Second Wind Part 30

He was perched on the windowsill, long-bodied, pale skinned and incredibly sane. His own near-death at Luton and Glenda's actual acting out of the chief threat of his suicidal nature had, in an extraordinary way, flattened out his wilder self, and it was he who gave me a thoughtful stare and said, "Let's start at the beginning, kiddo, and we'll find your bits of paper for you, and you'll explain why you want them, and then I'll give them to Bell's father, to make him like me a bit...

as a son-m-law.

"So the wedding's on? " I asked.

"At the moment, " Bell agreed.

"Folder, " Kris said flatly, coming back to basics. "Glenda brought one with her in her suitcase, and I'd guess from the ruckus that she'd pinched it. How am I doing? " "Terrific, " I said.

"How about this, then? There were things in the folder that she knew Oliver Quigley wanted back... " Kris stopped and scratched his head and then doubtfully went on. "They had a slanging match which Glenda lost, and she agreed to courier the folder back to Oliver if he sent a prepaid envelope for it, which he did, but it was just one thing too much for poor old Glenda. " Both Bell andJett were nodding and I wondered if Kris really believed his edition of things, or was deliberately trying to mislead us all... and I regretted how suspicious I had become after barely four hours as an unofficial snoop.

By nine o'clock all three of my visitors had voted for more lively entertainments than rash-watching, and by midnight I'd discovered the loneliness woven into problem-solving, when success meant that no one knew there was a problem to begin with.

On Sat.u.r.day morning a spot check persuaded me that perhaps there was an improvement there, though the rash now itched under a three-day beard. A week after Luton, I still had black rib bruises with accompanying painful reminders if I forgot to move slowly. Only in the vomit department had things unmistakably improved. All in all, apart from Jeff's cheerful visits, it hadn't been the grandest seven days ever.

More like a long lesson in my grandmother's lifetime philosophy, if you can't fix it, think about something else.

I spent most of Sat.u.r.day morning running up a frightening hospital telephone bill in a search for a motorcyclist who had, on Thursday, ferried a large envelope to Oliver Quigley in Newmarket, but learned, when I at last found a courier company who'd even heard of Oliver Quigley, that they were now being accused of nondelivery, even though the package had been duly delivered and signed for.

They were upset, and at times incoherent with anger. Would they please, I asked them, slow down and start again?

Yes, agreed the Zipalong Couriers. Yes, they had been engaged to collect and deliver the package I described, and yes, their man had unfortunately had to charge a good deal extra for waiting time. But Mr. Ironside had made it worth his while. Yes, their man motorcycled to Newmarket and identified Mr. Quigley's house, and yes, a Mr. Quigley had received the envelope, and signed for it, and it wasn't their fault that Mr.

Quigley was now complaining that the Zipalong courier hadn't arrived, and that at the time of delivery he, Quigley, had been at Cheltenham races.

"What had been the delivery time? " I asked.

"Noon. " By the time they thought of asking what my interest was in the affair, I'd learned enough courier etiquette to fill a "how to" book for Ghost.

I disconnected from Zipalong with fulsome thanks, and called the cell phone number of Oliver Quigley, anxious racehorse trainer, all now, it seemed, restored to his normal self of trembles and shakes.

When my phone caught up with his phone, he was again at Cheltenham races, outside the Golden Miller bar. He offered a stuttery greeting that ignored the stripped-down personality I'd seen at Doncaster.

"As a matter of fact, " I said, "I wondered what happened with Zipalong Couriers. " The stuttering reply included stable yard language at its roughest, but meant in essence that when Oliver Quigley was reported to be receiving and signing for couriered envelopes in Newmarket at noon yesterday, Friday, he had been at Cheltenham races saddling his runner in the three-year-old hurdle.

A pointless exercise, as the horse in question had one speed only slow--and wouldn't have won even if Perry Stuart had been where he ought to have been--in front of the cameras with details of the weather--instead of fussing over a couple of bruises in hospital.

At my third try of

"Mr. Quigley? " he slowed down and said

"What--what? " If he had been at Cheltenham, I asked, who had signed for Glenda's package?

Oliver was inclined in bad temper to think it was none of my business. I would be happy to help him with last-minute underfoot forecasts, I murmured. In that case... Oliver Quigley believed that when the courier found no one at home yet again, he was so p.i.s.sed off (Oliver said), he just signed as if he were Quigley, and took the package away with him and chucked it in a ditch.

"Do you really think so? " I asked.

"Mark my words, " Oliver said, the receiver clattering with shakes against his teeth, "they never delivered that parcel and I'll sue the pants off them until I get it back. " "Good luck, " I said.

