`Then you wakened up on the boat for Buenos Aires?'
Shelley's face was alight with scornful merriment. 'Of course Aunt Lou's terribly old-fashioned. She's quite old, you see—she was nearly forty when she had Samma, so she must be over sixty.'
`Maybe,' he smiled without mirth, 'but her warnings aren't necessarily old-fashioned.'
'Gam! Things like that don't happen outside books,' Shelley gurgled. 'You don't believe all that silly old guff, surely.'
`Not exactly. The traps are baited with a little more sophistication these days.'
`Oh, we all know that,' said Shelley with blasé assurance. 'We have a good sense of smell these days, as well.'
`So do lots of mice, but they still get caught,' he observed sardonically.
`You sound just like Aunt Lou, Mr Quinn.'
`Really? I'm flattered.' He turned away. 'You'd better call me Quinn. All my friends do.'
`Just your surname?'
`It's enough. I should have thought your vivid imagination would supply the reason.'
`Oh, yes.' She bit at her lower lip and nodded. 'That would be what gave them the idea.'
`Who?'
'My beastly cousin and her beastlier boy-friend.' Shelley rested her elbows on the breakfast counter and glowered at the thought. 'They wouldn't be able to resist it. I suppose it's understandable. If I hadn't been born with Columbine for a handle I expect I'd have thought it a scream.'
`Thought what a scream?' He had paced to the window, to stare out at the paved courtyard with the ornamental stone flower pots set against the high enclosing walls. 'It's a problem,' he murmured, more to himself than Shelley.
`What is? Not me?'
`Yes, you. This name business has made me realise I still have a sense of responsibility. Harlequin and Columbine !' He laughed shortly. 'Who would have believed it could happen in this day and age?' He got out his cigarettes and lit
one, exhaling almost irritably, his profile frowning and intent.
Shelley watched him for a moment, then straightened. The sooner she made a move, the better, and removed her obvious nuisance value from the orbit within which she had unwittingly crashed. She fiddled with the clasp of her purse, debating oh the wisdom of asking him what she owed him for overnight hospitality and her breakfast. From the set of that dark head and arrogant visage such an offer wouldn't go down very well. But on the other hand she didn't want him to think her ungrateful, and he had been rather sweet in his brusque, bossy way. He could have flung her out. Suddenly she had an idea and dropped her purse back into her pocket. When she was away she would send him a box of cigarettes with a polite little note of thanks. Yes, that was the answer. Shelley congratulated herself on this brainwave and opened her mouth to start bowing herself out, and Harley Quinn said over his shoulder :
`Of course you could stay here.'
CHAPTER III
THE scene in Fernbridge Park was so peaceful it seemed almost unreal.
Shelley sat on the wrought iron seat and watched the pigeons foraging hopefully on the broad walk round the ornamental lake and wondered if it was real and she had just talked non-stop for nearly half an hour—practically her whole life story was now floating around in the ether. The awful thought came too late; had she bored him to tears?
But Harley Quinn appeared perfectly relaxed, his long legs nonchalantly crossed, his eyes slightly narrowed against the sparkle on the placid, sunlit water, and a thin blue thread of smoke rising steadily from the cigarette in his well-shaped hand. Certainly there was no hint of boredom in the glance he suddenly turned on her, catching her disconcertingly in
mid-stare.
His brows went up. 'So there you are. Think it over. The top floor is yours if you want it. I think it might be fairly described as a desirable, self-contained apartment.'
`You're tempting me dreadfully,' she said, her face wistful as she thought of that heavenly room, with her own bathroom, and freedom of the kitchen at any specified time if she wanted to entertain friends. It was too good to be true; there must be a catch in it somewhere. Yet there wasn't, except ... A shadow flitted over her face; there was a sort of a catch that didn't seem to have occurred to him and she couldn't very well point it out to him ... 'Thank you very much, but ...' she tailed off doubtfully.
`Why not?' A spark of devilry gleamed in his eye. 'You came to town in search of freedom. To sample the glory of dangerous living.'
`Huh !' Shelley grimaced, 'there hasn't been much glory about it, and still less of the other bit.'
