It's What Up Front That Counts Page 11

  Lady B-B, for her part, was equally taciturn. While she apparently had no qualms about discussing sex with me privately, she was the picture of rectitude in the presence of her hubby. I got the impression that sex was a word which never passed between them. Their idea of an exciting night in bed, I felt, would be a night when the B.B.C.’s equivalent of Johnny Carson told a bathroom joke and they both giggled themselves to sleep.

  As lunch dragged on—and believe me, it dragged—I found myself comparing Lady B-B’s present comportment with her comportment when we had been alone together. Then she had been warm and outgoing; while she had mouthed all the antisex clichés in the book, she had nonetheless related to me on a healthy man-woman basis. Now, with Lord B-B around, she was inhibited as a mouse in a cat house. I tried to square away the image of the cowed wife with the image of the outspoken sexual reformer. I couldn’t.

  After lunch we adjourned to the patio for brandy. It came as something of a surprise to me that Lord B-B drank. Judging from what I’d seen of him so far, I’d expected that he didn’t even belch, let alone indulge in one of the genuine vices.

  A few minutes later I was in for surprise number two: he also smoked. As we sat looking out at the multi-acre expanse of rolling hills that constituted his back yard, he took a package of cigarette papers from one pocket, a pouch of tobacco from the other and deftly rolled his own.

  We chatted for a while about such fascinating matters as the differences between the British and the American use of the article “an” and the relative merits and demerits of French versus Italian brands of mineral water. Then, as Lord B-B polished off his second brandy, I got surprise number three.

  There was a birdhouse a few yards from the patio, and swallow was hovering over it. In front of the door was a horizontal perch, attached to the house by a nut-shaped joint which was situated in the perch’s exact center. Lord B-B watched the swallow for a moment, then, nudging me with his elbow, said, “Which side of the perch do you think he’ll alight on?”

  “Huh?” I said, completely mystified.

  “The swallow!” he said animatedly. “See him? He’s getting ready to alight on the perch! Quick! Which side do you think he’ll alight on—the left or the right!?”

  “Beats me,” I murmured, wondering what the hell he was getting so excited about.

  “Dear,” said Lady B-B, “I really don’t think Doctor Damon is the gambling type.”

  He silenced her with a look. “Come on, Damon!” he told me. “Be a sport! Pick a side!”

  “All right,” I replied, “I think he’ll land on the left.”

  “Five pounds says he lands on the right!” He whipped a wallet from his pocket, tugged out a five-pound note, and slapped it on the table in front of us.

  I flipped a fiver from my roll onto the table. “You’re on,” I said, smiling inwardly because I suspected that I finally had found a chink in his armor.

  The swallow hovered for a moment longer over the bird-house, then slowly descended toward the center of the perch. Through the corner of my eye I watched Lord B-B. He was on the edge of his seat, using body english to steer the bird toward his side of the perch.

  “Come on, baby!” he cried. “The right! The right!”

  Sure enough, the swallow landed on the right side. Lord B-B triumphantly scooped up the two five-pound notes. “Told you he’d land on the right, Damon! Told you!”

  “So you did, sir. So you did.”

  He looked at me evenly. “Damon, I get the impression that you’re a man after my own heart—a gambling man.”

  “You’re so right,” I deadpanned. “I’m a gambler’s gambler. You name the proposition and I’ll bet on it.” Actually I ordinarily wouldn’t bet a nickel on a leadpipe cinch. But I had a mission to perform, and anything that got me closer to Lord B-B would make my work easier.

  “Glad to hear that, Damon,” he enthused. “I’m a gambler’s gambler myself. No point in living if you aren’t willing to take a few chances now and then, that’s what I say.” His eyes took on a fervent look. “The young set, they don’t know what a pleasure it is to take your risks with Lady Luck. They’re too wrapped up in sex and music and all that nonsense. But we mature fellows, we know what real excitement is. We know where it’s really at.” His eyes rolled heavenward. “Gambling, that’s where!” he exclaimed, banging his fist on the table.

