Much to his surprise, it was Mulligan who in the end brought him the coffee. It was a single cup, not a pot; and even the cup was of such a size that Maybury, for once that evening, could have done with a bigger. At once he divined that coffee was outside the regime of the place, and that he was being specially compensated, though he might well have to pay extra for it. He had vaguely supposed that Mulligan would have been helping to mop up in the dining-room. Mulligan, in fact, seemed quite undisturbed.
‘Sugar, sir?’ she said.
‘One lump, please,’ said Maybury, eyeing the size of the cup.
He did not fail to notice that, before going, she exchanged a glance with the handsome lad. He was young enough to be her son, and the glance might mean anything or nothing.
While Maybury was trying to make the most of his meagre coffee and to ignore the presence of the lad, who must surely be bored, the door from the dining-room opened, and the tragic lady from the other side of the room appeared.
‘Close the door, will you?’ she said to the boy. The boy closed the door, and then stood about again, watching them.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ the lady asked Maybury.
‘I should be delighted.’
She was really rather lovely in her melancholy way, her dress was as splendid as Maybury had supposed, and there was in her demeanour an element that could only be called stately. Maybury was unaccustomed to that.
She sat, not at the other end of the sofa, but at the centre of it. It struck Maybury that the rich way she was dressed might almost have been devised to harmonize with the rich way the room was decorated. She wore complicated, oriental-looking earrings, with pink translucent stones, like rosé diamonds (perhaps they were diamonds); and silver shoes. Her perfume was heavy and distinctive.
‘My name is Cécile Céliména,’ she said. ‘How do you do? I am supposed to be related to the composer, Chaminade.’
‘How do you do?’ said Maybury. ‘My name is Lucas Maybury, and my only important relation is Solway Short. In fact, he’s my cousin.’
They shook hands. Her hand was very soft and white, and she wore a number of rings, which Maybury thought looked real and valuable (though he could not really tell). In order to shake hands with him, she turned the whole upper part of her body towards him.
‘Who is that gentleman you mention?’ she asked.
‘Solway Short? The racing motorist. You must have seen him on the television.’
‘I do not watch the television.’
‘Quite right. It’s almost entirely a waste of time.’
‘If you do not wish to waste time, why are you at The Hospice?’
The lad, still observing them, shifted, noticeably, from one leg to the other.
‘I am here for dinner. I am just passing through.’
‘Oh! You are going then?’
Maybury hesitated. She was attractive and, for the moment, he did not wish to go. ‘I suppose so. When I’ve paid my bill and found out where I can get some petrol. My tank’s almost empty. As a matter of fact, I’m lost. I’ve lost my way.’
‘Most of us here are lost.’
‘Why here? What makes you come here?’
‘We come for the food and the peace and the warmth and the rest.’
‘A tremendous amount of food, I thought.’
‘That’s necessary. It’s the restorative, you might say.’
‘I’m not sure that I quite fit in,’ said Maybury. And then he added: ‘I shouldn’t have thought that you did either.’
‘Oh, but I do! Whatever makes you think not?’ She seemed quite anxious about it, so that Maybury supposed he had taken the wrong line.
He made the best of it. ‘It’s just that you seem a little different from what I have seen of the others.’
‘In what way, different?’ she asked, really anxious, and looking at him with concentration.
‘To start with, more beautiful. You are very beautiful,’ he said, even though the lad was there, certainly taking in every word.
‘That is kind of you to say.’ Unexpectedly she stretched across the short distance between them and took his hand. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Lucas Maybury.’
‘Do people call you Luke?’
‘No, I dislike it. I’m not a Luke sort of person.’
‘But your wife can’t call you Lucas?’ ‘I’m afraid she does.’ It was a fishing question he could have done without.
‘Lucas? Oh no, it’s such a cold name.’ She was still holding his hand.
‘I’m very sorry about it. Would you like me to order you some coffee?’
