The Dead of Night

by Oliver Onions

  And he filled Xena’s glass.

  At least he attempted to fill it. He half-filled it. What came next was swift as three rapier-passes.

  ‘I know her father –’

  ‘Mon Dieu, but I –’

  ‘Have it, then –’

  Xena’s glass was half-full no longer. Its contents were running down Captain Lemoine’s face.

  The officers behind had leapt to their feet. Hands seized Verney, other hands held back the insulted officer. There was a swift pushing-back of chairs, the tottering of a table, cries, commotion. Verney was struggling violently, but only because he was being borne moment by moment farther away from Xena.

  ‘Go back to the hotel!’ he panted. ‘Go back to the hotel!’ he shouted over their heads when he could no longer see her. Two cloaked and sworded gendarmes appeared.

  ‘C’est inutile, monsieur –’

  Then a reassuring English voice spoke.

  ‘Go with them quietly. I will look after her. Then I’ll come to you if I can.’

  Turning, Verney saw Mr Thorne.

  ‘You’ll take her yourself; sir?’ he panted.

  ‘She shall be back at the hotel in ten minutes.’

  Without further resistance Verney Arden suffered himself to be led away.

  13

  In a French Protectorate, where prestige is of importance, young commercial travellers do not publicly insult French officers. But neither do French officers carry off and take to the Café de la Garoun first one, and then another, of a party of young girls in the charge of a professional chaperon. As the youth was leaving the country in any case the simplest way out was that his departure should be a little hastened.

  Verney Arden, after a day and a half of incarceration during which the only visits he received were visits from magistrates, officials, and the jovial major, now sternness itself, was released. Somebody threw him a raincoat to put over his crumpled evening clothes, and he had no hat. He had twenty-four hours in which to pack up and be off.

  He had gone in at midnight. He came out again at noon of the next day but one. The only young-looking thing about him was that after two days in a cell he hardly yet required to be shaved. And as his place of confinement was nowhere near the sea-front, he was unaware that almost at the same moment as that of his release, there alighted on the hydroplane lake, with a gash of green and white half a furlong long, a seaplane. A boat put out to the seaplane. It brought ashore the silk-hatted, morning-coated figure of Umberto Francavilla.

  Verney thought of taking a taxi, because of the noticeable way in which he was dressed. In the street into which he had been bundled there was no taxi, and he walked in search of one. But as he walked he saw his own black evening trousers under the fawn-coloured raincoat and his varnished shoes that moved in and out. They reminded him of another pair of feet, that had lengthened their step to his, he shortening his own to them. Taxis passed him, but he continued to walk. He wanted to know two things. He wanted to know whether Mr Thorne had got her safely back to the hotel. And he wanted to know what it was that Amalia knew that Xena had not had time to tell him.

  Forgetting all about his clothes, he was approaching the Tunisia Palace Hotel. But he was approaching it in the opposite direction from his accustomed one, and on the hotel side of the pavement. Thus he did not see what he would have seen from across the way – that the only un-blinded windows of the hotel’s frontage were the glazed panes of the double entrance-doors. These doors opened as he was about to mount the steps. There came out of them the very man he wanted to see.

  Without speaking Mr Thorne took him by the arm and led him away.

  ‘Did you take her back?’ were the young man’s first words.

  ‘Yes. Yes, yes. They wouldn’t let me see you, but I did my best with the Consulate. You have twenty-four hours, I believe.’

  ‘That swine was trying to make her drunk.’ For a day and a half he had been saying this to himself; but it still had power to make him hot.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Walk a little this way.’

  But instead of walking, at something in Mr Thorne’s tone Verney suddenly stopped and looked at Mr Thorne.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘My boy –’

  Mr Thorne had not wanted it to come so quickly. They had barely turned the corner. They were passing the other cafe, and it had round iron tables and iron chairs painted to resemble wicker. One of these rang like a drum to Verney’s elbow as he sat suddenly down. The face he turned to Mr Thorne was stark.

