Читать книгу Swing, Brother, Swing - Ngaio Marsh, Stella Duffy - Страница 14

For a few moments Carlisle hesitated. Then, in a voice that struck her as being pitched too high, she said: ‘What are you up to, Uncle George?’

He started and the revolver slipped in his hands and almost fell.

‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Thought you’d forgotten me.’

She crossed the room and sat opposite him. ‘Are you preparing for burglars?’ she asked.

‘No.’ He gave her what Edward had once called one of his leery looks and added: ‘Although you might put it that way. I’m gettin’ ready for my big moment.’ He jerked his hand towards a small table that stood at his elbow. Carlisle saw that a number of cartridges lay there. ‘Just goin’ to draw the bullets,’ said Lord Pastern, ‘to make ‘em into blanks, you know. I like to attend to things myself.’

‘But what is your big moment?’

‘You’ll see tonight. You and Fée are to come. It ought to be a party. Who’s your best young man?’

‘I haven’t got one.’

‘Why not?’

‘Ask yourself.’

‘You’re too damn’ standoffish, me gel. Wouldn’t be surprised if you had one of those things – Oedipus and all that. I looked into psychology when I was interested in companionate marriage.’

Lord Pastern inserted his eyeglass, went to his desk, and rummaged in one of the drawers.

‘What’s happening tonight?’

‘Special extension night at the Metronome. I’m playin’. Floor show at 11 o’clock. My first appearance in public. Breezy engaged me. Nice of him, wasn’t it? You’ll enjoy yourself, Lisle.’

He returned with a drawer filled with a strange collection of objects: pieces of wire, a fret-saw, razor blades, candle-ends, wood-carving knives, old photographs, electrical gear, plastic wood, a number of tools and quantities of putty in greasy paper. How well Carlisle remembered that drawer. It had been a wet-day solace of her childhood visits. From its contents, Lord Pastern, who was dexterous in such matters, had concocted mannikins, fly-traps and tiny ships.

‘I believe,’ she said, ‘I recognize almost everything in the collection.’

‘Y’ father gave me that revolver,’ Lord Pastern remarked. ‘It’s one of a pair. He had ‘em made by his gunsmith to take special target ammunition. Couldn’t be bored having to reload with every shot like you do with target pistols, y’know. Cost him a packet these did. We were always at it, he and I. He scratched his initials one day on the butt of this one. We’d had a bit of a row about differences in performance in the two guns, and shot it out. Have a look.’

She picked up the revolver gingerly. ‘I can’t see anything.’

‘There’s a magnifying glass somewhere. Look underneath near the trigger-guard.’

Carlisle rummaged in the drawer and found a lens. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I can make them out now, CDW’

‘We were crack shots. He left me the pair. The other’s in the case, somewhere in that drawer.’

Lord Pastern took out a pair of pliers and picked up one of the cartridges. ‘Well, if you haven’t got a young man,’ he said, ‘we’ll have Ned Manx. That’ll please your aunt. No good asking anyone else for Fée. Carlos cuts up rough.’

‘Uncle George,’ Carlisle ventured as he busied himself over his task, ‘do you approve of Carlos? Really?’

He muttered and grunted. She caught disjointed phrases: ‘– take their course – own destiny – goin’ the wrong way to work. He’s a damn’ fine piano accordionist,’ he said loudly and added, more obscurely: ‘They’d much better leave things to me.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘You’ll see him in a minute. I know what I’m about,’ said Lord Pastern crimping the end of a cartridge from which he had extracted the bullet.

‘Nobody else seems to. Is he jealous?’

‘She’s had things too much her own way. Make her sit up a bit and a good job, too.’

‘Aren’t you making a great number of blank cartridges?’ Carlisle asked idly.

‘I rather like making them. You never know. I shall probably be asked to repeat my number lots of times. I like to be prepared.’

He glanced up and saw the journal which Carlisle still held in her lap. ‘Thought you had a mind above that sort of stuff,’ said Lord Pastern, grinning.

‘Are you a subscriber, darling?’