For a few moments he regarded her with patent amusement. 'I don't think you're sorry about that lack,' he said at last. 'Why not be honest? Basically, you don't crave the dubious thrills of a dangerous existence because at heart you're rather a sweet, old-fashioned little girl.'
'I'm not !' Her back stiffened indignantly. 'I'm not an old-fashioned little girl. And I'm determined to be free and have lots of fun. Before I get old.'
`Old!' His head went back and he laughed. 'Then why be doubtful about accepting my offer? All right, you're not old-fashioned, but you are stubborn and unpractical. You've nowhere to live, you've quarrelled with the only person in London who might look after you, and you refuse to go home to Aunt Lou and safety and kindness. I should have thought my offer was the solution you seem to seek, and taking up residence with a couple of old bachelors, albeit rather staid and sere specimens I must admit, would have provided a certain standing of the swinging kind among your cousin's little set and the practical jokers, with one very important advantage.'
`And what might that be?' she asked, sure that he was still
laughing at her.
`Isn't it obvious? They're not to know that any fascinating element of debauchery will be conspicuous by its absence.'
`It won't be for very long if I take Geoff's place,' she said flatly.
His brows quirked enquiringly, and she glanced at the dignified lines of Silverlane Mansions rising above the trees. `This looks like the kind of neighbourhood where people wouldn't talk much, but they'd think.'
`So what?' He remained poker-faced. 'A man is allowed his little peccadilloes.'
`But girls aren't.'
`There you are !' He nodded triumphantly. `Definitely the village syndrome. Yet you are prepared to remove yourself to the abode of a certain bohemian sculptor who rejoices in the name of Octavius. Where is the difference from Silverlane Mansions—and Harley Quinn?'
`There's a very big difference,' she said, and now her eyes were troubled. Presented his way the logic was inescapable. She had been perfectly ready to throw herself on Ocky's mercy to save her pride before Samma and the gang, bin the divan in Ocky's studio and the flatlet in Silverlane Mansions were too different—to say nothing of the man at her side.
She watched the leisurely progress of a girl pushing a large white perambulator along by the lake. A plump baby gurgled amid white organza frills and every couple of yards the progress was halted when a blue cuddly toy was pitched out of the pram, patiently retrieved by the girl and shaken laughingly at the baby before being restored to a dimpled fist. If only life remained so uncomplicated, Shelley thought.
She said slowly : `Why are you doing this for me? I'm a stranger. And if you wanted to let part of your house you could get far more rent than you're asking from me.'
His hesitation was briefly perceptible, then he concealed his start of surprise. `I don't choose to let part of my. house, that's why.'
`Yes, but It had been an unsatisfactory answer and
Shelley's dissatisfaction was patent. 'Why me, then?' she persisted.
He shrugged. 'Have you never given rein to an impulse? Think of it as a business impulse. I've decided you will prove a careful, suitable tenant who will have respect for my property, or rather a section of it which is superfluous to my requirements at present. Isn't that sufficient answer?'
`No.' Her mouth tightened. 'I think you're sorry for me.'
`I am not sorry for you.' He smiled slightly, look
ing directly to the section of landscape in front of him. 'And that's all the answer you're going to get, Miss Columbine. Take it or—'
`Hallo, Quinn! So this is where you are!'
A tall girl in a slim-fitting suit of turquoise jersey was hurrying along the path. She reached the seat and said breathlessly, `No—sit down, I'm not staying,' as Quinn started to rise politely to his feet, 'is it all right if I leave the car today?'
`Of course. What's the hurry, Julia?'
`I'm due at the hairdresser at ten and it's nearly that now.' The tall girl glanced briefly at Shelley and back to Quinn. 'I say, did you know Myra was home?'
'No. Julia, this is Shelley Columbine. Shelley, my sister Julia.'
`Oh, I didn't realise you were together. How do you do.' Julia nodded-casually, not offering her hand, and her mind obviously running along a different parallel. `I'm going to—' Then she stopped, and an unbelieving smile widened her mouth. Did you say—Columbine? Oh, for heaven's sake! Where did you find her? Columbine and ... I don't believe it.'
`Now don't you start,' he said warningly, and gave an impatient gesture, 'and do sit down, girl, or I will have to stand up.'
