Death in Silhouette. John Russell Fearn
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it, my girl?” Her father exploded internally. “Gosh, I can just imagine the face of that religious old fathead when his son passed out through quaffing the Devil’s brew. Do old Ambrose good!” he snorted. “He’s always trying to look like the archangel Gabriel while he spouts his yards of memorized scripture. ’Bout time he got acquainted with the facts of life.”
“But, Dad, what do we do about Keith?”
Mr. Taylor’s laughter subsided into a grin. “He’ll be all right,” he said. “He’ll sleep it off. Evidently he’s got the kind of mollycoddled constitution that folds up under a drink. Some people have. Won’t do the lad any harm. As for Ambrose, forget him. Next time I see him I’ll tell him exactly what I think.” Pat found her shoulders shaken with an understanding roughness. “Smile, girl, smile! You’re engaged! You should be as happy as a lark. There isn’t a thing to worry about! There’s only one solution to a drink knocking you out cold—have a bigger drink next time.”
“After all, Harry, that isn’t very practical,” Mrs. Taylor said seriously.
“Not practical!” he echoed. “Great Scott, my dear, if you’d been to as many engineering conventions as I have you’d know it’s the only answer. I’ve done my share,” Mr. Taylor added firmly, “and I know what I’m talking about.… Listen, Pat, get on with your tea and hear about a scheme your mum and I have thought up.”
By degrees the infection of Mr. Taylor’s good spirits began to tell and Pat even found herself laughing too at the thought of Keith laid out through celebrating his engagement. She drew her plate, knife, and fork back to her and helped herself to sardines and salad. Her father squatted down at one side of the table and her mother at the other.
“Keith might as well get in practice,” Mr. Taylor said dryly, “because there’s a big celebration coming up—say on Wednesday next week. You’ll be at home from noon and it will give you plenty of chance to doll up. Greg will also be home early on Wednesday, and so shall I.”
“You mean we’re going to throw a party?” Pat asked, in sudden excitement.
“That’s just what I mean. I’ll arrange it personally—and you know the kind of parties I arrange!”
“Do I! No expense spared.… Who’ll be coming?”
“Everybody that matters. Keith, his father, and you’ll want to dig up some of your own friends. What about those two boys who’ve been following you around with cow-eyes for the last few months?”
“Them?” Pat wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Keith’s a bit jealous of them already: it would be throwing fat in the fire to ask them to a party with him present, too.”
“Oh.…” Her father rubbed his eyebrow. “Well then, it’s up to you.”
Pat said: “I’ll invite Madge Banning for one. She’s my best friend and relief cashier at the restaurant. And there’s Betty Andrews. She used to be at Roseway with me. Haven’t seen her for months. I want her and Madge Banning to be my bridesmaids—they’d love a celebration.”
“They shall have it. I’ll get some wine and we—”
“No wine, Dad,” Pat said seriously. “Please!”
“A celebration without wine, girl? What’s the world coming to?”
“Not after what happened to Keith tonight. Please—no wine. Let’s have non-intoxicants—ginger beer, lemonade, or something like that. Suppose Keith—or even Madge or Betty—passed out? They might. Three on our hands would be awful. Mr. Robinson would recite the entire Book of Psalms to us!”
“She’s right, Harry,” Mrs. Taylor insisted. “It’s her party, after all. We’ve got to consider her feelings.”
Mr. Taylor grinned. “And we will, my love. All right then—lemonade.… Now, anybody else you want to come?”
Pat considered and then gave a little smile. “Yes just one person. Miss Black, my old headmistress. She has friends in Redford she can stay with.”
“Oh?” Mr. Taylor looked dubious. “Miss Black? I can’t see how your former headmistress can bring joy to the proceedings. More likely to prove a wet blanket.”
“Not Miss Black,” Pat answered, smiling. “There wasn’t a girl in the college who didn’t like her—at the time I was there—and I don’t think she’s changed much. I’d love her to come. She’ll be highly interested in my getting married.”
“Langhorn, in Sussex, is a good fifty miles from here,” Mr. Taylor pointed out. “Do you think she’d—”
“Don’t start raking up obstacles, Dad! She’s got a little Austin Seven—and enough basic for the trip, I hope.”
“How do you know she’s got an Austin Seven?”
“Oh, I write to her now and again,” Pat said airily. “You know, problems I can’t solve myself and which I—” Pat hesitated—“and which I don’t want to bother you or Mum with.”
“I like that!” her mother exclaimed. “The child’s got a second mother pushed away and we never guessed.…” Then she laughed. “All right, Pat, you ask her. As I remember her she will be an asset to any party—even if only to put old Ambrose where he belongs. By the way, doesn’t she dabble in crime study or something?”
“It’s her hobby,” Pat said, and she laughed. “But surely that hasn’t anything to do with it?”
“Well, I don’t think there is a thing in my shady past which will interest the lady,” Mr. Taylor commented, grinning. “And anyway, a headmistress who is a criminologist sounds crazy to me. Dabbler, I suppose.”
“A dabbler who’s solved four cases which the police could not,” Pat stated proudly. “That’s why I keep on writing to her—apart from the personal problems I raise.”
Her father stared at her. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Crime, of course. It’s everywhere these days—in books, magazines, films, and real life. I’m interested in it—and there is no doubt that Greg is. I often wonder if anybody will ever commit the perfect crime.…”
Mrs. Taylor shook her head. “What next?” she sighed. “Even supposing somebody did, it would be so perfect nobody would know anything about it.… Now get on with your tea dear, then maybe you’d better write Miss Black and Betty and see what they have to say.”
* * * *
Keith Robinson opened an eye. It closed again before the naked brilliance of electric light. He reopened it more slowly and the other eye with it. He was looking at a silhouette of his father against the light. Head and shoulders with the face shadowed. He was reading something lying on his upthrust bony knees.… A Bible. Keith’s eyes strayed beyond his father to the clock on the mantelshelf. It said eleven. There was dull pain at the back of his head and a vile taste in his mouth.
“For the love of Mike, what happened?” he whispered sitting up and rubbing his face.
His father laid aside the Bible on the table and sat considering him.
“This is what you get for becoming engaged to a girl who loves this world’s pleasures,” he said bitterly. “You drank some wine, and it proved too much for you.”
Keith pressed finger and thumb to his eyes. “The wine.… Of course! And have I got a hangover! I—I passed out, then?”
“You passed out.” Long pause. “Keith, we’ve got to talk this thing over. You’re planning to marry a girl who drinks and I know her father does. I cannot let you throw yourself away on a girl who’s upbringing is—”
“Just a minute! There’s nothing the matter with Pat!” Keith lowered his hand and his handsome face was decidedly set.