Hot Money

CHAPTER SEVEN

I turned, not knowing whether to be frightened or merely irritated.

Malcolm hadn't seen Joyce, and he wasn't looking for her or for me but solely for a drink. I made my way to the bar to meet him there and took him by the arm.

"Why aren't you bloody upstairs?" I said.

"I was outstaying my welcome, old chap. It was getting very awkward. They had an ambassador to entertain. I've been up there three bloody hours. Why didn't you come and fetch me?"

"Joyce," I said grimly, "is sitting over there in the corner. I am buying her a drink, and she saw you come in."

"Joyce!" He turned round and spotted her as she looked balefully in our direction. "Damn it."

"Prowling around outside we also have Donald and Helen, Lucy and Edwin, Ferdinand and Debs, and Serena."

"Christ," he said. "Hunting in pairs."

"You may joke," I said, "and you may be right."

"I couldn't stay up there. They were waiting for me to leave, too polite to tell me to go." He looked apprehensive, as well he might. "Will Joyce tell them all that I'm here?"

"We'll see if we can stop it," I said. "What do you want to drink? Scotch?"

He nodded and I squeezed through the throng by the bar and eventually got served. He helped me carry the glasses and bottles back to the table, and sat where I'd been sitting, facing Joyce. I fetched another chair from nearby and joined my ever non-loving parents.

"Before you start shouting at each other," I said, "can we just take two things for granted? Joyce wants Malcolm to stop scattering largesse, Malcolm wants to go on living. Both ends are more likely to be achieved if we discover who murdered Moira, in case it is Moira's murderer who wishes also to kill Malcolm." I paused. "OK for logic?"

They both looked at me with the sort of surprise parents reserve for unexpected utterances from their young.

Malcolm said, "Surely it's axiomatic that it's Moira's murderer who's trying to kill me?"

I shook my head. "Ever heard of copycat crime?"

"My God," he said blankly. "One possible murderer in the family is tragedy. Two would be…"

"Statistically improbable," Joyce said.

Malcolm and I looked at her with respect.

"She's right," Malcolm said, sounding relieved, as if one killer were somehow more manageable than two.

"OK," I agreed, wondering what the statistical probabilities really were, wondering whether Ferdinand could work them out, "OK, the police failed to find Moira's murderer although they tried very hard and are presumably still trying."

"Trying to link me with an assassin," muttered Malcolm darkly.

"We might, as a family," I said, "have been able to overcome Moira's murder by making ourselves believe in the motiveless unknown outside-intruder theory…" "Of course we believe it, "Joyce said faintly.

"Not now, we can't. Two unknown outside-intruder motiveless murders – because Malcolm was meant to die – are so statistically improbable as to be out of sight. The police haven't found Moira's murderer, but we have now got to try to do it ourselves. It's no longer safe not to, which is why we engaged Norman West." I looked directly at Joyce. "Stop fussing over what Malcolm is spending and start thinking of ways to save his life, if only so that he can make more money, which he can do, but only if he's alive."

"Ian…" She was shocked.

"You roused the whole family this morning on the telephone, telling them where to find me, and now seven of them that we know of are here, and others may be who've kept out of sight. Much though we hate the idea, Moira's murderer may be here."

"No, no, "Joyce exclaimed.

"Yes," I said. "Malcolm's primary defence against being murdered is staying out of reach of lethal instruments, which means people not knowing where to find him. Well, you, my darling mother, brought the whole pack here to the races, so now you'd better help Malcolm to leave before they catch him."

"I didn't know he'd be here," she protested.

"No, but he is. It's time to be practical."

No one pointed out that if she had known he'd be there, she would have sent everyone with even more zeal.

"Do you have any ideas?" Malcolm asked me hopefully.

"Yes, I do. But we have to have Joyce's help, plus her promise of silence."

My mother was looking less than her normal commanding self and gave assurances almost meekly.

"This is not a private bar," I said, "and if any of the family have bought Club passes, they may turn up in here at any moment, so we'd best lose no time. I'm going to leave you both here for a few minutes, but I'll be back. Stay in this corner. Whatever happens, stay right here. If the family find you, still stay here. OK?"

They both nodded, and I left them sitting and looking warily at each other in the first tete-a-tete they'd shared for many a long year.

I went in search of the overall catering director whom I knew quite well because one of his daughters rode against me regularly in amateur races, and found him by sending urgent messages via the manager of the Members' bar.