‘Y’ aunt is. It’s got a lot of sound stuff in it. They’re not afraid to speak their minds, b’God. See that thing on drug-runnin’? Names and everything and if they don’t like it they can damn’ well lump it. The police,’ Lord Pastern said obscurely, ‘are no good. Pompous incompetent lot. Hidebound. Ned,’ he added, ‘does the reviews.’

‘Perhaps,’ Carlisle said lightly, ‘he’s GPF too.’

‘Chap’s got brains,’ Lord Pastern grunted bewilderingly. ‘Hog-sense in that feller.’

‘Uncle George,’ Carlisle demanded suddenly, ‘you don’t know by any chance, if Fée’s ever consulted GPF?’

‘Wouldn’t let on if I did, m’dear. Naturally.’

Carlisle reddened. ‘No, of course you wouldn’t if she’d told you in confidence. Only usually Fée can’t keep anything to herself.’

‘Well, ask her. She might do a damn’ sight worse.’

Lord Pastern dropped the two bullets he had extracted into the waste-paper basket and returned to his desk. ‘I’ve been doin’ a bit of writin’ myself,’ he said. ‘Look at this, Lisle.’

He handed his niece a sheet of music manuscript. An air had been set down, with many rubbings out, it seemed, and words had been written under the appropriate notes. ‘This Hot Guy,’ Carlisle read, ‘does he get mean? This Hot Gunner with his accord-een. Shoots like he plays an’ he tops the bill. Plays like he shoots an’ he shoots to kill. Hide oh hi. Yip. Ho de oh do. Yip. Shoot buddy, shoot and we’ll sure come clean. Hot Guy, Hot Gunner and your accord-een. Bo. Bo. Bo.’

‘Neat,’ said Lord Pastern complacently. ‘Ain’t it?’

‘It’s astonishing,’ Carlisle murmured and was spared the necessity of further comment by the sound of voices in the drawing-room.

‘That’s the Boys,’ said Lord Pastern briskly. ‘Come on.’

The Boys were dressed in their professional dinner suits. These were distinctive garments, the jackets being double-breasted with steel buttons and silver revers. The sleeves were extremely narrow and displayed a great deal of cuff. The taller of the two, a man whose rotundity was emphasized by his pallor, advanced, beaming upon his host.

‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘Look who’s here.’

It was upon his companion that Carlisle fixed her attention. Memories of tango experts, of cinema near-stars with cigarette holders and parti-coloured shoes, of armoured women moving doggedly round dance floors in the grasp of younger men; all these memories jostled together in her brain.

‘– and Mr Rivera –’ her uncle was saying. Carlisle withdrew her hand from Mr Bellairs’ encompassing grasp and it was at once bowed over by Mr Rivera.

‘Miss Wayne,’ said Félicité’s Carlos.

He rose from his bow with grace and gave her a look of automatic homage. ‘So we meet, at last,’ he said. ‘I have heard so much.’ He had, she noticed, a very slight lisp.

Lord Pastern gave them all sherry. The two visitors made loud conversation: ‘That’s very fine,’ Mr Breezy Bellairs pronounced and pointed to a small Fragonard above the fireplace. ‘My God, that’s beautiful, you know, Carlos. Exquisite.’

‘In my father’s hacienda,’ said Mr Rivera, ‘there is a picture of which I am vividly reminded. This picture to which I refer, is a portrait of one of my paternal ancestors. It is an original Goya.’ And while she was still wondering how a Fragonard could remind Mr Rivera of a Goya, he turned to Carlisle. ‘You have visited the Argentine, Miss Wayne, of course?’

‘No,’ said Carlisle.

‘But you must. It would appeal to you enormously. It is a little difficult, by the way, for a visitor to see us, as it were from the inside. The Spanish families are very exclusive.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh, yes. An aunt of mine, Donna Isabella da Manuelos-Rivera used to say ours was the only remaining aristocracy.’ He inclined towards Lord Pastern and laughed musically. ‘But, of course, she had not visited a certain charming house in Duke’s Gate, London.’

‘What? I wasn’t listening,’ said Lord Pastern. ‘Look here, Bellairs, about tonight –’

‘Tonight,’ Mr Bellairs interrupted, smiling from ear to ear, ‘is in the bag. We’ll rock them, Lord Pastern. Now, don’t you worry about tonight. It’s going to be wonderful. You’ll be there, of course, Miss Wayne?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ Carlisle murmured, wishing they were not so zealous in their attentions.

