Simon had no difficulty in trailing such a convoy and kept at a discreet distance. In Holland Park they left the main road, and after five minutes or so came to a halt before an hotel, which had been made by knocking together two lofty Victorian houses. It had “The Presscott” painted in brown letters on the glass of the fanlights, and was sorely in need of renovation.
He was unable to pick out either Mathieu Tebreaux or Hélène Chauvet. Louis and his giant aide-de-camp were the last to enter, the latter slamming the door behind him.
There was nothing more that he could do tonight. Simon drove away, making a note of the name of the road as he turned the corner. He would be back in the morning.
Alice Linley was always glad of a talk, especially with nice-looking young gentlemen who had the time and inclination to spare to take her for a Guinness. She was established by Simon’s side in the Private Bar of The Cock Pheasant, perched on a high stool.
“They get all sorts at ‘The Presscott’,” she said. “This district isn’t what it was, not at all it isn’t. Gladys, that’s my friend, Gladys and I are seriously thinking about leaving our flat and moving to somewhere more select. Those Jamaicans started it. The whole place is becoming just like the Congo if you ask me. Not that I’ve got any personal feelings against colored boys. Some of them are very nice really, but it’s no longer such a good address, if you see what I mean.”
Simon drained his bitter and ordered another round of drinks. “That ‘Presscott’ lot,” he asked, “do they get around much?”
“Thanks,” said Alice. “It’s hard to say, I’m sure. They moved in last Friday, I believe it was. Stacks of baggage they brought. Props and things, I expect. Great boxes and I don’t know what. They’re theatricals. Seem to keep pretty much to themselves. There’s a short chap, the head one he seems to be. He does go out sometimes with a big fellah, black as coal. They’ve got a limousine car.” She compressed her lips in mock disappointment. “Wish I had! Maybe some day I will. It’s a long lane, I always say.”
“Where do you suppose they go?” asked Simon. “I heard somewhere that they were French Colonials,” he added inconsequentially.
“Couldn’t really say.” Alice sounded disinterested. She smoothed the cream silk of her blouse over her full breasts, and Simon could not but observe that she had dispensed with a brassiere. “It’s usually in the afternoon,” she went on. “Being theatricals, I’d say they’d need their rest in the mornings.” Her eyes traveled with approval over Simon’s athletic and square-shouldered figure. “Like to come back to my place?” she asked pleasantly.
“I’d like to very much,” he said, “but I’m afraid I can’t. My office calls.”
“Oh well,” acquiesced Alice obligingly, “perhaps another day. I’m nearly always there until the evening, and you’d be welcome.” She smiled at him. “It might even be ‘on the house’. I think you’re sweet. Most of my . . . my boy friends are such weeds,” she said, “or else they’re Grandpas with pot bellies. It would make a change. I’ve quite fallen for you. Really I have.” They emptied their glasses and stood up, going together into the street. “Ta-ta,” Alice said. “Thanks ever so for the Guinness. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! I live round the corner over the paper shop if you want to find me.” She walked away, swinging her orange plastic handbag, the beehive of her peroxide hair glinting in the sunshine.
Simon went back into the pub and purchased a pork pie which he took with him into the car as he settled down to begin his vigil.
The day was bright and warm. Soon after two o’clock a limousine stopped at “The Presscott,” and shortly afterwards Monsieur Louis and the large Negro came out of the hotel and drove away. Simon watched the car until it was out of sight, deciding to remain where he was for a spell longer.
Presently, in twos and threes, other members of the Company emerged to take the air. The girls were mostly in flowered or patterned dresses, the men in tight suits with elaborately decorated shoes or sandals; but neither of the dancers for whom he was searching was among them.
And now a woman came out by herself. She was taller and broader than the other girls, and her carriage was splendid, and Simon thought that she it had been who had taken the role of “Papa Nebo” in the principal ballet. He pulled the crumpled programme from his pocket, scanning the names of the cast. Here it was: “Papa Nebo” . . . Marianne Dorville.
