Going High

It was about the end of the third week, I discover from Lou’s Diary (I had lost all count of time myself), that he came in one day with a smile of subtle triumph in his eyes.

“I’ve got on to the ropes,” he said, “but I think I ought in fairness to wam you that the Gatto Fritto is a pretty hot place. I wouldn’t mind taking you as long as you go in disguise and have a gun in your pocket, but I really can’t take it on my conscience to have Lady Pendragon along.”

I was so full up with cocaine I hardly knew what he was saying. It was the easiest way out to nod assent and watch the clouds fighting each other to get hold of the sun.

I was betting on that big white elephant on the horizon. There were two black cobras and a purple hippopotamus against him; but I couldn’t help that.

It was extremely annoying of Lou to protest in that passionate shrill voice of hers that she was going to the Gatto Fritto, and if she didn’t she’d take to keeping cats herself, and fry them, and make me eat them!

I don’t know how long she went on. It was perfectly gorgeous to hear her. I knew what it meant just as soon as we could get rid of that swine Feccles.

Hang it all, one doesn’t want another man on one’s honeymoon!

So there was Feccles turning to me in a sort of limp, helpless protest, imploring me to put my foot down about it.

So I said, “Feccles, old top, you’re the right sort.

I always liked you at school; and I shall never forget what you’ve done for me these last thirty or forty years or whatever it is we’ve been in Capri, and Lloyd George can trust you to nip that blighter you’re after, why shouldn’t I trust you to see us through this fun at the Gatto Fritto?”