  “Speaking of sex,” I began, seizing the opportunity, “tell me—”

  “Sex?” His brow furrowed. “Who was speaking of sex?”

  “You were,” I reminded him. “You said that young people are too wrapped up in sex and music . . .”

  “Did I say that?” he cut me off. “I couldn’t have. There are four subjects I absolutely refuse to discuss: sex, politics, religion and literature.”

  “Why not literature?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Where’s the gamble in that?” he snapped.

  “Point taken. But, getting back to sex, Brice, you were talking about it. I’ll lay you odds of eight to five you were talking about it. Lady Brice-Bennington is our witness.”

  “A wife can’t testify against her husband,” he said peremptorily. “And I never talk about sex, politics, religion or literature. So there’s no bet.” He poured himself another brandy. “But let’s get back to our conversation about gambling, shall we? It’s not often that I meet a fellow devotee. Everyone nowadays seems all wrapped up in sex and music and all that nonsense.”

  “Okay,” I replied, letting the second mention of sex go by the boards unchallenged, “let’s talk about gambling. Better yet, let’s place another bet. I’ve got one I think you won’t be able to resist.”

  He grinned. “Let’s hear it!”

  “Two M.P.’s I’m interested in are up for election in a few weeks—Christopher Smythe and James Whelan. What kind of odds will you give me on their chances of reelection? Make it a parlay bet if you like, or make it two individual bets.”

  His smile was that of a mother who catches her son with his hands in the cookie-jar. “Sorry, Damon. That’s politics. And there are four subjects I absolutely refuse to discuss—“

  “I know,” I groaned wearily. “Sex, politics, religion and literature. But, Brice, old chap, I’m not asking you to discuss politics; I’m asking you to bet on an election.”

  “Sorry, Damon,” he smiled patronizingly, “a man’s got to stick by his principles, and mine are—“

  “All right, already, don’t make a federal case out of it.”

  “A federal case? What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. It’s just an American idiom.”

  “Ah yes, quaint idioms you people have over there. One wonders how the language ever got distorted so.” He took out his tobacco pouch and package of cigarette papers and repeated the Bull Durham bit. “Do you smoke, Damon?” he asked, almost as an afterthought.

  “Yes,” I said, setting him up for what I was sure would be another long-lost-brother routine, “I smoke a great deal. Unfortunately, though, I don’t care for the tobacco in commercially manufactured cigarettes. I prefer a stronger blend.”

  “Then you roll your own?” he asked excitedly.

  “Yes. My tobacconist back in the States imports a special blend for me from Turkey. I brought a kilogram with me to London, but it was stolen from my hotel room the night I got here. I haven’t had a cigarette since—and, frankly, I could use one.”

  “Then try my blend!” he exclaimed, almost falling out of his chair in his rush to hand me the mixings. “It’s Turkish also! I think you’ll love it!” Turning to his wife, who had remained silent throughout our conversation, he said, “By Jupiter, Penelope, I think I’ve found a truly kindred spirit here in Damon!”

  I took a cigarette paper from the package, folded it and poured some tobacco inside. I wasn’t an expert roller like Lord B-B, of course. But back when I started smoking, cigarette money was hard to come by, and most kids broke in on roll-your-owns. I hadn’t entirely lost the knack.

>   He watched me, and evidently was satisfied that I wasn’t too clumsy. “Here you go, Damon!” he smiled, lighting a match and holding its flame to the tip of my cigarette. “Take a healthy lungful and tell me what you think.”

  I inhaled deeply. The smoke felt like sandpaper as it went down my windpipe, and I had all I could do to keep from coughing. But I kept a straight face, held the smoke in for a few seconds, and managed a smile as I exhaled.

  “Well,” he prodded, “how do you like it?”

  “Not bad!” I said enthusiastically. “Not bad at all!”

  “By Gad, Penelope,” he chortled, “I’ve found me a fellow connoisseur! Brilliant idea of yours, bringing Damon over here! Tell me, Damon, how’d you like to join me some evening at my club for a bit of poker?”

  “My favorite game, Brice. My favorite game.”

