Читать онлайн «The Artful Egg»

“So, are you going to ask them if you can have it?” said Miss Simson, smiling as she handed back his ballpoint pen. “To add to your collection?”

“Most assuredly,” Ramjut Pillay replied, nodding.

But it wasn’t until he had actually reached the top end of Jan Smuts Close that his mood changed properly, allowing him to appreciate again what a beautiful morning it was, and to anticipate to the full becoming the proud owner of such a fine example of British stamp design.

“Now, let us see. …” he said, pausing to take out the cream envelope and to rummage about for the rest of the mail for Woodhollow.

There was always quite a bit of it, the bulk coming from overseas and being addressed to Naomi Stride. Yes, just “Naomi Stride,” with no “Mrs” or “Miss” in front, which was because, she had explained to him, it was her “professional name,” whatever that meant. Then, to complicate matters, she also received post for Mrs. Naomi Kennedy, for Mrs. N. G. Kennedy, and for Mrs. W. J. Kennedy, although nothing ever arrived for a Mr. Kennedy.

To the cream envelope Ramjut Pillay added six other personal letters, four business letters and a circular, then started up the long drive. Woodhollow, or 30 Jan Smuts Close as it really should have been known, wasn’t strictly speaking part of the cul-de-sac of modest middle-class bungalows at all, but stood well back, behind a screen of Scots firs up at the top end, facing away over a wooded valley.

It always took a minute or two, in fact, before someone approaching on foot actually saw the house, so dense was the surrounding vegetation.

“Ah, such beauty,” sighed Ramjut Pillay, and inhaled again the heavy scent of the flowering shrubs on either side of him.

He pictured the lady coming to the door, his asking for the stamp most politely, and her agreeing as always, giving that throaty little laugh. Perhaps she would want to ask him more about preparing curries, which she did from time to time, and he would have a glass of chilled orange juice brought out to him by the servant.

Just then, there was a stirring in his loins, making him wonder why on earth the problem of the brahmacharya experiments should return to bother him at such a time. Then, without warning, a truly shocking insight provided the answer to that, tempting him to think the unthinkable.

He gave in.

There would be no servant to answer the door when he knocked. The hall would ring empty. Then he would hear the slap of her sandals, and the door would swing inwards, revealing her in her voluptuous glory. Her face would soften sweetly when she saw who was standing there, then a flush would rise to her throat. “Come in,” she would whisper hoarsely, “I have great need of you. ” And there would be no mistaking what she meant by those words. In another minute, his postbag cast aside, he would enter—

“Ho, what balderingdash is this?” Ramjut Pillay scoffed out aloud. “Have we taken leave of our senses, post wallah?”

Not entirely, another side to him insisted. The lady in question had already shown herself to be unusually sympathetic to his race. What other house on his round always smelled of incense? What other lady wore toe-thong sandals on her feet, and dressed in long, loose-fitting garments so clearly inspired by the sari? What other lady asked him intelligent questions about the God Kali, about yoga and yoghurt, and knew words such as “Sanskrit”?