"Ian," he said ten slow minutes later, coming to the bar from the back, where the bottles were, "what's the trouble?"

He was a company director, head of a catering division, a capable man in his fifties, sprung from suburbia, upwardly mobile from merit, grown worldly wise.

I said the trouble was private, and he led me away from the crowds, through the back of the bar and into a small area of comparative quiet, out of sight of the customers.

My father, I told him, badly needed an immediate inconspicuous exit from the racecourse and wanted to know if a case of vintage Bollinger would ease his passage.

"Not skipping his bookie, I hope?" the caterer said laconically.

"No, he wants to elope with my mother, his ex-wife, from under the eyes of his family."

The caterer amused agreed that Bollinger might be nice. He also laughed at my plan, told me to put it into operation, he would see it went well, and to look after his Rosemary whenever she raced.

I went back through the bar to collect Malcolm and to ask Joyce to fetch her car and to drive it to where the caterers parked their vans, giving her directions. The two of them were still sitting alone at the table, not exactly gazing into each other's eyes with rapture but at least not drawn apart in frost. They both seemed relieved at my reappearance, though, and Joyce picked up her handbag with alacrity to go to fetch her car.

"if you see any of the others," I said, "just say you're going home."

"I wasn't born yesterday, darling," she replied with reviving sarcasm. "Run along and play games, and let me do my part."

The game was the same one I'd thought of earlier in the changing- room, modified only by starting from a different point. It was just possible that the wrong eyes had spotted Malcolm in his brief passage outside from the exit door of the Directors' rooms to the entrance door of the bar, but even if so, I thought we could fool them.

In the quiet private space at the rear of the bar, the catering director was watching the large chef remove his white coat and tall hat.

"A case of vintage Bollinger for the cater era handout for the chef," I murmured in Malcolm's ear. "Get Joyce to drop you at a railway station, and I'll see you in the Savoy. Don't move until I get there."

Malcolm, looking slightly dazed, put on the chefs coat and hat and pulled out his wallet. The chef looked delighted with the result and went back to slicing his turkeys in temporary shirtsleeves. Malcolm and the catering director left through the bar's rear door and set off together through the racecourse buildings to go outside to the area where the caterers' vans were parked. I waited quite a long anxious time in the bar, but eventually the catering director returned, carrying the white disguise, which he restored to its owner.

"Your father got off safely," he assured me. "He didn't see anyone he knew. What was it all about? Not really an elopement, was it?"

"He wanted to avoid being assassinated by his disapproving children."

The caterer smiled, of course not believing it. I asked where he would like the fizz sent and he took out a business card, writing his private address on the back.

"Your father lunched with the Directors, didn't he?" he said. "I thought I saw him up there." His voice implied that doing favours for people who lunched with the Directors was doubly vouched for, like backing up a cheque with a credit card, and I did my best to reinforce further his perception of virtue.

"He's just bought a half share in an Arc de Triomphe runner," I said. "We're going over for the race."

"Lucky you," he said, giving me his card. He frowned suddenly, trying to remember. "Didn't Rosemary tell me something about your father's present wife being pointlessly murdered some weeks ago? His late wife, I suppose I should say. Dreadful for him, dreadful."

"Yes," I said. "Well… some people connected with her turned up here today unexpectedly, and he wanted to escape meeting them."

"Ah," he said with satisfied understanding. "In that case, I'm glad to have been of help." He chuckled. "They didn't really look like elopers."

He shook my hand and went away, and with a couple of deep breaths I left the Members' bar and walked back to the weighing-room to pick up my gear. There was still one more race to be run but it already felt like a long afternoon.

George and Jo were there when I came out carrying saddle, helmet, whip and holdall, saying they'd thought they'd catch me before I left.

"We've decided to run Young Higgins again two weeks tomorrow at Kempton," Jo said. "You'll be free for that, won't you?" "Yes, indeed."

"And Park Railings, don't forget, at Cheltenham next Thursday."

"Any time, any Place," I said, and they laughed, conspirators in addiction.

It occurred to me as they walked away, looking back and waving, that perhaps I'd be in Singapore, Australia or Timbuktu next week or the week after; life was uncertain, and that was its seduction.

