It was a good thing that I had made my way out of the lift and out of the way as we had spoken, because at the sound of this, Flossie lunged forward. “See you, Pippa!” she called as she yanked the grille over the opening to the lift.
The doors slid shut on my response. “Of course, Florence. Have a nice luncheon.” I rolled my eyes and hurried down the hall to the flat so I could change.
When I came back downstairs, in what I like to think is a rather becoming summer frock of flowered rayon, with ruched shoulders and a three-tiered, flounced skirt, she was leaning on the Hispano-Suiza, pink-cheeked and healthy-looking, flashing every one of her blindingly white teeth.
Not at Christopher, of course. Not that I wanted her to do that. But the dead set she was making at Crispin was rather annoying to watch, it was so blatantly obvious. And he was clearly enjoying it, too, smirking back at her.
“Excuse me, Florence.” I nudged her out of the way with my hip so I could climb into the rear of the motorcar. “I’m here, St George. Dressed and ready to go. Weren’t you the one who was so eager to get going earlier?”
“No, Darling,” Crispin said, “that was you. I was the one who said it was too early and we should wait. Don’t you remember?”
Of course I did. “Well, it’s not too early any longer. We’re wasting time.”
“Of course, Darling.” Crispin smiled at Florence, in something that looked like shared amusement—whatever it was, it made me squirm—while Christopher eyed me with a smirk that made him look remarkably like his cousin. I rolled my eyes at him, and he grinned.
“It was lovely to see you again, Florence,” Crispin said, in a voice that practically dripped honey. I wanted to kick the back of his seat, but I refrained. “I hope to see you again soon.”
“You know where to find me,” Florence said cheerfully. “See you, Pippa. Mr. Astley.”
She stepped back, and Crispin let out the clutch. I breathed out a sigh of relief as we moved away from Florence. “I can’t for the life of me understand why you put up with her.”
“She’s not so bad,” Crispin said, one hand on the wheel and one elbow negligently balanced in the open window as we rolled off in the direction of Mayfair and Ronald Blanton’s flat. “And it’s nice not to have to work so hard.”
I scoffed. “When do you ever have to work hard to get women to notice you? They fall all over themselves to get your attention. Knock each other out of the way, too.”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you, Darling?” He sounded amused. Christopher chuckled, and I flushed at the reminder that I had indeed hip-checked Florence out of my way so I could get into the motorcar. I’d been referring to the way she had practically bowled me over upstairs to get into the lift, but it seemed I had no room to talk.
“Must be my title and fortune,” Crispin added musingly, “I suppose.”
“Clearly,” I said sourly and settled into the backseat to brood.
The tripto Ronnie Blanton’s flat didn’t take long, and after being announced, we headed up in the lift.
“So we are telling him… what?” Christopher wanted to know as the doors clanged shut behind us and the lift started rising with a jerk. “What are we here to do, exactly? Warn him? Discover how much, if anything, he remembers of Saturday night?”
“I’m not certain,” I admitted. “I just feel very bad for him. And this seems like the right thing to do. Even if I’m not entirely sure what we’re doing here.”
“Let’s just talk to him,” Crispin said, watching the numbers as the lift rose. He had his hands in his trouser pockets and his hat pushed to the back of his head, and his posture looked relaxed, but there was tension in the set of his jaw and around his eyes.
And of course there would be. He considered Ronnie Blanton a friend, while Christopher and I barely knew him. This had to be more difficult for him than for us.
“I’m sorry this is happening,” I told him. “If I hadn’t wanted to surprise Christopher on Saturday night…”
He flicked a quick glance down at me. “It was my own fault, Darling. I was the one who showed up in your flat and told you that I knew where to find him.”
“I shouldn’t have gone along with it,” I said.
“Neither one of you could have known what would happen,” Christopher said sharply, “so just stop wishing you’d done something different and deal with what is.”
After a second he added, “But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, too, Crispin.”
Crispin nodded.
Ronnie Blanton was waiting in the doorway to his flat, and although he was mostly dressed, his feet were bare and his shirt-collar open. His hair was ruffled, not yet slicked back for the day, but his eyes were clear. For once, he appeared to be neither intoxicated from his dope nor in desperate need of a fix. We had come at an opportune time, it seemed.
“Back already, St George?” He sniggered. “To what do I owe the pleasure so early in the morning?”
By now it was almost eleven, but Ronnie seemed to have rolled out of bed and thrown his clothes on when the summons came from downstairs that we were here, so I suppose for him it was early.
