It was one of these massive French colonial mansions, all fancy ironwork and balustrades and slatted screens, just as I remembered it, but what was missing now was signs of life – real life, at any rate. The great front door and windows should have been wide to the warm night, with nigger music and laughter pouring out, and the chandeliers a-glitter, and the half-naked yellow tarts strutting in the big hall, or taking their ease on the verandah like tawny cats on the chaise-longues, their eyes glowing like fireflies out of the shadows. There should have been dancing and merriment and drunken dandies taking their pick of the languid beauties, with the upper storeys shaking to the exertions of happy fornicators. Instead – silence. The great door was fast, and while there were lights at several of the shuttered windows, it was plain that if this was still a brothel, it must be run by the Band of Hope.
A chill came over me that was not of the night air. All of a sudden the dark garden was eerie and full of dread. Faint music came from another house beyond the trees; a carriage clopped past the distant gates; overhead a nightbird moaned dolefully; I could hear my own knees creaking as I crouched there, scratching the newly-healed bullet-wound in my backside and wondering what the deuce was wrong. Could Susie have gone away? Terror came over me like a cold drench, for I had no other hope.
“Oh, Christ!” I whispered half-aloud. “She must be here!”
“Who must be?” grated a voice at my ear, a hand like a vice clamped on my neck, and with a yap of utter horror I found myself staring into the livid, bearded face of John Charity Spring.
“Shut your trap or I’ll shut it forever!” he hissed. “Now then – what house is that, and why were you creeping to it? Quick – and keep your voice down!”
He needn’t have fretted; the shock of that awful moment had almost carried me off, and for a spell I couldn’t find my voice at all. He shook me, growling, while I absorbed the dreadful realisation that he must have been dogging me all the way – first in my headlong flight, then on the streets, unseen. It was horrifying, the thought of that maniac prowling and watching my every move, but not as horrifying as his presence now, those pale eyes glaring round as he scanned the house and garden. And knowing him, I answered to the point, in a hoarse croak.
“It … it belongs to a friend … of mine. A … an Englishwoman. But I don’t know … if she’s there now.”
“Then we’ll find out,” says he. “Is she safe?”
“I … I don’t know. She … she took me in once before …”
“What is she – a whore?”
“No … yes … she owns the place – or did.”
“A bawd, eh?” says he, and bared his teeth. “Trust you to make for a brothel. Plura faciunt homines e consuetudine, quam e rationei, you dirty little rip. Now then, see here. Thanks to you, I’m in a plight; can I lie up in that ken for a spell? And I’m asking your opinion, not your bloody permission.”
My answer was true enough. “I don’t know. Christ, you killed a man back there – she may … may not …”
“Self-defence!” snarls he. “But we agree, a New Orleans jury may take a less enlightened view. Now then – this strumpet … she’s English, you say. Good-natured? Tolerant? A woman of sense?”
“Why … why, yes … she’s a decent sort …” I sought for words to describe Susie. “She’s a Cockney … a common woman, but—”
“She must be, if she took you in,” says this charmer. “And we have no course but to try. Now then,” and he tightened his grip until I thought my neck would break, “see here. If I go under, you go under with me, d’ye see? So this bitch had better harbour us, for if she doesn’t …” He shook me, growling like a mastiff. “So you’d better persuade her. And mind what Seneca says: Qui timide rogat, docet negare.”
“Eh?”
“Jesus, did Arnold teach you nothing? Who asks in fear is asking for a refusal. Right – march!”
I remember thinking as I tapped on the front door, with him at my elbow, brushing his hat on his sleeve: how many poor devils have ever had a mad murderer teaching ’em Latin in the environs of a leaping-academy in the middle of the night – and why me, of all men? Then the door opened, and an ancient nigger porter stuck his head out, and I asked for the lady of the house.
“Miz Willinck, suh? Ah sorry, suh. Miz Willinck goin’ ’way.”
“She isn’t here?”