‘No, no. Coffee is not right; it is stimulating, wakeful, over-exciting, unquiet.’ She was gazing at him again with sad eyes.
‘This is a curious place,’ said Maybury, giving her hand a squeeze. It was surely becoming remarkable that none of the other guests had yet appeared.
‘I could not live without The Hospice,’ she replied.
‘Do you come here often?’ It was a ludicrously conventional form of words.
‘Of course. Life would be impossible otherwise. All those people in the world without enough food, living without love, without even proper clothes to keep the cold out.’
During dinner it had become as hot in the lounge, Maybury thought, as it had been in the dining-room.
Her tragic face sought his understanding. None the less, the line she had taken up was not a favourite of his. He preferred problems to which solutions were at least possible. He had been warned against the other kind.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know what you mean, of course.’
‘There are millions and millions of people all over the world with no clothes at all,’ she cried, withdrawing her hand.
‘Not quite,’ Maybury said, smiling. ‘Not quite that. Or not yet.’
He knew the risks perfectly well, and thought as little about them as possible. One had to survive, and also to look after one’s dependants.
‘In any case,’ he continued, trying to lighten the tone, ‘that hardly applies to you. I have seldom seen a more gorgeous dress.’
‘Yes,’ she replied with simple gravity. ‘It comes from Rome. Would you like to touch it?’
Naturally, Maybury would have liked, but, equally naturally, was held back by the presence of the watchful lad.
‘Touch it,’ she commanded in a low voice. ‘God, what are you waiting for? Touch it.’ She seized his left hand again and forced it against her warm, silky breast. The lad seemed to take no more and no less notice than of anything else.
‘Forget. Let go. What is life for, for God’s sake?’ There was a passionate earnestness about her which might rob any such man as Maybury of all assessment, but he was still essentially outside the situation. As a matter of fact, he had never in his life lost all control, and he was pretty sure by now that, for better or for worse, he was incapable of it.
She twisted round until her legs were extended the length of the sofa, and her head was on his lap, or more precisely on his thighs. She had moved so deftly as not even to have disordered her skirt. Her perfume wafted upwards.
‘Stop glancing at Vincent,’ she gurgled up at him. ‘I’ll tell you something about Vincent. Though you may think he looks like a Greek God, the simple fact is that he hasn’t got what it takes, he’s impotent.’
Maybury was embarrassed, of course. All the same, what he reflected was that often there were horses for courses, and often no more to be said about a certain kind of situation than that one thing.
It did not matter much what he reflected, because when she had spoken, Vincent had brusquely left the room through what Maybury supposed to be the service door.
‘Thank the Lord,’ he could not help remarking naively.
‘He’s gone for reinforcements,’ she said. ‘We’ll soon see.’
Where were the other guests? Where, by now, could they be? All the same, Maybury’s spirits were authentically rising. and he began caressing her m
ore intimately.
Then, suddenly, it seemed that everyone was in the room at once, and this time all talking and fussing.
She sat herself up, none too precipitately, and with her lips close to his ear, said, ‘Come to me later. Number 23.’
It was quite impossible for Maybury to point out that he was not staying the night in The Hospice.
Falkner had appeared.
‘To bed, all,’ he cried genially, subduing the crepitation on the instant.
Maybury, unentangled once more, looked at his watch. It seemed to be precisely ten o’clock. That, no doubt, was the point. Still it seemed very close upon a heavy meal.
No one moved much, but no one spoke either.
‘To bed, all of you,’ said Falkner again, this time in a tone which might almost be described as roguish. Maybury’s lady rose to her feet.
All of them filtered away, Maybury’s lady among them. She had spoken no further word, made no further gesture.
Maybury was alone with Falkner.
‘Let me remove your cup,’ said Falkner courteously.
‘Before I ask for my bill,’ said Maybury, ‘I wonder if you could tell me where I might possibly find some petrol at this hour?’
‘Are you out of petrol?’ enquired Falkner.
‘Almost.’
