Flames Coming out of the Top

by Norman Collins

  And then the accident occurred. One of the rockets declined to rise. Instead, it tore along, almost horizontally, at a height of about six feet. Another couple of feet and it would have lost itself harmlessly in one of the neighbouring corrals. But, as it was, the set-piece stood in the way. The rocket hit the as-yet unburning liner full amidships. Carmel gripped Dunnett’s hand tighter. The rocket stuck where it was for a moment and then exploded. Without further invitation, the set-piece began to function. Smoke started to pour out of the funnel and the portholes glared. Next the mast began to sparkle and the captain’s bridge jumped into life and began to be consumed. Squibs went off in the holds. But this was only a portion of the spectacle. One of the silver stars from the rocket fluttered to earth among the Egyptian Rain. At the next moment there was an Egyptian cloudburst. Great gusts of it were vomited into the air. Through the downfall could be seen the brilliantly illuminated figures of men running desperately for shelter.

  “Let us go in,” said Señor Muras quietly. “Someone has blundered. I must apologise.”

  Carmel let go of Dunnett’s hand and they went back into the drawing-room. When they got there the Señora’s couch was empty. Of her occupation there remained only her fan and a crumpled handkerchief which she had dropped in her flight. Señor Muras appeared distressed.

  “I hope,” he said, “that we did nothing to disturb her. For her the doctor has prescribed rest, absolute rest.”

  Señor Muras would not allow Dunnett to leave him even at the front door. He insisted on walking with him right up to the car. How long the car had been there Dunnett did not know. Apparently it had not been moved since he came in it. The chauffeur was sitting at the wheel in readiness; he had the stately, padded look of all good chauffeurs. He sat there as though he might have been supplied with the car.

  Walking down the steps Dunnett thought that he had never seen a night so beautiful. The moon had risen by now, and the trees around the house swam in a clear vitreous light as though they were being looked at in a mirror. The house itself, its outlines slightly blurred with silver, seemed to grow naturally out of the ground. There were lights in some of the windows: they showed square and peach-coloured like lighted windows in a picture book. Even the shadows came to life. They were no longer simply patches of darkness but pools which glowed with a cool, purple colour of their own.

  “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Señor Muras remarked. He spoke as though he had not even for a moment doubted what was at the back of the other man’s mind.

  Apart from that they reached the car in silence. Señor Muras helped his guest to settle himself in the corner and then held out his hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Dunnett. This has been our great pleasure, our very great pleasure. Only one thing, Mr. Dunnett. Please do not send any more of those telegrams. So very misleading and so worrying. It disturbed me deeply what you said to Mr. Govern.”

  Chapter V

  The Ride back from the hacienda was a long, continuous blur. Perhaps it was Señor Muras’s brandy; or perhaps it was simply that Dunnett was tired; tired and still a little dazed by the spectacle of the fireworks. Whatever it was, Señor Muras’s parting remark about the telegram kept recurring with the insidious emphasis of something sinister in a dream. Dunnett repeated it over to himself word by word, and he grew angrier each time he said it. If only he had felt a little steadier, more sure of himself, he would have gone straight along to the Post Office. He had no doubt how Mr. Verking would have handled such a situation.

  When he reached the Avenida, Dunnett found that he was far from being the only unsteady man in Amricante. In front of the hotel a stout, dishevelled figure was standing. It was Señor Alvarez, the landlord. He stood bareheaded, addressing the empty face of the building that confronted him. Across his chest ran a vivid streak of scarlet silk.

  “The best years of my life,” he was saying, “wasted for ever, and no reward. Nothing to show for it. Not even one. Absolutely alone.” He stopped and pulled himself together; it was evident even to an outsider that he had lost the thread of his complaint. He was about to begin again when he caught sight of Dunnett. “Perhaps we can assist each other,” he suggested.

  For a moment Dunnett endeavoured to avoid him, but a Grand Bolivian Eagle was not to be so easily thrown off. He kept sidling round for a grip. Finally he managed to fasten his fingers on Dunnett’s arm. It was just at that moment that he happened to remember the relationship there was between them. “Is your room comfortable?” he asked.

  “The hotel is to your liking?” Then his more immediate difficulties re-presented themselves. “May I request your hand,” he enquired. “You see I am far from well.”

  They got into the doorway of the hall without trouble. There was even a night porter who greeted them; but he did not offer to assist them. In any case, offers of assistance at that moment would have been refused. The landlord had just remembered his real grievance against life.

  “Women,” he said. “All women. Every one of them women. And the servants too. Nothing but women. Out-numbered all the time. Believe me “—he turned to Dunnett and tried to fold him in his arms—” when a man marries he marries ten women. He is never free again. They are all round him for ever.”

  He stood now in the dimly-lit hall and eyed his surroundings with distaste. “My prison,” he said simply. He picked up a small bowl that lay on one of the tables and threw it into the darkness at the foot of the stairs. The noise appeared to please him. He began looking for something more to throw.

  “You’d better come upstairs,” Dunnett suggested.