“Oh no, suh – she here – but she goin’ ’way pooty soon. Our ’stablishment, suh, is closed, pummanent. But if you goin’ next doah, to Miz Rivers, she be ’commodatin’ you gennamen—”
Spring elbowed me aside. “Go and tell your mistress that two English gentlemen wish to see her at her earliest convenience,” says he, damned formal. “And present our compliments and our apologies for intruding upon her at this untimely hour.” As the darkie goggled and tottered away, Spring rounded on me. “You’re in my company,” he snaps, “so mind your bloody manners.”
I was looking about me, astonished. The spacious hall was shrouded in dust-sheets, packages were stacked everywhere, bound and labelled as for a journey; it looked like a wholesale flitting. Then from the landing I heard a female voice, shrill and puzzled, and the nigger butler came shambling into view, followed by a stately figure that I knew well, clad in a fine embroidered silk dressing-gown.
As always, she was garnished like Pompadour, her hennaed hair piled high above that plump handsome face, jewels glistening in her ears and at her wrists and on that splendid bosom that I remembered so fondly; even in my anxious state, it did me good just to watch ’em bounce as she swayed down the stairs – as usual in the evening, she plainly had a pint or two of port inside her. She descended grand as a duchess, peering towards us in the hall’s dim light, and then she checked with a sudden scream of “Beauchamp!” and came hurrying down the last few steps and across the hall, her face alight.
“Beauchamp! You’ve come back! Well, I never! Wherever ’ave you been, you rascal! I declare – let’s ’ave a look at you!”
For a moment I was taken aback, until I recalled that she knew me as Beauchamp Millward Comber – God knew how many names I’d passed under in America: Arnold, Prescott, Fitz-something-or-other. But at least she was glad to see me, glowing like Soul’s Awakening and holding out her hands; I believed I’d have been enveloped if she hadn’t checked modestly at the sight of Spring, who was bowing stiffly from the waist with his hat across his guts.
“Susie,” says I, “this is my … my friend, Captain John Charity Spring.”
“Ow, indeed,” says she, and beamed at him, up and down, and blow me if he didn’t take her hand and bow over it. “Most honoured to make your acquaintance, marm,” says he. “Your humble obedient.”
“I never!” says Susie, and gave him a roving look. “A distinguished pleasure, I’m sure. Oh, stuff, Beauchamp – d’you think I’m goin’ to do the polite with you, too? Come ’ere, an’ give us a kiss!”
Which I did, and a hearty slobber she made of it, while Spring looked on, wearing what for him passed as an indulgent smile. “An’ wherever ’ave you been, then? – I thought you was back in England months ago, an’ me wishin’ I was there an’ all! Now, come up, both of you, an’ tell me wot brings you back – my, I almost ’ad apoplexy, seeing you sudden like that …” And then she stopped, uncertain, and the laughter went out of her fine green eyes, as she looked quickly from one to other of us. She might be soft where well-set-up men were concerned, but she was no fool, and had a nose for mischief that a peeler would have envied.
“Wot’s the matter?” she said sharply. Then: “It’s trouble – am I right?”
“Susie,” says I, “it’s as bad as can be.”
She said nothing for a moment, and when she did it was to tell the butler, Brutus, to bar the door and admit no one without her leave. Then she led the way up to her private room and asked me, quite composed, what was up.
It was only when I began to tell it that the enormity of what I was saying, and the risk I was running in saying
it, came home to me. I confined it to the events of that day, saying nothing of my own adventures since I’d last seen her – all she had known of me then was that I was an Englishman running from the Yankee Navy, a yarn I’d spun on the spur of the moment. As I talked, she sat upright on her chair in the silk-hung salon, her jolly, handsome face serious for once, and Spring was mum beside me on the couch, holding his hat on his knees, prim as a banker, although I could feel the crouched force in him. I prayed Susie would play up, because God knew what the lunatic would do if she decided to shop us. I needn’t have worried; when I’d done, she sat for a moment, fingering the tassels on her gaudy bedgown, and then says:
“No one knows you’re ’ere? Well, then, we can take our time, an’ not do anythin’ sudden or stupid.” She took a long thoughtful look at Spring. “You’re Spring the slaver, aren’t you?” Oh, Moses, I thought, that’s torn it, but he said he was, and she nodded.
“I’ve bought some of your Havana fancies,” says she. “Prime gels, good quality.” Then she rang for her butler, and ordered up food and wine, and in the silence that followed Spring suddenly spoke up.
