Kiss Kiss (6 page)

      
Her husband, who was on the point of leaving for the club,
answered it himself. She told him the news, and asked whether
the servants were still there.
      
“They’ve all gone,” he said.
      
“In that case, dear, I’ll just get myself a room somewhere for
the night. And don’t you bother yourself about it at all.”
      
“That would be foolish,” he said. “You’ve got a large house
here at your disposal. Use it.”
      
“But, dear, it’s
empty
.”
      
“Then I’ll stay with you myself.”
      
“There’s no food in the house. There’s nothing.”
      
“Then eat before you come in. Don’t be so stupid, woman.
Everything you do, you seem to want to make a fuss about it.”
      
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’ll get myself a sandwich here,
and then I’ll come on in.”
      
Outside, the fog had cleared a little, but it was still a long,
slow drive in the taxi, and she didn’t arrive back at the house
on Sixty-second Street until fairly late.
      
Her husband emerged from his study when he heard her
coming in. “Well,” he said, standing by the study door, “how
was Paris?”
      
“We leave at eleven in the morning,” she answered. “It’s
definite.”
      
“You mean if the fog clears.”
      
“It’s clearing now. There’s a wind coming up.”
      
“You look tired,” he said. “You must have had an anxious
day.”
      
“It wasn’t very comfortable. I think I’ll go straight to bed.”
      
“I’ve ordered a car for the morning,” he said. “Nine o’clock.”
      
“Oh, thank you, dear. And I certainly hope you’re not
going to bother to come all the way out again to see me off.”
      
“No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I will. But there’s no
reason why you shouldn’t drop me at the club on your way.”
      
She looked at him, and at that moment he seemed to be
standing a long way off from her, beyond some borderline.
He was suddenly so small and far away that she couldn’t be
sure what he was doing, or what he was thinking, or even
what he was.
      
“The club is downtown,” she said. “It isn’t on the way to
the airport.”
      
“But you’ll have plenty of time, my dear. Don’t you want
to drop me at the club?”
      
“Oh, yes—of course.”
      
“That’s good. Then I’ll see you in the morning at nine.”
      
She went up to her bedroom on the second floor, and she
was so exhausted from her day that she fell asleep soon after
she lay down.
      
Next morning, Mrs Foster was up early, and by eight thirty
she was downstairs and ready to leave.
      
Shortly after nine, her husband appeared. “Did you make
any coffee?” he asked.
      
“No, dear. I thought you’d get a nice breakfast at the club.
The car is here. It’s been waiting. I’m all ready to go.”
      
They were standing in the hall—they always seemed to be
meeting in the hall nowadays—she with her hat and coat
and purse, he in a curiously cut Edwardian jacket with high
lapels.
      
“Your luggage?”
      
“It’s at the airport.”
      
“Ah yes,” he said. “Of course. And if you’re going to take
me to the club first, I suppose we’d better get going fairly
soon, hadn’t we?”
      
“Yes!” she cried. “Oh, yes—
please!
”
      
“I’m just going to get a few cigars. I’ll be right with you.
You get in the car.”
      
She turned and went out to where the chauffeur was standing,
and he opened the car door for her as she approached.
      
“What time is it?” she asked him.
      
“About nine fifteen.”
      
Mr Foster came out five minutes later, and watching him
as he walked slowly down the steps, she noticed that his legs
were like goat’s legs in those narrow stovepipe trousers that
he wore. As on the day before, he paused halfway down to
sniff the air and to examine the sky. The weather was still not
quite clear, but there was a wisp of sun coming through the
mist.
      
“Perhaps you’ll be lucky this time,” he said as he settled
himself beside her in the car.
      
“Hurry, please,” she said to the chauffeur. “Don’t bother
about the rug. I’ll arrange the rug. Please get going. I’m late.”
      
The man went back to his seat behind the wheel and started
the engine.
      
“
Just
a moment!” Mr Foster said suddenly. “Hold it a
moment, chauffeur, will you?”
      
“What is it, dear?” She saw him searching the pockets of
his overcoat.
      