‘There’s nothing open at night within twenty miles. Not nowadays. Something to do with our new friends, the Arabs, I believe. All I can suggest is that I syphon some petrol from the tank of our own vehicle. It is a quite large vehicle and it has a large tank.’
‘I couldn’t possibly put you to that trouble.’ In any case, he, Maybury, did not know exactly how to do it. He had heard of it, but it had never arisen before in his own life.
The lad, Vincent, reappeared, still looking pink, Maybury thought, though it was difficult to be sure with such a glowing skin. Vincent began to lock up, a quite serious process, it seemed, rather as in great-grandparental days, when prowling desperadoes were to be feared.
‘No trouble at all, Mr Maybury,’ said Falkner. ‘Vincent here can do it easily, or another member of my staff.’
‘Well,’ said Maybury, ‘if it would be all right…’
‘Vincent,’ directed Falkner, ‘don’t bolt and padlock the front door yet. Mr Maybury intends to leave us.’
‘Very good,’ said Vincent, gruffly.
‘Now if we could go to your car, Mr Maybury, you could then drive it round to the back. I will show you the way. I must apologise for putting you to this extra trouble, but the other vehicle takes some time to start, especially at night.’
Vincent had opened the front door for them.
‘After you, Mr Maybury,’ said Falkner.
Where it had been excessively hot within, it duly proved to be excessively cold without. The floodlight had been turned off. The moon had ‘gone in’, as Maybury believed the saying was; and all the stars had apparently gone in with it.
Still, the distance to the car was not great. Maybury soon found it in the thick darkness, with Falkner coming quietly step by step behind him.
‘Perhaps I had better go back and get a torch?’ remarked Falkner.
So there duly was a torch. It brought to Maybury’s mind the matter of the office file with his name on it, and, as he unlocked the car door, there the file was, exactly as he had supposed, and, assuredly, name uppermost. Maybury threw it across to the back seat.
Falkner’s electric torch was a heavy service object which drenched a wide area in cold, white light.
‘May I sit beside you, Mr Maybury?’ He closed the offside door behind him.
Maybury had already turned on the headlights, torch or no torch, and was pushing at the starter, which seemed obdurate.
It was not, he thought, that there was anything wrong with it, but rather that there was something wrong with him. The sensation was exactly like a nightmare. He had of course done it hundreds of times, probably thousands of times; but now, when after all it really mattered, he simply could not manage it, had, quite incredibly, somehow lost the simple knack of it. He often endured bad dreams of just this kind. He found time with part of his mind to wonder whether this was not a bad dream. But it was to be presumed not, since now he did not wake, as we soon do when once we realize that we are dreaming.
‘I wish I could be of some help,’ remarked Falkner, who had shut off his torch, ‘but I am not accustomed to the make of car. I might easily do more harm than good.’ He spoke with his usual bland geniality.
Maybury was irritated again. The make of car was one of the commonest there is: trust the firm for that. All the same, he knew it was entirely his own fault that he could not make the car start, and not in the least Falkner’s. He felt as if he were going mad. ‘I don’t quite know what to suggest,’ he said; and added: ‘If, as you say, there’s no garage.’
‘Perhaps Cromie could be of assistance,’ said Falkner. ‘Cromie has been with us quite a long time and is a wizard with any mechanical problem.’
No one could say that Falkner was pressing Maybury to stay the night, or even hinting towards it, as one might expect. Maybury wondered whether the funny place was not, in fact, full up. It seemed the most likely answer. Not that Maybury wished to stay the night: far from it.
‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘that I have the right to disturb anyone else.’
‘Cromie is on night duty,’ replied Falkner. ‘He is always on night duty. That is what we employ him for. I will fetch him.’
He turned on the torch once more, stepped out of the car, and disappeared into the house, shutting the front door behind him, lest the cold air enter.