She was standing on the pavement at the foot of the stone steps enjoying the sunshine that was hardly more than a vitiated version of her own. Simon swung his long legs out of the tiny car and straightened up. Casually he walked towards her. As he drew level with her he stopped and raised his hat. “Mademoiselle Dorville?” he asked.
The woman glanced up at him in some surprise that he should know her name; or could it have been in fear? “Monsieur?”
“You speak French?” asked Simon, using that language.
“I do,” she admitted, still ill at ease.
“I much admired your performance,” Simon said. “I was at your opening night.”
“You are very kind.”
“I was,” said Simon, “enchanted. I am the drama critic of the Daily Echo,” he went on untruthfully, “which is the most powerful of the English papers, and I have come here by arrangement with Monsieur Louis to interview Mathieu Tebreaux and Hélène Chauvet . . . and naturally yourself,” he finished gallantly.
Marianne regarded him with some doubt. “That is not possible, Monsieur. We never give interviews. It is not permitted.” She turned away.
“I assure you that it is all arranged,” said Simon. “Monsieur Louis has made a rare exception in my case. If you will take me to him he will tell you so himself.”
“He is not here. He has gone out.”
“Not here?” repeated Simon in dismay. “He must be.” He pulled back his cuff to look at his watch. “But that is a disaster. I have to turn in my copy by four o’clock. My paper is giving your show a tremendous boost. I would be greatly obliged if you would be so kind as to lead me to Monsieur Tebreaux. Otherwise,” he said, relapsing into English, “there will be hell to pay. Hell for us all.”
Marianne’s large black eyes clouded. “Monsieur,” she said, “you are talking nonsense. No interviews are permitted, particularly with Tebreaux and Chauvet. They would be unable to answer you.” She hesitated and went on: “They are talented, yes—but they are also dumb, and comprehend nothing of the outside world.”
“Dumb?” He searched her face. “How do you mean, dumb? Stupid?”
She shook her head and indicated her own tongue. “They cannot speak. They have suffered from this affliction since their birth. Unhappily there are many such in my country.” Her gaze was as impassive as that of an image.
“I see,” said Simon. So they were dumb, were they? And Louis had told him that they could speak only some obscure dialect. It didn’t tie up. It didn’t tie up at all. Regarding her pensively Simon realized that she was beautiful. She hailed from Byzantium or from the land of the Pharoahs or from the drowned continent of Atlantis. She came entirely from the past. “Where are they?” he shot the question at her abruptly.
“In the room next to Monsieur Louis’,” said Marianne before she could stop herself. “But you will not be admitted. You can spare yourself the trouble.”
“I thank you,” said Simon. He ran past her and up the steps into the lobby of the sleazy hotel. Marianne watched him go in a state of considerable distress. Then she followed him into the house, and darted into the telephone booth which stood in the hall.
Simon took the stairs two at a time. He had no way of knowing when Emanuel Louis would be back. Halfway up he nearly collided with a child that was on its way to the street. It could not have been more than ten years old. Simon took a shilling from the pocket of his trousers. “Monsieur Louis?” he inquired. The information would co
nfine his quest to the two adjoining rooms.
The little boy took the coin, regarding him seriously out of huge dark eyes. “You will find him in Room 12, Monsieur.”
“Thank you.” He found himself on a landing crowded with doors. Their positioning made it clear that the big rooms of the old house had been divided and sub-divided, again. The numbers ranged from one to ten. He listened, but the house was quiet save for a muted crooning from a room on his left and the murmur of women’s voices from further down the passage.
He tiptoed to the floor above, which was a replica of that which he had just left. The same walls of arsenic green, the same cocoa-brown dados and surrounds, and all around like incense was the sweetish smell of colored people, which was vaguely reminiscent of musk. Simon found it at once both repugnant and exciting.
