What Are the Bugles Blowing For? by Nicolas Freeling

Author:Nicolas Freeling [Freeling, Nicolas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media

19

THE TEDDY-BEARS’ PICNIC

Even at eight in the morning there was no life in the air. As long as the sky stayed clear it had been tolerable. There was a haze after dawn, but it burned quickly off. Today it didn’t burn off. The light was odd; the sky had a peculiar steely look. Castang had slept deeply but badly. He had hangover eyes. His back muscles were atrociously stiffened and painful. Vera did her best by massaging the back of his neck. She didn’t want him to work.

‘Rab told you … It’s a simple matter … You don’t need to have the X-ray if you don’t want … A certificate on demand just like that … Only for twenty-four hours … A day like this.’

‘Going to be the father and mother of a thunderstorm.’

‘Why won’t you listen to me?’

‘Look; it may seem complicated to you but it’s in fact simple. I don’t want any official notice taken of that business last night. This affair is quite complicated enough.’

‘Oh … blow it,’ said Vera, who strongly disliked swearing, loathed any sort of blasphemy, and ‘When I say fuck I really mean it.’

‘Don’t worry. It’ll be an easy day. Nobody’ll do anything on a day like this.’

Since nobody would have dreamed of giving the police air-conditioning he plugged a small fan in over a file cabinet, which swept through ninety degrees and blew papers off his table, but for once nobody complained about the draught. The city sat under a smoggy pall. Fausta was in a bad mood. Even Richard, and it was rare, was in a bad mood. Around him hung a peculiar chemical perfume, something like abrasive scouring powder. Castang sniffed when he came in, not ostentatiously, but he was detected at once.

‘It’s these aerosols that stop one sweating. My idiot of a wife … this one is supposed to smell of green limes. Try Fausta; she smells delicious.’

‘What is it you smell of, Fausta?’

‘Bergamot,’ complacently. ‘But the real trouble is that Madame Richard thinks people will notice he smells like me and then they draw the wrong conclusions.’

‘So I smell like the kitchen sink,’ said Richard crossly.

‘Don’t make me laugh; it hurts my back.’

‘What’s wrong with your back?’

He explained: Richard got back into a good mood.

‘Sensible of you. The last thing we want is the Press inventing terrorist gangs. You know they even make the hotel-school apprentices buy these aerosols now.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Fausta. ‘Who wants a waiter that smells of feet?’

‘Yes, but even the cooks. This country isn’t what it was. What have you charged this boy with?’

‘Possession. Look; chain; stocking mask.’

‘Have it sent to the lab. Prints and stuff, to tie it to him firmly if need be.’

‘Yes, and my blood group,’ said Castang nastily. Plainly, no work was going to get done: sitting around waiting for the storm to break and talking about cooks’ feet, but the smell of bergamot came floating suddenly back, carrying a telex flimsy.

‘You’re going to enjoy this,’ said Fausta.

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