Free The Takeover by Muriel Spark

husband to arrive and her son to come down. Lauro came forward to hover till they were ready to say what they wanted to drink.
    ‘Oh, Lauro,’ Mary said very uppishly, ‘did you remember that errand?’
    ‘Yes, Mary,’ he said in his usual friendly tone, ‘how could I forget?’
    Mary turned to Maggie and said in a decidedly natural voice, ‘He’s delivered the box. You see, Lauro knows the house so well, I sent it by him.’
    ‘Oh!’ said Maggie. ‘But then Hubert will know where it came from and who sent it, and—’
    ‘He didn’t see me,’ Lauro said. ‘I got in through the bathroom window while he was sleeping upstairs. I put the box beside the teapot, so when he came to make his tea he’d be sure to find it.’
    ‘That’s brilliant. Lauro, you’re brilliant,’ Maggie said. ‘Mary, darling, you’re brilliant. I feel so much relieved now he’s at least not likely to starve, because you know I have to get him out of the house. How I’ve been in the past to Hubert is no guide to how I shall be in the future.’
    ‘Get the police and have him thrown out,’ said Mary rather impatiently. ‘Lauro, a Campari-soda, please.’
    ‘Well, in our position we can’t have a scandal. You know what the Italian papers are like, and all those Communists,’ Maggie said.
    “We do it discreet,’ Lauro said.
    ‘That’s right, Lauro. A gin and tonic. Lauro’s got the right ideas. Lauro, you’re brilliant.’
    Hubert, meanwhile, having counted the coins and made his tea, taking it outside on the handsome terrace, gazed out on the panoramic view and pondered. He then began an inspection of the house and decided that one of the ground-floor windows had been entered. There was a narrow pantry window and a narrow bathroom window. The bathroom window was open. It had not been forced. He decided to put bars on the ground-floor windows. He went on a tour of the whole house, opening drawers and cupboards. Nothing was disarranged, nothing missing; it seemed to Hubert that his burglar had been motivated by sheer benevolence towards him. It was a pity to have to bar the windows. Nothing could have been more clearly intended as a personal and rather touching present than those golden coins in his own teapot. For the first time for nearly a year, Hubert started to feel, singing within him, innocence and happiness.
    He spread out the coins on the terrace table in the late bright sunlight: Queen Victoria still with a firm young profile and high curly bun, on the coin which was dated 1880 although she was born in 1819. St George and the Dragon, 1892, whose Queen Victoria on the reverse had now been minted with an incipient extra chin, a little coronet and a veil. Gulielmus IIII D: G: Britanniar: Rex F: D:, drooping jowls, a thick neck, a curly quiff on top of his head, 1837. Who, thought Hubert, adores me enough to send me all this glittering mint? And here’s Nero wearing a laurel wreath tied with a pretty ribbon at the nape of his neck, or, rather, it’s Georgius IIII D: G: Britanniar: Rex F: D: 1830. And now, Sub . Hoc . Signo . Militamus—a Knights of Malta ten scudi, 1961. Another juicy young Victoria D: G: Britanniar: Reg: F: D: darling Victoria, 1880, and that poor downtrodden dragon on the reverse. Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and I wonder, thought Hubert, what utterly charming gentleman hath rendered these things unto me? It then occurred to Hubert that the actual bearer of the coins was hardly likely to be the sender. Hubert had instantly formed an image of largeness, if only of heart, for the sender; he was certainly rich, anyway, and would most likely have young men at his beck and call. Only a young man and slim could have got through the bathroom window so silently and softly. Then, it was someone who knew Hubert’s habits and who knew the house. Someone rich. Who? He scooped up the many dozens of coins and took them into the kitchen, where he spread them out and looked at them