Read Online THURSDAY'S ORCHID by Robert Mitchell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Mitchell
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I’ve been drinking. What else is there to do in this town at night? But I know what I’m talking about. This scheme can’t fail.”
He grunted once or twice. I shouldn’t have admitted I had been out drinking. Who wants to listen to a drunk at one o’clock in the morning?
“What time’s breakfast?” I asked. “We’ll go over it then.”
He mumbled that he usually ate at seven-thirty, and that I had better not be playing around.
I let the phone drop back on the cradle, frustrated. I had wanted to tell him, wanted him to hear the brilliance of the scheme, but he wouldn’t listen. I lay on the bed, cursing Nick, and cursing like hell that I had laughed at Gerry. I needed her now.
The phone rang at six-thirty the following morning – Nick.
He was wide awake this time, which was more than could be said for me. For a few moments I was cursing the hospitality shelf in the small refrigerator. I must have gone through at least three of the tiny bottles of hard liquor after I had got off the phone, mixing drinks with no thought for the morning. My head didn’t feel too bright at all. But there was no mistaking the brightness and excitement in Nick’s voice. “What was that all about last night? Have you really worked it out?”
I told him that I had, but that he would have to wait until I got there. It wasn’t something to be discussed over the telephone. I also told him I was hungry.
I had come up with the simplest solution to what had appeared to be a complex problem. Who was the idiot who said that nothing ever gets done when you start screwing around?
It was still too early for the commuter traffic. I was headed the opposite way in any case. So, with nothing to slow the progress of my rental car, it was a pleasant ride to Nick’s tree-lined suburb, and I made good time, arriving about fifteen minutes early.
“It’s so bloody simple, Nick!” I burst out as he opened the front door. “I don’t know why the hell I never thought of using the idea before.”
“Okay, Jeff,” he said, motioning me to quieten down. “Hold your horses for a moment. Come on through to the study. Jessie’s laid on some eggs and things. We can have a little privacy.”
Normally with Nick it was food first and then business, but not this time. He went on into the study and I followed. I stood in the doorway and drank it in, the richness taking me by surprise. The far wall, the one facing me as I entered, was of tinted glass and opened out on to the front lawn, stretching away to the boundary wall, giving the impression of garden reaching into the room, increasing the area ten-fold.
The wall on the left was completely hidden by bookshelve s, with row upon row of leather-bound volumes, a collection built up over a great number of years. The opposite wall, constructed of rough-hewn stone, surrounded an enormous fireplace surmounted by a great solid timber mantelpiece that must have been thirty centimetres thick. I stepped into the room, sinking into the deep carpet, and turned to the wall behind me, again a contrast: panelling from floor to ceiling: rich, dark wood; with Nick’s collection of antique rifles magnificently displayed – polished brass and oiled steel gleaming against the mahogany. But his flintlock pistols took pride of place, mounted on the rough stone on either side of the chimney.
The furniture: sev eral armchairs, a desk and its swivel chair, all antiques – leather and polished wood. It all fitted together, even the tiger skin on the floor. A man’s room.
He shut the door.
“Now, my boy,” he said quietly, thumbs hooked into his waistcoat like an American defence attorney ready to crucify some prosecution witness. “What’s this fine idea that woke me up at some ungodly hour of the night?”
I n early replied that although it might have got him up in the middle of the night, it had certainly let me down. But I didn’t think it was the right time for levity.
“Wool,” I replied. “Bales
He grunted once or twice. I shouldn’t have admitted I had been out drinking. Who wants to listen to a drunk at one o’clock in the morning?
“What time’s breakfast?” I asked. “We’ll go over it then.”
He mumbled that he usually ate at seven-thirty, and that I had better not be playing around.
I let the phone drop back on the cradle, frustrated. I had wanted to tell him, wanted him to hear the brilliance of the scheme, but he wouldn’t listen. I lay on the bed, cursing Nick, and cursing like hell that I had laughed at Gerry. I needed her now.
The phone rang at six-thirty the following morning – Nick.
He was wide awake this time, which was more than could be said for me. For a few moments I was cursing the hospitality shelf in the small refrigerator. I must have gone through at least three of the tiny bottles of hard liquor after I had got off the phone, mixing drinks with no thought for the morning. My head didn’t feel too bright at all. But there was no mistaking the brightness and excitement in Nick’s voice. “What was that all about last night? Have you really worked it out?”
I told him that I had, but that he would have to wait until I got there. It wasn’t something to be discussed over the telephone. I also told him I was hungry.
I had come up with the simplest solution to what had appeared to be a complex problem. Who was the idiot who said that nothing ever gets done when you start screwing around?
It was still too early for the commuter traffic. I was headed the opposite way in any case. So, with nothing to slow the progress of my rental car, it was a pleasant ride to Nick’s tree-lined suburb, and I made good time, arriving about fifteen minutes early.
“It’s so bloody simple, Nick!” I burst out as he opened the front door. “I don’t know why the hell I never thought of using the idea before.”
“Okay, Jeff,” he said, motioning me to quieten down. “Hold your horses for a moment. Come on through to the study. Jessie’s laid on some eggs and things. We can have a little privacy.”
Normally with Nick it was food first and then business, but not this time. He went on into the study and I followed. I stood in the doorway and drank it in, the richness taking me by surprise. The far wall, the one facing me as I entered, was of tinted glass and opened out on to the front lawn, stretching away to the boundary wall, giving the impression of garden reaching into the room, increasing the area ten-fold.
The wall on the left was completely hidden by bookshelve s, with row upon row of leather-bound volumes, a collection built up over a great number of years. The opposite wall, constructed of rough-hewn stone, surrounded an enormous fireplace surmounted by a great solid timber mantelpiece that must have been thirty centimetres thick. I stepped into the room, sinking into the deep carpet, and turned to the wall behind me, again a contrast: panelling from floor to ceiling: rich, dark wood; with Nick’s collection of antique rifles magnificently displayed – polished brass and oiled steel gleaming against the mahogany. But his flintlock pistols took pride of place, mounted on the rough stone on either side of the chimney.
The furniture: sev eral armchairs, a desk and its swivel chair, all antiques – leather and polished wood. It all fitted together, even the tiger skin on the floor. A man’s room.
He shut the door.
“Now, my boy,” he said quietly, thumbs hooked into his waistcoat like an American defence attorney ready to crucify some prosecution witness. “What’s this fine idea that woke me up at some ungodly hour of the night?”
I n early replied that although it might have got him up in the middle of the night, it had certainly let me down. But I didn’t think it was the right time for levity.
“Wool,” I replied. “Bales
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