Sleuth Page #4

- Oh, no, no, no. I just

want to live with her.

- So what's stopping you ?

- Basically the firm of

Prurien and Pry, ltd.,

Whom you and Marguerite

have seen fit to employ.

Don't be so innocent.

Those nicotine-stained private

detectives have been camping

outside Tea's for the last week.

It was an insurance policy

to keep you from changing

your mind about the divorce.

- How do you know I wasn't

having you watched, hmm ?

- Why not ?

Afraid of what you might find out ?

Or didn't you think that was possible ?

Now, don't start doing a fertility dance.

Of course I knew they'd find you and

Marguerite rutting away like crazed weasels.

But why should I pay good money

to have something confirmed

which I'd known for months ?

- Black.

- Then if you knew, why didn't

you do something about it ?

I had to assure myself that you and

Marguerite were going to be a fixture.

You see, I want to lose the

dear girl for life, not just...

a two-week Tindolini perm, set and touch-up.

- Good shot.

- Yes, it was. Yellow.

You see, you don't know her as well as

I do. You think you do, but you don't.

If you fail her, by which I mean

cancelling the account at Harrod's...

or shortchanging her on winters in Jamaica,

She'll be back to me in a

jiffy, mewing for support.

And, guilty wife or no, she

may be entitled to get it.

- Green.

- Money isn't everything.

And what if she is used to

luxury ? Whose fault is that ?

It's not a fault if you can afford it.

But can you ?

Knowing you to be hard up-- brown--

has she shown any signs

of mending her ways...

in these last, idyllic three months ?

Blue. When, for instance,

did she last turn down

Dom Perignon in favor of--

no offense, mind you-- the

persuasive charms of Dago Red ?

Black.

No, I'm not joking. How much has

this brief liaison cost you so far ?

And that old Dad of yours in Soho--

when did you last send him any money ?

We have talked about money.

Often I've told her we spend too much.

- She takes no notice ?

- No.

Silvery laugh.

Coquettish turn of the head.

Something like that.

Well, it's to solve this little problem

that I've invited you here tonight.

And this, as they say, is

where the plot thickens.

What plot ?

Whatever are you doing with

that cue in your hand ?

I was waiting for you to miss.

Foolish boy.

Once upon a time, my dear Milo,

there was an Englishman called Andrew Wyke,

who, in common with most of his countrymen,

was virtually castrated by taxation.

To avoid total emasculation,

his accountants advised him...

To put a considerable part of

his money, some 250,000 pounds,

into jewelry.

His wife, of course, was delighted.

- Marguerite never told me you'd

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