At twenty-six, with a private income of his own, Vivien exactly answered the description of a smart young man-about-town. Tall, he walked with an affected stoop and was to be seen everywhere among that crowd of happy socialites whose only worry in life is what to do next. His lazy smile and brown eyes with their ridiculous curling lashes might have caused him to be thought effeminate, had it not been for his good jaw and strong, well-shaped hands.
It was early one Monday morning that Sir Charles sent for him and said abruptly: ‘Know anything of Lady Hoarding?’
‘Nothing, sir; except that she’s Sir Oliver’s wife, a recluse, a cripple, and lives in Thurloe Square.’ Vivien’s reply was prompt.
Sir Charles’s chill manner always discouraged any superfluous remarks by his subordinates. It was that and his snow-white hair that had earned him the nickname of ‘Frosty’.
‘Well, she’s German-born and facts concerning Sir Oliver’s department, which only he could have known, have been getting through. I proved that conclusively this week-end. It’s not him; he’s a fool, but honest. So it must be her. But she never leaves the house and hardly ever receives visitors. Their telephone has been tapped, their servants tailed and all her mail passes through our hands, yet we’ve drawn a complete blank. I want to know how she is communicating with the enemy.’
Vivien smiled slowly. ‘I’ll find out, sir.’
Outside the office he hailed a taxi and directed it to his flat in Green Street. For nearly two hours he sat with the Medical Directory open on his knees ringing up numbers in the Thurloe Square district. As each call was answered he said: ‘I’ve been recommended by Lady Hoarding; Doctor “So-and-so” does attend her, doesn’t he?’
At last when a voice replied: ‘Yes; Doctor Peters attends Her Ladyship,’ Vivien quietly hung up the receiver.
Half an hour later he rang through again and in a slightly altered voice booked an appointment for himself for that afternoon.
His interview with Doctor Peters was brief. He described some rheumatic symptoms with which he was not afflicted and after giving him the address of a masseuse the doctor wrote him out a prescription. Just as he was leaving, Vivien said casually: ‘By the by, you look after Lady Hoarding, don’t you?’
The doctor nodded: ‘Yes, poor old thing—she’s absolutely riddled with arthritis; has even to be lifted from her bed to her wheeled chair.’
‘What a life—I’d go crazy with boredom.’
Doctor Peters smiled. ‘Oh, she manages to keep amazingly cheerful, looking after her tropical fish and translating books into Braille for the blind.’
As Vivien left the doctor he was whistling thoughtfully to himself.
For three days a dirty, unshaven organ-grinder haunted Thurloe Square, his long-lashed eyes flickering continually towards the green door of Sir Oliver’s house. His organ was too old and muted to attract unwelcome attention and nobody noticed him as he slipped down Sir Oliver’s area steps early each morning to examine the contents of the dust-bin.
On the fourth day Vivien went to see Sir Charles. ‘I think I’ve got a line on the Hoarding woman, sir,’ he said. ‘Can you plant a special piece of information on Sir Oliver tomorrow—something that only he must know, and the day after arrange to have the electricity cut off at his house from lunchtime on?’
‘Good boy,’ Sir Charles smiled his frosty smile. ‘I’ll see that’s done.’
At a quarter to three, two afternoons later, a lanky electrician arrived at the house with the green door, was taken down to the basement, and having been shown the main fuse boxes was left alone, He lit a cigarette and undid his bag of tools. After messing around for a good half hour, he called the butler and said: ‘I fink the trouble’s on the first floor, mate; in the drorin-room maybe.’
He was ushered upstairs and into a large, sunny room; an elderly woman was there, seated in an invalid chair.
‘The electrician, Your Ladyship,’ murmured the butler.
Vivien glanced slowly about him. The woman hadn’t turned her head. She was leaning over the arm of her chair feeding her fishes with little pieces of spaghetti. They were in six low glass tanks which completely lined one wall of the room.
‘Why, there’s another dead, Your Ladyship—that’s four in three weeks,’ the butler said, peering down at the floating body of a Japanese goldfish in the nearest tank.