I saw none of the family on my way to the exit gate, and none between there and my car. With a frank sigh of relief, I stowed my gear in the boot and without much hurry set off towards Epsom, a detour of barely ten miles, thinking I might as well pick up my mail and listen to messages.

The telephone answering machine did have a faculty for listening to messages from afar, but it had never worked well, and I'd been too lazy to replace the remote controller which, no doubt, needed new batteries anyway.

With equally random thoughts I drove in attentively onwards, and it wasn't until I'd gone a fair distance that I realised that every time I glanced in the rear-view mirror I could see the same car two or three cars back. Some cars passed me: it never did, nor closed a gap to catch up.

I sat up, figuratively and literally, and thought, "What do you know?" and felt my heart beat as at the starting gate.

What I didn't know was whose car it was. It looked much like the hired one I was driving, a middle-rank four-door in under washed cream; ordinary, inconspicuous, no threat to Formula One.

Perhaps, I thought sensibly, the driver was merely going to Epsom, at my own pace, so at the next traffic lights I turned left into unknown residential territory, and kept on turning left at each crossroads thereafter, reasoning that in the end I would complete the circle and end up facing where I wanted to go. I didn't hurry nor continually look in the rear-view mirror, but when I was back again on a road – a different one – with signposts to Epsom, the similar car was still somewhere on my tail, glimpsed tucked in behind a van.

If he had only a minimal sense of direction, I thought, he would realise what I had done and guess I now knew he was following. On the other hand, the back roads between Sandown Park and Epsom were a maze, like most Surrey roads, and he might possibly not have noticed, or thought I was lost, or…

Catching at straws, I thought. Face facts. I knew he was there and he knew I knew and what should I do next?

We were already on the outskirts of Epsom and almost automatically I threaded my way round corners, going towards my flat. I had no reason not to, I thought. I wasn't leading my follower to Malcolm, if that was what he had in mind. I also wanted to find out who he was, and thought I might outsmart him through knowing some ingenious short cuts round about where I lived.

Many of the houses in that area, having been built in the thirties without garages, had cars parked permanently on both sides of the streets. Only purpose-built places, like my block of flats, had adequate parking, except for two or three larger houses converted to flats which had cars where once there had been lawns.

I drove on past my home down the narrow roadway and twirled fast into the driveway of one of the large houses opposite. That particular house had a narrow exit drive also into the next tree- lined avenue: I drove straight through fast, turned quickly, raced round two more corners and returned to my own road to come up behind the car which had been following me.

He was there, stopped, awkwardly half-parked in too small a space with his nose to the kerb, rear sticking out, brake lights still shining: indecision showing all over the place. I drew to a halt right behind him, blocking his retreat, put on my brakes, climbed out, took three or four swift strides and opened the door on the driver's side.

There was a stark moment of silence.

Then I said, "Well, well, well," and after that I nodded up towards my flat and said, "Come on in," and after that I said, "If I'd known you were coming, I'd have baked a cake."

Debs giggled. Ferdinand, who had been driving, looked sheepish. Serena, unrepentant, said, "Is Daddy here?"

They came up to my flat where they could see pretty clearly that no, Daddy wasn't. Ferdinand looked down from the sitting-room window to where his car was now parked beside mine in neat privacy, and then up at the backs of houses opposite over a nearby fence.

"Not much of a view," he said disparagingly.

"I'm not here much."

"You knew I was following you, didn't you?"

"Yes," I said. "Like a drink?"

"Well… scotch?"

I nodded and poured him some from a bottle in the cupboard.

"No ice," he said, taking the glass. "After that drive, I'll take it neat."

"I didn't go fast," I said, surprised.

"Your idea of fast and mine round those goddam twisty roads are about ten miles an hour different."

The two girls were poking about in the kitchen and bedrooms and I could hear someone, Serena no doubt, opening doors and drawers in a search for residues of Malcolm.

Ferdinand shrugged, seeing my unconcern. "He hasn't been here at all, has he?" he said.

"Not for three years."

"Where is he?"

I didn't answer.

"We'll have to torture you into telling," said Ferdinand.

It was a frivolous threat we'd used often in our childhood for anything from "Where are the corn flakes to "What is the time" and Ferdinand himself looked surprised that it had surfaced.

"Mm," I said. "As in the tool shed?"

"Shit," Ferdinand said. "I didn't mean…"

"I should absolutely hope not."

