by Simon Raven
'O.K., but where's my little girl?'
'I don't know,' said Esme awkwardly, 'at least I do in a way. She's with Terence.'
'But that's O.K.,' said Uncle Bill, 'they're around somewhere, those kids. We'll have that drink and then go and find them.'
He led Esme off to the bar. They had one drink and then another. The more the better, thought Esme, within limits. He ordered a third lot.
'Get the shawl?' he asked.
'Yeah. My little girl's going to fall over herself when she sees it. Where did you say they were?'
'I'm not quite sure.'
'Well, we'll go and find them in a minute.'
'That may not be too easy.'
'I'll send a page-boy round,' said the obtuse Uncle Bill.
'I mean, they're not in the hotel.'
'They'll be back. Maisie wouldn't keep her Uncle Bill waiting on a night like this.'
'Look,' said Esme, 'it's not easy for me to say this; but I went to my room just before you got back, and there was a note from Terence saying he'd gone out with Maisie. He said I wasn't to expect him back till very' late.'
Uncle Bill looked at though he had been hit on the head with a steam shovel.
'I don't expect Terence knew about your dinner,' explained Esme.
Uncle Bill gulped.
'But l'il Maisie, she knew — '
'I know,' said Esme, 'and I'm sorry it's me that has to tell you this.'
'But what am I gonna do, Mr Sa Foy? I just can't believe that l'il Maisie'd—'
'I did try to warn you,' said Esme: 'these children get ideas in their heads. Terence is an — '
'Aw, Jese,' said Uncle Bill. 'Aw, Jese. And me just waiting to — '
'Now look,' said Esme, 'just stop worrying. They won't have gone far and they don't mean any harm. It's just thoughtlessness, childish thoughtlessness. You and I will go and have our dinner, and then we'll go out and look for them.'
'But we'd better start looking right away.'
'You're tired and hungry. Maisie'd never forgive herself if she thought her carelessness had made you too ill to eat. They won't be far.'
Esme cashed in on Maisie's anniversary dinner which had certainly been done in style. It was a pity he had to keep worrying about the time; but the Grand Guignol would be over by ten-thirty', Uncle Bill was really getting plastered, and he'd have to be steered off along the front, with a detour or two for effect, in good time to see everything intended for him. It had been nine-fifteen before they started eating.
'Whose idea d'ye suppose it was, to go off like this?' asked Uncle Bill.
'I couldn't say. Both of them, I suppose.'
'It's the first time that Maisie's ever run out on me. Our anniversary' night, an' it's the first time.'
'I know,' said the sympathetic Esme. He hoped Uncle Bill wasn't going to pass out on him.
'But we'll waste no time, Mr Sa Foy. We'll eat our dinner and waste no time. Aw, Jese!'
Perhaps it was as well they would have to hurry dinner. It was not going to be a cheerful meal.
'O.K.,' said Esme after Uncle Bill had had three brandies to stiffen himself, 'we'll start down by the little Casino.'
'Why there?'
'It's on a piece of the front people are very apt to wander to in the evenings. There's a cafe facing over the sea with a band — and there are some side-streets before we get there with some places they might have gone to.'
'What sort of places?' asked the petulant Uncle Bill.
'Just restaurants.'
'Then let's get started. If I don't get my eyes on l'il Maisie inside of an hour, I'm going to call out the gendarmerie, that's what I'm gonna to do, I'm gonna c—''Now don't get hasty,' said Esme, 'that wouldn't do any good at all. You'd scare the life out of them.'
'Right now I'm having the life scared out of me.'
'Then finish your drink, and let's be off.'
The doorman gave the exaggerated salute he reserved for drunks. (Sometimes they thought he must have done something for them, and tipped him on the spot.) Esme piloted Uncle Bill unsteadily towards the hotel gate, up the rue Edouard VII, and then down some steps into a network of side-streets.
'Take it easy,' said Uncle Bill, 'we got to get a look in some of these places.'
It was hard work getting him to the front in time without moving faster than appeared consonant with their search. Sometimes he wanted to take looks inside places, and once they got downstairs to find themselves in a night-club called La Cave. A girl and a repellent negro were jiving on the floor.
'They won't be here,' said Esme.
'Never know . . . Say, has anyone seen two kids, a boy an' a girl,' roared Uncle Bill, lurching forward on to the dance floor. The negro's back-kick caught his shin, and he fell back with a crash on to a table.
