Читать книгу How Like An Angel - A. G. Macdonell - Страница 7

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Mr. Arthur Ed. Dowley was a small man with very black hair and deep, lustrous brown eyes, and a complexion which is usually described by lesser lady novelists as “olive.” Actually, it was a pale yellowish-brown. His upper lip was adorned by a small black moustache. A native of that portion of the ancient land of Persia which marches with Azerbaijan and Armenia, his name had originally been Arfa-ed-Dovleh, and the first rung in his business career was the office of camel-holder to merchants, professional men, thieves, tax-gatherers, and soldiers, in the bazaars of Tabriz. Thence he had worked his way up by energy, intelligence, and perseverance to the post of seller of news at a street corner in Ispahan. These news-sellers correspond to the newspaper-boys of our own country, who have supplied from their ranks so many of the financial magnates whose names appear in the Birthday and New Year’s Day Honours Lists. From news-seller it was only a step for young Arfa to become clerk to a lawyer of doubtful integrity, and it was a remarkable piece of good luck for the youth that, when the lawyer had to fly the country for refusing a bribe from the Minister of Justice on the grounds that it was not large enough, he deemed it prudent to take his clerk with him. For the lad already knew too much. Escaping from Bushire on a pearling schooner, the lawyer and clerk worked their way before the mast, with extreme discomfort, to Karachi and there they set up a small business for the purpose of selling gold-bricks, shares in diamond-mines, concessions to bore for oil in Luristan, second-hand fountain-pens, umbrellas, cricket-bats, mining machinery, and, in short, anything that they could persuade anyone to buy. Young Arfa showed such extraordinary aptitude at the game that he was deported by the British police within six months, and he found himself alone with his wits against a hostile world at the age of eighteen. But Arfa’s wits were a formidable asset, and as he was by nature resilient he was not unduly cast down by an occasional rebuff, and even when he was deported from Sydney, Australia, on the vague charge of knowing more about company law than some Australians, he still faced the world undauntedly. As he used to say afterwards, no one was ever so lucky with his deportations as Arfa-ed-Dovleh. For by a providential coincidence each one was bringing him nearer to the Golden Coast of California. At last, he had to leave Auckland, New Zealand, in such circumstances that there was practically no alternative but to skip out by the very first boat that came along. It happened to be a steamer bound for San Francisco, and young Dovleh was not discovered among the cargo until the fifth day out from port. His native charm and ready wit secured him an amnesty from the wrath of the captain, and he was put into a white coat and appointed a saloon-steward to serve drinks to the first-class passengers. At San Francisco the intrepid young man swam ashore to evade the enquiries of the immigration authorities, and, striking southwards at random, arrived at Los Angeles almost simultaneously with the first great boom of the Motion Picture. He instantly saw the possibilities in this new form of entertainment and, changing his name to Arthur Ed. Dowley, an alteration so small that it could not reasonably offend the susceptibilities of his ancestors, he flung himself into the fray. Within twenty years he was the most famous publicity director in the whole of Hollywood.

Mr. Arthur Ed. Dowley would have made an admirable chief of staff to the first Emperor Napoleon. Once he understood what had to be done he went and did it, just as Marshal Berthier had been wont to do. It is true that Arthur would have looked a bit queer in a blue pelisse trimmed with grey astrakhan, tight white breeches, big black boots, spurs, and an ostrich feather in his hat. But the point is that just as keen an organizing brain can lurk behind a pair of velour spats as beneath a strip of gold lace, and it is the results that count.

The hi-jacker’s flier caught the Pride of Glen Livet with the utmost ease, a little to the west of the thirtieth degree of longitude, and politely requested her to heave-to. Captain MacRory, who recognized Pugs d’Este’s boat immediately, had no objection whatever to being hi-jacked while steaming in ballast. Moreover he had every reason for being civil to Signor d’Este. They had concluded many a happy little deal together in the good old days. With a genial wave, therefore, he hove to and within half an hour Hugo had been transferred, packing-cases and all, protesting loudly and vehemently, to the motor-ship. The instant he had set foot on the deck of his new and unexpected transport he was hurried down to the saloon. There, proud, erect, beautiful, flashing, and furious, stood Felida.

“Well?” she said.

“It’s all jolly fine to say ‘Well,’ ” retorted Hugo with spirit. He was extremely cross at the compulsory transhipment.

Twilight was coming on. The saloon was full of shadows and sudden spurts of westering sun which only made the shadows darker. A golden shaft whizzed through a port-hole and struck Felida’s hair into a mass of golden waves. The ship heeled slightly, the shaft vanished, and the cabin suddenly seemed grey. But Hugo was in no mood to appreciate the difference between the Glowing and the Drab.