  “Not until I’ve finished down here,” the landlord replied. “To-night I make my protest. I smash everything up. To-morrow morning they will see whether or not I am master here.”

  Dunnett removed himself from his companion’s grasp and prepared to leave him. After all, it was no particular business of his what happened to the Hotel Avenida. It was not as though the outrage were to occur in an immaculate salon; the whole hall looked as though similar scenes of by-now forgotten violence had occurred there before.

  Half way up the stairs he heard a sound and looked back. The proprietor had removed a picture from the wall. He put his fist through the glass as Dunnett looked at him; then having broken the frame across his knee he turned about for something fresh to destroy. Obviously the smashing process was well under way. Dunnett left him in disgust and went on upstairs.

  At the top he stopped suddenly. He had almost walked into someone. The landing was in darkness and all that he could see in front of him was a figure. Then the figure moved. It was the tall daughter of the house.

  He said good-night to her hurriedly and passed on. As a stranger he was better out of the way; no doubt upsets of this kind were of frequent enough occurrence at the Avenida. And then a doubt crossed his mind. Perhaps she was going to tackle the thing single-handed. He turned back again and saw that she was already halfway down the stairs.

  “Hi! don’t do that,” he shouted. “I’ll come and help you.”

  The landlord had taken up a stand when they got to him. He held the bamboo table before him in the attitude of a gladiator. Whenever his daughter addressed him he raised it threateningly.

  “Put it down,” she advised.

  “And lose my liberty?”

  “You’ve been drinking too much.”

  “You insult me.”

  “Will you put that table down?”

  “Go back to bed before I drive you there.”

  “Must we take it away from you by force?”

  “If you lay a finger upon this table I’ll call the police.”

  “Put it down.”

  “And lose my liberty?”

  Dunnett finally got it away from him by guile. He edged up in his direction as though he were a friend and suddenly knocked the table clean out of his grasp. The landlord appeared dazed for a moment and then collapsed onto a couch, his head between his knees. He did not move. After a moment it became apparent that he was cryin
g. His shoulders heaved and the red silk sash of the Order of Bolivian Eagles came away and hung limply across his knees. Dunnett helped him to his feet.

  Considering his state he came quietly. His legs dragged a little and his whole body seemed to resent the vertical. But he did not struggle. Only once did he begin to expostulate. That was when he reached the top of the stairs and turned and looked back to the work he had left half done. He gave a little cry of vexation when he saw one side of the room entirely untouched.

  Once upstairs, too, the landlord appeared to regain possession of his legs. He insisted on walking. He swayed down the corridor as though it were the alleyway of a ship, volubly thanking Dunnett for his assistance. It was, he assured him over his shoulder, a service which he would never forget. He turned into the bedroom at the far end and the door slammed after him. From the room into which he had just gone came the sounds of things falling over.

  The girl turned to Dunnett. “It is only sometimes that he is like this,” she said. “He has been in bad company.”

  As soon as he had breakfasted, Dunnett went round to the Post Office to register his formal complaint. The place wore a strangely shut-up and sequestered air; evidently the people of Amricante did not concern themselves very much with correspondence in the morning. Most of the counters had cardboard signs hung over the ornate brass rails to indicate that the presiding genii were away; and the expanse of black and white flooring was broken in its monotony only by the scrubbing apparatus of a withered cleaner who was struggling to keep up the appearance of civic dignity. Dunnett walked angrily up to the grille marked Telégramas and waited. There was only one elderly official there. He was sticking postage stamps and sealing wax and rubber imprints all over a small registered parcel that had just been handed to him. Between these operations he would reweigh it, always with the same intent look of fascination on his face. Then he would put it on the desk in front of him and copy out all the particulars once more. From the way he was cherishing it and fondling it he might have been trying to hatch it. He eyed Dunnett with distaste as soon as he had understood his question.

  “Was I given your cable?” he asked.

  “You were not,” Dunnett answered.

  “Have we ever met before?”

  “Not so far as I know.”

  “Then how do you imagine I should know anything about your cable?” He hammered on his desk with his fist and thrust his face to the bars. “Do you imagine that I can interrupt my work at all times to hear complaints such as these? Here I have an important parcel to send off”—he indicated the little object on the pad in front of him—“and I am asked about a cable” His voice rose into a shrill scream of contempt at the word.

  “Then I must see the Postmaster?” Harold replied. “It is impossible to see the Postmaster.”

  “I shall demand to see him.”

  “About your cable?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I tell you it is impossible. It has never been heard of.”

  “Well, it’s going to be heard of now.”

  “Never.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Postmaster is not here.”

  “Well, when will he be here?”

  “The Postmaster is never present in the mornings. He can be seen by appointment only in the afternoons.”

  “Then I’ll see the Sub-Postmaster.”

  “You are speaking to the Sub-Postmaster.”

  Harold paused, “And you decline to do anything?”

  The Sub-Postmaster spread out his hands. “I am powerless,” he said.

  “Then I’ll refer the whole matter to the British Consul.”

