“I’d heard there was some sort of a grand panjandrum coming to International House, but I didn’t know it had anything to do with Kurt. Maybe that’s why he’s so worried.”
“Kurt?”
“Yes. Goes around looking as though he were ready to take the last great step or something. What’s uncle’s name? Ross?”
“No, Schaedel, I think. Dr. Hugo Schaedel.”
And that was the first time that Paul Lennox ever heard the name of the man whose face he was never to see but whose fate was so tightly linked with his own.
Martin’s hopes had been dashed. The rehearsal was not called off. It started late and lasted far beyond its usual limits. As a result, he was delayed in getting back to International House and was forced to dress at a most uncomfortable rate of speed. He had just succeeded, after Houdinesque efforts, in getting the third tricky stud into his dress shirt when he was interrupted by a knock on his door.
“Who is it?” he called.
“Kurt,” came the answer. “Are you not dressed?”
“Will be in a minute. Come in.”
Paul was right, Martin reflected as Kurt Ross entered. Something was wrong. The tall blond young Swiss looked somewhat like the Spartan boy just as the fox reached the juiciest tidbits. Martin almost expected to see a vulpine head rear itself from behind the black waistcoat, just about where the Phi Beta Kappa key dangled.
“Sit down. I’ll be ready in a second. Cigarettes are there by the typewriter.”
“Thanks.” Kurt sat in the one comfortable chair and lit a cigarette. Its smoke seemed slightly to allay the fox pains.
“How’s Lupe?” Martin asked casually as he adjusted his suspenders.
“All right. Why?” Kurt snapped out the answer with sudden viciousness as though the fox had just discovered a new and more sensitive line of attack.
Oh damn, thought Martin, why can’t I ask a harmless question without being barked at? First Cyn, now Kurt.… “I just thought I’d ask. After all—”
“I said that she is all right, did I not?” In his annoyance Kurt’s accent, usually barely perceptible, became thicker.
“That’s good.” Martin continued dressing in silence. He scarcely knew what to say after being rebuffed on such an obvious conversational opening. He hoped nothing was really the matter with Lupe Sanchez. International House was a curious place with its incredible assortment of nationalities, leavened by a few ordinary Americans such as Paul Lennox, Alex Bruce, or Martin himself. And if the founder’s high ideals of promoting international good feeling were not always fully realized, at least the house produced some strange interracial romances. Kurt and Lupe, Swiss and Mexican, formed one of the oddest of these mixed couples and, to Martin’s mind, one of the most charming. It would be a pity if anything had happened.
After a careful brushing, Martin slipped on his coat and looked in the mirror. He would do, he decided. Possibly not exactly a model of the well-dressed reception committee, but good enough. As he turned from the mirror, Kurt spoke. “Aren’t you going to wear your Phi Beta Kappa key?”
“Hell, no. Mind handing me those cigarettes? Thanks. No; I’d rather not decorate my stomach with a blatant atrocity like that. If they were some decent size, maybe yes, but as it is …” He finished filling his cigarette case.
“It would be a mark of courtesy to our distinguished visitor.”
“Put on swank for Uncle Hugo? Show him what a brilliant reception committee it is?”
“It is not because he is my uncle. It is simply as a token of—”
“All right.” It was less trouble to wear the damned thing than to argue with Kurt. Martin slipped the key on his watch chain and prepared to go. As Kurt rose, there was a slight clink on the floor. Martin laughed. “Serves you right, Kurt. You would lecture me on wearing one.”
Kurt’s internal agony allowed him a shamefaced smile. “It often falls off,” he admitted. “I must have the ring fixed.”
Martin experienced a sense of growing discomfort as they went down to the small dining room to welcome Dr. Schaedel. The other members of the reception committee were there already—a quiet and bespectacled young Chinese; a White Russian aristocrat, who had never quite got over his visit to the National Students’ League because he had heard that he would find other Russians there; a swarthy Bolivian, who had seriously threatened the peace of International House when appointed to a committee containing two Paraguayans; a Canadian, who had at first been so often thought an American that he had developed an astounding B. B. C. manner of speech; and a young French Jew who kept glancing nervously at Kurt, who managed, quite unconsciously, to look far too Aryan for M. Bernstein’s peace of mind.