“Madam,” says he, “our fate is in your hands,” which seemed damned obvious to me, but Susie just nodded again and sat back, toying with her long earring.
“An’ you say it was self-defence? ’E barred your way, an’ there was a ruckus, an’ ’e drew a pistol on you?” Spring said that was it exactly, and she pulled a face.
“Much good that’d do you in court. I daresay ’is pals would tell a different tale … if they’re anythin’ like ’e was. Oh, I’ve ’ad ’im ’ere, this Omo’undro, but not above once, I can tell you. Nasty brute.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “What they call a floggin’ cully – not that ’e was alone in that, but ’e was a real vile ’un, know wot I mean? Near killed one o’ my gels, an’ I showed him the door. So I shan’t weep for ’im. An’ if it was ’ow you say it was – an’ I’ll know that inside the hour, though I believe you – then you can stay ’ere till the row dies down, or—” and she seemed to glance quickly at me, and I’ll swear she went a shade pinker “—we can think o’ somethin’ else. There’s only me an’ the gels and the servants, so all’s bowmon. We don’t ’ave no customers these days.”
At that moment Brutus brought in a tray, and Susie went to see rooms prepared for us. When we were alone Spring slapped his fist in triumph and made for the victuals.
“Safe as the Bank. We could not have fallen better.”
Well, I thought so, too, but I couldn’t see why he was so sure and trusting, and said so; after all, he didn’t know her.
“Do I not?” scoffs he. “As to trust, she’ll be no better than any other tearsheet – we notice she don’t bilk at abetting manslaughter when it suits her whim. No, Flashman – I see our security in that full lip and gooseberry eye, which tell me she’s a sensualist, a voluptuary, a profligate wanton,” growls he, tearing a chicken leg in his teeth, “a great licentious fleshtrap! That’s why I’ll sleep sound – and you won’t.”
“How d’you mean?”
“She can’t betray me without betraying you, blockhead!” He grinned at me savagely. “And we know she won’t do that, don’t we? What – she never took her eyes off you! She’s infatuated, the poor bitch. I supposed you stallioned her out of her wits last time. Aye, well, you’d best fortify yourself, for soevit amor ferrij, or I’m no judge; the lady is working up an appetite this minute, and for our safety’s sake you’d best satisfy it.”
Well, I knew that, but if I hadn’t, our hostess’s behaviour might have given me a hint, just. When she came back, having plainly repainted, she was flushed and breathless, which I guessed was the result of having laced herself into a fancy corset under the gown – that told me what was on her mind, all right; I knew her style. It was in her restless eye, too, and the cheerful way she chattered when she obviously couldn’t wait to be alone with me. Spring presently begged to be excused, and bowed solemnly over her hand again, thanking her for her kindness and loyalty to two distressed fellow-countrymen; when Brutus had led him off, Susie remarked that he was a real gent and a regular caution, but there was something hard and spooky about him that made her all a-tremble.
“But then, I can say the exact same about you, lovey, can’t I?” she chuckled, and plunged at me, with one hand in my curls and the other fondling elsewhere. “Ooh, my stars! Give it here! Ah, you ’aven’t changed, ’ave you – an’, oh, but I’ve missed you so, you great lovely villain!” Shrinking little violet, you see; she munched away at my lips with that big red mouth, panting names in my ear that I blush to think of; it made me feel right at home, though, the artful way she got every stitch off me without apparently taking her tongue out of my throat once. I’ve known greater beauties, and a few that were just as partial to pork, but none more skilled at stoking what Arnold called the deadly fires of lust; when she knelt above me on the couch and licked her lips, with one silken knee caressing me to distraction while she slowly scooped those wondrous poonts out of her corset and smothered me with ’em – well, I didn’t mind a bit.
“I’ll distress you, my fellow-countryman,” says she, all huskylike. “I’m goin’ to tease you an’ squeeze you an’ eat you alive, an’ by the time I’ve done, if the coppers come for you, you’ll just ’ave to ’ide, ’cos you won’t be fit to run a step!”
