The Loo Sanction

by Trevanian

  “What are you going to do now, Sergeant?”

  The Sergeant couldn’t answer. He was gagging under the pressure of the chair in his throat, and his temples throbbed with the pulse of blocked blood.

  “What are you going to do now?” Jonathan’s voice was guttural and subhuman. He was in the white fury necessary to key himself to put bigger men away so totally that they never thought of coming back after him.

  The Sergeant managed a strangled sound. He couldn’t see well through the blood, but he caught a terrifying glimpse of Jonathan’s glassy, gray green eyes.

  Jonathan closed his eyes for a second and breathed deeply, calming himself from within. The adrenaline rush was still a lump in his stomach.

  He spoke quietly. “I could have done that with half the punishment. But I figured the apologetic little man in my bathroom owed you something.”

  He released the pressure and set the chair aside. As he pulled down his cuffs so that the proper one-half inch protruded from his jacket, he said, “I’ll bet I know the words you’re looking for, Sergeant: not qualified, but passed. Right?”

  Jonathan was sitting alone in the hotel bar, sipping a double Laphroaig when Yank joined him.

  “Oh, brother! You really whipped his pudding for him. Had it coming, I reckon.”

  Jonathan finished his drink. “You reckon that, do you?”

  Yank slid onto the barstool next to him. “I guess you’ll be going back to London in the morning. When you get to your flat, you’ll find a list of telephone numbers there—one for each day. You can use them to keep me informed of your progress, and I’ll pass the good word on to the Guv. Any questions?”

  None small enough for Yank to handle.

  “Oh, yeah,” Yank said. “About this Vanessa Dyke. I suppose you’ll be getting in contact with her to get an angle on entrée into The Cloisters. Do you want me to have her watched until you get there?”

  “Christ, no.”

  “But the Guv said that she—”

  “She probably met your Parnell-Greene by coincidence.”

  “Maybe. But she was the last person he reported having met before we found him dead. Of course, you could be right. Maybe it was just a case of two queers getting together to compare notes. Right?”

  Jonathan tilted his head back and looked at him coldly. “Miss Dyke is an old friend.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Now, wait a minute. I have—”

  “Out. Out.”

  Yank shuffled nervously for a moment, then he cleared his throat and tried to make an exit without loss of face. “OK, then. I’ll be getting back to the city.” He made a slow fanning gesture with the fingers of one hand. “Later, sweet patater.”

  Yank had gone back to London, and Henry had taken The Sergeant to a doctor in the village to attend to his nose and eye, and to see if anything could be done about his hearing, so Jonathan and Maggie had the dining room to themselves. A heavy rain had descended with the evening, enveloping the inn in the white noise of frying bacon. A draft fluttered the candle between them, and she rubbed her upper arms as though she were cold. She wore the muted green paisley gown she had worn on their first evening together—only three nights ago, was it?

  Despite moments of laughter and animation, their contact was uncertain and frail, and several times he realized that they had been silent for rather a long time, each in his own thoughts. With a little effort he would pick it up again, but the chat invariably thinned into silence again.

  “. . . they tend to be blue this time of year, don’t they?”

  He had been staring at the rain streaks on the window. “What? Pardon me?”

  “Tangerines.”

  “Oh. Yes.” He looked out the window again, then he frowned and looked back to her. “Blue?”

  She laughed. “You were miles away.”

  “True. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re leaving in the morning?”

  “Hm-m.”

  “Going to take up this line of contact through your friend . . . ah?”

  “Vanessa Dyke. Yes, I suppose so. It seems the only angle we’ve got on getting me into The Cloisters. I can’t believe she really has anything to do with all this, though.”

  “I hope not. I mean, if she’s a friend of yours, I hope not.”

  “Me too.” He tilted back his head and looked at her for a moment. “The Vicar told me you were to be placed inside The Cloisters.”

