The Tightrope Men. Desmond Bagley
Jack Kidder and his wife.’
Denison paused before he turned round. ‘Oh! Where?’
‘Just coming in.’ She put out her hand and covered his. ‘Do you want to be bothered by them, darling? He’s a bit of a bore, really.’
Denison looked at the tall, fleshy man who was escorting a petite woman. Jack Kidder was the name Diana Hansen had mentioned when he had bumped into her outside the bookshop. If she did not want to mix with the Kidders it was all right with him; he had enough to cope with already. He said, ‘You’re right. I don’t think I could cope with a bore tonight.’
She laughed. ‘Thanks for the compliment – hidden though it was. I’ll put him off tactfully if he comes across.’ She sighed theatrically. ‘But if he says that damned slogan of his again I’ll scream.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You must have heard it. It’s when he pulls off one of his dreadful jokes.’ She burlesqued an American accent. ‘“You know me – Kidder by name and kidder by nature.”’
‘Jack was always the life and soul of the party,’ said Denison drily.
‘I don’t know how Lucy puts up with him,’ said Diana. ‘If you can talk about a hen-pecked husband, can you refer to a cock-pecked wife?’
Denison grinned. ‘It sounds rude.’ Diana Hansen was making things easy for him. She had just given him a thumbnail sketch of the Kidders, including names and temperaments. It could not have been done better if done deliberately.
The waiter put the drinks on the table and Denison found he had a scotch on the rocks, a desecration of good malt. He did not feel like making a fuss about it so he raised his glass. ‘Skal!’ He sipped the whisky and reflected that this was the first real drink he had had since his transformation into Meyrick.
The familiar taste bit at his tongue and somehow released a wave of memories which washed through him tumultuously, tantalizingly close to the surface of his mind. And with the memories, unrealized though they were, came the fear and the terror which set his heart thumping in his chest. Hastily he set down the glass, knowing he was close to panic.
Diana Hansen looked at his shaking fingers. ‘What’s the matter, Harry?’
Denison covered up. ‘I don’t think a drink is a good idea, after all. I’ve just remembered I’m stuffed full of pills.’ He managed a smile. ‘If you shook me I’d rattle. I don’t think they’d mix with alcohol.’
She put down her glass. Then let’s have dinner before the Kidders catch up with us.’ She stood up and took her handbag from the table. Denison arose and they moved towards the entrance, but then she turned her head and murmured, Too late, I’m afraid.’
Kidder was also standing up, his big body blocking the way. ‘Hey, Lucy, look who’s here. It’s Diana and Harry.’
‘Hallo, Jack,’ said Denison. ‘Had a good day?’
‘We’ve been up to Holmenkollen; you know – the big ski-jump you can see from all over the city. It’s quite a thing when you get up to it close. Can you imagine, it’s only used once a year?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ said Denison blandly.
Lucy Kidder said, ‘And we went to the Henie-Onstad Art Centre, too.’
‘Yeah, modern art,’ said Kidder disparagingly. ‘Harry, can you make any sense out of Jackson Pollock?’
‘Not much,’ said Denison.
Kidder turned on his wife. ‘Anyway, why the hell do we have to come to Norway to see an American artist?’
‘But he’s internationally famous, Jack. Aren’t you proud of that?’
‘I guess so,’ he said gloomily. ‘But the locals aren’t much better. Take the guy with the name like a breakfast food.’ Everyone looked at Kidder with blank faces and he snapped his fingers impatiently. ‘You know who I mean – the local Scowegian we saw yesterday.’
Lucy Kidder sighed. ‘Edvard Munch,’ she said resignedly.
‘That’s the guy. Too gloomy for me even if you can see the people in his pictures,’ said Kidder.
Diana cut in quickly. ‘Harry’s not been feeling too well lately. I’m taking him in to an early dinner and sending him right to bed.’
‘Gee, I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Kidder. He sounded sincere.
‘There’s a lot of this two-day flu about,’ said his wife. ‘And it can be nasty while it lasts. You look after yourself – hear?’
‘I don’t think it’s too serious,’ said Denison.
‘But we’d better go in to dinner,’ said Diana. ‘Harry hasn’t eaten a thing all day.’
‘Sure,’ said Kidder, standing aside. ‘I hope you feel better real soon. You look after him, Diana.’
Over dinner they talked in generalities, much to Denison’s relief, and he was able to hold his own without much effort. There was not a single thing to trouble him until the coffee was served and that startling thought about the possible relationship between Diana and Meyrick came into his head. He looked at her speculatively and wondered what to do. For all he knew, Meyrick was an old ram.
He held the smile on his face and stirred his coffee mechanically. A waiter came to the table. ‘Mrs Hansen?’
Diana looked up. ‘Yes.’
‘A telephone call.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked at Denison apologetically. ‘I told someone I’d be here. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all.’ She stood up and left the restaurant, going into the lobby. He watched her until she was out of sight and then stopped stirring his coffee and put the spoon in the saucer with a clink. Thoughtfully he looked at the handbag on the other side of the table.
Mrs Hansen! He could bear to know more about that. He stretched out his hand slowly and picked up the handbag, which was curiously heavy. Holding it on his lap, below the level of the table, he snapped open the catch and bent his head to look inside.
When Diana came back the bag was back in its place. She sat down, picked it up, and took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Still not smoking, Harry?’
He shook his head. ‘They still taste foul.’
Soon thereafter he signed the bill and they left, parting in the lobby, he to go to bed and she to go to wherever she lived. He had decided against making a pass at Mrs Diana Hansen because it was most unlikely that Dr Harold Feltham Meyrick would be having an affaire with a woman who carried a gun – even if it was only a small gun.
The next day was boring. He obeyed instructions and stayed in the hotel waiting to hear from McCready. He breakfasted in his room and ordered English newspapers. Nothing had changed – the news was as bad as ever.
At mid-morning he left the room to allow the maid to clean up, and went down to the lobby where he saw the Kidders at the porter’s desk. He hung back, taking an inordinate interest in a showcase full of Norwegian silver, while Kidder discussed in a loud voice the possibilities of different bus tours. Finally they left the hotel and he came out of cover.
He discovered that the bookshop on the corner of the street had a convenient entrance inside the hotel, so he bought a stack of English paperbacks and took them to his room. He read for the rest of the day, gutting the books, his mind in low gear. He had a curious reluctance to think about his present predicament and, once, when he put a book aside and tried to think coherently, his mind skittered about and he felt the unreasoning panic