The False Inspector Dew

11

At the Paris Carlton on fine days in the summer months, breakfast was served on the terrace. The warmth of the sun, the gentle movement of air and the aroma of coffee could be guaranteed to kindle romantic thoughts in Marjorie Livingstone Cordell. This morning there was an extra impulse.

'Livy, my darling,' she announced as she joined her husband at one of the white metal tables, i have just learned something really sensational.'

Livingstone Cordell had not come to terms with breakfasts in Paris. Fresh bread rolls gave him indigestion if he ate enough of them to satisfy his appetite. Yet when he ordered grapefruit segments and a cooked breakfast it was so slow in coming that it limited his capacity for lunch. Without looking up at his wife he said, 'While you're still on your feet, would you ask that goddamned waiter what happened to my bacon and kidneys? I gave the order all of twenty minutes ago.'

Mrs Livingstone Cordell waved at the waiter and pointed urgently towards her husband. Livy was not the sort of man who got quick service from French waiters. He looked too comfortable in his chair. He was short and overweight and he wore a cheap linen jacket that he had bought years back in Chicago. His hair was fairish, with patches of grey that gave him a commonplace pepper-and-salt look. His eyebrows were so colourless and meagre that it was difficult for him to look anything but docile. French waiters and the world at large — with the exception of Marjorie Livingstone Cordell — remained unaware that he had the most amazing and outrageous tattoos on unseen areas of his body.

The waiter returned a nod that could have meant anything. Mrs Livingstone Cordell sat down.

'Don't you want to hear my news, Livy?'

'They have a sale on at the Galeries Lafayette.'

'Do they?' She studied his small grey eyes in case he knew something she did not. 'You incorrigible man! You're kidding, aren't you? My news is totally reliable. Listen to this. I just went to Reception to fix another massage and by sheer good fortune I happened to notice the bellhops wheeling in some luggage. Four or five enormous trunks and some smaller stuff. You know me, Livy: I just couldn't resist a little peek at the label. You're not going to believe this: they belong to Mr Paul Westerfield II!'

'Oh, yea.' Livy went silent for a moment. 'What the hell do you suppose they are doing with my bacon and kidneys?'

'Paul Westerfield II, honey.'

'I never heard of the guy.'

'He only happens to be one of the most eligible young men in New York. His father is the millionaire architect who designed those beautiful frame houses just across the Hudson from us in New Jersey.' Mrs Livingstone Cordell shut her eyes and sighed. 'It must be providential, young Paul putting up here at this time, when our Barbara has finished her studies and is free to show him over Paris. She knows the city. This is her big break, Livy. If you were twenty-four years old and on your first trip to Paris, wouldn't you be glad of a sweet American girl to show you around?'

Livy shook his head. 'Forget it. You can bet your life this guy hasn't come to Paris to see the Louvre with a special lecture on the Ancient Greeks. Besides, we're moving on to England at the end of the week. I have it on good authority that you can actually get served with a breakfast at the Savoy Hotel.'

Mrs Livingstone Cordell pressed her lips into a pout and emitted a moan audible only to herself. Livy was so insensitive to the things that mattered to women. She could forgive him plenty when she thought of his tattoos, but she wished he would sometimes pay attention to what she was saying.

'Looks like Barbara has been working on the problem,' Livy remarked.

'What do you mean?'

'Take a look to your right.'

'Oh my God!' whispered Mrs Livingstone Cordell.

Her daughter Barbara was crossing the terrace to their table hand in hand with a very tall, very slim, very intelligent-looking young man in a cream-coloured three-piece. Beside him in her brown hobble skirt Barbara looked positively dowdy, but her eyes were shining more brightly than her mother had ever seen. 'Mommy and Livy,' she said, ‘I want you to meet my college friend, Paul Westerfield. What do you think -1 just met Paul in the lobby. We were in the same math class at college. Isn't that incredible?'

'You already know Mr Westerfield?'said Mrs Livingstone Cordell, barely able to voice her words.

'Don't mind my mother,' said Barbara to Paul Westerfield. 'She thinks any guy under fifty who comes within half a mile of me is a possible husband. She doesn't know that I'd rathei drop dead than walk out with one of you monsters from the math class. This is Livy. He's my stepfather, my second actually.'

'What are you doing in Paris, Paul?' asked Livy.

'A little sight-seeing, I thought,' said Paul. 'I'm on my way to London to interview Dr Bertrand Russell about the book he wrote with A. N. Whitehead.'

'Principia Mathematical said Barbara.

'And I thought I might as well stop off in Paris to meet some of the professors of math at the Sorbonne.'

'Barbara can introduce you to plenty of professors,' chipped in Mrs Livingstone Cordell.

'Mommy, I was studying art, if you remember. Paul needs no introduction from me. He's known throughout the world for his papers on permutations and the binomial theorem. I was just the coed who used to sit behind him in class and tell him when he had holes in his socks.'

Paul Westerfield laughed and cleared his throat and blushed all at the same time.

'Well, that's it,' said Barbara. 'Those are my parents. Don't let us hold you up. It was a real nice surprise to bump into you like that.'

'It was mutual,' said Paul. 'Goodbye, folks.' He walked rapidly away.

'Anyone got any ideas how we should spend the day?' asked Barbara brightly.