'You'd better come out before we get a biff,' said Esme.
'Not till I've taught that bloody nigger better manners, I'll get the bast—'
'Shut up,' said Esme fiercely, 'they've got racial tolerance round these parts. They have to have,' he said, looking round at the appalling crew of mongrels who formed the clientele of La Cave. 'Come on, will you, you're making us — you're delaying our search.'
His damaged shin had rather dampened Uncle Bill's curiosity. By the time they reached the cafe on the front — it was directly between the Casino and the beach — it was just after ten-thirty. Red lights above them advertised roulette and baccarat, the moon shone brightly on to the sea, and the orchestra struck up with a tango. The place was getting very full, Esme noticed. That might mean the Grand Guignol was over. Esme looked along the beach. The only cover was a pile of surf-boards, about fifty yards off the concrete front and a hundred yards to their left. He hurried Uncle Bill along till they were well past the surf-boards, found a vacant seat, and told him they'd earned five minutes' rest. Two minutes later — heaven be thanked — Terence and Maisie came down some steps from the Casino and then went down a few more from the front to the beach.
'It's quite all right,' he whispered to Uncle Bill, 'keep quiet and look at that.' Terence and Maisie were sitting on the surf-boards holding hands.
'Doesn't it make you feel good?' he asked Uncle Bill.
Just then Terence put his hand in his pocket, paused a moment, then slipped something on to Maisie's arm.
'He's giving her a present,' said Esme in the voice he'd been taught to use for his prayers.
'Aw, gee,' said Uncle Bill, the tears welling to his besotted eyes.
When the bracelet was on, Terence paused again for a moment. Then he made a fierce grab at Maisie, remembering every word Esme had spoken, pressed her to him till he seemed to crush her, and finally put his lips to her throat. Maisie just wilted with pleasure, and passed her fingers over his thighs like a cat scratching a rug. It was clear that Terence had talent.
Meanwhile, Uncle Bill had emitted a gasp of dismay and started to rise. Esme pulled him down and clapped a hand over his mouth.
'Keep quiet, will you?' he hissed. 'Do you want them to know they're being watched?'
Evidently that was just what Uncle Bill did want, for he struggled for some time; he was not very difficult to control, however, what with age and drink.
'Cool off,' said Esme. This was a little harsh on Uncle Bill, for the scene before their eyes was becoming almost primitive. After a minute or two more, however, Terence rose, put his arm round Maisie's waist and escorted her back up the steps. Esme released Uncle Bill.
'Where are they going?' spluttered the disillusioned sugar-daddy. As luck would have it the way up the steps was a possible start back to the hotel.
'Where do you suppose, after that?' said Esme.
'We must get back to the hotel,' said Uncle Bill, trembling all over, 'something terrible may happen.'
'Keep calm,' said Esme, 'they'll be having a bottle of champagne before anything starts.'
'We must get back at once.' 'All right. But don't work yourself into a stroke.'
'But gee, Es
me,' said Uncle Bill, 'how could they do that — who told them how to do that? Those kids — aw gee.'
'It doesn't take lessons,' said Esme, 'and I warned you. Now slacken your pace or you'll fetch up in a mortuary.'
It was about five minutes' walk back to the hotel. The doorman gave an even more elaborate salute. Uncle Bill turned towards him and started to open his mouth.
'Belay that,' rapped Esme quickly, 'do you want the whole staff talking?'
'We must get to Terry's room — quickly,' said Uncle Bill. 'Nothing of the sort. We'll go to yours and talk things over. I've told you nothing'll start for a bit. You can't just burst in on him.' Before Uncle Bill could object they were in the lift and the button had been firmly pressed. Esme swept him out and into his own room on the third floor. Then he shoved Uncle Bill on to the settee and locked the door behind him.
'Now we can talk in peace,' he said.
'What's there to talk about?' asked Uncle Bill.
'A whole lot,' said Esme; 'do you want to get down there before Terence and Maisie make a fool out of you?'
'Yeah, I do that, and what's more I'm goin' now, Mr Sa Foy, and nothin's gonna stop me.'
'You'll have to get the key first.'
'But you wouldn't ho—'
'That's all you know.'
'Say, what you after?' asked Uncle Bill, almost in tears again. 'I thought you were my friend, Mr Sa Foy, I thought — '
'So I am. But acts of friendship are reciprocal. Before we go there's something I want to ask you.'