‘I’ve got the gun fixed up,’ her uncle said eagerly. ‘Five rounds of blanks, you know. What about those umbrellas, now –’

‘You are fond of music, Miss Wayne? But of course you are. You would be enchanted by the music of my own country.’

‘Tangos and rhumbas?’ Carlisle ventured. Mr Rivera inclined towards her. ‘At midnight,’ he said, ‘with the scent of magnolias in the air – those wonderful nights of music. You will think it strange, of course, that I should be’ – he shrugged up his shoulders and lowered his voice –’performing in a dance band. Wearing these appalling clothes! Here, in London! It is terrible, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘I suppose,’ Mr Rivera sighed, ‘I am what you call a snob. There are times when I find it almost unendurable. But I must not say so.’ He glanced at Mr Bellairs who was very deep in conversation with his host. ‘A heart of gold,’ he whispered. ‘One of nature’s gentlemen. I should not complain. How serious we have become,’ he added gaily. ‘We meet and in two minutes I confide in you. You are simpatica, Miss Wayne. But of course, you have been told that before.’

‘Never,’ said Carlisle firmly, and was glad to see Edward Manx come in.

‘Evenin’, Ned,’ said Lord Pastern, blinking at him. ‘Glad to see you. Have you met –’

Carlisle heard Mr Rivera draw in his breath with a formidable hiss. Manx, having saluted Mr Bellairs, advanced with a pleasant smile and extended hand. ‘We haven’t met, Rivera,’ he said, ‘but at least I’m one of your devotés at the Metronome. If anything could teach me how to dance I’m persuaded it would be your piano accordion.’

‘How do you do,’ said Mr Rivera, and turned his back. ‘As I was saying, Miss Wayne,’ he continued. ‘I believe entirely in first impressions. As soon as we were introduced –’

Carlisle looked past him at Manx who had remained perfectly still. At the first opportunity, she walked round Mr Rivera and joined him. Mr Rivera moved to the fireplace before which he stood with an air of detachment, humming under his breath. Lord Pastern instantly buttonholed him. Mr Bellairs joined them with every manifestation of uneasy geniality. ‘About my number, Carlos,’ said Lord Pastern, ‘I’ve been tellin’ Breezy –’

‘Of all the filthy rude –’ Manx began to mutter.

Carlisle linked her arm in his and walked him away. ‘He’s just plain frightful, Ned. Félicité must be out of her mind,’ she whispered hastily.

‘If Cousin George thinks I’m going to stand round letting a bloody fancy-dress dago insult me –’

‘For pity’s sake don’t fly into one of your rages. Laugh it off.’

‘Heh-heh-heh –’

‘That’s better.’

‘He’ll probably throw his sherry in my face. Why the devil was I asked if he was coming? What’s Cousin Cecile thinking of?’

‘It’s Uncle George – shut up. Here come the girls.’

Lady Pastern, encased in black, entered with Félicité at her heels. She suffered the introductions with terrifying courtesy. Mr Bellairs redoubled his geniality. Mr Rivera had the air of a man who never blossoms but in the presence of the great.

‘I am so pleased to have the honour, at last, of being presented,’ he said. ‘From Félicité I have heard so much of her mother. I feel, too, that we may have friends in common. Perhaps, Lady Pastern, you will remember an uncle of mine who had, I think, some post at our Embassy in Paris many years ago. Señor Alonza da Manuelos-Rivera.’

Lady Pastern contemplated him without any change of expression. ‘I do not remember,’ she said.

‘After all it was much too long ago,’ he rejoined gallantly. Lady Pastern glanced at him with cold astonishment, and advanced upon Manx. ‘Dearest Edward,’ she said, offering her cheek, ‘we see you far too seldom. This is delightful.’

‘Thank you, Cousin Cecile. For me, too.’

‘I want to consult you. You will forgive us, George. I am determined to have Edward’s opinion on my petit-point.’

‘Let me alone,’ Manx boasted, ‘with petit-point.’