  “Well, I say! That’s really good news! Penelope, I think this is a cause for celebration. Bring out the amontillado.”

  Lady B-B promptly disappeared inside the mansion, returning a few minutes later with a bottle and two fresh glasses. Lord B-B filled one for each of us, and we toasted.

  “To all suitors of Dame Chance, whatever the means by which they urge their suit!” he intoned.

  “Bottoms up!” I replied, hoisting my glass.

  By this time, my friend the Lord had polished off three brandies. These, combined with the amontillado, were putting him in a very mellow mood.

  He suggested three more proposition bets—one involving an ant that was crawling across the patio floor, another involving the number of words on the amontillado label, another involving a second swallow who was about to alight on the perch which the first swallow had abandoned. The wager each time was five pounds, and I beat him two bets to one.

  We drank some more amontillado, and he got mellower still. We exchanged a few racetrack and card-table anecdotes. Then he had second thoughts on my earlier suggestion that we bet on the Smythe-Whelan election.

  “It occurs to me, Damon,” he said, his speech slightly slurry, “that you were right when you said that betting on an election isn’t the same as discussing politics. As a matter of fact, if we positively refuse to discuss anything about the election we’re betting on, the bet should be most interesting.”

  “Most interesting indeed, Brice. Now, if you recall, I had suggested that we could place either a parlay bet or individual bets. What sort of odds will you give me each way?”

  He smiled knowingly. “You give me the odds, Damon. It was you who suggested the bet.”

  “But,” I argued, “you live here and I don’t. You know more about the candidates’ chances than I do.”

  “Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. After all, you wouldn’t have suggested betting on this particular election unless you had some idea of what the outcome would be.”

  “Point taken.” I smiled magnanimously. “Therefore, I’ll give you the odds. Would you prefer a parlay bet or individual bets?”

  “Parlay, of course.” His expression, and the speed with which he answered the question, testified to his belief that no true gambler would bet anything but the parlay.

  Or maybe, I suddenly realized, he had another reason for betting the parlay. Maybe he had a very good reason to believe that whatever happened to Smythe would also happen to Whelan—because the scandal his wife planned to set off would ruin them both.

  “Very well,” I said. “Since I think both races will be runaways, I’ll set odds of eight to five. Pick the two candidates you think will win. If they both do, you win my eight. If only one of them does, or if neither of them does, I win your five.”

  “Those are tough odds. I should think you’d be a bit more generous.”

  “Tough or not, they’re the odds I’m setting. If you like, you can set the odds and I’ll pick two candidates.”

  “No, no,” he said quickly, “I’ll play with your odds.” Smiling fraternally, he added, “You drive a hard bargain, but, of course, you wouldn’t be a real gambler if you didn’t.”

  “All right, eight to five. I’ll cover all bets up to five hundred pounds.”

  He whistled under his breath. “Five hundred pounds! You are a real gambler!”

  “Pick your candidates,”. I replied.

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Can’t be too hasty about this,” he muttered. He took another sip of sherry and rolled a fresh cigarette, offering me the mixing to do likewise. After I had, he lit both our cigarettes. Then, studying the smoke that was rising from his, he said, “I’ll bet the full five hundred pounds. And the candidates I’m betting on are Davis and Hull.”

  Davis and Hull—Smythe’s and Whelan’s opponents! Both were pro-Communist. And Lord B-B was supposed to be anti-Communist. Of course, he didn’t necessarily have to favor the candidates he was betting on. But the London newspapers seemed to think that Smythe and Whelan were a shoo-in. Perhaps Lord B-B knew something that the papers didn’t—for example, that a scandal was about to break.

  “You’re on,” I told him. “My eight hundred pounds are yours if Davis and Hull both win. If not, your five hundred pounds are mine.”

  “It’s a deal,” he said, sealing it with a handshake.

  We drank some more amontillado and placed a few more proposition bets. Then, telling me what a pleasure it had been having lunch with me, he excused himself to attend to some business chores. I was left alone with Lady B-B.

  “I suppose you’re eager to get back to work, Doctor,” she said, sounding very much as if she wished I weren’t.

