“It serves her damned well right,” he said.
This then was the story that Henry Garnet told his friends over the bridge-table, for the night before, after dinner when his wife and daughter had left them to their port, Nicky had narrated it in full.
“And you know what infuriated me is that he’s so damned pleased with himself. Talk of a cat swallowing a canary. And d’you know what he said to me when he’d finished? He looked at me with those innocent eyes of his and said: ‘You know, father, I can’t help thinking there was something wrong about the advice you gave me. You said, don’t gamble; well, I did, and I made a packet; you said, don’t lend money; well, I did, and I got it back; and you said, don’t have anything to do with women; well, I did, and made six thousand francs on the deal.’”
It didn’t make it any better for Henry Garnet that his three companions burst out laughing.
“It’s all very well for you fellows to laugh, but you know, I’m in a damned awkward position. The boy looked up to me, he respected me, he took whatever I said as gospel truth, and now, I saw it in his eyes, he just looks upon me as a drivelling old fool. It’s no good my saying one swallow doesn’t make a summer; he doesn’t see that it was just a fluke, he thinks the whole thing was due to his own cleverness. It may ruin him.”
“You do look a bit of a damned fool, old man,” said one of the others. “There’s no denying that, is there?”
“I know I do, and I don’t like it. It’s so dashed unfair. Fate has no right to play one tricks like that. After all, you must admit that my advice was good.”
“Very good.”
“And the wretched boy ought to have burnt his fingers. Well, he hasn’t. You’re all men of the world, you tell me how I’m to deal with the situation now.”
But they none of them could.
“Well, Henry, if I were you I wouldn’t worry,” said the lawyer. “My belief is that your boy’s born lucky, and in the long run that’s better than to be born clever or rich.”
GIGOLO AND GIGOLETTE
THE BAR WAS crowded. Sandy Westcott had had a couple of cocktails and he was beginning to feel hungry. He looked at his watch. He had been asked to dinner at half past nine and it was nearly ten. Eva Barrett was always late and he would be lucky if he got anything to eat by ten-thirty. He turned to the barman to order another cocktail and caught sight of a man who at that moment came up to the bar.
“Hullo, Cotman,” he said. “Have a drink?”
“I don’t mind if I do, sir.”
Cotman was a nice-looking fellow, of thirty perhaps, short, but with so good a figure that he did not look it, very smartly dressed in a double-breasted dinner jacket, a little too much waisted, and a butterfly tie a good deal too large. He had a thick mat of black, wavy hair, very sleek and shiny, brushed straight back from his forehead, and large flashing eyes. He spoke with great refinement, but with a Cockney accent.
“How’s Stella?” asked Sandy.
“Oh, she’s all right. Likes to have a lay-down before the show, you know. Steadies the old nerves, she says.”
“I wouldn’t do that stunt of hers for a thousand pounds.”
“I don’t suppose you would. No one can do it but her, not from that height, I mean, and only five foot of water.”
“It’s the most sick-making thing I’ve ever seen.”
Cotman gave a little laugh. He took this as a compliment. Stella was his wife. Of course she did the trick and took the risk, but it was he who had thought of the flames, and it was the flames that had taken the public fancy and made the turn the huge success it was. Stella dived into a tank from the top of a ladder sixty feet high, and as he said, there were only five feet of water in the tank.
Just before she dived they poured enough petrol on to cover the surface and he set it alight; the flames soared up and she dived straight into them.
“Paco Espinel tells me it’s the biggest draw the Casino has ever had,” said Sandy.
“I know. He told me they’d served as many dinners in July as they generally do in August. And that’s you, he says to me.”
“Well, I hope you’re making a packet.”
“Well, I can’t exactly say that. You see, we’ve got our contract and naturally we didn’t know it was going to be a riot, but Mr Espinel’s talking of booking us for next month, and I don’t mind telling you he’s not going to get us on the same terms or anything like it. Why, had a letter from an agent only this morning saying they wanted us to go to Deauville.”
“Here are my people,” said Sandy.
He nodded to Cotman and left him. Eva Barrett sailed in with the rest of her guests. She had gathered them together downstairs. It was a party of eight.
“I knew we should find you here, Sandy,” she said. “I’m not late, am I?”
“Only half an hour.”
“Ask them what cocktails they want and then we’ll dine.”
While they were standing at the bar, emptying now, for nearly everyone had gone down to the terrace for dinner, Paco Espinel passed through and stopped to shake hands with Eva Barrett. Paco Espinel was a young man who had run through his money and now made his living by arranging the turns with which the Casino sought to attract visitors. It was his duty to be civil to the rich and great. Mrs Chaloner Barrett was an American widow of vast wealth; she not only entertained expensively, but also gambled. And after all, the dinners and suppers and the two cabaret shows that accompanied them were only provided to induce people to lose their money at the tables.
