fact. Where you Americans get the mistaken impression thatââ
âItâs a beautiful accent. I love just listening to you talk.â
As she had expected, this kept Randall quiet for a few minutes.
âNot to be repetitive,â he said at last. âBut where are you going?â
âSome hotel, I guess.â
âThe Hilton?â
âHeavens, no. I havenât got that kind of money. I do have a hotel reservation, come to think of it. But I had my luggage sent on there from Southampton, and if they manage to trace itâ¦â
âThey? Oh, yes, the bad guys. Do forgive me; they had momentarily slipped my mind. Yes, well, thatâs quite right; it wouldnât be difficult for them to trace your luggage, and if you donât materialize at the hotel, theyâll try others. The sort of places where an American would stay. I rather imagine youâd like me to recommend a nice, obscure hostelry?â
âNever mind,â Jess said wearily. âI donât blame you for thinking Iâm kidding you. I guess I should be grateful you donât think Iâm crazy. Yes, please, I would appreciate a recommendation.â
âGood. I know just the place.â
They proceeded in strained silence for another mile or so. Then Randall said,
âIf you donât mind, Iâd like to hear that sagaagain. You rather overdid the incoherence the first time round.â
Jess was tempted to employ a rude American colloquialism, but she reminded herself that, after all, it was his car.
âNot bad at all,â he said, when she finished. âBetter than I thought. Offhand I canât think of a plausible pattern. Is there one?â
âA what?â
Randall beeped his hornâit sounded like a small chamber orchestraâflicked his lights, and went roaring out and around the car ahead. Jessica flinched. She wasnât used to passing on the right.
âA pattern. Thatâs how these things are written, of course. Like a what dâyecallâemâpiece of woven cloth, warp and woof and all that. The writer knows the entire pattern, but the only part he displays to the reader is the warp, or perhaps itâs the woofâhalf of the whole, in other words. Naturally it appears to be incoherent and unconnected; thatâs the mystification. In the last chapter he weaves in the missing threads, and then the innocent reader sees what itâs all been about.â
âOh, skip it. If you donât believe me, why do you keep harping on the subject?â
âAs I said, itâs not a bad plot. I particularly like the part about dropping the ring in the collection bag. Though antique family jewelry is a bit passé. Microfilm dots, or sealed containers of new mutated germsâthatâs more in vogue.â
âNuts,â said Jess.
âBut your main plot problem at this juncture,â Randall went on blithely, âis that youâve lost the enemy. How the Hades do you expect them to find you in a hive like London? Youâd better go to the Hilton, or to that hotel where youâve booked a reservation.â
Jess growled under her breath.
âItâs a nice little problem,â Randall said, squinting at the excessively bright lights of an approaching car. âI mean, how do we get the villains back on your trail without making you sound a complete idiot? Thatâs one of the difficulties of this form of fiction; the heroine has to be an idiot or she wouldnât get into such idiotic predicaments. A sensible female would go straight to the police.â
âWho would, of course, believe me without question.â
âYes, I know, thatâs the conventional excuse. Wait a secâno, that wonât work. Even if they tracked you to the Blue Boar, Alf couldnât tellthem where youâd gone. Not that he wouldnât tell them if he knew. He adores causing trouble. But he couldnât.
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