  “Not really,” I replied. “I’d just as soon spend a little more time with you.” Smiling warmly, I added, “We have many things to discuss.”

  She smiled back and I noticed that she no longer seemed inhibited. Evidently she loosened up whenever her spouse wasn’t around. “What things?” she asked.

  “Well, for one, my survey. I’ve accomplished a lot this morning with Miss Stark and her assistants, and I imagine you’d like to be kept abreast of developments. And I’d also like to discuss your own sexual views in greater detail than we did yesterday.”

  Her smile broadened. “Fine, let’s discuss both subjects —but not right now. I have some business to attend to myself this afternoon, and it really can’t wait.”

  “Then when can we have our discussion?”

  “At tea—if you’re free.”

  I grinned. “At tea it shall be, Lady B, at tea it shall be.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon with Gretchen Stark and her crew. Old Gretch and the girls were so efficient that by teatime not only had the four random samples been selected but the questionnaires I had designed to be administered to them had also been stenciled, mimeographed and packaged for delivery. Since Gretchen and the girls were going to do the initial interviewing, I now had nothing more to do until the replies had been assembled and tabulated, which meant that I had about ten days to devote uninterruptedly to solving the mysteries of the Smythe-Whelan affair.

  As things now stood, there were plenty of them, but thanks to my little chat that morning with Andi Gleason, I had a theory which answered all of my questions.

  It went like this:

  Andi Gleason and Diane Dionne were a pair of small-time hookers who had a friend—perhaps a pimp—with big ideas. Somewhere or other along the line, this friend had been given reason to believe that Smythe and Whelan could be induced to respond favorably to advances by Andi and Diane. He then arranged things so mat the girls would meet the M.P.’s, and a pair of discreet and clandestine affairs began.

  Somehow or other this friend of Andi and Diane had figured out a way to get Smythe and Whelan hooked on the girls—so hooked that they couldn’t terminate the affair. He then began shaking down Smythe and Whelan for cash, but he had misguessed the amount of cash they would be good for. When he found that the money wasn’t there, Andi had to go back to work at The Safari Club to help pay the bills while he figured out some other way to exploit the gold mine he believed himself to be s
itting on.

  Surely he must have realized that the newspapers would pay dearly for the girls’ personal stories of their affairs with the M.P.’s. Christine Keeler, after all, had cleaned up better than a million dollars in royalties after the Profumo scandal broke, and Mandy Rice-Davies, who hadn’t even been involved with Profumo, cleaned up another half million for her story.

  But the friend of Andi and Diane evidently thought he could do even better than this (how, I couldn’t yet guess), and So he had ordered the girls to keep seeing the M.P.’s until it was time for him to make his big move.

  Now, somewhere along the line, the Communists must have gotten wind that the M.P.’s and the girls had something going, just as the Coxe Foundation had. They assigned some agents to the cases, trying to get proof which would be sufficient to set off a sandal. If they actually got the proof they wanted, they probably were holding it over Smythe and Whelan’s heads in an attempt to blackmail the two M.P.’s into revealing what they knew about the B-bomb. Or, if they didn’t yet get the proof, they were still hunting for it—whether they knew about the B-bomb or not

  As concerned the Friends, they too had gotten wind that something was brewing with Smythe and Whelan and the girls. But, since they really weren’t too good at playing the spy game, they never got the proof they needed to set off a scandal that would get Smythe and Whelan turned out of office. Now they had stopped looking, and were concentrating instead on other means of helping Smythe and Whelan’s opponents. They evidently thought they had the situation well under control—witness Lord B-B’s confident bet on the election—and so there was no immediate danger that the scandal would ever break.

  As concerned who was tailing me, the answer was simple: the Communists. During the course of their routine tail on Andi, they had picked up on me. I had been involved in enough missions for The Coxe Foundation—some of which involved my working hand-in-hand with Russian agents—that I was recognized immediately as an American spy. I therefore was being tailed in the hope that I could lead the way to paydirt which the Commies hadn’t been able to strike on their own.