Читать книгу Death at the Bar - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 13

A tall young woman came into the room and stood, very much at her ease, screwing her eyes up a little in the glare of the lights.

‘I’m so sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,’ said Decima Moor. ‘Good-evening, every one.’

They all greeted her. There was a second’s pause and then Watchman moved into the centre of the room.

‘Good-evening,’ said Watchman.

She faced him and met his gaze.

‘So you have arrived,’ she said. ‘Good-evening.’

She touched his outstretched hand, walked over to the bar, and settled herself on one of the tall stools. She wore a fisherman’s jersey and dark blue slacks. Her hair was cut like a poet’s of the romantic period and was moulded in short locks about her head and face. She was good-looking with a classic regularity of beauty that was given an individual quirk by the blackness of her brows and the singular intensity of her eyes. She moved with the kind of grace that only just escapes angularity. She was twenty-four years of age.

If an observant stranger had been at the Feathers that evening, he might have noticed that on Decima’s entrance the demeanour of most of the men changed. For Decima owned that quality which Hollywood has loudly defined for the world. She owned a measure of attraction over which she herself had little governance. Though she must have been aware of this, she seemed unaware, and neither in her manner nor in her speech did she appear to exercise conscious charm. Yet from the moment of her entrance the men when they spoke to each other, looked at her, and in each of them was the disturbance of Decima’s attraction reflected. Watchman’s eyes brightened, he became more alert, and he spoke a little louder. Parish expanded as if in a spotlight and he exuded gallantry. Cubitt’s air of vague amiability contracted to a sharp awareness. Abel Pomeroy beamed upon Decima. Will, still flushed from his passage with Watchman, turned a deeper red. He answered her greeting awkwardly and was very much the solemn and self-conscious rustic.

Decima took a cigarette from Parish and looked round the taproom.

‘Has the dart game begun?’ she asked.

‘We’re waiting for you, my angel,’ said Parish. ‘What have you been doing with yourself all this time?’

‘Washing. I’ve attended a poison party. I hope you didn’t spill prussic acid about the garage, you two Pomeroys.’

‘You’re not ’feared, too, are you Miss Dessy?’ asked Abel. ‘A fine, bold, learned, female like you.’

Decima laughed.

‘A revolting picture,’ she said. ‘What do you think Will?’

She leant across the bar and looked beyond Abel into the Public. Will’s back was towards her. He turned and faced Decima. His eyes devoured her, but he said nothing. Decima raised her tankard and drank to him. He returned the gesture clumsily, and Cubitt saw Watchman’s eyebrows go up.

‘Well,’ said Decima suddenly, ‘what have you all been talking about? You’re very silent now, I must say.’

Before any of the others could reply, Watchman said: ‘We’ve been arguing, my dear.’

‘Arguing?’ She still looked at Will. Watchman drained his tankard, moved up to the bar, and sat on the stool next hers.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Until Miss Darragh came in we did nothing else.’

‘And why should I stop you?’ asked Miss Darragh. She slipped neatly off her high stool and toddled into the ingle-nook. ‘I’ve a passion for argument. What was it about, now? Art? Politics? Love?’

‘It was about politics,’ said Watchman, still looking at Decima. ‘The State, the People, and – private enterprise.’

‘You?’ Decima said. ‘But you’re hopeless. When our way of things comes round, you’ll be one of our major problems.’

‘Really? Won’t you need any barristers?’

‘I wish I could say no,’ said Decima.

Watchman laughed.

‘At least,’ he said, ‘I may hold a watching brief for you.’

She didn’t answer and he insisted: ‘Mayn’t I?’

‘You’re talking nonsense,’ said Decima.

‘Well,’ said Parish suddenly, ‘how about a Round-the-Clock contest to enliven the proceedings?’

‘Why not, indeed?’ murmured Cubitt.

‘Will you play?’ Watchman asked Decima.

‘Of course. Let’s all play. Coming, Will?’

But Will Pomeroy jerked his head towards the public taproom where two or three new-comers noisily demanded drinks.

‘Will you play, Miss Darragh?’ asked Decima.

‘I will not, thank you my dear. I’ve no eye at all for sport. When I was a child, didn’t I half-blind me brother Terence with an apple intended to strike me brother Brian? I’d do you some mischief were I to try. Moreover, I’m too fat. I’ll sit and watch the fun.’

Cubitt, Parish and Decima Moore stood in front of the dart-board. Watchman walked into the ingle-nook. From the moment when Will Pomeroy had taken up cudgels for him against Watchman, Legge had faded out. He had taken his drink, his pipe, and his thoughts, whatever they might be, into the public bar.

Presently a burst of applause broke out, and Will Pomeroy shouted that Legge was a wizard and invited Decima and Cubitt to look at what he had done. The others followed, peered into the public bar. A colossal red-faced man stood with his hand against the public dart-board. His fingers were spread out, and in the gaps between darts were embedded, with others outside the thumb and the little finger.

‘Look at that!’ cried Will. ‘Look at it!’

‘Ah,’ said Watchman. ‘So Mr Legge has found another victim. A great many people seem to have faith in Mr Legge.’

There was a sudden silence. Watchman leant over the private bar and raised his voice.

‘We are going to have a match,’ he said. ‘Three-a-side. Mr Legge, will you join us?’

Legge took his pipe out of his mouth and said, ‘What’s the game?’

‘Darts. Round-the-Clock.’

‘Round-the-Clock?’

‘Yes. Haven’t you played that version?’

‘A long time ago. I’ve forgotten –’

‘You have to get one dart in each segment in numerical sequence, ending on a double,’ explained Cubitt.

‘In fact,’ said Watchman very pleasantly, ‘you might call it “Doing Time.” Haven’t you ever done time, Mr Legge?’

‘No,’ said Legge, ‘But I’ll take you on. I’ll be there in a minute.’

‘Right. And if you beat me at this I’m damned if tomorrow night I don’t let you take a pot at my hand.’

‘Thank you,’ said Legge. ‘I’ll remember.’