MacGregory muttered, “She’s probably out of the country by now.”
We walked up the slope to the chateau. She kept her hand on the producer’s shoulder.
“Don’t get mixed up in it, Jeff. You don’t have to. You run along.”
He said sharply, “How could I be more involved than I am! I’m not going to leave.”
“Jeff! Jeff, dear!” She shook him to get him to look at her. “I’d rather you did.”
“No.” He was stubborn. “I’m going to sit in on this hand. I’ve been dealt out too often.”
I was impatient to get the low-down on Lanerd, quickly. These two, batting it back and forth, didn’t seem very important. Hot-blooded youth making unsuccessful passes at neglected wife of gadabout boss. Kind of affair that goes on all the time. Not quite the way this one was going, though.
We crossed a flagged terrace, entered a long music room with a vaulted ceiling that went up two stories. The butler appeared; there was polite chitchat about drinks.
I asked for a rum sour, very sour. The producer ordered a Rob Roy and didn’t bother to explain how it was made; he’d been there quite a lot, evidently. When the butler left, Mrs. Lanerd went to the grand piano by the picture window looking out over the bay.
She played as she talked, softly. I don’t know what the music was; it would have sounded all right in our Gold Room at thé musicale. The drinks came in.