Rum Affair Read Online Free PDF Page A

tonight?”
    Just like that. I phoned the police. I kept my voice even. “What did you say?”
    “Are you doing anything tonight?”
    “No, damn it. What did you say to—” I broke off. The Ambassador had returned, smiling. He put a manicured hand on Johnson’s undistinguished shoulder.
    “Ah, I knew it. He is persuading you to go to the jazz club. Let me advise you to go. I do this for posterity, I tell you, and not from my affection for this undoubted moron. The world demands a Johnson portrait of Madame Tina Rossi.”
    And then I realised who Johnson was. A painter from London. My God.
    And I had just accepted an invitation to attend a late night revue at the Lyceum with a sunburnt gentleman with yellow hair, a shipbuilding yard and a divorced wife in Nassau. Michael would go crazy.
    “You’d rather not,” said Johnson helpfully as I hesitated. “Another time. Next year.”
    “I’d love to,” I said, and I meant it. “It’s just that I’ve already been asked by someone on the Festival Committee, and accepted. But tomorrow . . . ?”
    He shook his bespectacled head. “The Scottish Sabbath. Two concerts, then I’ve got to be off. I’m racing on Tuesday. Schizophrenic culture patterns, Madame. Bed to Bizet to boozet and bach to bed again.”
    Considering the time of year, it was an unlikely story. “Where do you race, dear man?” enquired the Ambassador.
    “On the sea. In a boat,” said Johnson with lucidity. “From Gourock to Tobermory this time, as a matter of fact. Off the Scottish west coast, you know. Picking up the nice little islands. Like Rum.”
    “Johnson,” I said. “Mr Johnson. May I come to the jazz club with you tonight?”
    The Ambassador grinned and moved off. “With pleasure,” said Johnson. “But what about the gentleman from the Festival Committee?”
    “I have a very bad headache,” I said. “Mr Hennessy will understand.”
    “In view of the Koh-i-noors hanging under your ears, he won’t be surprised,” said Johnson irritatingly. “Did you say Stanley Hennessy?”
    “It was Stanley Hennessy who invited me out, yes,” I said. “Do you know him?”
    The bifocals glistened. “Everyone knows Stanley Hennessy,” said Johnson. “Builds oil tankers. He’s racing on Tuesday too. In a yacht like the Queen Mary. He’s worth going out with, as well. Bed to Bizet to boozet and bach to . . .”
    “I got it the first time,” I said. “What did you tell the police?”
    “When? Oh. Said we’d seen a fellow run out of the flat and gave them the Rossi Identikit. Small, thin, big nose and wart on the cheekbone: that’s it, isn’t it? They might as well improve their minds looking for him instead of bothering anybody else. Then when they find the late Mr Chigwell, they’ll really have something to think about.”
    “Did they find your burglar?” I asked. “The one who stole your camera?”
    “No. All the better,” said Johnson. “I’ll collect the insurance, and wart face the blame, and you will come on a little holiday with me on Dolly to keep my mouth shut. Will you?”
    “Yes.”
    “And let me paint you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Clothed?”
    “Even that.”
    “Stanley Hennessy will be very, very angry,” said Johnson. He did not appear to be upset at the thought.
    “So will Michael Twiss,” said I.
     
    Next day Michael, of course, was apoplectic. As far as ethics went, he wouldn’t care if I slept with a Dr Barnardo’s ball boy, so long as it didn’t affect my career. My career, which had brought Michael his Reliant Scimitar and his alpaca overcoat and his Nivada Grenchen steel watch, was a religion with Michael. He and Eddie Ugboma. All through breakfast, he sat on the edge of my bed and complained, while I sold him a cruise on Johnson’s yacht Dolly.
    “I’d never have let you go off, if I hadn’t thought you were with Hennessy. What he’ll think . . .”
    “It’s all right, Michael. Really. He sent me six dozen pink roses this morning and all kinds