“I had a little present I wanted you to take to Ellen,” he said.
“Now, where on earth is it? I’m sure I had it in my hand as I
came down.”
      
“I never saw you carrying anything. What sort of present?”
      
“A little box wrapped up in white paper. I forgot to give it
to you yesterday. I don’t want to forget it today.”
      
“A little box!” Mrs Foster cried. “I never saw any little box!”
She began hunting frantically in the back of the car.
      
Her husband continued searching through the pockets of
his coat. Then he unbuttoned the coat and felt around in his
jacket. “Confound it,” he said, “I must’ve left it in my bedroom.
I won’t be a moment.”
      
“Oh,
please!
” she cried. “We haven’t got time! Please leave
it! You can mail it. It’s only one of those silly combs anyway.
You’re always giving her combs.”
      
“And what’s wrong with combs, may I ask?” he said, furious
that she should have forgotten herself for once.
      
“Nothing, dear, I’m sure. But . . .”
      
“Stay here!” he commanded. “I’m going to get it.”
      
“Be quick, dear! Oh,
please
be quick!”
      
She sat still, waiting and waiting.
      
“Chauffeur, what time is it?”
      
The man had a wristwatch, which he consulted. “I make it
nearly nine thirty.”
      
“Can we get to the airport in an hour?”
      
“Just about.”
      
At this point, Mrs Foster suddenly spotted a corner of something
white wedged down in the crack of the seat on the side
where her husband had been sitting. She reached over and
pulled out a small paper-wrapped box, and at the same time
she couldn’t help noticing that it was wedged down firm and
deep, as though with the help of a pushing hand.
      
“Here it is!” she cried. “I’ve found it! Oh dear, and now he’ll
be up there for ever searching for it! Chauffeur, quickly—run
in and call him down, will you please?”
      
The chauffeur, a man with a small rebellious Irish mouth,
didn’t care very much for any of this, but he climbed out of
the car and went up the steps to the front door of the house.
Then he turned and came back. “Door’s locked,” he announced.
“You got a key?”
      
“Yes—wait a minute.” She began hunting madly in her purse.
The little face was screwed up tight with anxiety, the lips
pushed outward like a spout.
      
“Here it is! No—I’ll go myself. It’ll be quicker. I know
where he’ll be.”
      
She hurried out of the car and up the steps to the front
door, holding the key in one hand. She slid the key into the
keyhole and was about to turn it—and then she stopped. Her
head came up, and she stood there absolutely motionless, her
whole body arrested right in the middle of all this hurry to
turn the key and get into the house, and she waited—five, six,
seven, eight, nine, ten seconds, she waited. The way she was
standing there, with her head in the air and the body so tense,
it seemed as though she were listening for the repetition of
some sound that she had heard a moment before from a place
far away inside the house.
      
Yes—quite obviously she was listening. Her whole attitude
was a
listening
one. She appeared actually to be moving one
of her ears closer and closer to the door. Now it was right up
against the door, and for still another few seconds she remained
in that position, head up, ear to door, hand on key,
about to enter but not entering, trying instead, or so it seemed,
to hear and to analyse these sounds that were coming faintly
from this place deep within the house.
      
Then, all at once, she sprang to life again. She withdrew
the key from the door and came running back down the steps.
      
“It’s too late!” she cried to the chauffeur. “I can’t wait for
him, I simply can’t. I’ll miss the plane. Hurry now, driver,
hurry! To the airport!”
      
The chauffeur, had he been watching her closely, might
have noticed that her face had turned absolutely white and
that the whole expression had suddenly altered. There was no
longer that rather soft and silly look. A peculiar hardness had
settled itself upon the features. The little mouth, usually so
flabby, was now tight and thin, the eyes were bright, and the
voice, when she spoke, carried a new note of authority.
      
“Hurry, driver, hurry!”
      
“Isn’t your husband travelling with you?” the man asked,
astonished.
      
“Certainly not! I was only going to drop him at the club.
It won’t matter. He’ll understand. He’ll get a cab. Don’t sit
there talking, man.
Get going!
I’ve got a plane to catch for
Paris!”
      