  ‘She’s dead,’ he said.

  Mr Thorne took off his glasses and polished them.

  ‘You’re telling me she’s dead.’

  Mr Thorne made no reply.

  For nearly five minutes neither spoke. Then the young man thought he could bear it.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said almost inaudibly.

  ‘You know without telling,’ Mr Thorne replied.

  ‘I mean – I mean how it happened.’

  ‘I think I will let Amalia tell you that. Amalia took charge of everything. She sent for her father. He only arrived half an hour ago.’

  ‘Was it – that same night?’

  ‘Yes. But it was as you would have wished – painless, peaceful, happy – happy –’

  It was not Verney, but Mr Thorne who broke down. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed as Verney had never sobbed. Verney wished he wouldn’t. She wasn’t his Xena. Presently Mr Thorne was a little better.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, wiping his wet glasses. ‘Sometimes young people do not quite know how much they are to those who aren’t young any longer. Death is better than a living loneliness. I am very fond of you, Verney, and I hope you will come and see me when you get back to England. And now perhaps you would like to be alone. You cannot go to the hotel just yet. Her father is there. And you haven’t much time. I will speak to Amalia. If I’m not intruding I should like to speak to him too. What are you doing this afternoon?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You have your packing to do.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘And in any case you cannot go about dressed like that. Come and see me at three o’clock. I shall have seen Amalia by then.’

  Mr Thorne moved away in the direction of the blinded hotel.

  His packing. Yes, that would pass the time. His samples might remain where they were. At last he would be rid of that suitcase of ‘literature’ too. And of course he couldn’t go about in those clothes. It was time he was getting a move on.

  He dragged himself up and walked shufflingly towards the Rue d’Espagne.

  No attempt had been made to straighten up his room, and his things were as he had left them; he noticed that both bougies had guttered down; and concluded he must have left them burning. He looked at the gaping trunk on the bed, at the disorder everywhere. All these things were to be packed. Well, they could wait. He must find his day-suit first. That, being the most immediate, was the most important thing. The next most important thing was a piece of paper in his pocket, that would speed him indeed. On no account must he lose that. It directed him what trains to take, what towns to go through, what officials to report to on the way. Messages would go over the wires before him, saying that he was to be expected; messages would flash back, saying that his papers were stamped and he was off on the next stage. That document, his English passport and the clothes he was looking for – and, oh! yes, his remaining money – those were the things he mustn’t lose. He looked at his watch. Once more it had stopped. But it must be two hours or more yet before he could see Mr Thorne.

  Slowly he extricated his garments from the litter. He had been in too much of a hurry to fold and press them, but he couldn’t be bothered now. But he would shave because he was to see Amalia. A shave and a clean collar.r />
  And to whom ought he to return that raincoat?

  He got out of his evening clothes, drew on his English-made, summer-weight, grey flannel trousers, and prepared to shave.

  The station was not far away, and an hour later found him there, not to take his ticket or comply with formalities, but to kill time and because he wanted something to eat. He ate several sandwiches, drank a couple of bocks, and felt better. He thought he could listen to Amalia now. He knew it was odd that he shouldn’t be thinking more than he did of Xena, and Xena dead. Had Mr Thorne actually said she was dead? No he hadn’t. It was Verney himself who had said that, and Mr Thorne simply hadn’t said she wasn’t. Anyway it didn’t matter. It wasn’t even funny that he, Verney, should have known. He had known before. She had looked a long, blue goodbye at him, and then the lights had gone out, and she had danced with that fellow who had got the wine down his face. Verney was sorry to have made a scene in public, not because he had got his own marching-orders for it, but because he hated scenes. He looked at the buffet clock, and set and wound up his watch. A fellow couldn’t get along without the time. Especially a fellow with trains to catch and a paper in his pocket that made it advisable he should catch them.

  And now – soon – for Amalia.

