Thunder On The Right Read Free

spoke more clearly? And Stephen, watching her, sensing some uncertainty in her, shut down even harder on his own hopes and desires.
    Impasse. . . .
    Then through the silence tramped the capably shod feet of Miss Shell-Pratt and Miss Moon, as they left their table and proceeded, still talking busily, toward the lounge.
    "How were they bedded?' Miss Moon's eager query rang out almost directly above Stephen's head as they passed his chair. "Horizontally or vertically?"
    Miss Shell-Pratt was brusque. "Vertically, Moon, vertically. And the bedding was much disturbed. . . ."
    The dining-room door clashed behind them. Stephen had swung around and was staring after them, with a bemused expression that made Jennifer begin to laugh.
    "What in the wide world was that about?"
    "Geology, Stephen, just geology! I've been listening to it the whole of lunchtime.
    You have no idea of the excitements of geology!"
    "So it would appear." He got to his feet. "It sounds an extraordinary science. I suppose they do it at Cambridge. Come on, Jenny, let's get out of here; I want to stand you a liqueur."

2 Prelude
    The lounge was crowded, but they found two chairs in a cool corner, and Stephen ordered drinks. Around them the conversation surged in an exciting hubbub of languages and accents. Three Frenchmen just beside them were absorbed in a passionate discussion of a recent bank robbery in Bordeaux; a party which had visited the Cirque that morning was showing off to a party which was to visit it that afternoon; two Swiss climbers were comparing experiences with a French boy, while, still at Jennifer's elbow, the troctolites were having it all their own way.
    ". . . Not been up to the Cirque yet? Then don't hire a mule from the man with------"
    "—a colorless amphibole------"
    "—Who murdered the bank clerk. It was the Dupre gang all right. They got Marcel Dupre, but the woman—his sister, wasn't it?—she got away."
    "... I tell you the wretched mule tried to trot------"
    "—Up a sheer face of four thousand feet------"
    "With a red-spotted troctolite------"
    "—But they'll catch her, you mark my words . . . unless she's over the frontier already . . ."
    "Thank God," said Stephen at last. "Here come the drinks."
    The waiter, with a tray laden with drinks, was weaving his practiced way between the tables, managing with the expertise of the French professional to waste no time whatever and yet appear to take a vital interest in the subjects dear to his clients'
    hearts. He threaded his way swiftly through the conversation, shedding the drinks as he went, with a technique that bespoke much practice in this kind of inverted potato race. . . . Penrod, messieurs? Yes, it was a disgrace, that robbery. The papers said one of the criminals had hanged himself in his cell. Tant mieux . . . Madame?
    Cinzano? Indeed yes, Paul Lescaut should keep his mule under better control. It was the grandmother of the devil, that one. . . . Messieurs? Your Dubonnet—a guide?
    The best was Pierre Bussac, but he was not often in the village; in fact, he had not been down with his mule since—let me see, yes, it was the night of the bad storm, three weeks ago; but if monsieur wished to arrange for a guide there was Robert Vrillac. . . . Mesdames? Vichy water . . . ah, yes, there were rocks hereabouts, no doubt; he had certainly been told so. ...
    He escaped with some relief to Stephen's table, and set down the benedictines with the air of one who had brought the good news to Aix against considerable opposition. Benedictine, monsieur . . . merci , monsieur . . . and he hoped the pictures were going well? With an air of subdued triumph he slid away.

    "How in the world did he know that?" demanded Stephen.
    "What did he mean?"
    "Only that I mess about with water colors as a hobby. It's rest and recruitment of the spirit, and what you'd probably call comic relief."
    "I wouldn't! I might even admire them. I know all the right things to say. I never knew you sketched,