Lady Pastern put her arm through his and led him apart. Carlisle saw Félicité go to Rivera. Evidently she had herself well in hand: her greeting was prettily formal. She turned with an air of comradeship from Rivera to Bellairs and her stepfather. ‘Will anyone bet me,’ she said, ‘that I can’t guess what you chaps have been talking about?’

Mr Bellairs was immediately very gay. ‘Now, Miss de Suze, that’s making it just a little tough. I’m afraid you know much too much about us. Isn’t that the case, Lord Pastern?’

‘I’m worried about those umbrellas,’ said Lord Pastern moodily and Bellairs and Félicité began to talk at once.

Carlisle was trying to make up her mind about Rivera and failing to do so. Was he in love with Félicité? If so, was his jealousy of Ned Manx a genuine and therefore an alarming passion? Was he, on the other hand, a complete adventurer? Could he conceivably be that to which he pretended? Could any human being be as patently bogus as Mr Rivera or was it within the bounds of possibility that the scions of noble Spanish-American families behave in a manner altogether too faithful to their Hollywood opposites? Was it her fancy or had his olive-coloured cheeks turned paler as he stood and watched Félicité? Was the slight tic under his left eye, that smallest possible muscular twitch really involuntary or, as everything else about him seemed to be, part of an impersonation along stereotyped lines? And as these speculations chased each other through her mind, Rivera himself came up to her.

‘But you are so serious,’ he said. ‘I wonder why. In my country we have a proverb: a woman is serious for one of two reasons; she is about to fall in love or already she loves without success. The alternative being unthinkable, I ask myself: to whom is this lovely lady about to lose her heart?’

Carlisle thought: ‘I wonder if this is the line of chat that Félicité has fallen for.’ She said: ‘I’m afraid your proverb doesn’t apply out of South America.’

He laughed as if she had uttered some brilliant equivocation and began to protest that he knew better, indeed he did. Carlisle saw Félicité stare blankly at them and, turning quickly, surprised just such another expression on Edward Manx’s face. She began to feel acutely uncomfortable. There was no getting away from Mr Rivera. His raillery and archness mounted with indecent emphasis. He admired Carlisle’s dress, her modest jewel, her hair. His lightest remark was pronounced with such a killing air that it immediately assumed the character of an impropriety. Her embarrassment at these excesses quickly gave way to irritation when she saw that while Mr Rivera bent upon her any number of melting glances he also kept a sharp watch upon Félicité. ‘And I’ll be damned,’ thought Carlisle, ‘if I let him get away with that little game.’ She chose her moment and joined her aunt who had withdrawn Edward Manx to the other end of the room and, while she exhibited her embroidery, muttered anathemas upon her other guests. As Carlisle came up, Edward was in the middle of some kind of uneasy protestation. ‘– but, Cousin Cecile, I don’t honestly think I can do much about it. I mean – Oh, hallo, Lisle, enjoying your Latin-American petting party?’

‘Not enormously,’ said Carlisle, and bent over her aunt’s embroidery. ‘It’s lovely, darling,’ she said. ‘How do you do it?’

‘You shall have it for an evening bag. I have been telling Edward that I fling myself on his charity, and, Lady Pastern added in a stormy undertone, ‘and on yours, my dearest child.’ She raised her needlework as if to examine it and they saw her fingers fumble aimlessly across its surface.

‘You see, both of you, this atrocious person. I implore you –’ Her voice faltered. ‘Look,’ she whispered, ‘look now. Look at him.’

Carlisle and Edward glanced furtively at Mr Rivera who was in the act of introducing a cigarette into a jade holder. He caught Carlisle’s eye. He did not smile but glossed himself over with appraisement. His eyes widened. ‘Somewhere or another,’ she thought, ‘he has read about the gentlemen who undress ladies with a glance.’ She heard Manx swear under his breath and noted with surprise her own gratification at this circumstance. Mr Rivera advanced upon her.

‘Oh, lord!’ Edward muttered.

‘Here,’ said Lady Pastern loudly, ‘is Hendy. She is dining with us. I had forgotten.’

The door at the far end of the drawing-room had opened and a woman plainly dressed came quietly in.

‘Hendy!’ Carlisle echoed. ‘I had forgotten Hendy,’ and went swiftly towards her.