Читать онлайн «The Artful Egg»

“None,” admitted Ramjut Pillay.

Well, said this other side of him, at last we’re getting somewhere. And is it not true that she has several times listened with fascination to your accounts of the Mahatma Gandhi, confessing herself to be in awe of his great spirituality? Has she not herself said that she would dearly love to be able to follow in his footsteps, too? Then, is this not her great opportunity? If properly cajoled, I am sure she would be willing to join a true disciple such as yourself in a brahmacharya experiment, and to—

“Bosh!” said Ramjut Pillay. “Bosh, bosh, bosh! Immorality Act!”

That old thing, sighed another side to him. What has that to do with it? Without hanky-panky, there can be no contravention of the Act, surely? OK, OK, so you are of different races, but all you’re asking her to do is to lie naked beside you, while you—

“Enough!” declared Ramjut Pillay. “This is mad talk, and I will hear no more of it! I have forgotten it already. There, now, it’s all gone. …”

Even so, there was still such a stirring in his loins that, for want of a loincloth, he had to move his postbag round to cover his upper thighs before reaching up for the doorbell.

Nobody answered his ring.

The house remained silent.

He rang again, two short rings and then a long one.

Nothing.

How uncanny, that all should be just as he’d imagined it, only a minute or so ago. And were those approaching sandals he heard? Glancing round first, he then bent low and peered through the letter-slot. The hall was empty.

Well, perhaps the servants were taking their breakfast break, and she was out in the garden somewhere.

He was about to slip the letters through the slot anyway, when his hand rebelled, not wanting to release the cream envelope until he had been promised the stamp on it. Perhaps he could just take a quick look round, and hope to spot her with her gardening things or beside the swimming-pool.

Bump, bump, bump, moving a little awkwardly because of the postbag, Ramjut Pillay set off to circle the house anti-clockwise.

The swimming-pool lay without so much as a ripple on its surface. The garden looked quite empty. There was no sign of life anywhere. Then something that flashed caught his eye.

Needing new lenses in his wire-framed spectacles, Ramjut Pillay had to cross the patio beside the swimming-pool before he could make out what was reflecting the sun’s rays in this unusual manner: it was an electric fan with shiny metal blades, purring away just inside a room that opened out through huge sliding glass doors. Edging a little closer, he took a quick peep into the room, which was probably what he’d seen described somewhere as a sun-lounge. There was certainly enough sun in it, bouncing in off the pool outside, so no wonder someone had the fan on.

“Oh, heavens!” gasped Ramjut Pillay.

That someone was none other than the lady of the house, who lay stretched out on the black-leather sofa directly in line with where he was standing. She must certainly have seen him peering in, for he had been able to see her well enough, and would now doubtless expect some very good excuse for his intrusion. All the more so because she was virtually naked, save for a glittering bluey-green bikini.