In the end, the front door reopened, and Falkner re-emerged. He still wore no coat over his dinner suit, and seemed to ignore the cold. Falkner was followed by a burly but shapeless and shambling figure, whom Maybury first saw indistinctly standing behind Falkner in the light from inside the house.
‘Cromie will soon put things to rights,’ said Falkner, opening the door of the car. ‘Won’t you, Cromie?’ It was much as one speaks to a friendly retriever.
But there was little, Maybury felt, that was friendly about Cromie. Maybury had to admit to himself that on the instant he found Cromie alarming, even though, what with one thing and another, there was little to be seen of him.
‘Now what exactly seems wrong, Mr Maybury?’ asked Falkner. ‘Just tell Cromie what it is.’
Falkner himself had not attempted to re-enter the car, but Cromie forced himself in and was sprawling in the front seat, next to Maybury, where Angela normally sat. He really did seem a very big, bulging person, but Maybury decisively preferred not to look at him, though the glow cast backwards from the headlights provided a certain illumination.
Maybury could not acknowledge that for some degrading reason he was unable to operate the starter, and so had to claim there was something wrong with it. He was unable not to see Cromie’s huge, badly misshapen, yellow hands, both of them, as he tugged with both of them at the knob, forcing it in and out with such violence that Maybury cried out: ‘Less force. You’ll wreck it.’
‘Careful, Cromie,’ said Falkner from outside the car. ‘Most of Cromie’s work is on a big scale,’ he explained to Maybury.
But violence proved effective, as so often. Within seconds, the car engine was humming away.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Maybury.
Cromie made no detectable response, nor did he move.
‘Come on out, Cromie,’ said Falkner. ‘Come on out of it.’
Cromie duly extricated himself and shambled off into the darkness.
‘Now,’ said Maybury, brisking up as the engine purred. ‘Where do we go for the petrol?’
There was the slightest of pauses. Then Falkner spoke from the dimness outside. ‘Mr Maybury, I have remembered something. It is not petrol that we have in our tank. It is, of course, diesel oil. I must apologise for such a stupid mistake.’
Maybury was not merely irritated, not merely scared: he was
infuriated. With rage and confusion he found it impossible to speak at all. No one in the modern world could confuse diesel oil and petrol in that way. But what could he possibly do?
Falkner, standing outside the open door of the car, spoke again. ‘I am extremely sorry, Mr Maybury. Would you permit me to make some amends by inviting you to spend the night with us free of charge, except perhaps for the dinner?’
Within the last few minutes Maybury had suspected that this moment was bound to come in one form or another.
‘Thank you,’ he said less than graciously. ‘I suppose I had better accept.’ ‘We shall try to make you comfortable,’ said Falkner.
Maybury turned off the headlights, climbed out of the car once more, shut and, for what it was worth, locked the door, and followed Falkner back into the house. This time Falkner completed the locking and bolting of the front door that he had instructed Vincent to omit.
‘I have no luggage of any kind,’ remarked Maybury, still very much on the defensive.
‘That may solve itself,’ said Falkner, straightening up from the bottom bolt and smoothing his dinner jacket. ‘There’s something I ought to explain. But will you first excuse me a moment?’ He went out through the door at the back of the lounge.
Hotels really have become far too hot, thought Maybury. It positively addled the brain.
Falkner returned. ‘There is something I ought to explain,’ he said again. ‘We have no single rooms, partly because many of our visitors prefer not to be alone at night. The best we can do for you in your emergency, Mr Maybury, is to offer you the share of a room with another guest. It is a large room and there are two beds. It is a sheer stroke of good luck that at present there is only one guest in the room, Mr Bannard. Mr Bannard will be glad of your company, I am certain, and you will be quite safe with him. He is a very pleasant person, I can assure you. I have just sent a message up asking him if he can possibly come down, so that I can introduce you. He is always very helpful, and I think he will be here in a moment. Mr Bannard has been with us for some time, so that I am sure he will be able to fit you up with pyjamas and so forth.’
The Weird: A Compendium of Strange and Dark Stories Page 97