The ostler, Jim Duke, was not the brightest of men.
The moment he realized that the two cyclists had escaped, he charged after them down the road, shouting at the top of his voice.
But the fugitives were already too far ahead.
After a while, Jim returned to the Vicuna Hotel, completely out of breath.
Several men were standing outside the entrance.
“What’s happened?” one of them asked.
Jim immediately stopped and told them the whole story, enjoying the attention far too much.
By the time he finished, several precious minutes had passed.
He finally rushed into the bar and tried to explain everything to the barmaid.
But the hotel manager was away.
“What ever are we going to do?” she cried.
The two customers who had been outside came in and joined the discussion.
Everyone had an opinion.
Someone suggested calling the police.
Another thought they should find a horse and chase after the cyclists.
Others offered moral judgments that were completely useless.
Another ten minutes disappeared.
Then Stephen, the waiter who had shown Hoopdriver to his room earlier, came downstairs.
He turned on several bright lights and immediately became involved in the confusion.
“Which one?” he asked.
That simple question started another round of arguments.
Before anyone could agree on anything, another ten minutes had gone by.
Then suddenly everyone fell silent.
Bechamel had appeared in the hallway.
He walked calmly toward the stairs.
Nobody dared say anything.
They watched him disappear upstairs.
His footsteps moved slowly across the carpet.
The ostler whispered:
“That wasn’t the man, miss. I swear it.”
The barmaid looked at him.
“Well, that’s Mr. Beaumont, anyway.”
Everyone fell silent again.
They listened.
Bechamel’s footsteps stopped.
Then they heard him turn around.
He walked out of the dining room.
His footsteps continued down the hallway toward the bedroom.
Again, they stopped.
The barmaid shook her head.
“Poor man. She’s a wicked woman.”
“Shhh,” Stephen warned.
After a short pause, Bechamel returned to the dining room.
They heard a chair creak.
The people downstairs exchanged knowing looks.
“I’ll go up,” Stephen finally said. “I’d better tell him the bad news.”
Bechamel was sitting in the dining room reading a newspaper that was already a week old.
Stephen entered without knocking.
Bechamel looked up.
“Beg pardon, sir,” Stephen said cautiously.
“Well?”
Bechamel suddenly wondered whether Jessie had carried out one of the threats she had made earlier.
If she had, he already had an explanation prepared.
He would simply tell everyone that she was emotionally unstable and that he knew how to deal with her.
“Mrs. Beaumont,” Stephen began.
“Well?”
“She has gone, sir.”
Bechamel stood up.
“Gone?”
“Yes, sir. She left on her bicycle.”
“On her bicycle? Why?”
“She went with another gentleman, sir.”
Bechamel stared at him.
“Another gentleman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who?”
“Another gentleman wearing brown clothes. He went into the yard, took out both bicycles, and left with her.”
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago, sir.”
Bechamel stood there in complete disbelief.
“Brown clothes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And fair-haired?”
“A little like you, sir. At least in the dark.”
Stephen continued:
“The ostler, Jim Duke, saw the whole thing.”
Bechamel gave a strange little laugh.
Then he suddenly understood what had happened.
His face changed.
“Damn!”
He dropped heavily into the armchair.
“I should have known!”
He sat there for a moment, staring into space.
Then he suddenly spoke like an ordinary angry man.
“Damn her.”
Stephen waited.
“I’ve had enough of this ridiculous business.”
“They’ve gone, sir.”
“Yes.”
Bechamel waved his hand dismissively.
“Well, let them go.”
He tried to sound completely unconcerned.
“Let them go. Who cares?”
He paused.
“And I wish the fellow luck.”
Stephen stared at him.
“Bring me some bourbon as quickly as you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll have a drink, and then I’ll take one last look around Bognor before I go to bed.”
Stephen was so surprised that he could only repeat:
“Bourbon, sir?”
“Go on.”
Bechamel glared at him.
“Damn you!”
“Yes, sir.”
Stephen hurried out.
His opinion of Bechamel had changed completely.
Bechamel waited until he heard the waiter’s footsteps disappear.
Then his carefully controlled expression collapsed.
He began swearing furiously.
If his wife or his stepmother had hired that detective, then Jessie had apparently escaped with him.
The whole affair was over.
And Bechamel was left behind.
He felt like the greatest fool alive.
Still, there was one small possibility that comforted him.
Perhaps Jessie had escaped because of her stepmother.
If that was true, perhaps the whole affair could still be kept quiet.
That would give him more time before he had to explain everything to his wife.
But then he remembered Jessie again.
He pictured her slim figure in those grey cycling clothes.
His anger returned immediately.
“Damn!”
He jumped to his feet, suddenly imagining himself chasing after them.
Then he stopped.
There was nowhere useful to go.
He dropped back into the chair so heavily that the impact could be heard downstairs.
He slammed his fist against the armrest.
“Of all the damned fools who ever lived,” he muttered, “I, Bechamel—”
There was a quick knock.
The door opened.
Stephen came back carrying the bourbon.