Nine

Mrs. Oliver was seated in a bus. She was slightly out of breath though fullof the zest of the chase. What she called in her own mind the Peacock, hadled a somewhat brisk pace. Mrs. Oliver was not a rapid walker. Goingalong the Embankment she followed him at a distance of some twentyyards or so. At Charing Cross he got into the underground. Mrs. Oliver alsogot into the underground. At Sloane Square he got out, so did Mrs. Oliver.

She waited in a bus queue some three or four people behind him. He goton a bus and so did she. He got out at World’s End, so did Mrs. Oliver. Heplunged into a bewildering maze of streets between King’s Road and theriver. He turned into what seemed a builder’s yard. Mrs. Oliver stood inthe shadow of a doorway and watched. He turned into an alleyway, Mrs.

Oliver gave him a moment or two and then followed—he was nowhere tobe seen. Mrs. Oliver reconnoitred her general surroundings. The wholeplace appeared somewhat decrepit. She wandered farther down the alley-way. Other alleyways led off from it—some of them cul-de-sacs. She hadcompletely lost her sense of direction when she once more came to thebuilder’s yard and a voice spoke behind her, startling her considerably. Itsaid, politely, “I hope I didn’t walk too fast for you.”

She turned sharply. Suddenly what had recently been almost fun, achase undertaken lightheartedly and in the best of spirits, now was thatno longer. What she felt now was a sudden unexpected throb of fear. Yes,she was afraid. The atmosphere had suddenly become tinged with men-ace. Yet the voice was pleasant, polite; but behind it she knew there wasanger. The sudden kind of anger that recalled to her in a confused fashionall the things one read in newspapers. Elderly women attacked by gangsof young men. Young men who were ruthless, cruel, who were driven byhate and the desire to do harm. This was the young man whom she hadbeen following. He had known she was there, had given her the slip andhad then followed her into this alleyway, and he stood there now barringher way out. As is the precarious fashion of London, one moment you areamongst people all round you and the next moment there is nobody insight. There must be people in the next street, someone in the houses near,but nearer than that is a masterful figure, a figure with strong cruelhands. She felt that in this moment he was thinking of using those hands…The Peacock. A proud peacock. In his velvets, his tight, elegant blacktrousers, speaking in that quiet ironical amused voice that held behind itanger…Mrs. Oliver took three big gasps. Then, in a lightning moment ofdecision she put up a quickly imagined defence. Firmly and immediatelyshe sat down on a dustbin which was against the wall quite close to her.

“Goodness, how you startled me,” she said. “I’d no idea you were there. Ihope you’re not annoyed.”

“So you were following me?”

“Yes, I’m afraid I was. I expect it must have been rather annoying toyou. You see I thought it would be such an excellent opportunity. I’m sureyou’re frightfully angry but you needn’t be, you know. Not really. You see—” Mrs. Oliver settled herself more firmly on the dustbin, “you see I writebooks. I write detective stories and I’ve really been very worried thismorning. In fact I went into a café to have a cup of coffee just to try andthink things out. I’d just got to the point in my book where I was followingsomebody. I mean my hero was following someone and I thought to my-self, ‘Really I know very little about following people.’ I mean, I’m alwaysusing the phrase in a book and I’ve read a lot of books where people dofollow other people, and I wondered if it was as easy as it seems to be insome people’s books or if it was as almost entirely impossible as it seemedin other people’s books. So I thought ‘Well, really, the only thing was to tryit out myself’—because until you try things out yourself you can’t really tellwhat it’s like. I mean you don’t know what you feel like, or whether youget worried at losing a person. As it happened, I just looked up and youwere sitting at the next table to me in the café and I thought you’d be—Ihope you won’t be annoyed again—but I thought you’d be an especiallygood person to follow.”

He was still staring at her with those strange, cold blue eyes, yet she feltsomehow that the tension had left them.

“Why was I an especially good person to follow?”

“Well, you were so decorative,” explained Mrs. Oliver. “They are reallyvery attractive clothes—almost Regency, you know, and I thought, well, Imight take advantage of your being fairly easy to distinguish from otherpeople. So you see, when you went out of the café I went out too. And it’snot really easy at all.” She looked up at him. “Do you mind telling me ifyou knew I was there all the time?”