With Mrs Foster urging him from the back seat, the man
drove fast all the way, and she caught her plane with a few
minutes to spare. Soon she was high up over the Atlantic,
reclining comfortably in her aeroplane chair, listening to the
hum of the motors, heading for Paris at last. The new mood
was still with her. She felt remarkably strong and, in a queer
sort of way, wonderful. She was a trifle breathless with it all,
but this was more from pure astonishment at what she had
done than anything else, and as the plane flew farther and
farther away from New York and East Sixty-second Street,
a great sense of calmness began to settle upon her. By the time
she reached Paris, she was just as strong and cool and calm as
she could wish.
      
She met her grandchildren, and they were even more
beautiful in the flesh than in their photographs. They were
like angels, she told herself, so beautiful they were. And every
day she took them for walks, and fed them cakes, and bought
them presents, and told them charming stories.
      
Once a week, on Tuesdays, she wrote a letter to her
husband—a nice, chatty letter—full of news and gossip, which
always ended with the words “Now be sure to take your meals
regularly, dear, although this is something I’m afraid you may
not be doing when I’m not with you.”
      
When the six weeks were up, everybody was sad that she
had to return to America, to her husband. Everybody, that
is, except her. Surprisingly, she didn’t seem to mind as much
as one might have expected, and when she kissed them all
good-bye, there was something in her manner and in the
things she said that appeared to hint at the possibility of a
return in the not too distant future.
      
However, like the faithful wife she was, she did not overstay
her time. Exactly six weeks after she had arrived, she sent
a cable to her husband and caught the plane back to New
York.
      
Arriving at Idlewild, Mrs Foster was interested to observe
that there was no car to meet her. It is possible that she might
even have been a little amused. But she was extremely calm
and did not overtip the porter who helped her into a taxi
with her baggage.
      
New York was colder than Paris, and there were lumps of
dirty snow lying in the gutters of the streets. The taxi drew
up before the house on Sixty-second Street, and Mrs Foster
persuaded the driver to carry her two large cases to the top
of the steps. Then she paid him off and rang the bell. She
waited, but there was no answer. Just to make sure, she rang
again, and she could hear it tinkling shrilly far away in the
pantry, at the back of the house. But still no one came.
      
So she took out her own key and opened the door herself.
      
The first thing she saw as she entered was a great pile of
mail lying on the floor where it had fallen after being slipped
through the letter box. The place was dark and cold. A dust
sheet was still draped over the grandfather clock. In spite of
the cold, the atmosphere was peculiarly oppressive, and there
was a faint and curious odour in the air that she had never
smelled before.
      
She walked quickly across the hall and disappeared for a
moment around the corner to the left, at the back. There was
something deliberate and purposeful about this action; she had
the air of a woman who is off to investigate a rumour or to
confirm a suspicion. And when she returned a few seconds
later, there was a little glimmer of satisfaction on her face.
      
She paused in the centre of the hall, as though wondering
what to do next. Then, suddenly, she turned and went across
into her husband’s study. On the desk she found his address
book, and after hunting through it for a while she picked up
the phone and dialled a number.
      
“Hello,” she said. “Listen—this is Nine East Sixty-second
Street. . . . Yes, that’s right. Could you send someone round
as soon as possible, do you think? Yes, it seems to be stuck
between the second and third floors. At least, that’s where the
indicator’s pointing. . . . Right away? Oh, that’s very kind of
you. You see, my legs aren’t any too good for walking up a
lot of stairs. Thank you so much. Good-bye.”
      
She replaced the receiver and sat there at her husband’s
desk, patiently waiting for the man who would be coming
soon to repair the lift.

Mr Boggis was driving the car slowly, leaning back comfortably
in the seat with one elbow resting on the sill of the open
window. How beautiful the countryside, he thought; how
pleasant to see a sign or two of summer once again. The primroses
especially. And the hawthorn. The hawthorn was exploding
white and pink and red along the hedges and the
primroses were growing underneath in little clumps, and it
was beautiful.
      