'But that can keep,' howled Uncle Bill. 'I'll tell you what I know about anything I know about, but for heaven's sake let's — '
'We'll not move,' said Esme, 'until you tell me what I'm after. Do you know the number of Terence's room?'
'No, but—'
'Nor will you. I shan't tell you, and the man at the desk has 2,000 francs and orders to keep his mouth shut. If you want to blunder all over the hotel . . . But in any ease you won't find it easy in your condition to get out of the room with me to stop you. Have you got that, Mr Gomery?'
Uncle Bill was now blubbering like a great whale.
'Anything, Mr Sa Foy,' he moaned, 'but be quick, will you? My l'il girl and — '
'Very well. Now I want you to tell me, Mr Gomery, everything you know about the circumstances attendant on the suicide of Mr Earl Marshal Acre.'
Uncle Bill's mouth fell open like a sick baboon's.
'What do you know about Earl Marshal Acre?' he gulped. 'Very little; but I have reason to believe — in fact, Mr Gomery, I know — that you have more information on the subject than anyone else living — with one obvious exception. Now then, will you tell your story?'
'But that was a confidence,' stuttered Uncle Bill, too drunk to realize he was giving himself away, 'that was an intimate secret between friends, Mr Sa Foy, you wouldn't ask me to tell you that.'
'I would,' said Esme, 'and I do. Time's getting short, Mr Gomery; what do you say?'
'What do I say?' He was now writhing with anguish on the settee. 'What do I say, Mr Sa Foy?'
'You heard me,' yelled Esme, 'get a hold of yourself.'
'I say "no", Mr Sa Foy,' said Uncle Bill, suddenly stung into showing a little moral courage: 'I say "no, sir" to your blackmailing, rascally face.'
'You do, do you?' said Esme savagely; 'well then, you fat, drunken ape — get a look at this.'
'This' was his last card. It was the picture Terence had drawn at Aldeburgh.
Uncle Bill gaped. 'D ' ye mean to tell me —?' he gasped.
'Yes I do. And I'll tell you something more. Where do you think they've been tonight? To the Grand Guignol, you blubbering booby, and Terence has come back with his head one mass of ideas. Can you take that in? Are you sober enough to see what it means?'
Uncle Bill was struggling for air and waving his hands about like an hysterical octopus.
'Then any minute now he may —?'
'He very well may, Mr Gomery. Now give, will you, give.' Uncle Bill Gomery gave in — and gave.
It had all been very tiresome. It was an open question, very open, whether it had been at all worth it. It was a relief to find that Terence had followed his instructions to the last, and that no one was in his room. Even so, Uncle Bill and Maisie vanished early the next morning. Sandra might think Biarritz perfect for children, but Uncle Bill was taking his little chicken on to Cannes.
XVI
So there it was. The Acre secret on a plate. It was a talc that would certainly put the cat among the pigeons: but there was no corroborative evidence of any kind whatever. And as bad luck would have it, it was essentially a tale that required support — probable enough in its way, which was always something, but it required support. He had anticipated this, of course, but it was discouraging to find his fears confirmed. But at the same time, was it ever likely to have been otherwise?
At lunchtime the next day Esme was still wondering what to do. Uncle Bill had gone, so that Trito hadn't a hope when he arrived, but then what sort of hope had he himself? The cash value of the story he could tell Mr Chynnon was probably about ten pounds over and above his salary due — ten pounds for a clever effort and a piece of information that might conceivably become useful if — and only if — a million to one chance came up and brought further evidence out of the blue. Now he had long ago jettisoned any chance of being able to save sixty pounds for the Bursar of his college by ordinary methods. His own tastes would probably have seen to that in any case, while the recent expenditure on Uncle Bill and Terence, much of which he would be compelled, he saw, to foot out of his own pocket, would now finally settle the question. He had grim visions of returning empty in October.... 'We've really given you every chance'... 'Liverpool University' ... No, that was too much.... 'Send you out of those comfortable rooms of yours' ... 'Live in the Milton Road — you'll have to buy a bicycle and cycle in to lectures'... Well, he wouldn't go to any lectures, damned if he would. . . . 'No more parties, of course, no one will want to go out all that way'... 'And I don't suppose there's a key to your door, so you won't be able to — 'This must stop. It might very well happen, but there was no point in getting morbid about it before it did. Still, what the devil was he going to do with his story? Tell it to Trito? Perhaps he'd push it with Chynnon. Perhaps he'd push a matchbox down St James's Street with his nose. Would it be any good to reveal the whole conspiracy to Sandra? And have any reward he might expect for that office cancelled out — and more — by the inevitable revelation of the part he himself had played. It was enough to madden a nun: here he was, having staked his chance of paying the Bursar — a definite chance with Chynnon's extra salary — against a remote offer of £1,000: here he was, having fought almost incredible difficulties, first to get to Biarritz, then to pump Uncle Bill; and finally, here he was, having against all the odds earned his £1,000 — and with a rat's chance of getting the cash. It was really too unkind.
