Free The Last Two Weeks of Georges Rivac by Geoffrey Household Page B

weekend wear if he had not been so rotund—a smoothness exaggerated by the watchchain stretching from pocket to pocket across his check waistcoat. Rivac, still dressed for Lille, felt as if he were calling for orders.
    Paul introduced him, vaguely explaining that Rivac kept an eye on things for him during the week. Tact or snobbery? It was hard to decide.
    â€˜Necessary bores who can wait for us, dear Georges,’ Paul commented as he carried him off to his study. ‘They are opening a night club where it will be useful to be seen until they go bust. I have been able to find them a backer.’
    Settled down with a decanter of Madeira—which, Paul had to say, was specially selected by his wine merchant for a few connoisseurs—he was as good as his word and gave him an outline of what was known of Bridge Holdings.
    â€˜Export agents with a network of representatives abroad. They hardly ever import, so I am told. You are wrong there. I think they might be interested in your languages. How did they hear of you?’
    â€˜Through a friend. I do some business with Eastern Europe. Very minor stuff,’ Rivac added apologetically, ‘fountain pens, embroidery and things. But I do have a sale in the north of France for excellent little Czech petrol engines.’
    â€˜Perhaps they think that you could sell British engines in Czechoslovakia instead.’
    â€˜But I don’t know the country and don’t speak Czech.’
    â€˜They must have interests there. The manager, Herbert Spring, is a rather mysterious fellow, always very well informed. It’s known that some of the best newspapers refer to him and it wouldn’t surprise me if the Government ask questions too.’
    â€˜You mean—well, secretly?’
    â€˜Oh, I shouldn’t go so far as that. But our accountants say you would be perfectly safe in taking any agency he offers you.’
    â€˜He reminds me of a terrier,’ Georges muttered with distaste.
    â€˜What on earth do you mean?’
    â€˜Oh, you know. Small and wiry and moustached and ready to use his teeth on anybody if he’s suspicious.’
    â€˜I shouldn’t be surprised, Georges, if it’s his duty to be suspicious.’
    On Sunday, still avoiding Zia except for a telephone call to see that she was content, he took Daisy over to Oxford by bus and gave her lunch. She was far more impressed by the setting than the food and disguised her merry local accent. The waiters were particularly polite to such old-fashioned dignity, taking her, he guessed, for a provincial lady, comfortably off, entertained by a rather shabby nephew with expectations. The grapevine had already provided her with working notes on the new guest at the White Hart, a pretty, young Frenchwoman and the wife of a general.
    â€˜She must be lonely, my dear. You should go over and have a couple in the bar. It would do her good, it would, to have a chat in her own language.’
    â€˜What’s she doing there?’ he asked, for it was a point to which he had not paid enough attention.
    â€˜Looking round to see if she likes the district. The general will soon be ’ome and wants a place with a bit of ’unting and shooting.’
    Trust Zia! The only possible awkwardness would be if Daisy discovered that it was Master Georges who had booked the room for the pretty Mrs Fanshawe; but they would not be staying long enough for that. Meanwhile they had successfully covered their tracks pending the next move. That must depend on what he heard from Suzi in Lille and perhaps on Paul Longwill.
    On Monday morning there were two letters waiting for him at Thame Post Office. He sat down on a bench outside the Corn Market and opened the envelopes. One letter posted on Thursday contained the brochures. In the other, posted on Saturday, Suzi told him that Mr Appinger had called again the day before and left a present for him: the latest Intertatry calculator. And a sergent de