Martin exchanged cigarettes with Boritsin, who had equipped himself with long thin ones fitted with mouthpieces. On such occasions International House expects its members to be as distinctively national as possible.
“You look uncomfortably formal, Mr. Lamb,” the Russian aristocrat remarked.
Martin admitted that he was.
“For my part,” said Boritsin, “I am glad that the dinner is formal. For were it not so, I should doubtless be expected to wear a Russian blouse, which I never did before coming to this International House. I assure you that it was with great difficulty that my mother the Princess succeeded in securing one for me.”
“Yes,” observed the Bolivian, who had joined them, “I remember when Lupe Sanchez and my sister sang for a Sunday night supper. They had to search through every costumer in San Francisco to find dresses characteristic enough to please the committee.”
“By the way,” Martin, asked, “how is Miss Sanchez?”
“Unwell, my sister tells me. She has retired early to her room. My sister is worried.”
“Damn it, stop worrying.” Kurt stood behind the Bolivian and looked down on him in anger. “She’s all right, I tell you, Morales. That is, she will be. After tonight.”
At that moment Mr. Blakely, head of International House, entered, followed by Dr. Schaedel. Martin observed the unofficial Swiss representative with curiosity. If his tour was, as Kurt had said, in the interests of world peace, no more fitting person could have been chosen, so far as appearance went. Utterly unlike his young-Siegfried nephew, he resembled a quiet monk with no interests beyond his garden, his breviary, and the poor. He was of average height, but the mild beneficence which radiated from him gave you the curious impression that he was small. His features were sharp, but his kind expression softened them. He acknowledged Mr. Blakely’s Rotarian introductions with a smile, but no words beyond a polite repetition of the name. There followed an awkward pause, as though both honored guest and reception committee expected the first words to come from the other, and then a general movement, at a gesture from Blakely, toward the table.
The dinner was competent but dull, and of course unrelieved by wine. Martin sat between Boritsin and Worthing, listening alternately to the Russian’s plaints against the Soviet and the Canadian’s violent bursts of Anglophilia. At that, he felt, he was better off than Dr. Schaedel, who maintained a polite smile through a lengthy discourse on international brotherhood as exemplified by the House. It was fairly obvious that Dr. Schaedel’s understanding of English was none too good, which was, Martin thought, just as well.
At last the dessert was cleared away, and Martin settled down to whole-hearted enjoyment of coffee and a cigarette. Mr. Blakely rose and launched forth into a speech, for which his monologue to Dr. Schaedel had evidently been in the nature of a rehearsal, ending with a peroration which served to introduce “that worthy scholar and gentleman who has devoted his life to furthering that cause which is, we may safely say, the cause of prime importance to all the world and above all, perhaps, in these troublous times, to we of America,” (Martin winced) “the cause of World Peace.” (Here came a five-minute digression and recapitulation.) “Friends of International House, my words cannot do justice to this man. In fact, the less said about him the better.” (Martin repressed a snor
t at this typical Blakely infelicity.) “Gentlemen, Dr. Hugo Schaedel.”
Dr. Schaedel spoke in a soft voice and with a strongly marked accent. “Gentlemen,” he said, “it is with great difficulty that I in this language speak. My nephew tells me that already among you one is who can for me interpret. Herr Lamb, möchten Sie vielleicht übersetzen was ich auf Deutsch sage?”
“Sehr gerne, Herr Doktor,” Martin answered.
“Besten Dank, mein Freund. Also …” Dr. Schaedel paused a moment, and then began his impromptu speech, pausing frequently for Martin’s translations.
It was a simple, direct talk, an appeal to mankind, as exemplified by these representatives of divers races, to forget its evil nature and allow itself to be won by the good. Warming to his topic, he grew slightly mystical and referred to the Black and White powers which rule the world. The Black, he said, reward evil, but their rewards are evil; the White reward good with good rewards. Therefore we should abstain from Evil, if only that we may win the rewards of Good. “I know that this is bad Christianity,” he added, “but it is meant for bad Christians.”
