Chapter Forty-Four
Apparently, Pluck had caused some appalling commotion after Enid left the ballroom last night, but this morning, he was on his best behaviour, as no other personage than Frau Hühnerbeinstein appeared in the interview room, promptly at ten, as invited.
“Thank you for gracing us with your monumental presence, madame,” Pluck bowed.
Frau Hühnerbeinstein curtsied, grandly.
“Please sit down.”
But just as the singer had lowered her copiousness into the seat, Pluck forestalled her: “No, please bring the chair over here, so that—no, please, allow me.” Pluck jumped up and carried the chair so that it was closer to the fire. “I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill and jeopardise that magnificent voice.” She curtsied, and moved to grace the chair with her posterior, when Pluck interrupted her, again: “On second thought—ah—” He was flustered; he kept smoothing the back of his hair, and giggling, breaking off and commencing again to no obvious purpose. “—Would you terribly mind standing, just there, by the window.”
“Stand by the window!” directed Bartoff.
“That’s it,” Pluck smiled.
“Like this, monsieur?”
“Well—with a somewhat more arched back, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Arch your back!” shouted Bartoff.
“Like so?”
Pluck tilted his head and pursed his lips. The light from the fire trickled down the eminent lady’s shoulders, back and behind, under the last of which it was extinguished in shadow.
“This is ridiculous! Please!” The unexpected and, frankly, unmaidenly outburst had come from Miss Trojczakowski.
Pluck turned to her. “Do you think she should undo her scarf?” he asked her. He nodded at her frown. “Very good—I was thinking the same.” He turned to Frau Hühnerbeinstein: “Remove your scarf, please.”
“Strip!” Bartoff boomed.
“I protest!” declared Enid, who now stood.
Pluck was bewildered. “You like the scarf?”
“You may have it, my dear, if you fancy it so very much.” Frau Hühnerbeinstein extended the article in question towards her.
But Enid was storming out.
After a few minutes of fuming in the lobby, Enid watched the door to the interview room open and Pluck escort a laughing Frau Hühnerbeinstein out.
“I think we can say that you have certainly shown nothing remotely suspicious in your actions, my dear,” he was saying to her.
“I am only too happy to oblige this investigation, monsieur,” she replied.
He took her hand—she removed the glove—he kissed it (the hand), and she swanned off. He gazed after her, his eyes unambiguously trained on her behind.
“May I speak with you for a moment, monsieur?” Enid asked him.
But he was leaning against the doorframe, stroking his chin.
“Inspector Pluck!”
He turned to her, all alert. “What is it?”
“A word, please.”
“Pardon?”
“A word!”
“Er—‘sandwich’?”
“What?!”
“Well—how about ‘festoon’?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve got it: ‘cumquat’!”
It was straightened out, and they went to a larder, which was otherwise unoccupied.
“Are you hungry?” asked Pluck.
“Listen, Curtis—that whole so-called ‘interview’ with Frau Hühnerbeinstein was utterly disgraceful—even more so than usual, if that’s possible.”
“What do you mean? She offered you the scarf, and you refused to take it. There, as far as I can tell, the matter ends.”
“It has nothing to do with the scarf! You are clearly letting your attraction for Frau Hühnerbeinstein overrule the rational faculties with which you are, or rather, with which you should be, running the investigation.”
“‘Attraction for Frau Hühnerbeinstein’? Is that what you think?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Well, no, not at all. But I thought I’d been keeping it pretty well hidden.”
“I’ve no doubt that’s exactly what you thought. And yet, I have observed it.”
“Well, that only testifies to your formidable deductive faculties, Miss Hühnerbeinstein, which itself testifies to my good judgement in appointing you my co-investigator.”
“You’ve just called me ‘Miss Hühnerbeinstein’.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did.”
“I promise you that I didn’t. Friends?”
He offered her his hand. Sighing, she took it, and they shook, with the utmost propriety.