“I can see that,” I said, blowing smoke at him. “I’d love to sneak up on you when you’re relaxing.”
He spat accurately at a tub of last summer’s pelargoniums from which no one had bothered to take cuttings, and went on with his whittling. As far as he was concerned I was now just part of the uncared-for landscape.
I didn’t think I would get anything useful out of him, and besides, it was too hot to bother, so I went on to the house, climbed the broad steps and leaned my weight on the bell-push.
A funereal hush hung over the house. I had to wait a long time before anyone answered my ring. I didn’t mind waiting. I was now in the shade, and the drowsy, next-year-will-do atmosphere of the place had a kind of hypnotic influence on me. If I had stayed there much longer I would have begun whittling wood myself.
The door opened, and what might have passed for a butler looked me over the way you look someone over who’s wakened you up from a nice quiet nap. He was a tall, lean bird, lantern-jawed, grey-haired, with close-set, yellowish eyes. He wore one of those waspcoloured vests and black trousers that looked as if he had slept in them, and probably had, no coat, and his shirt sleeves suggested they wanted to go to the laundry, but just couldn’t be bothered.
“Yes?” he said distantly, and raised his eyebrows.
“Miss Crosby.”
I noticed he was holding a lighted cigarette, half-concealed in his cupped hand.
“Miss Crosby doesn’t receive now,” he said, and began to close the door.
“I’m an old friend. She’ll see me,” I said, and shifted my foot forward to jam the door.