We both remembered, though, the rainy afternoon when Gervase had put the threat into operation, trying to make me tell him where I'd hidden my new cricket bat which he coveted. I hadn't told him, out of cussed ness Ferdinand had been there, too frightened of Gervase to protest, and also Serena, barely four, wide-eyed and uncomprehending.

"I thought you'd forgotten," Ferdinand said. "You've never mentioned it."

"Boys will be bullies."

"Gervase still is."

Which of us, I thought, was not as we had been in the green garden? Donald, Lucy, Thomas, Gervase, Ferdinand, Serena – all Playing there long ago, children's voices calling through the bushes, the adults we would become already forming in the gangling limbs, smooth faces, groping minds. None of those children… none of us… I thought protestingly, could have killed.

Serena came into the sitting-room carrying a white lace negligee and looking oddly shocked. "You've had a woman here!" she said.

"There's no law against it."

Debs, following her, showed a more normal reaction. "Size ten, good perfume, expensive tastes, classy lady," she said. "How am I doing?"

"Not bad."

"Her face cream's in the bathroom," Serena said. "You didn't tell us you had a… a…"

"Girl-friend," I said. "And do you have… a boy-friend?"

She made an involuntary face of distaste and shook her head. Debs put a sisterly arm round Serena's shoulders and said, "I keep telling her to go to a sex therapist or she'll end up a dry old stick, but she won't listen, will you love?"

Serena wriggled free of Debs' arm and strode off with the negligee towards the bedrooms.

"Has anyone ever assaulted her?" I asked Ferdinand. "She has that look."

"Not that I know of." He raised his eyebrows. "She's never said so."

"She's just scared of sex," Debs said blithely. "You wouldn't think anyone would be, these days. Ferdinand's not, are you, bunny?"

Ferdinand didn't react, but said, "We've finished here, I think." He drained his scotch, put down his glass and gave me a cold stare as if to announce that any semi-thaw I might have perceived during the afternoon's exchanges was now at an end. The ice-curtain had come down again with a clang. "if you cut us out with Malcolm," he said, "you'll live to regret it."

Hurt, despite myself, and with a touch of acid, I asked, "Is that again what Alicia says?"

"Damn you, Ian," he said angrily, and made for the door, calling, "Serena, we're going," giving her no choice but to follow.

Debs gave me a mock gruesome look as she went in their wake. "You're Alicia's number one villain, too bad, lovey. You keep your hooks off Malcolm's money or you won't know what hit you." There was a fierce last-minute threat in her final words, and I saw, as the jokey manner slipped, that it was merely a facade which hid the same fears and furies of all the others, and her eyes, as she went, were just as unfriendly.

With regret, I watched from the window as the three of them climbed into Ferdinand's car and drove away. It was an illusion to think one could go back to the uncorrupted emotions of childhood, and I would have to stop wishing for it. I turned away, rinsed out Ferdinand's glass, and went into my bedroom to see how Serena had left it.

The white negligee was lying on my bed. I picked it up and hung it in its cupboard, rubbing my cheek in the fabric and smelling the faint sweet scent of the lady who came occasionally for lighthearted interludes away from a husband who was all but impotent but nevertheless loved. We suited each other well: perfectly happy in ephemeral passion, with no intention of commitment.

I checked round the flat, opened a few letters and listened to the answering machine: there was nothing of note. I spent a while thinking about cars. I had arranged on the telephone two days earlier that the hotel in Cambridge would allow my own car to remain in their park for a daily fee until I collected it, but I couldn't leave it there for ever. If I took a taxi to Epsom station, I thought, I could go up to London by train. In the morning, I would go by train to Cambridge, fetch my car, drive back to the flat, change to the hired car and drive that back to London. It might even be a shade safer, I thought, considering that Ferdinand, and through him the others, would know its colour, make and number, to turn that car in and hire a different one.

The telephone rang. I picked up the receiver and heard a familiar voice, warm and husky, coming to the point without delay. "How about now?" she said. "We could have an hour."

I could seldom resist her. Seldom tried. "An hour would be great. I was just thinking of you."

"Good," she said. "See you."

I stopped worrying about cars and thought of the white lace negligee instead; more enticing altogether. I put two wine glasses on the table by the sofa and looked at my watch. Malcolm would scarcely have reached the Savoy, I thought, but it was worth a try; and in fact he picked up the telephone saying he had that minute walked into the suite.