  She nodded, then she examined the cheese board with sudden discretionary interest. He realized that she was trying to pass over the thing, make it seem less important than it was. “Yes,” she said. “They’ve found a way to locate me inside by tomorrow night. Would you like a little of this Brie? It’s Brie de Meaux, I think.”

  “Brie de Melun, actually. It’ll be dangerous inside there, you know.”

  “You know, I’m as bad at cheese as I am at wine.”

  “The Vicar said you volunteered to work inside.”

  “Did he?” Her arched eyebrows and playful green eyes slowly dissolved to a calmer, less protected gaze, then she lowered her lashes and looked at the cheese knife, which she aimlessly pushed back and forth with her finger. “I guess I lack great moral strength. I can’t carry such burdens as guilt and shame very far. By helping you now, I hope I’ll be able to convince myself that I’ve made up for getting you into this thing. Because . . .” She looked up at him and smiled. “Because . . . I’ve grown a little fond of you, sir.” The saccharinity of this last was diluted by her broad, comic brogue.

  Her hand was available for pressing, but that was hardly the kind of thing Jonathan would do.

  They got through coffee and cognac without any need for conversation. The rain had stopped, and the enveloping sound that had gone unnoticed was palpable in its absence. The new, denser silence contributed to the emptiness of the drafty dining room and the dimming of candle flames drowning in melted wax to produce a voided, autumnal ambience.

  “They’ve put a car at my disposal,” Jonathan said, voicing the last step of a thought pattern. “I suppose I could go into London tonight. Get my mind sorted out against tomorrow.”

  “Yes. You could.”

  “Then I’d be able to call on Vanessa first thing in the morning.”

  “Shall I come help you pack?”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “No.”

  “Come help me pack.”

  It was early dawn when he loaded his suitcase into the yellow Lotus, pressing the boot closed so as not to disturb the misty silence. His hands came up wet from the coating of dew that smoked the car. A bird sounded a tentative note, as though seeking avian support for his suspicion that this grudging gray might be morning. No confirmation was forthcoming. There was no sky.

  “Yes,” he muttered to himself, “but what about the early worm?”

  The interior of the car was coldly humid, and it smelled new. He turned on the wipers to clear the windscreen of condensation, then he looked up toward the window of her room before pressing the stiff gearbox into reverse and easing back over the crunching gravel.

  He had untangled himself from her carefully and eased out of bed so as not to disturb her. Her position had not changed when he returned from the bathroom, dressed and shaven. He had looked up at her with a wince when the locks of his suitcase snapped too loudly, but she didn’t move. As he eased the door open, she said in a voice so clear he knew she had been awake for some time.

  “Keep well.”

  “You too, Maggie.”

  Putney

  The Lotus was tight and the roads were clear that early in the morning, so Jonathan pulled into the parking area of the Baker Street Hotel far too early to telephone Vanessa, who was a constitutionally nocturnal animal. He bought a few newspapers in the lobby and ordered breakfast sent up to his penthouse flat, and an hour later he was sitting before an untidy tray, newspapers littered around him. Time passed torpidly, and he
found himself staring through the page of print, his mind on the unknown persona of Maximilian Strange. With sudden decision, he rose and located Sir Wilfred Pyles’s number in his rotary file. After a sequence of guardian secretaries at the U.K. Cultural Commission, Sir Wilfred’s hearty and gruffly civil voice said, “Jon! How good of you to call so early in the morning.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry about that.”

  “Quite all right. Coincidentally, I just opened a letter from that academic wallah—whatshisname, the Welshman?”

  “fforbes-Ffitch?”

  “That’s the one. Seems he has a plot to send you off to Sweden on some kind of lecture series. Asked me to use my good offices to persuade you to go.”

  “He doesn’t give up easily.”

  “Hm-m. National trait of the Welsh. They call it laudable determination; others see it as obtuse bullheadedness. Still, one becomes used to it. Teachers and baritones constitute the major exports of Wales, and one can’t blame them for trying to be rid of both. But look here, if you are determined to scatter gems of insight on the saline soil of the Vikings, you can count on the commission’s support.”