From the end of the corridor came the sound of imprecations and the rolling of dice. The ejaculations were agitated and guttural. He knocked on the door of number 11. There was no answer. He knocked again. Dead silence. He tried the door-knob and rather to his astonishment it opened at his touch. There was no one there. So it must be number 13. Twice he knocked and once more there was no sign of occupation. There were footsteps coming up the stairs. He could not risk discovery. He went in. The room was high and narrow. At one end an altar had been erected, a twin of that which he had seen in the “houmfort” at the theatre, except that he had an idea that the skulls which he was seeing were not made of papier-mâché.
There were two mattresses thrown on to the floor, and lying upon them were the couple for whom he had been searching. They lay there motionless, arms to their sides, and their eyes, turned to the ceiling, were filled with sadness and desolation. They made no movement at his entrance nor gave any acknowledgement of his presence. Their clothes were those which they had worn in the ballet in which they had danced.
Simon froze where he stood, unwilling to go further. “My apologies,” he said, “if I am disturbing you. I am a Press reporter and have come here at the request of Monsieur Emanuel Louis. I represent the Daily Echo.” Still there was no reply nor reaction and he stepped forward. “You do not understand French?” he asked. Only their eyes registered that they possessed a semblance of life. At closer quarters their faces were hideous and heart-breaking, the lips drawn back from prominent teeth, the skin taut over jutting cheek bones. “You are ill,” he said gently. “Shall I get you a doctor?” He received no answer and walked forward once more until he stood gazing down at the emaciated forms. “You are hungry?” he suggested. “Is that it? You are hungry?”
And now the girl spoke, and her voice was as soft as the wind blowing through willow trees. “Yes,” she whispered. “We are hungry. Oh, so hungry.” Her jet black hair hung in ragged pennants to her shoulders. Simon dropped to his knees beside her and groped for her pulse. The grey skin of her wrist was as cold as that of a dead fish.
At his back the door was pushed open unobtrusively, but it gave a slight creak which was sufficient to make him turn his head. The doorway appeared to him to be filled and crowded with people. Emanuel Louis, who was grasping a revolver in his hand, the immense Negro in the pale suit, Marianne Dorville, saucer-eyed with apprehension, and behind her the craning necks and dusky terror-stricken faces of a tableau of other men and women.
Emanuel Louis’ face was stiff and contorted by rage. “Get out!” he said. “Leave this room immediately. I will not have my artistes upset by such behavior. If you must know, they are suffering from fever, from grippe, but it is not serious. It has happened before, and they are under my personal supervision. You are committing a trespass, and if you refuse to take yourself off at once, I will summon the police. Your actions are insupportable—beyond all reason. Get out! Get out! Will you leave, or must we throw you into the street?”
Simon got to his feet. “That will not be necessary, Monsieur Louis,” he said. “And you can put that thing away,” he added, pointing to the revolver. “I must warn you, however, that it is illegal to carry weapons in this country. And also that you have two very sick people on your hands.”
“Go,” said Louis, “and should you try to return I warn you that I will not hesitate to have you arrested.” He was so choked by his fury that he could scarcely speak.
Simon said no more. He walked over to the doorway, and the rows of black faces divided to let him pass. He was shaking as he got into his car.
In the evening he visited the Princess Theater for a second time, standing at the back of the dress circle. Both Tebreaux and Hélène Chauvet were dancing, and their performance was as good as the one which they had given on the first night.
David Roberts must have been right. Perhaps, after all, they were dope addicts. But Simon was by no means satisfied. There was a story here, and he was determined to get it.
It was after midnight when Simon reached “The Presscott.” No lights showed, and he walked round to the tradesmen’s entrance and down a flight of steps leading to an area. Here there was a glow from a curtained window of what he took to be the kitchen. There was a bell in the surround and he pressed it.
It was opened by a mulatto in his shirt sleeves and a tattered pullover, who stood there waiting for him to speak.
“I know it’s very late,” Simon said, “but I wondered if you could by any chance oblige me by letting me have a room? It would be for tonight only. I arrived from Cornwall an hour or so ago and I can’t get a bed anywhere.”
