Harlequin, page 32
He took an envelope out of his pocket and held it out to me across the table. I took it in my hand, weighed it, prayed it would not be what it felt like; a deed of gift, an endowment. If he tried to buy me now, I should hate him to eternity.
‘Open it, Paul!’
Francis Mendoza passed me the cheese-knife. I slit the envelope and handed it to Suzanne. She looked at it for a moment and then tipped the contents on to her plate – a second envelope filled with scraps of paper, torn and shredded to confetti. We stared at Harlequin. For the first time in an age, we saw the old crooked quizzical smile. Someone had to put the question. That someone had to be Paul Desmond.
‘What is it, George?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘I can,’ said Suzanne.
I told you I was a dumb ox. I had forgotten that he was a clown and an illusionist. I didn’t see the joke until Suzanne piled the shreds of paper in a dish and Francis Xavier Mendoza poured his best brandy over them and burnt Basil Yanko’s confession to ashes.
Morris West, Harlequin
