The Camelot Caper by Elizabeth Peters

fact. Where you Americans get the mistaken impression that—”
    â€œIt’s a beautiful accent. I love just listening to you talk.”
    As she had expected, this kept Randall quiet for a few minutes.
    â€œNot to be repetitive,” he said at last. “But where are you going?”
    â€œSome hotel, I guess.”
    â€œThe Hilton?”
    â€œHeavens, no. I haven’t 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 it…”
    â€œThey? Oh, yes, the bad guys. Do forgive me; they had momentarily slipped my mind. Yes, well, that’s quite right; it wouldn’t be difficult for them to trace your luggage, and if you don’t materialize at the hotel, they’ll try others. The sort of places where an American would stay. I rather imagine you’d like me to recommend a nice, obscure hostelry?”
    â€œNever mind,” Jess said wearily. “I don’t blame you for thinking I’m kidding you. I guess I should be grateful you don’t think I’m crazy. Yes, please, I would appreciate a recommendation.”
    â€œGood. I know just the place.”
    They proceeded in strained silence for another mile or so. Then Randall said,
    â€œIf you don’t mind, I’d like to hear that sagaagain. You rather overdid the incoherence the first time round.”
    Jess was tempted to employ a rude American colloquialism, but she reminded herself that, after all, it was his car.
    â€œNot bad at all,” he said, when she finished. “Better than I thought. Offhand I can’t think of a plausible pattern. Is there one?”
    â€œA what?”
    Randall beeped his horn—it sounded like a small chamber orchestra—flicked his lights, and went roaring out and around the car ahead. Jessica flinched. She wasn’t used to passing on the right.
    â€œA pattern. That’s how these things are written, of course. Like a what d’yecall’em—piece 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 it’s the woof—half of the whole, in other words. Naturally it appears to be incoherent and unconnected; that’s the mystification. In the last chapter he weaves in the missing threads, and then the innocent reader sees what it’s all been about.”
    â€œOh, skip it. If you don’t believe me, why do you keep harping on the subject?”
    â€œAs I said, it’s 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 germs—that’s more in vogue.”
    â€œNuts,” said Jess.
    â€œBut your main plot problem at this juncture,” Randall went on blithely, “is that you’ve lost the enemy. How the Hades do you expect them to find you in a hive like London? You’d better go to the Hilton, or to that hotel where you’ve booked a reservation.”
    Jess growled under her breath.
    â€œIt’s a nice little problem,” Randall said, squinting at the excessively bright lights of an approaching car. “I mean, how do we get the villains back on your trail without making you sound a complete idiot? That’s one of the difficulties of this form of fiction; the heroine has to be an idiot or she wouldn’t get into such idiotic predicaments. A sensible female would go straight to the police.”
    â€œWho would, of course, believe me without question.”
    â€œYes, I know, that’s the conventional excuse. Wait a sec—no, that won’t work. Even if they tracked you to the Blue Boar, Alf couldn’t tellthem where you’d gone. Not that he wouldn’t tell them if he knew. He adores causing trouble. But he couldn’t.