The mulatto stared at him with mistrust. “No,” he said, “I can’t. I am full up. This hotel is for colored people.” He made as if to shut the door in Simon’s face.
“I don’t mind that at all,” Simon said. He produced his wallet, from which he extracted a five pound note. “I only want somewhere to sleep, and perhaps a cup of coffee in the morning.”
The man eyed the note. Then he turned away. “Olive!” he called. “Come here a second, will you? There’s a bloke out here who wants a bed. He’s a white feller.” He pushed the door nearly shut once more, and Simon could hear a muttered colloquy coming from behind it. There was a lighter step, and through the crack he was aware that a fair-haired woman was inspecting him.
Apparently satisfied by what she saw, she said: “Come in, won’t you? As my husband told you, we are full up, but if it’s only for one night, and you don’t mind roughing it, I daresay we could let you have Ivy’s room. She’s my living-in maid, and a lazy slut. Her mother’s been taken poorly, or so she says, so she won’t be coming back until tomorrow afternoon. ‘Clinging Ivy’ I calls her, the way she throws herself at those black chaps. She’ll get what’s coming to her one of these fine days if she doesn’t look out. They’re only human, aren’t they, same as the rest of us? Girls are so inconsiderate these days. But you can’t pick and choose, more’s the pity, you can’t by any manner of means, and well they know it! No luggage?” she finished sharply, looking at his empty hands.
“I’m afraid not.” Simon thrust the note towards her. “Will that do instead?”
“Not on the run, are you?” she asked him suspiciously. “We don’t take that sort here.”
“No,” said Simon, “I’m not on the run.”
Olive’s hand closed on the five pounds. “It’s just to oblige,” she said. “We don’t usually accept men without any luggage. Certainly not at this time of night. If you’ll follow me I’ll show you your room. It’s nothing very grand.” He went up behind her to the top floor, and to a door that had no number. “The bed’s not bad,” said the woman defensively. “And it’s clean. You’ll find no bugs in my house. What time would you be wanting calling in the morning?” They had encountered no one on their way up.
“Half-past seven?” Simon suggested, knowing that long before that he would be gone.
“Righty-oh. Whatever you say.” She glanced around her. “Ivy’s left her things, I see. Still, you won’t be needing cupboard
space, having brought no luggage. Well, good night.” Her pin heels clattered away down the staircase.
Simon took off his coat and removed his shoes, and stretched out on the bed, which protested loudly under the weight of his fourteen stone. He would give his landlady and her husband half an hour in which to retire. He must have dozed, for when he looked at his watch it pointed to a quarter to three.
Jumping up he crossed in his stockinged feet to the peg on which he had hung his coat, and took from its bulging pocket a packet of sandwiches, which had been thickly stuffed with nearly raw beef. He had remembered the whisper of the girl in room 12. “We are hungry. Oh, so hungry.”
Their room must be on the floor below his own. He stuck his head over the stair-well. There was a dim bulb burning on each landing. Cautiously he made his way down, hoping that there would be no loose treads. On the landing he stood listening. From behind the door nearest to him came the noise of rhythmic snoring.
He reached number 13 and slipped inside, for it was not locked. It was in darkness, but he could hear no breathing. He might have been in a tomb. He had satisfied himself that there was no transom, so he fumbled for the switch and turned on an unshaded light.
The man and the girl were lying just as he had last seen them. “Do not be afraid,” he said in a whisper. “I was here to see you yesterday and this time I have brought you food. There is no reason for you to be afraid of me.” He leant down and closed first the girl’s cold fingers and then those of the man round the gift that he had brought them.
Their fingers gripped like pincers into the soft bread, and slowly they raised it to their mouths. Simon looked at them with compassion. Drugs, he thought, that is what it is. The pupils of their eyes had dwindled to pin-points. They were chewing on the meat convulsively, their mouths crammed.
The Smell of Evil Page 10