`Such manners for your sister! How unusual.' Julia smiled at Shelley, apparently now accepting her. 'Honestly I can't or I'll be terribly late.'
`Were you ever early?' he asked with brotherly candour, stooping to pick up the glove she had shed and smiling indulgently at her fumbling with scarf, bag, carrier and car-keys, with all of which she seemed to be rather entangled.
Shelley reached forward at the same moment as he did and her hand collided with his as she unhooked the handle of the gay carrier off Julia's wrist. He sat back almost immediately while she held the bag open until Julia dropped her bits and pieces into it and put on her gloves.
`Thanks,' Julia murmured, and turned to her brother. 'But it is a bit of a giggle. Wait till I tell Myra!'
'Must you?' he said dryly, seeking in a pocket for his cigarettes.
`Of course !' Exclamation marks hovered in the air after most of Julia's utterances. 'Oh, Quinn! Surely you're not still furious about past history? You—' Abruptly she checked with her glance at her watch. 'I must fly! So long, brother mine.'
Her dark hair bobbing, she broke into a run towards the far gate of the park and the bus stop for the city. Shelley watched her curiously, trying to pin down the resemblance between brother and sister. Certainly there was little to see on the surface. Quinn was calm and controlled, elegant and urbane, deliberate in speech. Julia was the opposite. Except for the dark hair and a slight likeness about the eyes they were totally different in looks and manner. But of course it was difficult to judge character from a short meeting, Shelley decided.
Quinn had also heeded the passage of time. He stood up and held out a quelling hand as she would have risen. 'No, take your time. Unfortunately I have a luncheon engagement, but there's no need for you to interrupt your meditations. Decisions should never be hasty or rash. Will you still be here this afternoon?'
`It all depends,' she said, 'on how rash my decision might be.'
`I see.' He nodded solemnly. 'I trust you will leave me a formal note advising me of your decision?'
Shelley glanced at him suspiciously. 'Shall I leave it under the mat with the key?'
'Oh, no! My lumbago, you know.' His mouth did not betray the smallest quiver. 'Leave it by the telephone.'
`By the telephone.' She kept her face solemn and returned
his grave nod. 'I hope you enjoy your lunch.'
`Thank you.' Still with the mien of utter gravity he turned and walked unhurriedly along the curving path to the main gate.
When his tall figure was out of sight Shelley got up and wandered back to number eight Silverlane Mansions. She let herself in, looked wistfully at the key, then at the blue and white doormat, and dropped the key back into her pocket. It had all turned out to be tremendous fun, in spite of last night's fiasco—she still wanted to dissolve whenever she thought of it. But it was a gorgeous house. She adored the room upstairs, it was wonderful to look out over the park, and Harley Quinn had a wickedly captivating sense of humour under that gravity he assumed. She sighed deeply and drooped over the curve of the banister; there was nothing she would have liked more than to stay. But she couldn't, and she might as well face it; she would have to move on with the search. Something would turn up. Probably it would have a horrid little sink and a gas ring behind a scruffy curtain in one corner and there'd be the smell of everyone else's cooking permeating the very walls, but ... that was reality; this wasn't. With another sigh she undrooped herself off the banister and trailed along the soft blue carpet. She'd go and have a sandwich somewhere and then see if Ocky was home. He might have a helpful idea ...
But Ocky was not back, and, contrary to Shelley's optimistic imaginings, his landlady was brusque, unwelcoming and openly suspicious. She retreated, the door closed firmly with Shelley still standing on the doorstep and, not quite sure how she got there, Shelley found herself back on the bus that was going to Fernbridge Park.
Once again she looked down at the key, looked at the blue and white doormat that seemed to have 'Welcome Home' woven in invisible threads, and replaced the key in her pocket. This was awful. She'd wasted the entire afternoon and achieved nothing. She really must stop dithering and do something constructively useful, as Aunt Lou was fond of saying, like—like having a phone session and ringing up hostels and agents and things.
Telling herself that this was the most sensible way—less exhausting and saving all those bus fares—and she'd have to keep note of the number of calls and pay for them—she sought a pencil and paper and settled down to make a list of numbers.
