Crystal's fingers, with their scarlet nails, began to tap on the newel post of the stairs.
"I don't in the least," she said, "mind acting as your hostess..."
"Thank you, my dear." (Irony there?)
"But I think you might give me a little more consideration than Jean. This—this Anglo-American newspaperman. He's socially presentable, of course?"
"He is," Manning replied grimly. "What is more, he loves books."
It was another sore point, which (thought Crystal) the impressive old devil had deliberately brought up. Across the broad hall from the drawing room was the library, three of its walls lined to the ceiling with second-hand books. If Manning had collected first editions, Crystal could have understood. But they were merely old and often half-ruined books, because her father said he could never be comfortable with a new book in his hands.
Crystal wondered what Sir Henry Merrivale would think of this horrible collection.
‘I shall dress for dinner," she murmured, "of course."
And she did. Crystal wore the black and silver gown which, with her inordinate sex appeal, would have disturbed a Trappist monk.
Now, with the rain sluicing down the windows, in the blue-and-yellow drawing room decorated by another kind of Adolphe, she was at the last point of wrath. She had distinctly let it be known that there would be cocktails and canapes at half-past seven. She had pictured a languid half-hour before dinner, while Sir Henry Merrivale, in flawless evening clothes, sipped a cocktail and spoke lightly of his adventures with tigers in the Simla.
And not a soul had yet turned up.
"Oh, so-and-so!" murmured Crystal, surpassing her previous efforts.
There was a clack of footsteps on the stairs outside in the hall. Crystal stiffened, and languidly settled her gown.
But it was only her brother.
Robert Manning, a pleasant-faced and rather too tall young man, with sandy hair and a touch of freckles, slouched into the room with an air of vague preoccupation. Bob had not troubled to dress for dinner, and the colours of his tie would have knocked out your eye at ten yards.
"Good evening, Bob."
'"Lo, Crys."
Crystal's sweet smile was not hypocritical; she really was well-meaning, but sometimes it grew strained. She indicated the big cocktail shaker, moist-gleaming, and the plates of canapes.
"Have a cocktail, Bob?" invited Crystal.
Bob considered this proposal for a moment.
"Better not," he decided, shaking his head gloomily. "In training, Crys."
"Then have a canape?" Crystal suggested sweetly. "Surely that won't prevent you from hitting a bunt for three hundred feet?"
"Look, Crys, don't you even know what a bunt is?" Bob asked. Automatically his fingers closed round the grip of an imaginary bat, and his brown eye gleamed. "You lay it down, like this, so that the runner on first can ..."
"One moment, dear!" said Crystal, and raised her hand. Her heart beat quickened. The guest of honour was arriving.
Three men entered the room. The first must be Mr. Norton, who (Crystal instantly decided) looked like Leslie Howard. She saw her father's silver grey hair, worn rather long but cropped up short beside the ears. Then...
At her first sight of Sir Henry Merrivale—in plus fours, with his spectacles drawn down on his broad nose—Crystal could not have been more startled if one of the Simla tigers had stuck its head round the corner of the door. But she was a clever and quick-witted girl. After all, she couldn't expect him to look like Ronald Colman. And the famous man, the scion of ancient lineage, was in her house.
"And this," her father was saying, "is my daughter Crystal. Sir Henry Merrivale."
Crystal allowed, her dark-fringed eyelids to droop, and smiled.
"Well, stab my bowels," said the scion of ancient lineage, in a voice which must have carried as far as the kitchen, "if you're not a nice-lookin' wench too! Fred, you got a monopoly on nice-lookin' wenches!"
"Oh, Crystal's not so bad," murmured Manning.
Crystal's voice stuck in her throat. She couldn't breathe. What restored something of her poise was what she imagined to be her father's disparaging remark.
"Then you approve of me, Sir Henry?" Crystal drawled.
"Approve of you?" yelled the great man. He leaned forward, and paid her what he believed to be a feverish compliment. "Lord love a duck, I'd hate to see you in an Algiers pub full of French sailors."
"Wh-wh-why?"
"Because," confided H.M., "they'd all cut each other's throats gettin' at you. And that's mass murder." His sharp little eyes fixed on her. "But wouldn't you like to have men killin' each other for your sake?"
Crystal gave H.M. a curious glance, and decided he was—interesting.
"By the way," H.M. confided. "Speakin' of a romp on the sofa..."
Frederick Manning cleared his throat loudly.
"And this is my son," he announced. Bob Manning, tall and gangling and sandy-haired, extended his hand with a sheepish smile. "How are you, sir?"
"I'm feelin' pretty fit, thanks. Looky here! Aren't you the bloke who's interested in motor cars and baseball?"
Bob's face came to life, pleased but astonished.
"Yes, sir. But—don't you play cricket? I mean, of course"—furtively Bob glanced at H.M.'s corporation—"when you were a little younger?"
A faint purplish colour was beginning to creep into H.M.'s face. But he spoke gently.
"We-el!" he said with a loftily deprecating gesture. "I did sort of toy with baseball, son, when I was a lot younger. Nothin' much."
Bob grew eager.
"Listen, sir! Could you come out to the field tomorrow? Moose Wilson's promised to be there." Bob spoke with awe. "The pitcher, you know. He's a grand guy. I know he'd throw you some easy ones if you wanted to practice hitting a little."
"And here," Crystal nodded brightly towards the door, "are Jean and Dave. How nice to see you again, Dave!" Crystal had just been introduced to Cy Norton, and thought him highly interesting— with possibilities. "This is Mr. Norton!"
Jean and Davis, neither in evening clothes, tried to make themselves inconspicuous. For some reason Jean was clutching Davis's arm. Cy Norton shook hands with Huntington Davis, finding him friendly and self-assured, the white teeth flashing against the deep tan—and Cy disliked the man at sight
"But I'm afraid.;said Crystal. Then her voice rose. "Dad!''
"Yes, my dear?"
"We must be very quick with the cocktails. I've ordered dinner for eight o'clock, and the cook is such a tyrant'"
"That doesn't matter, Crystal," said Manning. His low-pitched bass voice always caused silence and attention, when he used it as he used it now.
"Doesn't matter?"
"No, my dear." Manning spoke with polished courtesy. "/ have ordered dinner put back until nine o'clock. I have decided to thrash this matter out before dinner."
A long run of thunder rolled and exploded distantly, but with no less heavy rain. There was nothing in the least ominous in Manning's tone. Yet Jean gripped Davis's arm more tightly, and Crystal opened wide eyes of astonishment Bob, his expression wooden again, did not appear to listen.
"Will you all sit down, please?" requested Manning.
He moved across the blue and yellow room, with its heavy carpet and sat down in a chair under a reading lamp. The particular M. Adolphe who designed this room had included some very peculiar furniture.
Cy sat down not far from young Bob Manning. H.M. swelled his bulk from an out-of-shape armchair. Jean and Davis sat very close together at one end of a sofa; Crystal sat at the other end, near a lamp, so that the light could make the best of white skin and shadows against a low-cut black-and-silver gown.
"No," said Manning, as Crystal made a move. "Don't ring for Stuffy. We can omit the cocktails and canapes for the moment"