Carson's Conspiracy by Michael Innes

rather liked being a local lady of some consequence at that sort of thing. And the same underlying idea attended her next remark.
    â€˜I wonder, Carl, whether Robin has been taking an interest in stock-raising. If so, our shorthorns ought to appeal to him, don’t you think?’
    Shorthorns weren’t quite as mysterious to Carson as were tombolas. Gentlemen farmers, among others, went in for them. But he was no more a gentleman farmer than his wife was a lady one, and the shorthorns were as mythical as Robin himself. The thought came to him to imagine Cynthia in the witness box at any sort of criminal trial. (Not, he told himself parenthetically, that she could legally give evidence against him .) The judge would listen to her for five minutes, and then quietly suggest to counsel that she had enlightened the court enough. Although privileged to be his wife, Cynthia was definitely among the unimportant people. If she couldn’t be relied on, neither had she to be reckoned with. He could forget about her, and get on with the thing.
    Carson picked up the portable telephone, and made an appointment with Peter Pluckworthy.

 
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5
    â€˜A cat-nap,’ Pluckworthy shouted. ‘Why the hell should I take a cat-nap? I don’t want a cat-nap. I sleep perfectly well, thank you, at proper times.’
    â€˜Kidnap,’ Carson shouted back. ‘Not cat-nap, you idiot. Kidnap.’
    The shouting was because of the traffic thundering by. For this most secret conference Carson had chosen a locale with meticulous care. He had reconnoitred the terrain the day before, and hit upon this kerb-side café where they were now sitting. As not in Paris and certain other continental cities, such ventures in London are commonly newfangled, skimpy, and comprehensively infelicitous. If you want to be deafened by every sort of vehicular outrage, you sit down at one of their nasty little tables. It is without even a newspaper on a stick being provided by the establishment. After some ten or fifteen minutes, you may be brought a cup of tepid coffee.
    Carson didn’t want coffee, and he didn’t want to be deafened. But he did want to avoid the menace of the bugs. And this he was certainly achieving. Not the most refined acoustic device conceivable could have unscrambled a conversation from the din. Raising his voice still higher, he endeavoured to explain this wise precaution to his companion. What Pluckworthy immediately gathered from it was that his employer had gone nearly as dotty as his wife. Madness was infectious, no doubt. Yet it wasn’t so much insanity of any recognizable sort as a mere crumbling of nerve. So, even more than commonly, he must mind his p ’s and q ’s with Carson. If the man had some outstanding villainly in mind, that might mean something exceptional in the way of bribe or bait for him . And be amusing as well. But, first, Carson needed to be recalled to his senses. This lunatic fit of jitters didn’t augur well for his reliability in a tight spot.
    â€˜See here, Carl,’ Pluckworthy said. ‘It’s nearly one o’clock, and what I need is a decent meal. You’re going to give it to me.’ He paused for a moment, and then named the most expensive restaurant that came into his head. ‘We’ll go there.’ With this, Pluckworthy jumped to his feet and flagged down a passing taxi. ‘Get in,’ he commanded briskly.
    And, obediently, Carson got in.
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    The change of setting was a success. Almost with his first glass of wine, Carson relaxed a little. When the bottle was finished, and brandy before them, confidence had fully returned to him. He even managed to see his fears about the bug as having been almost comically excessive. Nevertheless, when he judged the time had come to unfold his plan (or part of it, perhaps it should be said) he was unable to resist leaning confidentially over the table and dropping his voice almost to a whisper.