Johnson Johnson 04 - Dolly and the Doctor Bird by Dorothy (as Dorothy Halliday Dunnett

complaint. Addressing her husband in a shaken voice, she observed that it would be the first anniversary since their wedding they had not spent together.
    Over her head, I met Sir Bartholomew’s eye. I knew, without being told, that it would do no good to suggest that she might, with the greatest of ease, draw up a chair and spend the whole evening in the hospital with her husband if she so wished. It was the celebration she had been counting on, not Bartholomew Edgecombe’s company.
    He knew it, too. He squeezed her hand and said, “Denise. Wallace Brady would take you out like a shot. Why not phone him?”
    “I’m tired of Wallace,” she said. I could imagine it. Wallace Brady was interested in bridges, not in café society.
    “Well, Johnson then?” he said. “He squired you about all day yesterday. Charm him into painting your picture for nothing.”
    She gave a watery smile, and I gave her husband top marks for diplomacy. I said, “Would you like to use the hospital telephone, Lady Edgecombe? I think you could get Mr. Johnson at Coral Harbour.” I added, civilly, “He would give you a splendid evening out, I am sure.”
    “I don’t much like yachts,” said Denise; but she was clearly thinking.
    “Café Martinique? Junkanoo Club? Charley Charley’s? Tell him I’ll spring the cash,” said Edgecombe, smiling. He had had, I judged, just about enough, and I wished the woman would make up her mind before I had to do it for her. He added, “Or the Bamboo Conch, Denise. The nurse said they’re putting on a special show there for Krishtof Bey.”
    I should think Lady Edgecombe and I stiffened at the identical moment. Her nylon lashes fell wide apart and she exclaimed,
    “Not Krishtof Bey? Bart, is he going to be there?” But I was quite silent because I was using my brain.
    I said, “You should meet him, Lady Edgecombe. He was on the plane yesterday morning, but perhaps Sir Bartholomew doesn’t remember? The young Turk who helped out the steward?”
    His lips parted, and a little color came into his face. He had been, and was still, a man of striking appearance, and until lately, I judged, in perfect condition. I understood why Denise had married him, and thought too that he probably had all the qualifications for a secret agent in this part of the world: socially acceptable, noncompetitive, and a handy man, I supposed, in a fight.
    He said, “Was he the ballet dancer? I didn’t even look at him properly. It was damned embarrassing as it was.” He grinned at me over his wife’s head. “A firsthand unique encounter with one of the world’s greatest dancers, and I can’t even describe it in company.”
    “How kind you are, Doctor,” said Lady Edgecombe. “Did you say there was a telephone?”
    I had her husband medicated and settled for the night by the time she came back. Her walk down the corridor was slow, and at first I assumed that Johnson had turned her down flat.
    But it wasn’t that at all. She came in, leaving the door open, and said to me, “He would like
you
to go with us.”
    I make it a matter of practice to show no surprise. In any case, I could think of one or two possible reasons why Johnson Johnson might want my presence at a nightclub attended by both Bart Edgecombe’s wife and one of our suspects, although Denise clearly could think of none. I said, “Well, I’m free, as it happens. But I am sure you would prefer a tête-à-tête.”
    “No. I expect he’s right,” said Denise, and bending, ranged her husband’s two slippers firmly under the bed with brittle efficiency. She straightened. “In these colonies people do talk.”
    I took her with me out of the room.
    I went back once, to check on Edgecombe before I left. He was alone this time and not yet asleep. He looked up vaguely and smiled. “I hope you don’t find it too dreary. Johnson tells me you know what we’re up to.”
    “Yes.”
    He said, “I’ve got one worry. They might try to get at me through