Stealth by Margaret Duffy Read Free Book Online Page B

provincial.
    â€˜Why should you know who they are? They probably all run bookshops or write very bad poetry for the local rag,’ Patrick declared robustly when I had voiced my gloom. All the ex-choirboys I have ever known possessed a carrying sort of voice and this one is no exception.
    â€˜There’s Hamlyn,’ I said, spotting the man on the far side of the room.
    Patrick took a couple of glasses of orange juice from a waitress’s tray and handed one to me. ‘So it is. Heading straight for the bar too, so there’s a surprise. Keep close.’
    We set off through the throng that was packed into the space surrounding the long table laden with flowers, glassware and silver cutlery – plated, I had a surreptitious look – in the centre of the room, this particular author wondering how closely he intended to ‘observe’ his quarry. Fairly snuggly, by the look of it. There was also the possibility that the foray was nothing at all to do with work but merely the action of a man furious with someone who had hurled obscenities at his wife. I felt a regrettable
frisson
of girlish excitement.
    The bar was extensive, a curving affair taking up one whole corner of the room with a small section at one end reserved for serving coffee. It was furnished with several small tables and dinky little chairs, at one of which Hamlyn was sitting, uncomfortably, a large whisky in front of him, accompanied by the woman who had introduced herself to me as Alice but Patrick was convinced was Claudia Barton-Jones. He leaned on the nearby bar, drank half his juice, dumped it down on the counter and subjected the writer to a steady stare. There is a good repertoire of these, ranging from amused curiosity at one end of the scale through open derision to penetrating malevolence at the other. I was standing next to him, but on the leeward side, so could only guess which particular one had been selected. At a guess it was the second most likely to hit the mark.
    But I was wrong, completely, utterly and absolutely wrong.
    â€˜Do I know you?’ the author enquired heavily.
    Patrick cleared his throat and when he spoke it was hesitantly with a mid-West American accent. ‘I just wanted to apologize to you, Mr Hamlyn. I mean, for the other day. When you – you thought I was tailing you, kinda lurking around. But I wasn’t. I don’t do things like that. Folks from where I come from know how important privacy is to important people like yourself.’
    Hamlyn’s face sort of cracked into an expression that had every possibility of being a smile. ‘That’s all right. I have to say though that when I first saw you I did imagine you might be after my wallet. That was before I learned that you were Miss Langley’s – er – friend.’ Here he looked right through me. ‘Is that all you wanted to say?’
    â€˜Gee, y-y-yes,’ Patrick stammered. He turned and hurried away. I had no choice but to follow.
    â€˜Remind me to lift his wallet before he goes,’ Patrick said under his breath, handing me a glass of wine.
    â€˜Well, you already have in a way and that was quite the right thing to do,’ I soothed, giving him one from the same tray while really, really needing to give Alice’s/Claudia’s smirking face a good smack.
    â€˜Damn the man – but I was hoping he’d come out of his shell a bit. We might have learned something.’
    â€˜I don’t think we would have done. Just call it damage control.’
    â€˜But did he swallow it?’ Patrick persisted. ‘Be honest.’
    I gave it thought. ‘No, possibly not.’
    We spent a fruitless evening. Hamlyn and the female went from sight so either ate at a nearby restaurant or in their room. Patrick slipped back into his role of escort to medium famous novelist, chatted to all and sundry, applauded the speeches, even a closing one from the interminable and impenetrable Norwegian