Read Online The Cherry Blossom Corpse by Robert Barnard - Free Book Online Page A

locals to gaze at us unashamedly out of cunning, peasanty eyes. Instead there was a family of four Americans, doing Norway, and there was a party of three Bavarian men, all looking like Franz Josef Strauss. One of them banged on the table for service, but the proprietress rightly ignored him.
    And then there were the Romantics. Arthur Biggs with his two fans were at one table, well away from the rest. I was getting the impression that Biggs regarded himself as a Person of Consequence, who could not be expected to fraternize lightly. Then, dotted untidily round two tables, there were Mary Sweeny, the Kenyan, the Finn, Patti Drewe and—inevitably—Maryloo Parker. I had been spotted as I came in, and Maryloo was regarding me with Your Destiny written in her eyes. I wandered over in her direction, telling myself that my Destiny was still firmly in my hands rather than hers. The night, after all, was still young.
    The talk, oddly enough, was drifting towards politics. Mary Sweeny started it off by saying that you could say what you liked about Mrs. Thatcher—and she could quite happily say plenty—but one thing her government had done was bring in Public Lending Rights, which had transformed the economic position of writers.
    â€œMind you,” she said, “it would have transformed mine a damn sight more if public libraries bought as many Romances as they ought to.”
    The Americans were naturally avid to hear more about anything that improved the financial situation of writers, and from Thatcher we drifted on to Reagan. Patti Drewe said you could say what you liked about him, but he was a great communicator.
    â€œBut what exactly is it he communicates?” asked Mary Sweeny.
    Then it was on to the next Prime Minister, the next President, and then back in history to that dreariest of topics, the Kennedy family. Maryloo Parker, who claimed to go weak at the knees at the sight of Gary Hart, had apparently been part of every abortive Kennedy campaign of the last twenty years.
    â€œYou seem to have been a willing helper,” I said.
    â€œBoy, if you were not willing, you weren’t a helper,” she said, making meaningful eyes at me.
    From there we would probably have gone on to Kenya and South Africa, but the Kenyan, whose name I now found was Wes Mackay, looked at his watch.
    â€œLooks like the half-hour is up,” he said. “It’s us for the lion’s den—and I never even took a thorn out of her paw in the distant past!”
    â€œUs?” I said, surprised, for he was jerking the comatose Finn to his feet.
    â€œYes—Martti and me. We were having a sherry with her last night in the lounge before dinner, and la Zuckerman asked us both up for tonight. We’ve been having a few chats about markets and agents and trends, and she said we could have a good confab about them. I want to get as much gen as I can about the American market. I think I showed my surprise at the invite, because she just muttered ‘Too few men’ as she hobbled off. I’m not too sure that Martti knows what he’s in for yet.”
    But he managed to get him to his feet, and he steered him solicitously through the tables in the little bar, and then gradually up the stairs.
    â€œBoy, do they have guts!” said Maryloo Parker.
    â€œWhat the Finn has is alcohol,” I pointed out.
    â€œAnd she has been rather less fearsome, this last day or two,” said Patti Drewe. “Compared to that first horrendous evening.”
    â€œAlways to men—have you noticed that?” put in Maryloo. “Of course, we’re all like that, but I’m a bit surprised at her. She hasn’t made any nice noises in the direction of any of the women here.”
    â€œFelicity seems devoted to her—or something,” I chipped in.
    â€œBut apart from Felicity, la Zuckerman seems happiest—silly word!—with men. God knows what she hopes to get out of them.”