‘Heart attack? Are we thinking heart attack?’ Joe muttered.
Glad of the chance, Joe ran his hands over the contorted body, encountering nothing in the pockets but handkerchief, cloakroom ticket, keys and a cache of folded pound notes. ‘Who the hell are you?’ Joe wondered silently and angrily. The man had come bounding on stage with all the élan of a pantomime villian. Braggart, liar and avowed assassin, he had himself been struck down in a spectacularly dramatic way. In the tradition of uppity heroes of classical times he had fallen abruptly, foaming at the mouth and clutching his chest.
Gustavus gave one last shudder and his limbs relaxed.
Stethoscope to his ears, Tuppy gave a barely detectable shake of his head.
Joe looked up and saw that Fanshawe had gone swiftly into action, and was directing a pair of footmen rushing forward with screens. Charles Honeysett stood, rock-like, in the middle of the surge, coolly ordering a mopping-up operation.
‘No!’ Joe snapped at the man who arrived with brush and tray to clear up the fallen crockery. ‘Leave everything as it is. We’ll have the screens gladly, but leave the rest alone. And have Honeysett move the other diners back into the ballroom.’ He exchanged a few words with Tuppy, nodded, and called the steward to his side. ‘Inform Princess Ratziatinsky, will you, that Prince Gustavus has had — no, say is having a heart attack. He’s receiving medical care and is on his way to hospital. The prince apologizes for the disturbance and has asked that the evening continue normally without him. And tell them to wind up the orchestra!’
‘Sir, we have a vehicle at the back that you can use for the gentleman,’ said Honeysett, as he set off. ‘My men know the routine.’
Not the first time a guest had been carried out feet first with the utmost discretion, then. A moment later, after a short announcement in several languages by the princess in the ballroom next door, Cardew’s band swooped into the opening bars of the waltz from The Merry Widow, the one tune guaranteed to lure everyone back on to the floor.
Becoming aware of the presence of Wentworth, who had squeezed through the closing barricade hand in hand with a second woman — oh, Lord! The man’s wife! — Joe beckoned them forward. He rose to his feet and said: ‘Heart attack. I’m looking for pills — medication — anyone know if he carries such a thing?’
Zinia had been staring at the recumbent form of her husband with the expression of someone who has almost put a foot on the rotting corpse of some strange wild creature on the forest path, a blend of fear, disgust and fascination. She took a step forward and spoke to Tuppy, who was passing a hand over the staring eyes. ‘The man you are attending to is my husband. What on earth’s happened to him?’