  “That’s not what I called you about.”

  “Ah-ha.”

  “I need a bit of information.”

  “If it’s within my power.”

  “How are your contacts at MI–5?”

  “Oh.” There was a prolonged pause at the other end of the line. “That kind of information, is it? As I told you, I’ve been on the beach for several years.”

  “But surely your contacts haven’t dried up.”

  “Oh, I suppose I still have some of that influence that accompanies the loss of power. But before we go further, Jon . . . you’re not up to any nastiness, are you?”

  “Fred!”

  “Hm-m. I warn you, Jon—”

  “Just a background check—maybe with an Interpol input.”

  “I see.” Sir Wilfred was capable of subarctic tones.

  “I want you to run down a name for me. Will you do it?”

  “You are absolutely sure you’re not engaged in anything that will bring discomfort to the government.”

  “I could mention times when we were working together and you were strung out.”

  “Please spare me. All right. The name?”

  “Maximilian Strange. Any bells?”

  “A faint tinkle. But it’s been years since I’ve been involved in all that. Very well. I’ll call you later this afternoon.”

  “I’d better call you. I can’t be sure of my schedule.”

  “I’ll need a little time. About five?”

  “About five.”

  “Now, I have your word, haven’t I, that you’re not up to anything detrimental to our side? Because if you are, Jon, I shall be actively against you.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m working for the White Hats. And if anything were to blow, you could rely on ‘maximum deniability.’”

  Sir Wilfred laughed. They had always made fun of the advertising agency argot that riddled CII communications.

  “If any questions come up, Fred, just pass the buck to me.”

  “Precisely what I had intended to do, old man.”

  “You’re a good person.”

  “I’ve always felt that. Ciao, Jon.”

  “Tchüss.”

  After waiting another long half hour, Jonathan dialed Vanessa Dyke’s number. He arranged to drop over for a cup of tea and a chat. She seemed a little reluctant to meet him, but their friendship of years turned the trick. After he hung up, he spent a few minutes looking out his window over Regent’s Park, sorting himself out. Two things had bothered him about the conversation with Van. Her speech had been blurred, as though she had been drinking. And the first question she had asked was: “Are you all right, Jon?”

  He had never visited Vanessa in London, and the minute he stepped from the Underground station, he felt that this part of Putney was an odd setting for her vivacious, pungent personality. The high street was typical of the urban concentrations south of the river, its modest Victorian charm scabbed over by false fronts of enameled aluminum and glass brick; short rows of derelict town houses stared blind through uncurtained and broken windows, awaiting destruction and replacement by shopping centers; the visual richness of decay was diluted here and there by the mute cube of a modern bank; and there were several cheap cafés featuring yawning waitresses and permanent table decorations of crumbs and spills.

  Clouds and smoke hung in umber compound close above the housetops, and a dirty drizzle made the pavements oily. Every woman pushed a pram containing a shopping bag, a laundry bag, and, presumably, a baby; and every man shuffled along with his head down.

  Monserrat Street was a double row of shabby brick row houses, built with a certain architectural nostalgia for Victorian comfort and permanence, but with the cheaper materials and sloppier craftsmanship of the 1920 s. The shallow gardens were tarnished and scruffy, the occasional autumn flower dulled by soot, and all looking as though they were maintained by the aged and the indifferent. An abnormal number of houses were vacant and placarded for sale, an indication that West Indians were approaching the neighborhood.

  The garden at #46 was a pleasant contrast to the rest. Even this late in the season, and even in this color-sucking weather, there was an arresting balance and control that used the limited space comfortably. The hydrangeas were particularly consonant with the district and the mood of the climate; moist and subtle in mauve, blue, and tarnished white.