“It’s all jolly fine to say ‘Well,’ ” he repeated angrily. “What’s it all about?”

“Yucatan!” sneered the beautiful creature mysteriously, with a toss of her head.

“I’m not a catan,” retorted Hugo indignantly. “I don’t even know what a catan is.”

“You’re the funny boy, aren’t you?” she replied. “Hey, what’s the game?”

“I don’t know who you are, madam, and I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Hugo. “I’ve been taken by force off the ship on which I was perfectly——”

“Cheese!” was the cryptic and inelegant reply. “Look here, bo! You may be able to double-cross all your other little sweeties. Probably you do. That’s their affair, not mine. But you needn’t think you’re going to double-cross me. Because you’re not. And here’s another thing I want to make perfectly clear from the start. Renting this ship has set me back eighty thousand dollars. That’s coming out of your little sock. Do you get me?”

“I do not get you,” replied Hugo with asperity, “and I don’t want to get you.”

“Look here, Michael,” began the lovely lady.

“My name is not Michael. My name is Smith.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Hugo Smith. I’ve never seen you before, and so far as I know you’ve never seen me before. You’re mistaking me for someone else, just like the girl in that office in Nassau did.”

“And who did the girl in Nassau mistake you for?” asked Felida, in the gently ironical tones which a cat might use towards a vainly escaping mouse.

“For a man called Michael.”

“You surprise me,” murmured Felida. Or rather it was as near a murmur as her voice could achieve.

“I was surprised myself,” conceded Hugo.

“And so your name isn’t Michael Seeley,” she near-crooned, “and you aren’t married to me, and you weren’t booked for a publicity trip to Europe with me, and you haven’t tried to double-cross me and get to Europe alone, ahead of me. Oh no. Oh, dear me, no.”

“The proper place for a woman like you,” said Hugo angrily, realizing with a sudden flash of insight how exceedingly deep was the wisdom of Uncle Hans, “is in a kitchen.”

This was a most unfortunate remark, for the Maggs entourage in Foch Street, Kennington, had been sharply divided years ago on the question whether little Maudie should work up through the ranks of kitchen-maid and cook to the status of butler’s wife, or through those of filing-clerk and stenographer to partner’s mistress. The word “kitchen,” therefore, struck a most unwelcome chord in the heart of La Caliente, and the small, shadowy saloon was filled with the invective of Hollywood and Kennington, in the proportion of about one part of the former to nine of the latter. Hugo was astounded. He had been under the impression that his mastery of the English language was fairly complete, and here were a hundred words and phrases that the Reverend Eustace had not taught him. He sat down at the table and stared in bewilderment. The lovely lady was certainly cross. Hugo thought that perhaps he had been a little brusque. A twinge of conscience assailed him. After all she was a woman and, though it made no difference to a true cavalier, a beautiful one at that. The wisdom of Uncle Hans clearly required a little delicacy on occasions. Remorse followed the twinge. Hugo sprang up from his chair.

“Madam,” he ventured deferentially, at the first moment when the dainty cupid’s-bow ceased to discharge arrows of venom and blasphemy, “I humbly beg your pardon. The fault is mine entirely, and I offer you the profoundest apologies.”

Cupid’s-bow shot a last short flight of shafts, each a genuine Bargee’s Despair, and Hugo hurried on:

“But, honestly, I do assure you that my name is not Michael anything, and I have never been married in my life. This is my first visit to America or Europe or anywhere else except the South Sea Islands. I’ve lived there all my life till just the other day.”

There was a sort of ring of sincerity in Hugo’s voice as he said this, and for the first time a wrinkle of doubt marred the white purity of Felida’s brow.

“Hey, Artie,” she called out in a rasping soprano that made Hugo jump, “switch on the lights.” The lights were obediently switched on, and Felida stared at the young man.

It was a long scrutiny, and at the end of it she suddenly barked again, “Hey, Artie,” and Mr. Dowley shuffled in. A long cigar, unlit, sashed in a splendour of scarlet and gold, added a touch of colour to his normal black and white of hair and platinum, morning-coat and diamonds.

“Evening, Mr. Seeley,” said Artie, with a subtle mixture of affability and deference.

“Is it Mike?” said Felida.

“Eh?”

“Is it Mike?”

“Why, sure it’s Mr. See——” The little Persian’s voice died away as he turned to Hugo again, and he scrutinized him in some perplexity, walking round him several times and finally coming to a halt and rubbing the top of his head with a podgy palm.

“Well?” said Hugo.

“Well,” said Arthur Ed. slowly, “if you told me that was Mr. Seeley, I’d say ‘Why, sure it’s Mr. Seeley.’ But if you said ‘Here’s a guy that’s mighty like Mr. Seeley,’ I’d say, ‘Yeah, he is mighty like Mr. Seeley.’ Do you get me?”