I believed her, for I’d enjoyed her attentions for five solid days last time, and she’d damned near killed me. She was one of those greedy animals who can never have enough – rather like me, only worse – and she went to work now like Messalina drunk on hasheesh. About two hours it took, as near as I could judge, before she gave a last wailing sigh and rolled off on to the floor, where she lay moaning that never, never, never had she known the like, and never could again. That was her usual form; any moment and she would start to weep – sure enough, I heard a great sniff, and presently a blubber, and then the gurgle as she consoled herself with a large port.
As a rule I’d have sunk into a ruined sleep; for one thing, a bout with La Willinck would have unmanned Goliath. But after a while, pondering Spring’s advice, I began to wonder if it mightn’t be politic to give her another run – proof of boundless devotion, I mean to say; she’d be flattered sweet. It must have been my weeks of abstinence, or else I was flown with relief at the end of a deuced difficult day, but when I turned over and watched her repair her paint at the glass, all bare and bouncy in her fine clocked stockings – d’you know, it began to seem a not half bad notion for its own sake? And when she stretched, and began to powder her tits with a rabbit’s foot – I hopped out on the instant and grappled her, while she squealed in alarm, no, no, Beauchamp, she couldn’t, not again, honest, and you can’t mean it, you wicked beast, not yet, please, but I was adamant, if you know what I mean, and bulled her all over the shop until she pleaded with me to leave off – which by that time, of course, meant pray continue. I can’t think where I got the energy, for I’d never have thought to be still up in arms when Susie, of all women, was hollering uncle, but there it was – and I truly believe it was the cause of all that followed.
When we’d done, and she’d had a restorative draught of gin, with her head on the fender, heaving her breath back, she looked up at me with eyes that were moist once they’d stopped rolling, and whimpers:
“Oh, Gawd – why did you ’ave to come back? Jus’ when I was gettin’ over you, too.” And she started to snuffle again.
“Sorry I did, are you?” says I, tweaking her rump.
“Bloomin’ well you know I’m not!” she mumps. “More fool me. I knew I was gettin’ a sight too fond of you, last year … but … but it was on’y when you’d gone that I … that I …” Here she began to bawl in earnest, and it took several great sighs of gin to set her right. “An’ then … when I saw you in the ’all tonight, I felt … such a joy … an’I … Oh, it’s ridiklus, at my age, carryin’ on like a sixteen-year-old!”
“I doubt if any sixteen-ye
ar-old knows how to carry on like that,” says I, and she gulped and giggled and slapped me, and then came over all maudlin again.
“Wot I mean is … like I once said … I know you’re jus’ like the rest of ’em, an’ all you want is a good bang, an’ I’m just an old … a middle-aged fool, to feel for you the way I do …’ cos I know full well you don’t love me … not the way I … I …” She was blubbering like the Ouse in spate by now, tears forty per cent proof. “Oh … if I thought you liked rogerin’ me, even, more than … than others …” She looked at me with her lip quivering and those big green eyes a-swim. “Say that you … you really like it … with me … more … don’t you? Honest, when I caught you lookin’ at me in the mirror … you looked as though you … well, cared for me.”
Tight as Dick’s hatband, of course, but it proved how right I’d been to give her an encore. If a thing’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well, and if Susie wants to go with you a mile, gallop with her twain. I improved the shining hour by telling her I was mad for her, and had never known a ride to compare – which wasn’t all that much of a lie – and murmured particulars until she quite cheered up again, kissed me long and fondly, and said I was a dear bonny boy. I told her that I’d been itching for her all these months, but at that she gave me a quizzy look.
“I bet you didn’t itch long,” says she, sniffing. “Not with all them saucy black tails about. Gammon!”
“One or two,” says I, for I know how to play my hand. “For want of better. And don’t tell me,” I added, with a sniff of my own, “that some lucky men haven’t been playing hopscotch with you.”
Do you know, she absolutely blushed, and cried no such thing, the very idea! But I could see she was pleased, so I gave her a slantendicular look, and said, not even one? at which she blushed even pinker, and wriggled, and said, well, it wasn’t her fault, was it, if some very valued and important clients insisted on the personal attention of Madame? Oh, says I, and who might they be?
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 173