Ellis Peters - George Felse 07 - The Grass Widow's Tale Read Free

week!”
    “See?” said George, with bitter satisfaction.
    “Oh, well,” sighed Bunty helplessly. “He was pushing retiring age anyhow, and the offer must have been monumental.”
    “Still, if Tony hadn’t emigrated his dad would never have sold out,” observed George, drawing the Morris neatly into position by the nearest Super pump. He opened the door and slid out as a snub-nosed, shaggy-headed youngster came loping down from the office in answer to the bell. “Fill her up, Bobby.”
    “Sure, Mr. Felse!” The sombre young face brightened faintly at the sight of them. Bobby had been on probation, an apparently incurable driver-away of unlocked cars, when George had followed a hunch and talked old Pearce into taking him on and giving him a gloriously legitimate interest in the machines he couldn’t resist. George found himself hoping that two years had been long enough to effect a cure, because he felt in his bones that this experiment wasn’t going to survive the change of ownership. Commercial garage chains have very little interest in the salvation of local problem children. In such a county as Mid-shire, however, there are still plenty of family businesses in the remoter areas, and a two-year apprenticeship with Pearce’s is a very sound recommendation.
    “Well, how’s it coming along?” said George, avoiding any appearance of actual concern.
    “Not sure it is, Mr. Felse.” Bobby frowned darkly over the purling petrol, watching the level with dubious eyes. “You know how it is, you get used to certain people’s ways. I don’t reckon this lot care all that much about cars.” He delivered this indictment of blasphemy with more sorrow than anger.
    “Then you’ll be all the more likely to score a personal hit,” said George reasonably, “since you do.”
    “Well, maybe—but they don’t really want you to. It’s the quick money they’re interested in.
You
know! Make it
look
good, and that’s it. The money’s out here, really, not back in the workshops. Not unless you can pick up a nice juicy insurance job,” said Bobby disdainfully, and withdrew the pipe accurately and dexterously at the crucial moment. He hung it up, and wiped the neck of the tank, though it was spotless. “I don’t reckon I shall be here long, Mr. Felse.”
    “What’s the pinch?” asked George easily. “The new boss?”
    Bobby shrugged and grinned. “
He
wouldn’t matter so much, we shan’t be seeing much of him, anyhow. Thirty-seven of these stations they say he’s got now, most of ’em in London and the south. We’re about the most northerly yet. No,
he
wouldn’t matter. It’s this new manager he’s put in. Proper thruster he looks like being—you know, town style, all flash and everything on the surface.” Bobby counted change expertly, with one eye on the new, large window of the office, festooned with pot plants. “That’s him now, just coming out on the concrete—the one who looks like a bruiser.”
    Two men had emerged from the glass doorway, and were pacing the length of the concreted arc, studying the renovations with critical approval. The one in the white overall was large-chested and thick of feature, and had a peeled-down, aggressive confidence in his manner that would not have been out of place in either a boxing ring or a sales ring. The other was several inches taller, a long-striding, elegant figure in a pearl-grey suit.
    “
Mister
Mostyn,” said Bobby, eyeing the distant white figure with eloquent dislike. “Don’t you never let him sell you a used car, Mr. Felse, that’s all!”
    “Who’s the other?” asked George, pocketing his change.
    “Oh, that’s the boss… that’s Fleet himself. Been looking his buy over and viewing the development plans. Mostyn had me working on
his
car this afternoon… believe me, that was
one
he wanted done properly.” He closed the door firmly upon George, and waved a hand. “See you, Mr. Felse!”
    “So long, Bobby! Just give it a whirl before