“Not at once, no.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Oliver thoughtfully. “But of course I’m not as distinct-ive as you are. I mean you wouldn’t be able to tell me very easily from alot of other elderly women. I don’t stand out very much, do I?”

“Do you write books that are published? Have I ever come acrossthem?”

“Well, I don’t know. You may have. I’ve written forty-three by now. Myname’s Oliver.”

“Ariadne Oliver?”

“So you do know my name,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Well, that’s rather gratify-ing, of course, though I daresay you wouldn’t like my books very much.

You probably would find them rather old-fashioned—not violent enough.”

“You didn’t know me personally beforehand?”

Mrs. Oliver shook her head. “No, I’m sure I don’t—didn’t, I mean.”

“What about the girl I was with?”

“You mean the one you were having—baked beans, was it—with in thecafé? No, I don’t think so. Of course I only saw the back of her head. Shelooked to me—well, I mean girls do look rather alike, don’t they?”

“She knew you,” said the boy suddenly. His tone in a moment had a sud-den acid sharpness. “She mentioned once that she’d met you not long ago.

About a week ago, I believe.”

“Where? Was it at a party? I suppose I might have met her. What’s hername? Perhaps I’d know that.”

She thought he was in two moods whether to mention the name or not,but he decided to and he watched her face very keenly as he did so.

“Her name’s Norma Restarick.”

“Norma Restarick. Oh, of course, yes, it was at a party in the country. Aplace called—wait a minute—Long Norton was it?—I don’t remember thename of the house. I went there with some friends. I don’t think I wouldhave recognised her anyway, though I believe she did say somethingabout my books. I even promised I’d give her one. It’s very odd, isn’t it,that I should make up my mind and actually choose to follow a personwho was sitting with somebody I more or less knew. Very odd. I don’tthink I could put anything like that in my book. It would look rather toomuch of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Oliver rose from her seat.

“Good gracious, what have I been sitting on? A dustbin! Really! Not avery nice dustbin either.” She sniffed. “What is this place I’ve got to?”

David was looking at her. She felt suddenly that she was completely mis-taken in everything she had previously thought. “Absurd of me,” thoughtMrs. Oliver, “absurd of me. Thinking that he was dangerous, that he mightdo something to me.” He was smiling at her with an extraordinary charm.

He moved his head slightly and his chestnut ringlets moved on hisshoulders. What fantastic creatures there were in the way of young mennowadays!

“The least I can do,” he said, “is to show you, I think, where you’ve beenbrought to, just by following me. Come on, up these stairs.” He indicated aramshackle outside staircase running up to what seemed to be a loft.

“Up those stairs?” Mrs. Oliver was not so certain about this. Perhaps hewas trying to lure her up there with his charm, and he would then knockher on the head. “It’s no good, Ariadne,” said Mrs. Oliver to herself,“you’ve got yourself into this spot, and now you’ve got to go on with it andfind out what you can find out.”

“Do you think they’ll stand my weight?” she said, “they look frightfullyrickety.”

“They’re quite all right. I’ll go up first,” he said, “and show you the way.”

Mrs. Oliver mounted the ladderlike stairs behind him. It was no good.

She was, deep down, still frightened. Frightened, not so much of the Pea-cock, as frightened of where the Peacock might be taking her. Well, she’dknow very soon. He pushed open the door at the top and went into aroom. It was a large, bare room and it was an artist’s studio, an impro-vised kind of one. A few mattresses lay here and there on the floor, therewere canvasses stacked against the wall, a couple of easels. There was apervading smell of paint. There were two people in the room. A beardedyoung man was standing at an easel, painting. He turned his head as theyentered.

“Hallo, David,” he said, “bringing us company?”

He was, Mrs. Oliver thought, quite the dirtiest-looking young man she’dever seen. Oily black hair hung in a kind of circular bob down the back ofhis neck and over his eyes in front. His face apart from the beard was un-shaven, and his clothes seemed mainly composed of greasy black leatherand high boots. Mrs. Oliver’s glance went beyond him to a girl who wasacting as a model. She was on a wooden chair on a dais, half flung acrossit, her head back and her dark hair drooping down from it. Mrs. Oliver re-cognised her at once. It was the second one of the three girls in BorodeneMansions. Mrs. Oliver couldn’t remember her last name, but she re-membered her first one. It was the highly decorative and languid-lookinggirl called Frances.

