe.’
‘What syringe?’ I said. I was unable to prevent myself flushing.
‘It was sticking out of your dressing-gown pocket. Would it have put me to sleep?’ he said. ‘That might have been awkward. The Trueman always makes the beds first thing in the morning.’
‘It would have kept you quiet until the police took you away,’ I said coldly. I do not enjoy being provoked.
‘Incidentally, what did the police do about Bart?’ Brady asked.
‘What do you mean?’ I said. The next course had come: sliced coconut and orange in sherry. I eyed it without appetite.
‘Well, food-poisoning’s dangerous, isn’t it?’ said Brady. ‘Don’t they have to track down the bacillus by law in case other people get poisoned? Or did they fix the blame on Lady Edgecombe’s crab sandwich?’
‘Luckily, New York seems to have escaped,’ I said. ‘The doctor in charge, I imagine, found the crab was the culprit and took no further action. Certainly there were no police involved that I know
‘Wallace Brady,’ I said to Johnson, to make everything clear. I added. ‘You have our congratulations, for as long as your diastolic pressure will allow you to enjoy it.’
He grinned and sat down beside me , accepting the alcohol. ‘Look: no blood.” he observed in reply. And for the next five minutes, blandly, he parried Lady Edgecombe’s intensive if lilting inquiries, while I waited for the music to strike up so that I could make my diminished cordiality to Wallace Brady perfectly clear.
My plan misfired completely. As the band returned, settled, and emitted the first notes of a tango, a brilliant figure arrived at our table, smiled at me and addressed itself to Lady Edgecombe. ‘Dr MacRannoch will tell you I had the honour of meeting your husband on his flight yesterday from New York to Nassau. I come to inquire if he finds himself better?’
He wore a silver rope bracelet and a tunic suit in plain violet silk. Krishtof Bey , the Turkish dancer, came to induce Denise Edgecombe to dance.
She did. She had already performed longer that evening than I personally would have suggested. I doubt, however, if the sure foreknowledge of a major cardiovascular event would have stopped her.
She did well, and her partner’s muscular processes, I admit, were an exceptional treat. They were wildly applauded.
Wallace Brady watched their encore in a trance, his champagne dripping unnoticed on to his shirt cuff. Johnson, catching my eye, made a brief face indicative of deeply sympathetic emotion and excused himself to dry off in the washroom.
Brady came to , mopped up his cufT, and said to me, ‘I want to explain.”
I have no time for tedious repetitions. I said, ‘Do you build bridges?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then there is nothing to explain,’ I said. There was no point in thanking him for the champagne, since I was drinking fruit squash.
‘Yes, there is,’ he said. He sounded quite firm, which surprised me. ‘I do make bridges, Dr MacRannoch, and tunnels, and other major constructions which people are fortunately quite pleased to pay for. I have no need to tout for my business, even such important business as The MacRannoch of MacRannoch could give me. In point of fact, as I would have told you if you hadn’t rushed off in such a hurry, I know the Begum Akbar not through your father but because I happen to be doing a job for her on Crab Island. I regard her as a great and elegant lady. I admire a professional in whatever field it may be, and I felt an equal admiration, Dr MacRannoch, for the way you dealt with Bart Edgecombe at that airport, which was why I asked you to golf with me. Not to mention the hypodermic syringe.’
‘What syringe?’ I said. I was unable to prevent myself flushing.
‘It was sticking out of your dressing-gown pocket. Would it have put me to sleep?’ he said. ‘That might have been awkward. The Trueman always makes the beds first thing in the morning.’
‘It would have kept you quiet until the police took you away,’ I said coldly. I do not enjoy being provoked.
‘Incidentally, what did the police do about Bart?’ Brady asked.
‘What do you mean?’ I said. The next course had come: sliced coconut and orange in sherry. I eyed it without appetite.
‘Well, food-poisoning’s dangerous, isn’t it?’ said Brady. ‘Don’t they have to track down the bacillus by law in case other people get poisoned? Or did they fix the blame on Lady Edgecombe’s crab sandwich?’
‘Luckily, New York seems to have escaped,’ I said. ‘The doctor in charge, I imagine, found the crab was the culprit and took no further action. Certainly there were no police involved that I know
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