  The note of diplomatic formality was evidently something which the bureaucratic mind understood. The Sub-Postmaster was clearly impressed. His attitude changed when he saw the incident as something that might mean British warships standing off the town in Amricante Bay.

  “The British Consul could not assist you,” he said. “Only the Postmaster could do that.”

  “And I can’t wait for the Postmaster,” Dunnett answered. “The Postmaster can try to explain to the Consul when he sees him. It’s out of my hands now.”

  He turned on his heel and left him. When he had reached the door he heard a shout behind him. It was the Sub-Postmaster. He was in a rage about something. For a moment Dunnett could distinguish nothing that he was saying. And then the words reached him. “You have made me put a wrong stamp on this parcel,” he was crying. “The wrong stamp for the first time in thirty years. The wrong stamp on an important parcel. …”

  Dunnett found the English Consul down by the Docks. There was certainly no mistaking the house when he got there. The front was covered with national emblems—British, Finnish, Turkish, Brazilian, and Dutch; Señor Costello had evidently got himself a corner in the consular business. Apart from the official connections, however, the house was not a particularly prepossessing one. The lower part was a chandler’s and marine store dealer’s: the windows were filled with balls of tarred twine, oil lamps swung in gimbals, packs of playing cards, Sou’westers, bottles of aperient entitled “The Sailor’s Friend,” reliable watches, packets of dubious looking picture postcards and prismatic compasses. On hooks above the doorway hung a collection of fashionable misfits for shore wear—pale yellow overcoats with brown velvet collars, shoes in black-and-white calf, hats with nine inch brims. Dunnett went inside and asked if Señor Costello was about. The small, unshaven man behind the counter was polite and servile, he enquired the nature of Dunnet’s business and then asked to be excused for a moment. Dunnett could hear him talking to someone inside, and then he reappeared. “Please to follow,” he said. He led the way into what was clearly a private sitting-room. Dunnett noticed that he had put a coat on and combed his hair; altogether he had spruced up considerably since Dunnett’s arrival. He seated himself at the round table in the middle and faced his visitor importantly.

  “Your complaint, please,” he said, “I will write it down.” As he spoke he produced a pen, a large bottle of ink and a writing pad.

  “You are Señor Costello?”

  “Si.”

  “Then I wish to complain about the conduct of the local Post Office.”

  “The Post Office. But that is quite impossible.”

  “Why is it impossible?”

  “It is a Government department. No good can come of complaining about a Government department.”

  “You refuse to help me?”

  “No; I do not refuse. I only advise you that it will be of no use. The letters have always been late here. It is the old trouble; when the postmen cannot read they are unable to discover the addresses, and when they can read they stop to open the letters. There is no way out.”

  “I didn’t come to complain about my letters being late. I came because the contents of my cable were communicated to a third party.”

  “Perhaps it was a mistake.”

  “It was a very interested third party. It was no mistake from his point of view.”

  “Then perhaps the third party bribed someone. You cannot hold the Post Office responsible for that.”

  “I hold the Postmaster responsible.”

  “But the Postmaster is a very good man.”

  “Then no doubt he will do something when he finds out.”

  “But he will not be able to find out in time.”

  “He will if you tell him.”

  “But he will not be there.”

  “Why not?”

  “His child died to-day. He is a very unhappy man.”

  “They didn’t say anything about that at the Post Office this morning.”

  “Why should they to you-—a stranger?”

  “But they said he would be there this afternoon.”

  “Perhaps they did not know of his bereavement.”

  “When did his child die?”

  The British Consul spread his hands. “Who knows?” he said. “No doubt last night, or early to-day. Death does not wait on
ceremony.”

  “I don’t care anything about the Postmaster’s private affairs, do you understand?” Dunnett replied. “I ask you to make a report on this.”

  The Consul shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, very well, if you want to create trouble.” He took up his pen and stood by ready to write. “In the first place, the name of the third party, please?”

  “Señor Muras.”

  The Consul put his pen down again. “But that is ridiculous,” he said. “Señor Muras has been our Mayor.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Señor Muras has a right to know.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that the Señor has a right to know the contents of my cable?”

  “But naturally. He is the Chairman of our Watch Committee. He is possessed of powers vested only in the police. If I had known that it was Señor Muras of whom you were speaking I would never have consented to act against him. Señor Muras is a trustee of the Opera: Señor Muras is a very influential man.”

  “So that’s your last word, is it?”

  “How else?” The Consul became appealing. “Do you expect me to thrust my head into the lion’s jaws? I have my business to consider. And my wife. And my family. And my wife’s family. It is not to be thought of. …”

  “Very well,” Dunnett replied. “We’ll say no more about this at the moment, but you’ll hear more from me later. I’m not going to let this drop. It’s a scandal, do you hear me?”

  The Consul rose and put his hand on Dunnett’s arm. “Is it wise,” he said, “to add an indiscretion to a scandal? If you said anything in the cable that has offended Señor Muras you can always apologise. It may not affect you adversely. Besides, you do not want the Post Office to refuse to accept your cables altogether. …”