“Got a good table for me, Paco?” said Eva Barrett.
“The best.” His eyes, fine, dark Argentine eyes, expressed his admiration of Mrs Barrett’s opulent, ageing charms. This also was business. “You’ve seen Stella?”
“Of course. Three times. It’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Sandy comes every night.”
“I want to be in at the death. She’s bound to kill herself one of these nights and I don’t want to miss that if I can help it.”
Paco laughed.
“She’s been such a success, we’re going to keep her on another month. All I ask is that she shouldn’t kill herself till the end of August. After that she can do as she likes.”
“Oh, God, have I got to go on eating trout and roast chicken every night till the end of August?” cried Sandy.
“You brute, Sandy,” said Eva Barrett. “Come on, let’s go in to dinner. I’m starving.”
Paco Espinel asked the barman if he’d seen Cotman. The barman said he’d had a drink with Mr Westcott.
“Oh, well, if he comes in here again, tell him I want a word with him.”
Mrs Barrett paused at the top of the steps that led down to the terrace long enough for the press representative, a little haggard woman with an untidy head, to come up with her note-book. Sandy whispered the names of the guests. It was a representative Riviera party. There was an English Lord and his Lady, long and lean both of them, who were prepared to dine with anyone who would give them a free meal. They were certain to be as tight as drums before midnight. There was a gaunt Scotch woman, with a face like a Peruvian mask that has been battered by the storms of ten centuries, and her English husband. Though a broker by profession, he was bluff, military, and hearty. He gave you an impression of such integrity that you were almost more sorry for him than for yourself when the good thing he had put you on to as a special favour turned out to be a dud. There was an Italian countess who was neither Italian nor a countess, but played a beautiful game of bridge, and there was a Russian prince who was ready to make Mrs Barrett a princess and in the meantime sold champagne, motor-cars, and Old Masters on commission. A dance was in progress, and Mrs Barrett, waiting for it to end, surveyed with a look which her short upper lip made scornful the serried throng on the dance floor. It was a gala night and the dining tables were crowded together. Beyond the terrace the sea was calm and silent. The music stopped and the head waiter, affably smiling, came up to guide her to
her table. She swept down the steps with majestic gait.
“We shall have quite a good view of the dive,” she said as she sat down.
“I like to be next door to the tank,” said Sandy, “so that I can see her face.”
“Is she pretty?” asked the Countess.
“It’s not that. It’s the expression of her eyes. She’s scared to death every time she does it.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that,” said the City gentleman, Colonel Goodhart by name, though no one had ever discovered how he came by the title. “I mean, the whole bally stunt’s only a trick. There’s no danger really, I mean.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Diving from that height in as little water as that, she’s got to turn like a flash the moment she touches the water. And if she doesn’t do it right she’s bound to bash her head against the bottom and break her back.”
“That’s just what I’m telling you, old boy,” said the Colonel, “it’s a trick. I mean, there’s no argument.”
“If there’s no danger there’s nothing to it, anyway,” said Eva Barrett. “It’s over in a minute. Unless she’s risking her life it’s the biggest fraud of modern times. Don’t say we’ve come to see this over and over again and it’s only a fake.”
“Pretty well everything is. You can take my word for that.”
“Well, you ought to know,” said Sandy.
If it occurred to the Colonel that this might be a nasty dig he admirably concealed it. He laughed.
“I don’t mind saying I know a thing or two,” he admitted. “I mean, I’ve got my eyes peeled all right. You can’t put much over on me.”
The tank was on the far left of the terrace, and behind it, supported by stays, was an immensely tall ladder at the top of which was a tiny platform. After two or three dances more, when Eva Barrett’s party were eating asparagus, the music stopped and the lights were lowered. A spot was turned on the tank. Cotman was visible in the brilliance. He ascended half a dozen steps so that he was on a level with the top of the tank.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he cried out, in a loud clear voice, “you are now going to see the most marvellous feat of the century. Madam Stella, the greatest diver in the world, is about to dive from a height of sixty feet into a lake of flames five foot deep. This is a feat that has never been performed before, and Madam Stella is prepared to give one hundred pounds to anyone who will attempt it. Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour to present Madam Stella.”
A little figure appeared at the top of the steps that led on to the terrace, ran quickly up to the tank, and bowed to the applauding audience. She wore a man’s silk dressing-gown and on her head a bathing-cap. Her thin face was made up as if for the stage. The Italian countess looked at her through her face-ti-main.