  But he thought he wouldn’t go inside the hotel after all. There were all the people he knew there – old General Lorimer, Lady Lyle, the Dean. They would know that he had been ‘Vine-streeted’, and the garden would be empty at that hour of the afternoon. Rabat would send up word to Mr Thorne that he was waiting there. Yes, the garden, where she had given him that first look. The garden, where she had sat in a hat less blue than her eyes, under a palm.

  And there at three o’clock he was, waiting for Mr Thorne to descend.

  But Amalia came instead. She sat down by his side without greeting.

  ‘How’s Signor Francavilla?’ he asked. He felt singularly composed and in hand.

  ‘He’s up there.’

  He looked the next question.

  ‘She’s just lying on her bed. She’s to be taken to Monte Pellegrino. I don’t know how he’s fixed it, but he can fix most things, and I’ve been doing the fixing this last day and a half.’

  ‘The last I heard was that Mr Thorne brought her home.’

  ‘Are you feeling all right if I tell you, brother? Because I guess I’m through with experimenting on my fellow-creatures.’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘She told me about you and her up on that mountain. Then she told me what happened after you left.’

  ‘What did happen?’

  ‘What I said happened. They knew their own when they saw it, and they got hold of her.’

  ‘I didn’t see her after that till I saw her going along to the Café with that Frenchman. He tried to made her drunk.’

  ‘I guess you were mad-jealous too.’

  ‘I loved her, Amalia.’ He could just say it.

  ‘Steady, brother . . . Well, you’ve no cause to worry about him. Nor any other man. You’re the first and the last this trip on earth, if that’s any comfort to you. Now I’m just going to tell you . . . ’

  Amalia told him. Amalia went on talking. The sunspots crept under the palm, the guides and hawkers hung lazily about the gate, Rabat’s copper tray gleamed unattended in the doorway.

  ‘And I guess that Frenchman did just what she wanted him to do,’ Amalia continued. ‘He gave her just enough to turn the corner. How much did she have?’

  ‘I don’t know. Things happened, and I got there late.’

  ‘Did he give her a cigarette too?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Yes, I believe he did. But she didn’t smoke it, because it was just then –’

  ‘She brought the cigarette away. I found it in her bag. It was ambrée-doped. She didn’t carry doped cigarettes. I guess she figured the champagne would be enough without it, but there it was if she wanted it. She knew a strange lot. Did I tell you about her asking me to paint her face?’

  ‘To paint her face? What for?’

  ‘To paint it when she was asleep. Your soul’s off somewhere then, and it comes back, and it’s like finding the number of your room changed, and it doesn’t know where it is, and doesn’t get in again. I guess she’d lugged that old soul round long enough and anybody could have it for her. And you can’t do it yourself; because your soul’s watching, and it isn’t going to be fooled.’

  For the first time his voice shook. – ‘Is that –’

  ‘It sure is. Seems to me she was just intoxicated enough to do it without knowing she was doing it. The only thing is, had she made up her mind to do it?’

  He remembered that last, blue goodbye. –

  ‘She had,’ he choked.

  ‘Old Man Thorne saw her to her door. He saw her go in. But she came out again. She couldn’t borrow my paint-box for fear of putting me wise. And she couldn’t get Mollie’s face-things because of waking Mollie. But there’s a barber-shop downstairs that you can get into from the hotel. There’s a ladies’ saloon. I guess as long as the street door’s all right they don’t bother much about the inside one. Anyway she got in, and got hold of a box of make-up and took it to her room.’

  ‘And she painted herself?’

  ‘Without some of those folk came down from the mountain to help her. She was found painted in the morning.’

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘They couldn’t wake her, but she hadn’t locked her door, and Momma Van Necker walked in. After that – well, I guess I was the head of the family. I got through to Umberto. Nobody else dared. Momma Van Necker didn’t. She ran out of the hotel at eleven o’clock that morning, and nobody knows where she is. Lady Lyle’s taken over Cicely and Daphne, and – I guess I’ll have Mollie till we hear she’s been found.’

