The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin Read Free Page A

Charlie his change.
    ‘What line of business are you in, then?’ he asked, lapsing into the pub formula.
    ‘Traveller,’ said Charlie. It seemed the best description of the aimless life he now led. Even before Edith had been killed they had done little else but move nervously from one place to another.
    ‘Interesting,’ said the publican, as automatically as he fingered the moustache.
    ‘Sometimes,’ agreed Charlie.
    The woman returned with the salad. The meat had been carefully cut to conceal the dried edges.
    ‘Looks very nice,’ said Charlie. Insincerity appeared to be infectious. Then again, it was always dangerous to draw attention to himself, even over something as trivial as complaining about a bad meal in a country pub. He manoeuvred himself on to a bar-stool and the landlord nodded and walked back to his group. Charlie sawed resolutely at the meat, examining his attitude. What right had he to criticise a man for whom the war had been the biggest experience of his life? Or feel contempt for opinionated Sunday lunchtime drinkers? Charlie was always honest with himself, because now there was no one else with whom he could share the trait. And he knew bloody well that he would have gladly handed over the fortune he possessed to change places with any one of them, walking stiff-kneed back to their detached, white-painted, executive-style homes to worry about their mortgages and their school fees and their secretaries’ becoming pregnant. His attitude wasn’t really contempt, he recognised. It was envy: envy for people who had wives and mistresses and friends. There was only one person whom Charlie could even think of as a friend. And there had been no contact from Rupert Willoughby for over a year. So perhaps he was even exaggerating that association.
    He pushed away the meal half-eaten and immediately the barmaid took his plate.
    ‘Like that?’ she said.
    ‘Very nice,’ said Charlie. It was nearly closing time. She would be in a hurry to get away. He hesitated, decided against another drink and paid his bill. Another £5. And he was regarded as someone who had stolen money!
    Back in the car, he sat for a moment undecided. If he took the B roads and drove slowly, it would be at least seven before he got back to London.
    On the balcony of his apartment high on the island’s Middle Level, Robert Nelson stood, glass in hand.
    ‘Fantastic,’ he said, looking down at the Pride of America . The liner was an open jewel-case of glittering lights. Because it was late, the slur was more noticeable in his voice.
    Beside him, Jenny Lin Lee said nothing.
    ‘I’ve taken six million of the cover,’ he announced, suddenly.
    ‘What?’ she asked, turning to him.
    He smiled at her, wanting to boast.
    ‘Lu put the insurance out on the open market. Christ, you should have seen the scramble!’
    ‘But you got £6,000,000 of it?’
    ‘Yes,’ he said, missing the urgency in her voice. ‘Beat the bloody lot of them.’
    He frowned at her lack of reaction.
    ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ he complained, petulant in his drunkenness. ‘No one else got anything like that much. There’s already been a cable of congratulation from London, signed by Willoughby himself. Even promised a bonus on top of the commission …’
    ‘If it’s important for you, then I’m pleased,’ she said, turning away from the balcony and the view of the floodlit ship, shifting slowly at anchor.
    He followed her into the room.
    ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I find it completely impossible to understand you.’
    She stood in the middle of the room, a slim, almost frail figure, the hair which she constantly used for dramatic effect cascading to her waist because she knew he liked it worn that way and it was inherent in her to please the man she was with.
    She walked to him, smiling for the first time, cupping his head and pulling his face to hers.
    ‘I love you, Robert,’ she said. ‘Really love you.’
    He held her at arm’s length,