"I could kill that b.i.t.c.h Glenda, " he said. "If she weren't already dead I'd kill her. If Zipalong don't find my package soon it won't be worth suing them... but I'd do it anyway. I'll get that thief of a motorcyclist run off the road. " I was glad, while listening to him moaning on and on, that Cheltenham racetrack was a hundred or more miles west of where I sat.

After Oliver I spent a silent hour or two by myself while smooth cogwheels like quiet fruit machines clicked gently into place, and I made at the end of that time two telephone calls, one to the Bedford Arms Hotel in Newmarket and the other to the Meteorological Office at Bracknell.

John Rupert and Ghost had got things right. The murder of one of the Traders was splitting the others apart.

As John Rupert had given me his own cell phone number ("in case, " he explained), I called him in the middle of a golf game, which he put on hold with good grace.

"You're not worse, I hope, " he said.

"No, the opposite. Can I ask you a question? " "Always ask. " "Then how serious are you about the book on storms? " - "Oh! " I'd really surprised him. He said guardedly, "Why? " I said frankly, "Because I need a contract... actually I don't need a contract, I need an advance. " "An advance... for anything special? I mean, is this urgent?

It's Sat.u.r.day afternoon. " "I think I can get you another Trader, but I need a ticket to Miami. " He took barely ten seconds to make up his mind.

"Tomorrow do? " he said.

By lunchtime on Sunday ("tomorrow") Ravi Chand was peering at my fading rash with a magnifying gla.s.s, a bright light and a disappointed expression.

"What's wrong? " I asked anxiously.

"From your point of view, nothing. From mine, my laboratory animal is walking out with only half of my investigations complete.

" He sighed. "Jett promises she will week by week bring you back for continuing treatment. I will publish as soon as I can. " I asked diffidently, "What about the owners of the herd that gave me this disease? Doesn't my rash belong to them? " "The owners, whoever they are, are using that herd as a living laboratory totally isolated from outside factors. Ideal.

They might stand to make millions from new pasteurization methods. " "How so? " I said.

"The present law states that raw milk has to be raised to 71. 7 degrees centigrade, that's 161 degrees Fahrenheit, for a minimum of fifteen seconds to be pasteurized. If anyone could patent a new procedure which reduced the temperature or the time, then they would make a fortune due to the fuel saving.

That's what they're after. They are not interested in, or experimenting on, a new disease infecting humans. If they were, there would be immense interest in any affliction resembling your illness. Instead, there has been no reaction at all to your progress. The incubation time was short, the onset sudden, and now the speed of your recovery is conclusive. This illness is new. It's different. You are unique. I have incidentally named your illness in our joint honor, Mycobacterium para tuberculosis Chand-Stuart X. " He shook my hand warmly. "I cannot lock you in a safe with my notes, but please, please, dear Dr. Stuart, dear Perry, keep yourself alive until I publish. " When Jett drove her car to collect me, Ravi Chand in his white coat stood on his doorstep waving us a sorrowful if temporary goodbye. I'd been in his care so far only from Wednesday to Sunday, but the swift Chand-Stuart disease (curable, thank the fates) struggled in many a Petri dish in his laboratory towards universal recognition.

Jett drove to my grandmother's apartment, where she was due to start work again the next day. She seemed pleased at the prospect, but to me it meant an end to the nearness I'd valued all week. Jett had definitely burrowed far under my unattractive skin.

My grandmother exclaimed in alarm at my thinness but was enjoying the company of John Rupert, who had postponed another game of golf on my behalf and was covering every surface in sight with contracts for a gathering of Storm.

With everything signed he shook hands with my grandmother and left me with a vast check made out to a credit card company to cover every expense.

"Instant money and more to come, " he promised, "when Ghost starts Page One. " When he'd gone my grandmother asked the resident "dear girl" to give me the little parcel the postman had delivered for me the morning before. According to its postmark it had been sent from Miami, and only to one person there had I given my grandmother's address.

Unwin of the yellow-too the grin had amazingly sent me the best gift he could, because when I'd threaded a way through yards of bubble packing I found a note wrapped round a plastic sandwich bag, and, inside that, my small old familiar mud-filled camera. With surprise and jubilation I opened and read the note.

Perry, Iflew a load of people to Trox. There was a woman in charge.

She says the island is hers. She was the pits. If ound your camera where you said. All the par were b.l.o.o.d.y rude all day, so

I.

didn't tell them I'dfound it. Best of luck.

Unwin.