“Not pretty,” she said.
“Good figure,” said Eva Barrett. “You’ll see.”
Stella slipped out of her dressing-gown and gave it to Cotman. He went down the steps. She stood for a moment and looked at the crowd. They were in darkness and she could only see vague white faces and white shirt-fronts. She was small, beautifully made, with legs long for her body and slim hips. Her bathing costume was very scanty.
“You’re quite right about the figure, Eva,” said the Colonel. “Bit undeveloped, of course, but I know you girls think that’s quite the thing.”
Stella began to climb the ladder and the spot-light followed her. It seemed an incredible height. An attendant poured petrol on the surface of the water. Cotman was handed a flaming torch. He watched Stella reach the top of the ladder and settle herself on the platform.
“Ready?” he cried.
“Yes.”
“Go,” he shouted.
And as he shouted he seemed to plunge the burning torch into the water. The flames sprang up, leaping high, and really terrifying to look at. At the same moment Stella dived. She came down like a streak of lightning and plunged through the flames, which subsided a moment after she had reached the water. A second later she was at the surface and jumped out to a roar, a storm of applause. Cotman wrapped the dressing-gown round her. She bowed and bowed. The applause went on. Music struck up. With a final wave of the hand she ran down the steps and between the tables to the door. The lights went up and the waiters hurried along with their neglected service.
Sandy Westcott gave a sigh. He did not know whether he was disappointed or relieved.
“Top hole,” said the English peer.
“It’s a bally fake,” said the Colonel, with his British pertinacity. “I bet you anything you like.”
“It’s over so quickly,” said her English ladyship. “I mean, you don’t get your money’s worth really.”
Anyhow it wasn’t her money. That it never was. The Italian countess leaned forward. She spoke fluent English, but with a strong accent.
“Eva, my darling, who are those extraordinary people at the table near the door under the balcony?”
“Packet of fun, aren’t they?” said Sandy. “I simply haven’t been able to take my eyes off them.”
Eva Barrett glanced at the table the Countess indicated, and the Prince, who sat with his back to it, turned round to look.
“They can’t be true,” cried Eva. “I must ask Angelo who they are.”
Mrs Barrett was the sort of woman who knew the head waiters of all the principal restaurants in Europe by their first names. She told the waiter who was at that moment filling her glass to send Angelo to her.
It was certainly an odd pair. They were sitting by themselves at a small table. They were very old. The man was big and stout, with a mass of white hair, great
bushy white eyebrows, and an enormous white moustache. He looked like the late King Humbert of Italy, but much more like a king. He sat bolt upright. He wore full evening dress, with a white tie and a collar that has been out of fashion for hard on thirty years. His companion was a little old lady in a black satin ball dress, cut very low, and tight at the waist. Round her neck were several chains of coloured beads. She wore what was obviously a wig, and a very ill-fitting one at that; it was very elaborate, all curls and sausages, and raven black. She was outrageously made-up, bright blue under the eyes and on the eyelids, the eyebrows heavily black, a great patch of very pink rouge on each cheek, and the lips a livid scarlet. The skin hung loosely on her face in deep wrinkles. She had large bold eyes and they darted eagerly from table to table. She was taking everything in, and every other minute called the old man’s attention to someone or other. The appearance of the couple was so fantastic in that fashionable crowd, the men in dinner jackets, the women in thin, pale-coloured frocks, that many eyes were turned on them. The staring did not seem to incommode the old lady. When she felt certain persons were looking at her she raised her eyebrows archly, smiled and rolled her eyes. She seemed on the point of acknowledging applause.
Angelo hurried up to the good customer that Eva Barrett was.
“You wished to see me, my lady?”
“Oh, Angelo, we’re simply dying to know who those absolutely marvellous people are at the next table to the door.”
Angelo gave a look and then assumed a deprecating air. The expression of his face, the movement of his shoulders, the turn of his spine, the gesture of his hands, probably even the twiddle of his toes, all indicated a half-humorous apology.
“You must overlook them, my lady.” He knew of course that Mrs Barrett had no right to be thus addressed, just as he knew that the Italian countess was neither Italian nor a countess and that the English lord never paid for a drink if anyone else would pay for it, but he also knew that to be thus addressed did not displease her. “They begged me to give them a table because they wanted to see Madam Stella do her dive. They were in the profession themselves once. I know they’re not the sort of people one expects to see dining here, but they made such a point of it I simply hadn’t the heart to refuse.”
The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham - II - The World Over Page 50