‘Yes, it’s the cold weather,’ Lady Hoarding replied, swivelling round to face him. ‘Take the poor thing away, Jenson.’
As the man scooped it out of the water, Vivien grabbed his hand and shook the fish from it on to a near-by table.
‘If you’ll allow me…’ he said disarmingly.
Lady Hoarding gave a startled gasp. ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded harshly.
Vivien just smiled, pushed the scarlet-faced butler impatiently aside and, slitting the fish open with his penknife, took out a little cylinder of macaroni. Inside it was a tiny roll of paper.
‘I thought as much,’ he said quietly, after one glance at the writing on it. ‘One touch of cyanide on a piece of spaghetti, the fish dies and comes to the top, your butler takes it down to the dust-bin and your outside agent collects it from there. Lady Hoarding, it will be my duty to place you under arrest for communicating with the King’s enemies.’
STORY VI
HERE we are back once more on the shores of the blue ‘Mare Nostrum’, as Mussolini once termed it with insolent and baseless optimism. Taranto, Matapan, and a score of British naval victories, not to mention the splendid defence of Malta, have since pricked the bubble of his pride and taught him otherwise.
A portion of this story is set in Italy in the days when he was all-powerful there, and could never have dreamed that later his own stupidity and greed would reduce him to the sorry role of Hitler’s tattered lackey. The old Marchesa’s estimate of him was, of course, based upon the prejudice of her class, and the fact should be faced that, during the seventeen years that he ruled in peace, Mussolini made Italy a far more law-abiding and less smelly place than he found it, and performed that miracle without, apparently, interfering very much with the happiness of the average Italian. But I like the fiery old lady and her inconsequent, love-bewitched son.
The Hotel Surmer at Cavaláire, and its volatile little proprietor, Monsieur Fandini, are taken from life. That small white building placed upon a rocky headland between the pinewoods and a secluded bay has scores of pleasant memories for me. It is a perfect place to spend a honeymoon, and I had the good fortune to spend mine there. As for Gandini, he had been a maître d’hôtel at the Negresco in Nice before he started in his own tiny place, and he could cook a langouste in a sauce of whipped eggs and Grand Marnier which rivalled anything that I have ever tasted. But when last I saw him, just before the war, he had left the house on the hill for a straggling bungalow right on the sands where they sift into the streets of the town. His object had been to cater for a larger, if not so exclusive, clientele, and he had succeeded. The place was full of French petite bourgeoisie in the strange clothes they consider appropriate to their hard-earned annual holiday au bord de la mer; fat, blowzy women and screaming children. He cooked us a langouste according to his famous recipe as of old, but somehow, in those surroundings, the glory had departed. We left Gandini and drove back through the warm night a little saddened by what we had seen.
The story was taken by Mr. Heitner, and published by him in Britannia and Eve. It was written about a year later than Borrowed Money which I, personally, consider a somewhat better plot; but by the time I wrote Madame Ribereau I had found my feet, and it displays, to my mind, a far greater ease of character drawing and sureness of touch.
THE NOTORIOUS MADAME RIBEREAU
I WAS a good bit older than Nero, but I had known him intimately for several years; you see, he and my younger brother had been at ‘The House’ together, and during his time at Oxford he stayed with us in Norfolk quite a bit.
Afterwards, too, whenever he came to England he alw
ays put in a little time with us at Denham Hall, and treated it as a sort of second home—which in fact we had encouraged him to do. That’s why I had no sort of hesitation in proposing myself for a visit to his castle on Lake Garda when I decided in favour of an Italian holiday last summer.
Nero wrote back by return saying how delighted he would be to have me, and that I must stay much, much longer than I had at first intended. All sorts of interesting and amusing people would be in his house-party at the Castello Neroni, and he ended up with minute directions about the latter part of the journey. You can imagine, then, how surprised I was when I got off the train at the little local station to find no one there to meet me.