  “Tragedy struck the life of noted art critic and scholar when his swinging, ballsy image was abruptly shattered yesterday afternoon.” Van stood at her door, leaning against the bright green frame, a glass of whiskey and a cigarette in the same hand.

  “Hello, Van.”

  “Bystanders report having observed this internationally notorious purveyor of manly charm engaged in the mundane and middle-class activity of admiring hydrangeas.”

  “OK. OK.”

  “Reports differ as to the exact hue of the flowers under question. Dr. Hemlock refuses comment, but his reticence is taken by many to be a tacit admission that he is becoming older, mellower, and—so far as this reporter can see—wetter with each minute he stands out there. Why don’t you come in?”

  He followed her into a dark overfurnished parlor, its Victorian fittings, beaded lampshades, antimacassars, and velvet drapes the antithesis of the black-and-white enamel, ultramodern apartment that had been hers when first they met in New York fifteen years earlier. Only the Swiss typewriter on a spool table by the window and a tousled stack of notes on the sill gave evidence of her profession. It was difficult to imagine that her regular flow of journalistic art criticism, with its insight and acid, had its source in this quaint and comfortable room.

  “Want a drink, Jon?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Why not? Somewhere on the high seas at this moment, the sun is over the yardarm.”

  “No, thanks.”

  She dropped into a wing chair. “So? To what do I owe the honor?”

  Jonathan toyed with a vase of cut hydrangeas on the court cupboard. “Why are you trying to make me feel uncomfortable, Van?”

  She ignored his question. “I hate hydrangeas. You know that? They smell like women’s swimming caps. Similarly, I hate flowery oriental teas. They smell like actresses’ handbags. You’ll notice I didn’t say ‘purses.’ That’s because I abhore sexual imagery. It’s also because I eschew olfactory inaccuracy.” She leaned back against the wing of the chair and looked at him for a second. “You’re right. I’m feeling nasty, and I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable. ’Cause we’re old friends, pal-buddy-pal. You know what? You are the only straight in the world with soul.”

  Jonathan sat opposite her in a floral armchair, not because he felt like sitting, but because it seemed unfair to stand over her when she was so obviously distressed and off balance. He had never heard her throw up so thick a haze of words to hide in. Her bac
k was to the window, and its wet, diffused light illuminated her face with unkind surgical accuracy. The short black hair, semé with gray, looked lifeless, and the lines etched in her thin face constituted a hieroglyphic biography of wit and bitterness, laughter and intelligence—accomplishment without fulfillment.

  “How are the Christians treating you, madam?” he asked, recalling the opening cue of a habitual pattern of banter from the old days.

  She didn’t pick up the cue. “Oh, Jon, Jon. We grow old, Father Jonathan, lude sing goddamn. Well, to hell with them all, darling. A pestilence on their shanties—wattles, clay, and all. And the lues take their virgin daughters.” She lit a cigarette from the stub of the last. “Let’s get to your business. I suppose it’s about that guy I introduced you to at Tomlinson’s? The guy with the Marini Horse?”

  “No. Matter of fact, I’d forgotten all about him.”

  “He hasn’t contacted you again since that evening?”

  “No.”

  He could see the tension drain from her face. “I’m glad, Jon. He’s a good person to avoid. A real bad actor.”

  “He pays well, though.”

  “Faust could have said that. Well, then! If it’s not the Marini Horse, what impels you to break in on my matronly solitude?”

  He paused and collected himself before launching into what was sure to be an imposition on an old friendship. “I’m in some trouble, Van.”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry about it. These days, it’s no worse than a bad cold.”

  “I have to get into The Cloisters.”

  For a moment, she was suspended in mid-gesture, reaching for her glass. Then she looked him flat in the eyes, shifting her glance from one pupil to the other, her eyes narrowed in her attempt to analyze his intent. She sat back deep in her chair and sipped her drink in cold silence.

  After a time she said, “Why The Cloisters? That isn’t your kind of action. Too baroque.”

  “We grow old, Mother Vanessa. We need help.”