more civilized than any other big city. In many ways London is just like New York. They’re both falling apart at the same places and if you’re poor, they’re both rotten places to live. If you’re rich—well, if you’re rich, almost anywhere is a good place to live.”
“Strange you should say that,” Apex said. “Most Americans like London.”
“That’s because a quaint brand of English is spoken here. If they spoke French here, you wouldn’t get five tourists a year.”
Eddie Apex smiled. “You exaggerate.”
“Not much,” I said. “Think it over while you’re deciding when you’re going to tell me why you got me over here.”
“We brought you over here, Mr. St. Ives, to get our sword back.” It was a drawling, husky voice and it came from behind me and it belonged to a woman. I rose and turned. She was standing in the doorway of the drawing room, smiling a little, and gazing at me with eyes that reminded me of a cat’s, the half-wild kind that hasn’t lived around the hearth too long. But it was her high cheekbones and her artful makeup that probably caused her eyes to look that way, that and the fact that, like a cat, she didn’t seem to blink very often.
Apex had risen and was smiling. “You haven’t met Ceil, have you?”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t. Hello, Mrs. Apex.”
She crossed the room and held out her hand, still smiling. “I hope, Mr. St. Ives, that you won’t be disappointed to learn that I adore listening at keyholes.”
“Nothing I like better myself,” I said, “unless it’s reading other people’s mail.”
“Oh, do you like to do that, too?”
“I also have a few other failings.”
She let go of my hand and cocked her head to one side, studying me with those eyes that I saw were somewhere between blue and green. “And you’re going to be our go-between. How nice.”
“I’m going to discuss it, at least.”
Before she could say anything else, Jack, the ancient butler, wheeled in the tea trolley.
“Oh, good, tea,” she said. “Over here, Jack, I think.” Over here was near a straight-backed chair that had been covered with a green material that I thought might have looked better on a snooker table. She lowered herself into the chair and then waited for the old man to roll the tea trolley over.
“Thank you, Jack,” she said.
“Will the gentleman be staying for luncheon, mum?”
“Didn’t I tell you? We’ll all be going to Father’s for lunch.”
“I’ll tell cook then, mum. She won’t like it, will she? But I’ll tell her.”
“And I’ll tell Father hello for you. And Uncle Norbert, too.”
“Yes, mum. You do that. Tell him I said hello. And your uncle, too. Him, too. And I’ll tell cook that there’ll be nobody for lunch. Nobody at all.” The old man stood there for a moment as if trying to think of somebody else he should tell, and when he couldn’t, he turned and moved briskly away with his spry step.
“Poor old Jack,” Ceil Apex said.
“How old is he?”
“Jack? I don’t really know.”
“He was a wedding gift,” Apex said.
“He wasn’t either,” she said. “It was just that when Dad and Uncle Norbert moved into their new flat, there wasn’t room for Jack. Or Tom either.”
“Tom’s the chauffeur,” Apex said. “He was a wedding gift, too.”
“Of course, Tom’s younger than Jack,” Ceil Apex said. “At least ten years younger.”
“Tom’s only seventy,” Apex said.
“Jack’s not eighty.”
“How old was Jack when you first remember him?”
She thought about it as she arranged the teacups. “Well, he was getting on even then and that was twenty years ago—when I first remember him.”
More like twenty-five years ago, I thought, as I sat there watching her pour the tea. I guessed her age at being around thirty, a year either way. She had one of those faces in which the bones are just right and she would look the same at forty as she did now and not much older at fifty unless her
“Strange you should say that,” Apex said. “Most Americans like London.”
“That’s because a quaint brand of English is spoken here. If they spoke French here, you wouldn’t get five tourists a year.”
Eddie Apex smiled. “You exaggerate.”
“Not much,” I said. “Think it over while you’re deciding when you’re going to tell me why you got me over here.”
“We brought you over here, Mr. St. Ives, to get our sword back.” It was a drawling, husky voice and it came from behind me and it belonged to a woman. I rose and turned. She was standing in the doorway of the drawing room, smiling a little, and gazing at me with eyes that reminded me of a cat’s, the half-wild kind that hasn’t lived around the hearth too long. But it was her high cheekbones and her artful makeup that probably caused her eyes to look that way, that and the fact that, like a cat, she didn’t seem to blink very often.
Apex had risen and was smiling. “You haven’t met Ceil, have you?”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t. Hello, Mrs. Apex.”
She crossed the room and held out her hand, still smiling. “I hope, Mr. St. Ives, that you won’t be disappointed to learn that I adore listening at keyholes.”
“Nothing I like better myself,” I said, “unless it’s reading other people’s mail.”
“Oh, do you like to do that, too?”
“I also have a few other failings.”
She let go of my hand and cocked her head to one side, studying me with those eyes that I saw were somewhere between blue and green. “And you’re going to be our go-between. How nice.”
“I’m going to discuss it, at least.”
Before she could say anything else, Jack, the ancient butler, wheeled in the tea trolley.
“Oh, good, tea,” she said. “Over here, Jack, I think.” Over here was near a straight-backed chair that had been covered with a green material that I thought might have looked better on a snooker table. She lowered herself into the chair and then waited for the old man to roll the tea trolley over.
“Thank you, Jack,” she said.
“Will the gentleman be staying for luncheon, mum?”
“Didn’t I tell you? We’ll all be going to Father’s for lunch.”
“I’ll tell cook then, mum. She won’t like it, will she? But I’ll tell her.”
“And I’ll tell Father hello for you. And Uncle Norbert, too.”
“Yes, mum. You do that. Tell him I said hello. And your uncle, too. Him, too. And I’ll tell cook that there’ll be nobody for lunch. Nobody at all.” The old man stood there for a moment as if trying to think of somebody else he should tell, and when he couldn’t, he turned and moved briskly away with his spry step.
“Poor old Jack,” Ceil Apex said.
“How old is he?”
“Jack? I don’t really know.”
“He was a wedding gift,” Apex said.
“He wasn’t either,” she said. “It was just that when Dad and Uncle Norbert moved into their new flat, there wasn’t room for Jack. Or Tom either.”
“Tom’s the chauffeur,” Apex said. “He was a wedding gift, too.”
“Of course, Tom’s younger than Jack,” Ceil Apex said. “At least ten years younger.”
“Tom’s only seventy,” Apex said.
“Jack’s not eighty.”
“How old was Jack when you first remember him?”
She thought about it as she arranged the teacups. “Well, he was getting on even then and that was twenty years ago—when I first remember him.”
More like twenty-five years ago, I thought, as I sat there watching her pour the tea. I guessed her age at being around thirty, a year either way. She had one of those faces in which the bones are just right and she would look the same at forty as she did now and not much older at fifty unless her
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