muscle man in sight. It wasnât so much as a chauffeur that I now valued Worthington at my elbow, but as a prospective bodyguard. The Elvis lookalike had radiated latent menace at an intensity that I hadnât met before and didnât like; and for a detonator there was fierce, thorny Rose, and it was with her in mind that I casually asked Worthington if heâd ever placed a bet at the races with Arthur Robins, Est. 1894.
âFor a start,â he said with sarcasm, fastening his seat belt as if keeping to the law were routine, âthe Robins family donât exist. That bunch of swindlers known as Arthur Robins are mostly Veritys and Webbers, with a couple of Browns thrown in. There hasnât been a bona fide Arthur Robins ever. Itâs just a pretty name.â
Eyebrows raised in surprise, I asked, âHow do you know all that?â
âMy old man ran a book,â he said. âFasten your seat belt, Gerard, the cops in this town would put eagles out of business. Like I said, my old man was a bookmaker, he taught me the trade. Youâve got to be real sharp at figures, though, to make a profit, and I never got quick enough. But Arthur Robins, thatâs the front name for some whizzers of speed merchants. Donât bet with them, thatâs my advice.â
I said, âDo you know that Eddie Payne, Martinâs valet, has a daughter called Rose who says her last name is Robins and whoâs on cuddling terms with an Elvis Presley lookalike taking bets for Arthur Robins?â
Worthington, who had been about to start the car outside Logan Glass to drive us to Bon-Bon, sat back in his seat, letting his hands fall laxly on his thighs.
âNo,â he said thoughtfully, âI didnât know that.â He thought for a while, his forehead troubled. âThat Elvis fellow,â he said finally, âthatâs Norman Osprey. You donât want to mix with him.â
âAnd Rose?â
Worthington shook his head. âI donât know her. Iâll ask around.â He roused himself and started the car.
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By Thursday, the day of Martinâs funeral, the police as predicted hadnât found one identifiable videotape in a country awash with them.
On the day before the funeral a young woman on a motorbikeâhuge helmet, black leather jacket, matching pants, heavy bootsâsteered into one of the five parking spaces at the front of Logan Glass. Outside in the January chill she pulled off the helmet and shook free a cap of fair fine hair before walking without swagger into the gallery and showroom as if she knew the way well.
I was putting the pre-annealing final touches to a vase, with Pamela Jane telling a group of American tourists how it was done, but there was something attention-claiming about the motorcyclist, and as soon as I thought of her in terms of glass, I knew her infallibly.
âCatherine Dodd,â I said.
âMost people donât recognize me.â She was amused, not piqued.
With interest I watched the tourists pack somewhat closer together as if to elbow out the stranger in threatening clothes.
Pamela Jane finished her spiel and one of the American men said the vases were too expensive, even if they were handmade and handsome. He collected nods and all-around agreement, and there was relief in the speed with which the tourists settled instead on simple dolphins and little dishes. While Hickory wrapped the parcels and wrote out bills, I asked the motorcyclist if there were any news of my lost tape.
She watched me handle the vase in heatproof fiber and put it to cool in the annealing oven.
âIâm afraid,â said Detective Constable Dodd in plainâwell, plainerâclothes, âyour tape is gone for good.â
I told her it held a secret.
âWhat secret?â
âThatâs the point, I donât know. Martin Stukely told his wife he was giving me a secret on tape for