
Book 8
Just then their attention was distracted by the arrival of the tea and comestibles, and conversation was necessarily limited as Charmian Foote attacked a large cream puff with relish.
‘If you think this man is your husband you really ought to go to the police, you know,’ said Freddy after she had finished the last mouthful.
He saw her eyelids flicker slightly.
‘Oh, but I just wanted to be sure first. It’s possible I might be mistaken, you see, and I don’t want to get mixed up with the police again—that is to say, not again, I didn’t mean that, of course.’ She cast down her eyes. ‘Besides, I’m a little down on my luck, and I thought…’
‘I quite understand,’ said Freddy soothingly. ‘Well, then, suppose you tell us your story. If you’re telling the truth, you’ll get five pounds from one of us—it doesn’t much matter which one, does it?’
‘Look here,’ began an exasperated Corky, who saw his exclusive vanishing before his eyes.
But Charmian Foote was evidently not the type of woman to hold her tongue in front of anyone if there was money in it. She had the attention of them both and was determined to tell her story.
‘I’m a dancer, you see—or I was, rather. I’m retired now,’ she began.
‘Ballet or popular theatre?’ Freddy inquired.
‘More the exotic type. I went by the stage name Charmian Can-Can—you might have heard of me. I was quite well-known at one time. I had a routine with three chiffon scarves and a pineapple—all lit from the back, you know, so you couldn’t really see anything. Very tastefully done, if I say so myself. I mean, I would never do anything too obvious.’
‘Of course not.’ Freddy glanced over at Corky, who was scribbling furiously in his notebook. He could just make out the word ‘PINEAPPLE’ written in capital letters and heavily underlined.