“No,” snapped the divine Caliente.

“What I mean is,” explained Mr. Dowley laboriously—long acquaintance with film stars had accustomed him to making laborious explanations—“that he’s as near being Mr. Seeley as it’s possible to be without being him.”

“Then it’s not Mike,” shrieked Felida.

“Nope,” replied Mr. Dowley, pulling an automatic pistol out of his coat-pocket and laying it on the table, “but he’s going to be.”

Silence descended upon the cabin. Hugo was completely mystified. Felida, who found any feat of mental gymnastics quite beyond her powers, was puzzled. Mr. Dowley chewed his cigar thoughtfully, and gazed at the pistol.

The powerful motor-flier throbbed and vibrated as it tore its way across the long Atlantic rollers towards the islands of the Azores.

“Boy,” said Mr. Dowley at last, “we’ve lost a fellow like you, almost exactly like you. But we’ve gotten you instead, and you’ll do fine.”

“I don’t think I quite follow.”

Arthur Ed. sighed patiently. This newcomer to the circus was running true to form. He might not be a film star, but he had some of the essential qualities. He needed laborious explanations, if possible in monosyllables.

“Meet Miss Felida Caliente,” he said with a bejewelled wave. “The World’s Adored, the Queen of Beverley, etcetera, in private life Mrs. Michael Seeley. She and him were scheduled for a publicity trip in Europe. He beat out, hopped it. Seventy per cent publicity value of trip gone——”

The World’s Adored started as if she had just detected a cobra making a bee-line for one of her famous ankles. Some words had penetrated into the central portions of her mind, words that she understood.

“Seventy per cent, you great bum,” she shrieked. The Neapolitan gentleman who was at that moment responsible for the safety of the ship, peered out into the gloaming and wondered who was the sacred son of a bastard who was letting off the fog siren on a clear evening.

“It’s all right,” said Arthur soothingly, bringing all his Oriental charm to bear. “I should have said forty per cent. You represent sixty per cent, Happy Domesticity thirty-five, and him five.”

“Hm!” was the Beauty’s non-committal reply.

“Forty per cent publicity value gone,” Art. Ed, continued his exposition. “Must get it back. You come along. We get it back.”

“But still I don’t see——”

“From now on you are Mr. Michael Seeley.”

Hugo smiled politely and bowed to Felida.

“I’m afraid that, greatly though I appreciate the compliment of being offered the honorary position of this lady’s husband, and deeply though I envy the gentleman who is actually privileged to hold it, nevertheless I fear I must decline.”

“Oh no,” said Mr. Dowley affably, nodding at the pistol. “Oh, dear me, no.”

“What do you mean?” faltered Hugo, his heart giving an unpleasant thump.

“Just that. It isn’t an offer. It’s an order.”

“But you can’t force me to—to—to—pose as this lady’s husband.”

“Can’t we?” was the quiet reply.

“But—but—but——” said Hugo, and was ruthlessly interrupted by the lady herself, who had by this time grasped the great idea.

“Artie,” she cried. “Hot ziggety dam, but you’re the cockroach’s waistband. Boy, you’re a marvel. Bloody hot stuff,” she added, with a relapse into memories of earlier days.

“Thank you,” said Artie modestly.

“But——” began Hugo.

“Listen to me,” said Mr. Dowley, fingering the pistol meditatively but with an obvious familiarity. “For the next twenty-eight days you’re Mr. Michael Seeley, film star and husband of this lady. At the end of that time you’re free, and I’ll give you five hundred pounds for your trouble.”

“But I don’t want——” began Hugo.

“Boy,” said Mr. Dowley, “nobody’s asking you what you want or don’t want. I’m telling you some facts. We’re going to draw up a contract, and if you break it, I’ll sue you in the courts and shoot you in the eye. Got that?”

“Yes,” said Hugo faintly.

“And I’ll take charge of all that baggage of yours as soon as we’re through the Customs,” went on the inexorable publicity wizard, “and I’ll keep it for you. You won’t be so keen to walk out on us if it means leaving all that stuff behind.”

“It’s a scandalous outrage,” exclaimed Hugo angrily.

“That is so,” was the affable reply. “And now we’d better get to work. This boat won’t be long in making Cherbourg, and we’re going to tranship there to a big liner, the Gigantania, and there’s a lot to learn. Sit down.”

In a daze Hugo sat down. Artie pulled a great sheaf of typewritten papers out of his pocket.

“Now,” he said, “what do you think of the London policemen?”

“I don’t know,” said Hugo. “I’ve never seen one.”

“You think they’re too marvellous,” said Artie reproachfully.