Maxwell's Mask by M.J. Trow Read Free Book Online Page B

the pleasure of Deena Harrison later that evening.
    He sat for a moment in the relative quiet of hisoffice in the Sixth Form Block, watching the dust gathering on his spider plant and fitfully dozing with a cup of coffee perched on his chest. From the walls around him, those he had loved looked fondly down. Marlene Dietrich was showing him her frillies in The Blue Angel; Mary Astor was proving she had White Shoulders; the bell was clearly tolling, not for Maxwell, but for Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman; and just to remind him of his day job, a kid with a red face and terrifying white eyes was one of the Children of the Damned . How well he knew them.
    â€˜Sorry, Mr Maxwell.’ The door crashed back and an apparition in a green overall stood there, fag in one hand, the invention of the late head of the FBI in the other. ‘Only if I don’t do you now, that bloody supervisor’ll be on my back again. Bosses, eh? Ain’t they the bane of yer bleedin’ life? How’s that young lady of yours? Any day now, ain’t it? Must get on.’ And the hoover roared into life as Maxwell meticulously answered her questions one by one. He hadn’t actually realised that Mrs B had the hots for him and that she was driven by lust as well as duty; or that she engaged in exotic Eastern sex with her line manager in the cleaning department.
    â€˜Tcha!’ he snorted. ‘Indeed they are. She’s fine, thanks, Mrs B. November, actually. Yes, I’m sure you must. No rest for the wicked.’
    But Mrs B was already well into her rendition ofextracts from Les Mis and, what with the hoover, didn’t hear a word of it. He was on his way to rinse his cup when he all but collided with a girl in the corridor.
    â€˜Deena?’
    â€˜Mr Maxwell.’ The hair was different. Frizzed rather than straight. As if she had just stepped from the shower. She’d lost a few pounds too, although it wasn’t in Peter Maxwell’s nature to stare too long and hard at the nubile bodies of his ex-students. Not, anyway, when somebody might be looking. She held out a firm hand to grip his. ‘Mr Diamond told me you’d be working with me.’
    â€˜Did he now?’
    â€˜Oh, I’m so pleased,’ she beamed, her dark eyes as bright as he remembered them. ‘It’ll be like old times.’
    â€˜Great.’
    â€˜I’ll be so grateful to learn from you.’
    He laughed. ‘My dear girl. A-level History was a long time ago. You’re a red carnation woman now, unless I miss my guess.’
    â€˜A red…oh, yes, yes, of course.’
    â€˜As I understand it,’ Maxwell swept on, ‘you’re in the driving seat now. I’m just tagging along for legal reasons.’
    â€˜Now, now.’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘I’ve heard things about you.’
    â€˜Ah, none of those are true,’ Maxwell assured her. ‘I’ve burned all the negatives.’
    â€˜Your Cyrano,’ she said. ‘Not a dry eye in the house.’
    â€˜My Cyrano?’ he repeated. ‘You weren’t a twinkle in your father’s eye when I did that.’
    â€˜It’s in the blood,’ she assured him. ‘Like falling off a bike. You never forget.’
    There was rather an over-richness of metaphor there for Maxwell’s taste, but then, the girl had gone to Oxford; you couldn’t expect too much.
    â€˜I just popped in to apologise for last night. The last-minute rehearsal cancellation, I mean. The Arquebus big-wigs had some sort of committee meeting and I didn’t have a chance to get a message to you.’
    â€˜So I believe,’ he sighed.
    â€˜Tonight, though. Half-seven, if that’s OK?’
    â€˜Half-seven would be fine.’
    â€˜I’d offer to pick you up – still got old Surrey, I hope?’
    â€˜My trusty steed,’ he smiled. ‘Oh, yes. She’s got a few years in her yet.’
    â€˜Well, my