"I'm glad you're safely back," I said. "I've been a bit detained. I'll be two or three hours yet. Don't get lost."

"Your mother is a cat," he said.

"She saved your skin."

"She called me a raddled old roue done up like a fifth-rate pastry cook

I laughed and could hear his scowl down the line. "What do you want after caviar," he said, "if I order dinner?"

"Chef's special."

"God rot you, you're as bad as your mother."

I put the receiver down with amusement and waited through the twenty minutes it would take until the doorbell rang.

"Hello," she said, as I let her in. "How did the races go?"

I kissed her. "Finished third."

"Well done."

She was older than I by ten or twelve years, also slender auburn- haired and unselfconscious. I fetched the always-waiting champagne from the refrigerator, popped off the cork and poured our drinks. They were a ritual preliminary, really, as we'd never yet finished the bottle and, as usual, after half a glass, there was no point in sitting around on the sofa making small talk.

She exclaimed over the long black bruise down my thigh. "Did you fall off a horse?"

"No, hit a car."

"How careless."

I drew the bedroom curtains to dim the setting western sun and lay with her naked between the sheets. We were practised lovers and comfortable with each other, philosophical over the fact that the coupling was usually better for one than the other, rarely earth- moving for both simultaneously. That day, like the time before, it turned out ecstatic for her, less so for me, and I thought the pleasure of giving such pleasure enough in itself.

"Was it all right for you?" she said finally.

"Yes, of course."

"Not one of your great times."

"They don't come to order. Not your turn, my turn. It's luck."

"A matter of friction and angles," she teased me, repeating what I'd once said. "Who's showering first?"

She liked to return clean to her husband, acknowledging the washing to be symbolic. I showered and dressed, and waited for her in the sitting-room. She was an essential part of my life, a comfort to the body, a contentment in the mind, a bulwark against loneliness. I usually said goodbye with regret, knowing she would return, but on that particular afternoon I said, "Stay," knowing all the same that she couldn't.

"What's the matter?" she said.

"Nothing."

"You shivered."

"Premonition."

"What of?" She was preparing to go, standing by the door.

"That this will be the last time."

"Don't be silly," she said. "I'll be back." She kissed me with what I knew was gratitude, the way I too kissed her. She smiled into my eyes. "I'll be back."

I opened the door for her and she went away lightheartedly, and I knew that the premonition had been not for her, but for myself.

I ferried the cars in the morning, going from London to Cambridge and Epsom and back to the hire firm, and no one followed me anywhere, as far as I could see.

When I'd departed, Malcolm had been full of rampaging indignation over the non-availability of first-class seats on any flight going to Paris the following day for the Arc de Triomphe.

"Go economy," I said, "it's only half an hour."

It appeared that there were no economy seats either. I left him frowning but returned to find peace. He had chartered a private jet. He told me that snippet later, because he was currently engaged with Norman West who had called to give a progress report.

The detective still seemed alarmingly frail but the grey on-the- point-of-death look had abated to fawn. The dustbin clothes had been replaced by an ordinary dark suit, and the greasy hair, washed, was revealed as almost white and neatly brushed. I shook his hand: damp, as before.

"Feeling better, Mr West?" I asked.

"Thank you, yes."

"Tell my son what you've just said," Malcolm commanded. "Give him the bad news."

West gave me a small apologetic smile and then looked down at the notepad on his knee.

"Mrs Vivien Pembroke can't remember what she did on the Friday," he said. "And she spent Tuesday alone at home sorting through piles of old magazines."

"What's bad news about that?" I asked.

"Don't be obtuse," Malcolm said impatiently. "She hasn't an alibi. None of the whole damn bunch has an alibi."

"Have you checked them all?" I said, surprised. "You surely haven't had time."

"I haven't," he agreed.

"Figure of speech." Malcolm waved a hand. "Go on telling him, Mr West."

"I called on Mrs Berenice Pembroke." West sighed expressively. "She found me unwelcome."

Malcolm chuckled sourly. "Tongue like a rhinoceros-hide whip."

West made a small squirming movement as if still feeling the lash, but said merely, with restraint, "She was completely uncooperative."

"Was Thomas there, when you called?" I asked.

"No, sir, he wasn't. Mrs Pembroke said he was at work. I later telephoned his office, to the number you gave me, hoping he could tell me where both his wife and himself had been at the relevant times, and a young lady there said that Mr Pembroke left the firm several weeks ago, and she knew nothing of his present whereabouts."