There was silence when he had finished. Some inherent goodness in his thought and character had communicated itself to the group. Then Mr. Blakely thanked Dr. Schaedel, and the spell was broken.
As the reception committee filed out of the dining room, Kurt approached Martin. “It was very good of you to interpret for my uncle,” he said. “He has many difficulties with the language, and I myself felt unable this evening …”
“I was glad to,” Martin answered. “It’s the devil’s own language anyway, and doubtless spoken exclusively in the seventh circle of Hell. Please tell your uncle that I’d be very glad to be of help to him whenever I could.”
“Thanks, Martin. I will.” Kurt moved away. Martin saw him pluck Dr. Schaedel by the sleeve and detach him for a moment from Mr. Blakely. “Darf ich einen Augenblick mit dir sprechen?”1 he heard Kurt ask.
“Später, Kurt. Sagen wir um halb zehn bei mir,”2 was the Herr Doktor’s reply.
Whether Kurt repeated his offer of assistance to Dr. Schaedel in their appointed interview at nine-thirty, Martin never learned. Surely neither the Swiss emissary nor Martin himself could then have imagined what form that assistance would take.
Relieved of his committee costume and comfortable again in a dressing robe, Martin spent a quiet evening brooding over a tremendously complicated alibi. By ten-thirty he had reached the point where the detective remarks to his stooge, “All the facts are now in your hands. Let us see if you reach the same conclusions as I.” Such challenges always stimulated Martin. He laid the book aside, lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair to destroy the alibi.
Martin broke off his cogitations in annoyance. Why the devil did authors always suppose that a man who has been on the stage, even in amateur dramatics at Oxford, must ipso facto be able to wander about the streets in a completely convincing false character? From what he knew of actors, especially amateurs, and even more from what he knew of make-up, the whole proposition seemed preposterous.
“Come in,” Martin called in answer to a knock on the door.
The visitor was Paul Lennox, whose room was next to Martin’s. Pipe, slippers, and all, he seemed a model of scholarly placidity. No eye could have discerned in this quiet man the flamboyant Spanish gallant of the afternoon’s rehearsal. “I got some new discs yesterday from the record library in San Francisco,” he began. “I thought you might like to hear them.”
“Good,” said Martin, rising. “I’ve been trying to break down an excellent alibi, and I’m tired.”
“You’ve been what?”
“Breaking down a murderer’s alibi. You’ve no idea how complex they can be. What are your records?”
“An album by the Hugo Wolf Society. Kipnis and Rethberg singing.”
“Fine.”
So Martin spent a pleasant half-hour in Paul’s room listening to Wolf Lieder with interpolated conversation. The phonograph was an electric model which bulked up large in the small room; but the excellence of its tone apparently compensated Paul for the inconvenience. After the last record Paul remarked, “You know, Martin, that play of yours has set me off on an interesting track of research. I’ve decided to do a paper on Possible Historical Originals of the Don Juan Legend. It should do for publication, and that always helps one’s academic standing here.”
“Have you found any new material?” Martin asked.
“A suggestion or two that may build into something. I say—would you like to see my tentative outline? I think you’d find it interesting. It’s rather rough, but if you’ll give me fifteen minutes I’ll type it out for you.”
“You needn’t bother.”
“No bother at all. Unless of course you’re sleepy. I always find music stimulating; I could spend the rest of the night talking.”
“All right,” Martin agreed. “I’ll dig out some bourbon that I carefully hid away from the chambermaid, and we’ll have an all-night discussion on Don Juan.”
“It’s fairly early yet anyway.” Paul glanced at his clock. “Eleven-fifteen.”
“You’re slow,” said Martin. “I have eleven-twenty.”
“Damn. Are you sure? That clock is one of my special prides. Well anyhow, I’ll get this thing finished in about twenty minutes and bring it over.”
“And bring your glass, unless you don’t mind the bottle.”
Paul was truly industrious when once he became interested in the matter in hand. No sooner had Martin returned to his own room than he could hear the click of the typewriter and the ping of its bell.