He took one hand off the wheel and lit himself a cigarette.
The best thing now, he told himself, would be to make for the
top of Brill Hill. He could see it about half a mile ahead. And
that must be the village of Brill, that cluster of cottages among
the trees right on the very summit. Excellent. Not many of his
Sunday sections had a nice elevation like that to work from.
      
He drove up the hill and stopped the car just short of the
summit on the outskirts of the village. Then he got out and
looked around. Down below, the countryside was spread out
before him like a huge green carpet. He could see for miles.
It was perfect. He took a pad and pencil from his pocket,
leaned against the back of the car, and allowed his practised
eye to travel slowly over the landscape.
      
He could see one medium farmhouse over on the right,
back in the fields, with a track leading to it from the road.
There was another larger one beyond it. There was a house
surrounded by tall elms that looked as though it might be a
Queen Anne, and there were two likely farms away over on
the left. Five places in all. That was about the lot in this
direction.
      
Mr Boggis drew a rough sketch on his pad showing the
position of each so that he’d be able to find them easily when
he was down below, then he got back into the car and drove
up through the village to the other side of the hill. From there
he spotted six more possibles—five farms and one big white
Georgian house. He studied the Georgian house through his
binoculars. It had a clean prosperous look, and the garden was
well ordered. That was a pity. He ruled it out immediately.
There was no point in calling on the prosperous.
      
In this square then, in this section, there were ten possibles in
all. Ten was a nice number, Mr Boggis told himself. Just the
right amount for a leisurely afternoon’s work. What time was
it now? Twelve o’clock. He would have liked a pint of beer
in the pub before he started, but on Sundays they didn’t open
until one. Very well, he would have it later. He glanced at the
notes on his pad. He decided to take the Queen Anne first, the
house with the elms. It had looked nicely dilapidated through
the binoculars. The people there could probably do with some
money. He was always lucky with Queen Annes, anyway.
Mr Boggis climbed back into the car, released the hand-brake,
and began cruising slowly down the hill without the
engine.
      
Apart from the fact that he was at this moment disguised
in the uniform of a clergyman, there was nothing very sinister
about Mr Cyril Boggis. By trade he was a dealer in antique
furniture, with his own shop and showroom in the King’s
Road, Chelsea. His premises were not large, and generally he
didn’t do a great deal of business, but because he always
bought cheap, very very cheap, and sold very very dear, he
managed to make quite a tidy little income every year. He
was a talented salesman, and when buying or selling a piece he
could slide smoothly into whichever mood suited the client
best. He could become grave and charming for the aged,
obsequious for the rich, sober for the godly, masterful for the
weak, mischievous for the widow, arch and saucy for the
spinster. He was well aware of his gift, using it shamelessly on
every possible occasion; and often, at the end of an unusually
good performance, it was as much as he could do to prevent
himself from turning aside and taking a bow or two as the
thundering applause of the audience went rolling through the
theatre.
      
In spite of this rather clownish quality of his, Mr Boggis
was not a fool. In fact, it was said of him by some that he
probably knew as much about French, English, and Italian
furniture as anyone else in London. He also had surprisingly
good taste, and he was quick to recognise and reject an ungraceful
design, however genuine the article might be. His
real love, naturally, was for the work of the great eighteenth-century
English designers, Ince, Mayhew, Chippendale, Robert
Adam, Manwaring, Inigo Jones, Hepplewhite, Kent, Johnson,
George Smith, Lock, Sheraton, and the rest of them, but even
with these he occasionally drew the line. He refused, for
example, to allow a single piece from Chippendale’s Chinese
or Gothic period to come into his showroom, and the same
was true of some of the heavier Italian designs of Robert
Adam.
      
During the past few years, Mr Boggis had achieved considerable
fame among his friends in the trade by his ability to
produce unusual and often quite rare items with astonishing
regularity. Apparently the man had a source of supply that
was almost inexhaustible, a sort of private warehouse, and it
seemed that all he had to do was to drive out to it once a
week and help himself. Whenever they asked him where he
got the stuff, he would smile knowingly and wink and murmur
something about a little secret.
      
