Hand in Glove by Ngaio Marsh Page A

man-to-man. “Not a bad little heap by and large, and the price is O.K. Like to have a look at her, Mr. Dodds? I’d appreciate your opinion.”
    Bimbo, with an air of mingled distaste and curiosity, intimated that he would, and the two men left Moppett in the drawing-room. Standing well back from the French window, she watched them at the car: Leonard talking, Bimbo with his hands in his pockets. Trying, thought Moppett, not to be interested, but he
is
interested. He’s a car man. He’s married her for his Bentley and his drinks and the grandeur and fun. She’s old. She can’t have all that much of what it takes. Or, by any chance, can she?
    A kind of contempt possessed her: a contempt for Désirée and Bimbo and anybody who was not like herself and Leonard.
Living dangerously
, she thought, that’s us. She wondered if it would be advisable to ask Leonard not to say “appreciate,” “O.K.,” “Pardon me,” and “appro.” She herself didn’t mind how he talked, she even enjoyed their rows when he would turn foul-mouthed, adderlike, and brutal. Still, if they
were
to crash the County — They’ll
have
to ask us, she thought, after this. They can’t not. We’ve been clever as clever.
    She continued to peer slantways through the window.
    When Désirée returned, Moppett was looking with respect at a picture above the fireplace.
    Désirée said there would be a parcel at the grocer’s in Little Codling. “Your quickest way to the station is to turn right, outside the gates,” she said. “We couldn’t be more obliged to you.”
    She went out with Moppett to the car, and when it had shot out of sight down the avenue, linked her arm in her husband’s.
    “Shockers,” she said, “aren’t they?”
    “Honestly, darling, I can’t think what you’re about.”
    “Can’t you?”
    “None of my business, of course,” he muttered. She looked at him with amusement.
    “Don’t you like them?” she asked.
    “Like them!”
    “I find myself quite amused by them,” she said, and added indifferently, “They do know what they want, at least.”
    “It was perfectly obvious from the moment they crashed their way in that they were hell-bent on getting asked for tonight.”
    “I know.”
    “Are you going to pretend not to notice their hints?”
    “Oh,” she said with a faint chuckle, “I don’t think so. I expect I’ll ask them.”
    Bimbo said: “Of course I never interfere—”
    “Of course,” she agreed. “And how wise of you, isn’t it?” He drew away from her. “You don’t usually sulk either.”
    “You let people impose on you.”
    “Not,” she said gently, “without realizing it,” and he reddened.
    “That young man,” he said, “is a monster. Did you
smell
him?”
    “In point of fact, he’s got quite a share of what it takes.”
    “You can’t mean it!”
    “Yes, I do. I never tell lies about sex, as such. I should think he’s probably a bad hat, wouldn’t you?”
    “I would. As shifty as they make them.”
    “P’raps he’s a gangster and Moppett’s his moll.”
    “Highly probable,” he said angrily.
    “I can’t wait to hear Leonard being the life and soul of my party.”
    “I promise you, if you do ask them, you’ll regret it.”
    “Should we hire a detective to keep an eye on the spoons?”
    “At least you can come in and help me with the bloody poetry.”
    “I think I shall ask them,” she said, in her rather hoarse voice. “Don’t you think it could be fun? Would you really not want it?”
    “You know damn’ well what I want,” he muttered, staring at her.
    She raised her eyebrows. “I forgot to tell you,” she said. “Ormsbury’s dead.”
    “Your brother?”
    “That’s right. In Australia.”
    “Ought you to—”
    “I haven’t seen him for thirty years, and I never liked him. A horrid, dreary fellow.”
    Bimbo said: “Good God, who’s this?”
    “The Bloodbath,” Désirée said calmly. “So it isn’t out of commission. Bad luck for