Consider the story again. Uncle Bill had been at school and college with Marshal Acre. Then, as later, Acre had been a joke. The biggest joke of all had been Acre's marriage. Why had it been a joke? Well, they all knew the answer to that one. A romantic passion was one thing, its implementation was another. But surely Sandra — Sandra, as usual, hadn't even thought about it — until they were married. Then she thought a good deal. For once in her life propriety had fought a losing battle. She had been disappointed, she had been cheated (always a strong point with her), in short she was furious. Ostensibly she had only been looking for a sort of chivalrous-squire-cum-general-bottlewasher (which she had certainly got) but when it came to the point . . . She reacted hard. One afternoon a sudden spell of sickness had stopped Acre's golf, he came back early, and found something that cured his chill right away. He was silent, hurt, he went out, he wrote a note — a harmless note, for he reproached himself more than anyone — then he went downstairs, and then ... Well anyway, Sandra and the hotel valet kept their secret pretty well. Acre hadn't given them away, so it wasn't hard. But mo
ther nature has a way of digging things up that ought to be securely buried. Three months later Sandra found this out. Small wonder she kept right out of the way for a time. And when she did reappear, she had an 'adopted' son, Terence. And shortly afterwards she adopted another — to smooth out the adoption line with her friends. But couldn't she have said Terence was Marshal Acre's son? She could indeed: only no one would have believed her — she had been the only person on Long Island, busy as she was with her troubles and her tantrums, who didn't know the original Acre secret. That was the sort of thing Sandra had been letting herself in for all her life — she was so intense that she overlooked things. She couldn't overlook Terence, but she'd wiped everyone's eye quite cleverly over that one. . . . Proof? . . . Well, what did you expect? As it happened a look at Terence wouldn't tell you much. What else would there be? The whole thing had been a confidence between friends (between Sandra and Uncle Bill), not a conference between lawyers. There probably wasn't any proof — and a good job too.
And there you had it. A plausible talc, perhaps, but not plausible enough ('erratic', Mr Chynnon had said, 'but not lubricious') for anyone to believe. Not plausible enough, then, for Mr Chynnon to buy. 'Great ones, her friends... excellent war record.' No: one would have to do better than that.
At lunchtime Esme received a note. It was unsigned, and merely told him to be in the gambling room of the main Casino at nine o'clock that night. He had been wanting to play the tables, and if he was going to be living in the Milton Road after October the first, he might as well have his fling. (Terence, who was intensely disagreeable about Maisie's sudden departure, could be sent to the cinema.) Besides, an anonymous summons (probably, he thought, from the Duchess's voracious quest of the other night) was always an intriguing thing to receive. Meanwhile, he addressed himself to the task of soothing Terence. He and Maisie had had quite a night of it, because shortly after Uncle Bill had visited Terence's room, he had passed out once more and left everyone a perfect wicket. Maisie had been a bit surprised to find him in bed when she eventually got back to their suite — and still more surprised when he let her have it the next morning. But she had been swept off happily enough, and much too early for protracted liaison with Terence. On the whole, then, Terence's anger was not directed at Esme. But it was a fulltime job cooling him down, and it was with a very deep sigh of relief that Esme finally pushed him off to one of the many American films that were showing in Biarritz. Getting into the gambling room was an elaborate business. Esme's passport said 'student' of all ridiculous things (why the hell couldn't he have had the sense to put 'gentleman'?), and the word 'student' bears a very dubious connotation on the Continent. He had to explain, first that an undergraduate of Cambridge University wasn't a sort of hybrid between 'worker' and 'intellectual', then that he himself was an ex-officer of the King, and finally, when neither of these worked, that in any case he had been elected a fellow of his college that spring and had not had time to have his passport altered. It all went to show that the truth is far more double-edged than any fiction. Once again falsehood had brought him through.