My Italian isn’t too good, but once I managed to get it into the thick skull of the swarthy individual who did duty as station-master, signalman, clerk and porter, that I was a friend of the Count Neroni, he became all smiles and helpfulness—led me down the ancient village street—shook a tousled-looking peasant out of his afternoon siesta—helped him harness a knock-kneed horse into a rickety carrozza—and with a series of bows that would have done credit to an Elizabethan courtier sped me on my way.
It was a good four miles’ drive along a twisting valley road with new vistas opening up as we rounded every corner. Lounging beneath the shade of the tasselled canopy while the old horse clopped along at a gentle pace, I wondered idly what sudden whimsy could be occupying the mercurial Nero’s mind to the extent of making him forget to send his car for me.
We turned a sharp corner, and there below us lay the castle and the lake. The castle itself was a strange hybrid structure: a long, low stucco-fronted house with gardens running down to a little bay—behind it a mass of rambling, nondescript buildings obviously erected centuries apart—and there beyond, raised upon slightly higher ground, stood the father of all these queer excrescences—a good old fifteenth-century fortress.
My creaking chariot rumbled up to the pillared porch of the modern wing. The doors stood open and inviting, but there was not a soul about, and not a sound disturbed the drowsy silence of the afternoon.
The driver climbed from his box, and cupping his hands before his mouth, yelled lustily. A small and very dirty child ran out from another entrance, stared at me for a moment with wide frightened eyes and then ran in again. As I entered the cool shadow of the wide hall I wondered if Nero and his guests were sleeping through the heat of the afternoon, or were out on some boating expedition across the lake.
Suddenly a small, bent old man appeared from behind some hangings. One glance from his sharp black eyes was enough for him to guess my nationality—he asked what he could do for me in stilted English. Immediately I inquired for the Count Neroni he clasped his shrivelled yellow hands and bowed deferentially.
‘The Count lives for some time now in Verona, Signor.’
‘Verona!’ I exclaimed. ‘But isn’t he expecting me?’ and then I told old parchment-face about my visit.
‘It is not the Count’s pleasure always to tell us of his intentions, Signor,’ the old man said gravely, ‘but Giuseppe shall go in the Fiat to inform him of your arrival. Verona is no more than thirty kilometres—in the meantime, gracious Signor, please to follow me.’
The old man led me up a broad flight of shallow stairs and along endless corridors to a pleasant suit of rooms overlooking the gardens and the bay.
I knew that Nero had spent a small fortune modernising the house, so I was not surprised at the spacious tiled and chromium-plated bathroom, where I had a much-needed wash while a footman unpacked my bags, but I was a little startled when old parchment-face appeared again and asked if the gracious signor would refresh himself with a highball, a Martini, or a Bronx.
I punted for a highball, and when I came downstairs he served it with all the solemnity that would have done honour to Imperial Tokay. Then he left me in a spacious library where the shelves of old calf-bound volumes looked down on tables laden with modern periodicals and the startling covers of the latest detective fiction.
I settled down there to await the return of the truant Nero.
The roar of his great Isotta-Fraschini made me aware of his arrival minutes before he actually appeared, but the noise had hardly ceased with a grinding scream of brakes before he leapt in through the high french windows—tall, dark, smiling—overwhelming me with a torrent of apologies.
Never could he forgive himself—a stupidity unpardonable—it was the 7th, and he had thought that I was arriving on the 17th—but no matter, it would give him ten days more of my delightful company—I would forgive him instantly if I but knew how great, how joyous, was the surprise…
Well, for the moment I believed him—and who, woman or man, could ever refuse to forgive Nero anything! He called for drinks—and more drinks—took old parchment-face by the ear and pinched it affectionately so that even that living mummy smiled his pleasure at his master’s return.
We dined that night in state. The kind of state that is now only to be found amongst the great Italian families; a footman in full livery behind each chair, and two more at the serving table. A wine butler clad in black with a silver chain of office round his neck, and old parchment-face standing expressionless and immovable near the door directing the service of his underlings by the occasional flicker of an eyelid.
It was a dinner of twelve courses, and although the food was of that rare category which we used to find in the great English country houses before the war, and which no restaurant can ever hope to emulate, I found it almost impossible to get through the meal, yet Nero ate of everything that was put before him with zest and appetite of vigorous youth.
