Sleuth Page #2

he had it good all those years.

And you-- what do you do ?

Don't you know ?

I have a hairdressing salon in South

Kensington-- Casa tindolini.

Oh, you can use that word

these days, can you ?

People don't take it for an ice-cream salon ?

- No, the birds--

the ladies seem to like

the continental touch.

English too wholesome for them, eh ?

Yeah, well, it's-- it's not chic, you see.

We found that it pays to provide

the latin lover atmosphere.

Of course, we lay it on a bit thicker in the

Brighton shop. They're less sophisticated.

I mean to say, in London half of them

have actually got-- latin lovers ?

And where do you live-- above,

behind or below your shop ?

I lease a mews house nearby.

It's convenient and attractive.

It's Georgian, actually.

From Genoa to Georgian in a single

generation, eh ? Not bad.

But I doubt whether an 18th century

architectural gem in South Kensington...

whispers quite the same magic

to Marguerite as it does to you.

She adores old houses.

She can't wait to live in it.

I understood she already was living

in it, once or twice a week at least.

I'm not mistaken, am I ?

And that your motive in renting the cottage

down here was to increase the incidence...

of this biweekly coupling.

- Is that what you asked me

over here to chat about ?

Never speak ill of the deadly.

If I choose to say that my wife

converses like a child of six...

and makes love like an extinct

shellfish, I shall,

and I don't need to ask her lover's

permission to do so either.

- Thank you for the drink.

- Oh, my. Now, now, I thought

you were brought up in England.

Surely you know it's not done to be rude.

You were being rude about

a woman I'm in love with.

- On the contrary. I was

reminiscing about my wife.

- It comes to the same thing.

Things mostly do, you know. I'll

wager that in a year's time...

it'll be you who'll be being rude about

Marguerite and I who'll be being rhapsodic,

having quite forgotten how

intolerably tiresome, vain,

spendthrift, self-indulgent...

and generally bloody crafty she really is !

Can you afford to take her off my hands ?

- "Afford to" ?

- Support her in the style to

which she was not accustomed...

before she met me, but now is.

Well, I'm not a millionaire,

but I'm not starving either.

The shop in London's doing all right. The

one in Brighton is almost breaking even.

- By this time next year--

- This year, next year, sometime, never.

What you're really saying is

that at present, you're skint.

- We'll survive.

- Survival is scarcely the point.

Presumably, when you're married

to Marguerite, you'll want

a place on the Riviera,

fast car, couple of mistresses.

- "Presumably" ?

- Just because you need those things ?

- No, just this fading mansion,

the slowest Bentley in Wiltshire,

and only one mistress, I'm afraid.

Tea, the Finnish bird who runs

the sauna in Salisbury.

Oh, you know about Tea, do you ?

Marguerite and I have no

secrets from each other.

Not even mine, it seems.

Tea is a Karelian Goddess.

Her golden hair smells of pine,

and her cobalt eyes are the secret

forest pools of Finlandia.

I hear she's a well-scrubbed blonde with

all the sex appeal of a secondhand jeep.

Not so, dear boy. You can take it from me.

Tea is an engaging little trollop

and suits me mightily.

Mind you, she takes a

bit of keeping up with.

It's a good thing I am pretty much

of an olympic sexual athlete.

Yes, I suppose these days you are

concentrating more on the sprints...

than on the long-distance stuff.

Not so, dear boy.

I'm in the pink of condition.

I could copulate for England

at any distance.

Red.

Well, as they say in the Olympics,

it's not the winning, it's

the taking part that counts.

- Are you going to marry her ?

- Oh, no, no, no. I just

want to live with her.

- So what's stopping you ?

- Basically the firm of

Prurien and Pry, ltd.,

Whom you and Marguerite

have seen fit to employ.

Don't be so innocent.

Those nicotine-stained private

detectives have been camping

outside Tea's for the last week.

It was an insurance policy

to keep you from changing

your mind about the divorce.

- How do you know I wasn't

having you watched, hmm ?

- Why not ?

Afraid of what you might find out ?

Or didn't you think that was possible ?

Now, don't start doing a fertility dance.

Of course I knew they'd find you and

Marguerite rutting away like crazed weasels.

But why should I pay good money

to have something confirmed

which I'd known for months ?

- Black.

- Then if you knew, why didn't

you do something about it ?

I had to assure myself that you and

Marguerite were going to be a fixture.

You see, I want to lose the

dear girl for life, not just...

a two-week Tindolini perm, set and touch-up.

- Good shot.

- Yes, it was. Yellow.

You see, you don't know her as well as

I do. You think you do, but you don't.

If you fail her, by which I mean

cancelling the account at Harrod's...

or shortchanging her on winters in Jamaica,

She'll be back to me in a

jiffy, mewing for support.

And, guilty wife or no, she

may be entitled to get it.

- Green.

- Money isn't everything.

And what if she is used to

luxury ? Whose fault is that ?

It's not a fault if you can afford it.

But can you ?

Knowing you to be hard up-- brown--

has she shown any signs

of mending her ways...

in these last, idyllic three months ?

Blue. When, for instance,

did she last turn down

Dom Perignon in favor of--

no offense, mind you-- the

persuasive charms of Dago Red ?

Black.

No, I'm not joking. How much has

this brief liaison cost you so far ?

And that old Dad of yours in Soho--

when did you last send him any money ?

We have talked about money.

Often I've told her we spend too much.

- She takes no notice ?

- No.

Silvery laugh.

Coquettish turn of the head.

Something like that.

Well, it's to solve this little problem

that I've invited you here tonight.

And this, as they say, is

where the plot thickens.

What plot ?

Whatever are you doing with

that cue in your hand ?

I was waiting for you to miss.

Foolish boy.

Once upon a time, my dear Milo,

there was an Englishman called Andrew Wyke,

who, in common with most of his countrymen,

was virtually castrated by taxation.

To avoid total emasculation,

his accountants advised him...

To put a considerable part of

his money, some 250,000 pounds,

into jewelry.

His wife, of course, was delighted.

- Marguerite never told me you'd

given her any jewelry.

- Oh, nor did I, of course.

It's still mine, as well she knows.

We just thought it would be more amusing

for her to wear it than for me to bank it.

After all, it's fully insured.

I see what you mean by the plot thickening.

I'm glad you follow me so readily. You

see, I want you to steal that jewelry.

Tonight, for choice. With Marguerite

away, it's an admirable opportunity.

- What about the servants ?

- I've sent Mr. And Mrs. Hawkins

away to the seaside...

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