He dug the Bourbon out from under a pile of shorts. Most of the chambermaids were very decent, but there was no use risking a report for violation of the rule against liquor. He poured himself a sizable drink and decided to finish The Boat Train Murders. A quarter of an hour later he set the book aside in disgust.
In rhythm to the still clicking typewriter, Martin poured himself another drink and sat down at the desk. He had just had a lovely idea for a parody on “Gunga Din,” but before he could get beyond the first line, Paul rapped on the door.
“There!” he said as he entered. “I think I did that in very nearly record time.” And he waved a sizable outline.
“Twenty minutes,” Martin checked on his watch. “Not bad at all. Did you bring a glass?”
“Just hand me the bottle.” Martin did so. “I need a drink after a job like that.”
Martin also dispensed with a glass this time. After a healthy swig, he sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. “Now,” he said, “let’s have your theory.”
“First a match, please. I forgot mine. Thanks.… Now,” Paul expounded in puffs as he lit his pipe, “you realize that the first appearance in literature of Don Juan is in Tirso’s El Burlador de Sevilla—that is, in the early seventeenth century.” Martin nodded. “Now I have here—” He broke off as another knock came on the door.
“Come in,” Martin called.
“I heard voices so I thought I’d drop in. Hello, Paul—” and Alex Bruce interrupted his speech of greeting to make a grab for the whiskey bottle which Paul, in rising, had knocked from the desk.
“Sorry, Martin,” Paul apologized. “I’m getting clumsy. How are you, Alex?”
“Fine. What are you fellows discussing?”
“A pint of bourbon,” Martin answered. “Join us?”
“Of course.”
“How’s Cynthia?” Paul asked.
From his previous experiences on that day, Martin was a little afraid of what the answer might be. But Alex smiled, wiped a drop of whiskey from his lip, and replied, “Fine, I guess. I haven’t seen her today.”
“She said you were going over this evening.” Something in Paul’s tone puzzled Martin. There was a slight touch of inconsistent emotion. Jealousy? he thought vaguely. Is that perhaps why Cyn dislikes Paul—because he is too interested in her?
“Come to think of it, I did say I might drop in,”
Alex was saying, “but I was tired after working at the lab—How about another drink, Martin?”
The bottle went the rounds, and there was a moment’s silence. Martin took a cigarette and passed one to Alex, who accepted. Paul leisurely relit his pipe. The silence was not the oppressive emptiness of uncongeniality; it was simply the quiet that can be enjoyed by three men blessed with whiskey and tobacco.
Martin indulged in his frequent habit of unspoken soliloquy as he looked about the room, rapidly filling with smoke. They made a curious trio—Paul, instructor in history, amateur cynic, and scorner of emotional entanglements; Alex, research worker in chemistry, essentially earnest, and quite openly in love with the exotic Cynthia; and Martin himself, graduate fellow in German with writing ambitions and dabbler in all things including emotions.
Alex broke the silence. “It’s funny your asking me about Cynthia, Paul. I had an idea that there was something I should do tonight and—”
“Damn!” Martin exclaimed. “Somebody else at the door. I seem to be keeping open house tonight.”
The new arrival was Kurt Ross, and a very different Kurt from the self-contained, if internally anguished, member of the reception committee. His tie was askew and his movements were jerky. Martin noticed inconsequentially that the Phi Bete key had evidently fallen off again and this time gone unnoticed. Kurt’s eye wandered from Martin to the whiskey bottle. “I thought so,” he muttered. “Do you mind, Martin?”
“Of course not.”
“There,” Kurt gasped after a long drag at the bottle. “I thought you’d have something like that. I needed it.”
“What the devil’s the matter with you?” Paul asked.
“Oh, hello, Paul. Nothing. Nothing. I was just a little nervous, that is all.”
“It’s the most melodramatic entrance I’ve seen in years. You look as though—”
“Oh, let him be, Paul,” Alex put in soothingly. “Who cares why he was nervous? He was, and he’s had a shot of bourbon, and he’ll soon have another, and that’s that.”
The Seven of Calvary Page 2