"Well," I said, stumped. "I didn't know."

"I telephoned Mrs Pembroke again to ask where her husband worked now, and she told me toer… drop dead."

Thomas, I thought, had worked for the same firm of biscuit makers from the day he'd finished a course in book-keeping and accountancy. Berenice referred disparagingly to his occupation as store keeping but Thomas said he was a quantity surveyor whose job it was to estimate the raw materials needed for each large contract, and cost them, and pass the information to the management. Thomas's promotions within the firm had been minor, such as from second assistant to first assistant, and at forty he could see, I supposed, that he would never be boardroom material. How bleak, I thought, to have to face his mid-life limitations with Berenice cramming them down his throat at every turn. Poor old Thomas…

"Mrs Joyce Pembroke," West said, "is the only one who is definite about her movements. On each relevant day, she was playing bridge. She didn't like me snooping, as she called it, and she wouldn't say who she was playing bridge with as she didn't want those people bothered."

"You can leave Mrs Joyce Pembroke out," I said.

"Huh?" Malcolm said.

"You know perfectly well," I told him, "that Joyce wouldn't kill you. If you'd had any doubts, you wouldn't have gone off in a car with her yesterday."

"All right, all right," he said, grumbling. "Cross Joyce off."

I nodded to West, and he put a line through Joyce.

"Yesterday I called on Mrs Alicia Pembroke and then later on Mrs Ursula Pembroke." West's face showed no joy over the encounters. "Mrs Alicia Pembroke told me to mind my own business, and Mrs Ursula Pembroke had been crying and wouldn't speak to me." He lifted his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. "I couldn't persuade either of them of the advantage of establishing alibis."

"Did you get any impression," I asked, "that the police had been there before you, asking the same questions?"

"None at all."

"I told you," Malcolm said. "They didn't believe I was attacked. They thought I'd just staged the whole thing."

"Even so…"

"They checked everyone out over Moira, as you no doubt remember, and came up with a load of clean slates. They're just not bothering to do it again."

"Do you happen to have their telephone number with you?"

"Yes I do," he said, bringing a diary out of an inner pocket and flicking over the pages. "But they won't tell you anything. It's like talking to a steel door."

I dialled the number all the same and asked for the superintendent.

"In what connection, sir?"

"About the attempted murder of Mr Malcolm Pembroke a week ago yesterday."

"One moment, sir."

Time passed, and a different voice came on the line, plain and impersonal. "Can I help you, sir?" "About the attempted murder of Mr Malcolm Pembroke."

"Who are you, sir?"

"His son."

"Er… which one?"

"Ian."

There was a brief rustling of paper.

"Could you tell me your birth date, as proof of identity?"

Surprised, I gave it. Then the voice said, "Do you wish to give information, sir?"

"I wanted to find out how the investigation was going."

"It isn't our custom to discuss that."

"But…"

"But I can tell you, sir, that investigations into the alleged attack are being conducted with thoroughness!"

"Alleged!" I said.

"That's right, sir. We can find no evidence at all that there was another party involved!"

"I don't believe it."

With slightly exaggerated patience but also a first flicker of sympathy, he said, "I can tell you, sir, that there was no evidence of Mr Pembroke being dragged from the garden to the garage, which he alleged must have happened. No marks on the path. No scrapes on the heels of Mr Pembroke's shoes, which we examined at the time. There were no fingerprints except his own on the door handles of the car, no fingerprints except his anywhere. He showed no signs of carbon monoxide poisoning, which he explained was because he had delayed calling us. We examined the scene thoroughly the following morning, after Mr Pembroke had left home, and we found nothing at all to indicate the presence of an assailant. You can be sure we are not closing the case, but we are not at this time able to find grounds for suspicion of any other person."

"He was nearly killed," I said blankly.

"Yes, sir, well I'm sorry, sir, but that's how things stand." He paused briefly. "I can understand your disbelief, sir. It can't be easy for you." He sounded quite human, offering comfort.

"Thank you at least for talking to me," I said. "Right, sir. Goodbye."

"Goodbye," I said slowly, but he had already gone.

"Now what's the matter?" Malcolm asked, watching my face.

I repeated what I'd just heard.

"Impossible!" Malcolm said explosively.

"No."

"What then?"

"Clever."