Afterwards we strolled together in the gardens, enjoying the fragrance of our cigars beneath the cypresses that were etched black against a real Italian moon.
I listened principally while Nero made plans for my enjoyment of my visit. We would do this… that… and the other thing together—then suddenly he broke off and threw away the stump of his cigar.
‘But you are tired, my friend—your long journey—how selfish I am to keep you from your bed—have we not tomorrow, and the next day, and the next—many days, for you must not leave me now that you have come. Let us go in, another drink—and then to bed.’
Well, actually, although I’d had a longish day I felt that I could have walked all night in that soft clear air so far from the cities—but Nero waved my protests aside as mere politeness. Twenty minutes later he led me to my bedroom and was satisfying himself that, lest I should wake in the night, fruit, biscuits, drink, and the latest novels were all beside my bed.
By the time I sank into the great four-poster I was not altogether sorry that he had had his way; but you can imagine my surprise when the roar of the Isotta suddenly shattered the silence beneath the windows and I heard it thunder away up the hill, its echoes reverberating through the mountains until they died away into a distant hum.
The same sound woke me in the morning, but later when I came down to breakfast à l’Anglais, Nero said nothing of his midnight run and talked gaily of an expedition on the lake, so off we went together.
It was a heavenly day and the scenery was enchanting, but my enjoyment was ruined by the certainty that something was definitely wrong with Nero; he simply couldn’t sit still, and at times his delightful chatter would dry up completely in a way that I had never known before. I hardly liked to ask him what was worrying him as he had ample opportunity to tell me if he wished. The boatman could not speak a word of anything but Italian.
That night we dined again in the same state as before, with the silent-footed servants throwing strange shadows on the arras as the candles flickered. It was then that he apologised in an awkward way for having no other guests to meet me. Once more his unpardonable stupidity about the dates—but no matter, in a week’s time the house would be full of people—ten, fifteen—a dozen at the least.
Afterwards we sat in the great library and swapped reminiscences; but twice I caught him casting furtive glances at the cl
ock, and guessing his intention from my experience of the night before I faked a yawn that he might have an excuse to suggest another early night.
My surmise proved correct. He jumped at the opportunity, and no sooner was I beneath the sheets than I heard his car burst into a roar, which quickly died away again as it sped along the twisting road through the valley.
He returned next morning, but later than before, and I was already dressed when I heard the first sound of his engine. By that time I had decided that something must be done about the situation. I was pretty obviously an unwelcome guest, and he was tearing himself away from Verona each morning to come and entertain me during the daytime.
Had we been in England I would have sent myself the usual telegram, but here—cut off from towns and villages by the rugged slopes of Mount Baldo—that was impossible. Plain speaking was the only way, and I took the opportunity just before lunch when Nero was showing me the view over the lake from the battlements of the old fort.
‘Listen, Nero,’ I said, ‘it’s been most awfully good of you to put up with me for the past two days, but I know that the mistake about the dates has messed up all your plans completely. We know each other quite well enough to be frank about things, so I propose to clear out tomorrow and leave you in peace.’
‘You have heard the car, of course?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I admitted, ‘and I know you’re dying to get away from here again, so why be stupid and pretend to each other?’
He pressed my arm gratefully. ‘I know—I feel so bad about this, my friend; but you are right—I must be truthful also. When this happened I put off my other guests—but yourself I forgot! How can I ever hope for your forgiveness?’
‘Is it some trouble in which I can be of help?’ I asked.
‘No, no, that is nice of you, but it is personal this—I am what you say—head over heels in love!’
‘A woman!’ I exclaimed, and frankly I was a little annoyed at that. For all his English education Nero is pure Latin where women are concerned—I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word ‘Love’—they’re just a penny plain and twopence coloured to him, and he has hectic affairs with at least twenty different women every year; so it struck me as a little thick that he should mess up my whole holiday for the sake of some new wench whose name he would have forgotten in a fortnight.
Mediterranean Nights Page 7