  ‘Did – did you see her?’

  ‘I did, and it would have been a smart soul that had known that for its face. She’d made no mistake about it. She’d taken the blue-black and put it right round her eyes like thick goggles. Then she’d taken the red and striped herself like one of these Punic masks, all grinning. And her mouth was just a wob of carmine-stick.’

  That flower of a mouth, those skyey eyes! He groaned. God, if only he could have painted his face!

  ‘So as long as Momma Van had seen I guessed there was no need for anybody else to, so I tidied her up and sent for Umberto. What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly half-past three.’

  ‘At half-past three Umberto won’t be in the room. He’ll be out for ten minutes.’

  He trembled. – ‘You mean I can – ?’

  ‘Nobody’ll stop you. Old Man Thorne and I fixed it for you.’

  Then he broke down. She had called him brother –

  ‘Sister – ’ he sobbed, his face buried on her thin shoulder.

  So, leaving the garden, he did go into the hotel after all. And even with her eyes open she had not been more innocently beautiful. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” Her hands were crossed over Umberto’s own crucifix. Below, Amalia had told him, the bruise of the mountain had gone, and over those dancer’s knees were placed the flowers of the Saint who bore both the rose and the lily in her name. Umberto, with all his Casinos, had never heard of gods who gambled for souls nor of ships lost two thousand years ago. But (to show how little we know of people even when we sit at the same table with them) Mr Thorne had, or, three days later with Xena gone and the sun shining in at the windows of the Tunisia Palace Hotel once more, he would not have written the following. It was written on the Tunisia Palace notepaper, and he gave it to Amalia, who was still awaiting news of Mrs Van Necker. He didn’t want a copy, he said. He had it by heart.

  Hands bright as foam i’ the sun, yet fickle as spray –

  Eyes of the sea, yet haunted
with who that drowned? –

  Siren-songed lips that cast a ship away –

  Her ’wildering rest of metamorphoses, crowned

  With wreath of rainbowed spume, and spirit-bound –

  He was the wind that down the unnumbered years

  Passed o’er her tossing; nor needed he to feign

  His soul went down in the wave, from whence his prayers

  Like the Morgana rise in the air again,

  Element questioning element, all in vain.

  Alpheus in him still Arethusa chases;

  Her sighs are Syrinx in the whiskered reeds;

  And innocent lovers with their old, new faces

  ’Plain for each other ’cross the new, old creeds.

  The Out Sister

  1

  Tall cactus and prickly-pear guarded the convent’s approach, but the outer doors stood half open. Jennie Fairfax had already been there once that day, and she passed into the forecourt, leaving the doors as she had found them. A delicious cool light filled the place, which was also a well of odours, of the stocks and violets and cherry-pie of the parterres, the jasmine and japonica that straggled up the plaster arcades. And there, facing her at the cloister’s end, was the Saracenic doorway she had come to draw.

  How still it was! From the stirrings of the little town outside she might almost have passed into another world. And though only that morning she had received permission to come it would be as well to let them know she was here. The door had a bellrod of Sicilian wrought-iron. Jennie put out her hand to its little filigreed knob and pulled.

  There answered her a clanging so harsh and near at hand that she fell back, a little startled. The little shower of almond-petals that came down might have done so because of the disturbance of the air. And as she waited she was suddenly a little less sure about her permission to come. Had the Sister said that afternoon, or had she meant some other day?

  For the echoes of the bell died away and nobody came, and as tomorrow was the beginning of Lent she might have intruded on some hour of meditation and repose. In any case she dared not ring again. But once more her eyes rested on the lovely doorway. It was like a delicate brooch set in the wall’s plaster breast, a brooch of carved sandstone inlaid with tesserae of black lava. A great Ali Baba jar of baked earth stood beside it, big enough for a man to have hidden in if any man had got so far; certainly he would have got no farther, for in the upper portion of the door was a small curtained grille, and under­neath it, in church letters on a brass plate, the word ‘Clausura’.