“Meet Peter,” said David, indicating the somewhat revolting lookingartist. “One of our budding geniuses. And Frances who is posing as a des-perate girl demanding abortion.”

“Shut up, you ape,” said Peter.

“I believe I know you, don’t I?” said Mrs. Oliver, cheerfully, without anyair of conscious certainty. “I’m sure I’ve met you somewhere! Somewherequite lately, too.”

“You’re Mrs. Oliver, aren’t you?” said Frances.

“That’s what she said she was,” said David. “True, too, is it?”

“Now, where did I meet you,” continued Mrs. Oliver. “Some party, wasit? No. Let me think. I know. It was Borodene Mansions.”

Frances was sitting up now in her chair and speaking in weary but eleg-ant tones. Peter uttered a loud and miserable groan.

“Now you’ve ruined the pose! Do you have to have all this wrigglingabout? Can’t you keep still?”

“No, I couldn’t any longer. It was an awful pose. I’ve got the most fright-ful crick in my shoulder.”

“I’ve been making experiments in following people,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“It’s much more difficult than I thought. Is this an artist’s studio?” she ad-ded, looking round her brightly.

“That’s what they’re like nowadays, a kind of loft — and lucky if youdon’t fall through the floor,” said Peter.

“It’s got all you need,” said David. “It’s got a north light and plenty ofroom and a pad to sleep on, and a fourth share in the loo downstairs—andwhat they call cooking facilities. And it’s got a bottle or two,” he added.

Turning to Mrs. Oliver, but in an entirely different tone, one of utter po-liteness, he said, “And can we offer you a drink?”

“I don’t drink,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“The lady doesn’t drink,” said David. “Who would have thought it!”

“That’s rather rude but you’re quite right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Mostpeople come up to me and say, ‘I always thought you drank like a fish.’”

She opened her handbag—and immediately three coils of grey hair fellon the floor. David picked them up and handed them to her.

“Oh! thank you.” Mrs. Oliver took them. “I hadn’t time this morning. Iwonder if I’ve got any more hairpins.” She delved in her bag and startedattaching the coils to her head.

Peter roared with laughter—“Bully for you,” he said.

“How extraordinary,” Mrs. Oliver thought to herself, “that I should everhave had this silly idea that I was in danger. Danger—from these people?

No matter what they look like, they’re really very nice and friendly. It’squite true what people always say to me. I’ve far too much imagination.”

Presently she said she must be going, and David, with Regency gallantry,helped her down the rickety steps, and gave her definite directions as tohow to rejoin the King’s Road in the quickest way.

“And then,” he said, “you can get a bus—or a taxi if you want it.”

“A taxi,” said Mrs. Oliver. “My feet are absolutely dead. The sooner I fallinto a taxi the better. Thank you,” she added, “for being so very nice aboutmy following you in what must have seemed a very peculiar way. Thoughafter all I don’t suppose private detectives, or private eyes or whateverthey call them, would look anything at all like me.”

“Perhaps not,” said David gravely. “Left here—and then right, and thenleft again until you see the river and go towards it, and then sharp rightand straight on.”

Curiously enough, as she walked across the shabby yard the same feel-ing of unease and suspense came over her. “I mustn’t let my imaginationgo again.” She looked back at the steps and the window of the studio. Thefigure of David still stood looking after her. “Three perfectly nice youngpeople,” said Mrs. Oliver to herself. “Perfectly nice and very kind. Lefthere, and then right. Just because they look rather peculiar, one goes andhas silly ideas about their being dangerous. Was it right again? or left?

Left, I think — Oh goodness, my feet. It’s going to rain, too.” The walkseemed endless and the King’s Road incredibly far away. She could hardlyhear the traffic now—And where on earth was the river? She began to sus-pect that she had followed the directions wrongly.

“Oh! well,” thought Mrs. Oliver, “I’m bound to get somewhere soon—theriver, or Putney or Wandsworth or somewhere.” She asked her way to theKing’s Road from a passing man who said he was a foreigner and didn’tspeak English.

Mrs. Oliver turned another corner wearily and there ahead of her wasthe gleam of the water. She hurried towards it down a narrow passage-way, heard a footstep behind her, half turned, when she was struck frombehind and the world went up in sparks.