“He’s a reporter,” Hutchison said. “He writes for The Daily Yell.”
In his current state—or perhaps it was a regular thing—Blanton didn’t seem able to add two and two together to make four. Hutchison had to spell it out for him. “Are you sure you want a reporter wandering your flat with Gladys and Dom in the other room, Ronnie?”
It took another second, but then— “Oh!”
Blanton jumped up and ran for the door. Hutchison got to his feet, too. “Excuse me,” he said formally, with a small bow. Whatever else was wrong with him, he had lovely manners. “I should go with him. He’ll do himself no favors in his current condition.”
He headed towards the door, too, leaving Graham Ogilvie in charge of the sitting room. A look passed between the two of them just before Hutchison ducked out of sight around the door jamb, and it was very clearly a passing of responsibility from one to the other. It was beyond obvious that they didn’t want any of us—with the possible exception of Crispin—wandering the flat while Dominic Rivers and Gladys got up to whatever they were getting up to in one of the other rooms, and now Graham Ogilvie was responsible for keeping us here.
“What does he think he’s going to do?” I inquired of the others. “Burst into the water closet after Montrose and plug his ears?”
“I don’t imagine Monty was actually headed for the WC,” Crispin asked, “do you?”
“With as much as you’ve all had to drink,” I told him, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
He rolled his eyes and turned his attention to Ogilvie, who was perched on the edge of his chair, alternately eyeing us and looking nervously at the door to the hallway. “Don’t you think you ought to go with them, old man? Who knows what Blanton might do in his current state? And Rivers isn’t quite sane at the best of times, is he?”
Ogilvie hesitated. Glanced at Crispin. Glanced at the doorway. Looked back at Crispin. Who told him, gently, “Hutch might need help keeping Blanton from Montrose’s throat. It won’t help anyone if Ronnie tries to strangle him.”
Ogilvie cast another agonized glance at the door.
“You don’t have to worry about us,” Crispin added, persuasively. “We’re not going to get involved. We don’t care what Ronnie and Gladys get up to on their own time and with their own money. Do we?”
He looked at Christopher, and then me. We both shook our heads. Ogilvie looked at us too, and chewed his bottom lip worriedly.
“Go on,” Crispin told him. “You know you want to. We’ll just sit here quietly and wait for you to come back.”
I nodded. So did Christopher. Ogilvie gave us all a final dubious look, before he got up and ran for the door. As soon as he was out of sight, Crispin turned to us both, his demeanor quite different from the laidback ease he had put on for Graham Ogilvie. “Listen. Dominic Rivers is a dope dealer. Ronnie and Gladys are both dope addicts?—”
“We’re not stupid, St George,” I told him.
He gave me a look, but kept talking, “—and Frederick Montrose works for The Daily Yell. He’s probably looking for a scoop for his odious newspaper. Now he’s managed to put all three of us in what basically amounts to a dope den?—”
“Aren’t dope dens in places like Limehouse? And not in nice flats in Mayfair?”
“You’d be surprised,” Crispin said darkly, and perhaps I would. However?—
“We understand all that, St George. But I didn’t get the impression that he’s particularly interested in the three of us, you know, other than as a way to get to Blanton and Rivers. He even told me that ifyouuse dope, you do it only recreationally…”
Both his eyebrows rose. “You asked Monty about me? Do you worry about me, Darling?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, with a grimace, “I do.”
He blinked, and for a moment his lips parted in surprise before he firmed them again. “Dear me. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Oh, come off it,” I said, irritated. “I may not like you much, St George, but I don’t wish you ill—or at least not that amount of ill. Besides, I’ve already got one cousin who’s a dope addict. I don’t need another.”
“If Francis uses cocaine,” Crispin said clinically, “he only does it recreationally, as well. And I’m not your cousin, you know. Contrary to what I said earlier, the cousin of your cousin isn’t actually your cousin.”
Yes, I was aware of that. But at the moment, it wasn’t of much concern.
“I’m actually more concerned about Freddie Montrose’s safety than our own right now,” I said. “I didn’t get the impression that he’s out to get either of us. Maybe at first, when he originally showed up at Rectors, he was looking for something salacious he could print about the drag ball. He said he had heard about last month’s raid and was hoping for something exciting to happen.”
I glanced at Christopher, who made a face.
“But once Dominic Rivers showed up, I think Montrose became more interested in the dope angle than the drag ball. That might even have been why he was there in the first place. It didn’t seem as if Rivers showed up by accident, after all, but more like he and Blanton—and probably Gladys—had a meeting arranged.”
“Rivers sells dope,” Crispin said. “There must have been someone at Rectors he was dealing with. And with all the secrecy, it probably seemed like a safe place to meet with Ronnie and Gladys, as well.”
