Free Bluebolt One by Philip McCutchan Page A

to find Debonnair there when he arrived, he waited in a fever of impatience until he heard the doorbell.
    When he answered it a light rain was falling, and Debonnair was looking seductive in a flame-coloured lightweight mackintosh which set off her hair and her tall, slim figure beautifully. The clear hazel eyes smiled at him, and she gave him a thumbs-up sign as she came into the hall.
    He said, “Good girl!”
    “Not so fast. Look.”
    She’d kept her other hand behind her back, and now Shaw realized why. Smiling triumphantly, she brought out the long, wrapped cardboard box. She said, “That’s why I was rather a long time. It’s the sweetest little frock, darling—bought on your orders, remember?”
    He tried to look severe, but he couldn’t help responding to the happiness in her eyes. “How much?”
    “Fifty guineas.”
    He whistled. “You’ve got a hope!”
    “I repeat—on your orders, Commander Shaw! Right?” She put her face up and he kissed it. He said indulgently, “Right! I’ll fix that somehow, even if you get me shot . . . which is quite likely. Latymer looks at all the expense accounts himself.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he slewed her round and took her mackintosh and hung it up. “How about a drink?”
    “Just what I need. Give me one, and I’ll tell you all about it.” She walked ahead of him into the sitting-room, and he studied her back view appreciatively. Going across to the cupboard he brought out the glasses. He poured the girl a gin, a whisky for himself. As she sipped, curled up in a big leather armchair, she told him.
    She said, “I can’t tell you in detail how it happened, but these things do, between women. Just a little interest shown, and passing the time of day—you know? I found out that a young lady by the name of Gillian Ross had been upset yesterday over something she’d read in the papers, and she’d asked Mrs du Pont—that’s the madame—if she could go home. Which she did. And she hasn’t been in to-day. When madame rang Mrs Tait, who’s the young lady’s landlady, she was told the girl was ‘poorly’ and wouldn’t be in for a day or two. Does that help?”
    “Yes, I think it fits, Deb. Sounds like the right girl. . . I take it there weren’t any others who’d been upset?”
    She shook her head. “Only her.”
    “Good. I suppose you didn’t get her address, did you?”
    “No. Short of asking right out, there didn’t seem to be a way, and I knew you wouldn’t want me to show too much curiosity. But it shouldn’t take long to find out, should it?” She smiled up at him over the rim of the glass, provocatively. “Use that brain of yours, darling!”
    He grinned. “All right, wonder-girl! I’ve ticked over. Mrs Tait’s on the phone, we know that, so she’ll be in the book. I don’t know what I’d do without you!”
    He went into his bedroom, came back with the telephone directory, and thumbed through it. He murmured, “There’s quite an assortment of Mrs Taits. I suppose we’ll have to try them all.”
    Debonnair said, “I’ll do it. May as well finish what I’ve begun.”
    “Right, thanks.” He added warningly, “Be careful, though. Talk around the point when you get the right Mrs Tait. I don’t want the girl to know anyone’s on to her, just in case she decides to run.”
    “Okay.” Debonnair went out of the room. She wasn’t away very long, and when she came back she said, “I followed a hunch and tried Chelsea first. . . just a wrong guess or two and then I got her. She lives in Oakley Street Mrs T. sounds rather an old dear, incidentally, but I didn’t get any fresh information except that Gillian’s not actually in bed.”
    “I didn’t think you would, and I’m glad she’s not in bed, because we’re going round there.”
    “Are we indeed? D’you really mean ‘we’?”
    Shaw nodded. “Moral support—for me! She’s bound to be upset.”
    “True enough. Well—when do we start?”
    “Right