The idea behind Mr Boggis’s little secret was a simple one,
and it had come to him as a result of something that had
happened on a certain Sunday afternoon nearly nine years
before, while he was driving in the country.
      
He had gone out in the morning to visit his old mother,
who lived in Sevenoaks, and on the way back the fanbelt on
his car had broken, causing the engine to overheat and the
water to boil away. He had got out of the car and walked to
the nearest house, a smallish farm building about fifty yards
off the road, and had asked the woman who answered the door
if he could please have a jug of water.
      
While he was waiting for her to fetch it, he happened to
glance in through the door to the living-room, and there, not
five yards from where he was standing, he spotted something
that made him so excited the sweat began to come out all
over the top of his head. It was a large oak armchair of a type
that he had only seen once before in his life. Each arm, as well
as the panel at the back, was supported by a row of eight
beautifully turned spindles. The back panel itself was
decorated by an inlay of the most delicate floral design, and the
head of a duck was carved to lie along half the length of
either arm. Good God, he thought. This thing is late fifteenth
century!
      
He poked his head in further through the door, and there,
by heavens, was another of them on the other side of the
fireplace!
      
He couldn’t be sure, but two chairs like that must be worth
at least a thousand pounds up in London. And oh, what
beauties they were!
      
When the woman returned, Mr Boggis introduced himself
and straight away asked if she would like to sell her chairs.
      
Dear me, she said. But why on earth should she want to
sell her chairs?
      
No reason at all, except that he might be willing to give her
a pretty nice price.
      
And how much would he give? They were definitely not
for sale, but just out of curiosity, just for fun, you know,
how much would he give?
      
Thirty-five pounds.
      
How much?
      
Thirty-five pounds.
      
Dear me, thirty-five pounds. Well, well, that was very
interesting. She’d always thought they were valuable. They
were very old. They were very comfortable too. She couldn’t
possibly do without them, not possibly. No, they were not
for sale but thank you very much all the same.
      
They weren’t really so very old, Mr Boggis told her, and
they wouldn’t be at all easy to sell, but it just happened that
he had a client who rather liked that sort of thing. Maybe he
could go up another two pounds—call it thirty-seven. How
about that?
      
They bargained for half an hour, and of course in the end
Mr Boggis got the chairs and agreed to pay her something less
than a twentieth of their value.
      
That evening, driving back to London in his old station-wagon
with the two fabulous chairs tucked away snugly in
the back, Mr Boggis had suddenly been struck by what seemed
to him to be a most remarkable idea.
      
Look here, he said. If there is good stuff in one farmhouse,
then why not in others? Why shouldn’t he search for it? Why
shouldn’t he comb the countryside? He could do it on Sundays.
In that way, it wouldn’t interfere with his work at all.
He never knew what to do with his Sundays.
      
So Mr Boggis bought maps, large scale maps of all the
counties around London, and with a fine pen he divided each
of them up into a series of squares. Each of these squares
covered an actual area of five miles by five, which was about
as much territory, he estimated, as he could cope with on a
single Sunday, were he to comb it thoroughly. He didn’t want
the towns and the villages. It was the comparatively isolated
places, the large farmhouses and the rather dilapidated country
mansions, that he was looking for; and in this way, if he did
one square each Sunday, fifty-two squares a year, he would
gradually cover every farm and every country house in the
home counties.
      
But obviously there was a bit more to it than that. Country
folk are a suspicious lot. So are the impoverished rich. You
can’t go about ringing their bells and expecting them to show
you around their houses just for the asking, because they won’t
do it. That way you would never get beyond the front door.
How then was he to gain admittance? Perhaps it would be
best if he didn’t let them know he was a dealer at all. He could
be the telephone man, the plumber, the gas inspector. He could
even be a clergyman. . . .
      
From this point on, the whole scheme began to take on a
more practical aspect. Mr Boggis ordered a large quantity of
superior cards on which the following legend was engraved :