The yellow pages yielded a long list of agents, which shortened considerably as she chewed the pencil and weeded out the names that dealt more exclusively in the rarified realms of penthouses and apartments in Albany. After a long stare at the white telephone she lifted the receiver, then put it down again; she'd left it too late, they'd be shut now. Anyway, did they open on Saturday afternoons?
It was then that the door bell pealed, strongly and insistently.
From the little curved white telephone seat Shelley stared at the blue panels, half expecting Quinn to emerge from his silent recesses in answer to the summons. But all stayed silent behind the blue-panelled door, and at the third peal she dropped her list and went uncertainly in response. Slowly she opened the door about three inches and peered through the crack.
A girl stood there, her elegantly shod toe betraying all too clearly her impatience. She had tumbling tresses of red-gold hair, a full curving mouth that was imperious rather than appealing, dark-lashed eyes of deep pansy blue and a skin of flawless opalescent pearl. She wore a linen suit of spotless cream, a polka-dotted scarf and black patent shoes, and her statistics were obviously the originals of any chart for female form perfection. Suddenly she became aware that her presence had been noted and stared hard at the crack, and Shelley slowly allowed the crack to widen as she assumed what she hoped was a politely enquiring expression.
The vision's delicate russet brows arched and she said sarcastically: 'You may open the door—I'm not selling anything.'
'I didn't think you were,' said Shelley, allowing illogical feminine instinct the complete satisfaction of deciding she did not like the caller one little bit. She raised her own brows with unfriendly appraisal and waited till the ball landed in
the opposite court.
`I've called to see Harley.' The girl put one foot over the threshold and eyed Shelley coldly as she did not fall back. Well, aren't you going to ask me in?' she demanded imperiously.
'I don't know you,' said Shelley in equally frigid tones, `and it isn't my house to admit you into. Anyway, Mr Quinn isn't at home.'
The girl's hesitation was fleeting. She said calmly, 'You needn't worry, I'm a friend—a close friend. I'll wait for a little while, if he's not going to be long.'
Smothering the dictate of conscie
nce that told her she had no right to behave like this, Shelley replied in offhand tones, 'I've no idea when he'll be back. You might have to wait for hours.'
'Really.' The lovely features took on a distinctly unfriendly expression. 'I happen to know otherwise. Anyway, who are you? You don't look like one of Julia's friends.'
This nettled Shelley even more. Why shouldn't she look like one of Julia's friends? Did this upstage bitch think she was a moron or something? Shelley's small retrousse nose elevated a fraction further as she said coolly : 'No, I'm not one of Julia's friends.'
The inflection got over the way Shelley fully intended it should and the first trace of doubt betrayed itself in the wide blue stare. The apricot-tinted mouth parted slightly before it said quickly: 'Then who are you? You're—you're not Bruno's daughter, by any chance?'
Shelley shook her head, enjoying the other girl's betrayal of alarm.
'Then may I ask what you're doing here if Harley isn't at home?'
'I live here,' said Shelley.
And that had taken the wind out of Miss Myra Delane's sails, Shelley thought with guilty satisfaction a little while later.
She looked at the note Miss Delane had written and propped it against the telephone. He would see it there when
he eventually returned. Harley! Shelley's lower lip pouted as she ferreted round the question of Miss Delane. He said everybody called him Quinn, but she called him Harley. It looked as though she might be something out of his past. Or his present! Shelley glowered at the dainty handwriting; she didn't care for that thought at all, any more than she'd cared for Miss Delane. Oh, she had lots of glam, a super figure, and super clothes to hang on it, but she looked as though she would lead any man one hell of a dance. Quinn was far too nice for her. He needed someone who would appreciate his subtle personality and his quiet, droll sense of humour, someone who ...
Shelley sighed; it had nothing to do with her whom Quinn chose to appreciate his finer qualities, even if he picked a girl who was totally unsuitable. Anyway, Miss Delane was going back to Rome on Monday, back to her very important Legation job and her super hideaway at Fregini among the elite, and her super white Lotus Elan ... It had all been imparted so casually, throwaway lines as she penned the note for Quinn, and a snide little sidelong glance to make sure that Shelley was taking all in. Well, she could go back and fry in her Dolce Vita and it was to be hoped she didn't miss the plane ...
Miss Columbine and Harley Quinn Page 5