by Heron Carvic
FRANCE? Paris? But why?
Miss Seeton surveyed her suite at the Ritz-Palace with a feeling akin to despair. As an artist retained on the fringe of police work Miss Seeton was prepared to accept that she might find herself, upon occasion, in situations which she did not understand and which, as an artist, were not her concern. But now a sense of becoming a shuttlecock, airborne in a game the rules of which had not been explained, worried her. She appealed to Mme de Brillot.
“You see, I had a letter from the sergeant—Sergeant Ranger, that is—who said that he would be meeting me at London Airport when I arrived. But if he can’t, because I won’t—arrive, I mean—what will he think?”
Mme de Brillot comforted her. “The sergeant will have been informed of the change of plan.”
Miss Seeton was not comforted. “And I told Mr. Banner that I was going straight to London.”
“Good.” Mme de Brillot was pleased. “The less the newspapers know of our activities, the better.”
Miss Seeton was not pleased. “But he will imagine that I deliberately misled him.” Even her goodwill and sense of duty had a saturation point and Miss Seeton, in her own vernacular, was beginning to feel a little frippy.
The root of her present state of mind was homesickness. Launched for this past week into an environment of wealth for which nothing in a hard working life had prepared her, she lacked orientation. She longed for the simplicity and peace of her cottage in Plummergen where she could potter through the daily trivia in surroundings to which she was accustomed and among people whom she knew; where scrambled eggs remained scrambled eggs and were not translated into caviar, however delicious. The fact that she seldom pottered and that violence had erupted in the village on three occasions since her arrival there and that she herself had been in the forefront of the troubles, she was able to forget or to ignore, drawing the atmosphere of her home around her like a protective shawl. Now she was denied this comfort since the atmosphere of luxury hotels, however agreeable, is not the material of which protective shawls are made. She missed the presence of Chief Superintendent Delphick, who, although he might sometimes bully her, had become a directive force in her life and someone upon whom she could rely for counsel and understanding when working for the police landed her into predicaments which were beyond her experience. A predicament such as that posed by a letter which she had received that morning at the hotel in Switzerland, in which the Coveral Assurance Company informed her that their representative would call on her shortly to discuss the reward for the return of the Belton Abbey pictures.
A reward? Surely that couldn’t be right. They must be made to realize that the whole thing had been purely by chance. And it seemed very wrong to accept money just because . . . Failing the chief superintendent, it would have been a relief to have shown the letter to Bob Ranger; or, even better, to Anne Knight and ask their . . . And she mustn’t forget to remember their wedding present. Perhaps in Paris? Perhaps Mme de Brillot might help. Miss Seeton sighed. It was all so difficult. And to find that she was not going home, as she had thought, had been such a sharp disappointment. Not, of course, that Mme de Brillot wasn’t kind. She was. And those lovely face bones. And Mr. Stemkos, too. Though not, in his case, of course, the bones. But . . . she sighed again. It really was very difficult. Especially when one did not know quite where one was. Or why?
As their taxi drew up in the Rue de Clichy Miss Seeton read the posters with indulgence, doing her best to translate. Les femmes du monde: The woman of the world. Elizabeth the first, of course. Catherine the Great, certainly. Boadicea? Cleopatra? Surely there must be some French ones. Ah, yes. Joan of Arc—but not in the sense of a worldly woman. Catherine de Medici—except, of course, that she was Italian. Mme de Pompadour. Marie Antoinette—but there again, she was Austrian, and, in any case, hardly qualified; such a silly woman. It all sounded most interesting.
Miss Seeton was feeling better. Mme de Brillot had explained everything. There was no question of a protracted stay in Paris. One would be going home tomorrow. Or, possibly, the day after, it all depended. All one was being asked to do was draw some girl called Lilianne in this revue. She had ventured to suggest that, surely, there must be photographs, but Mme de Brillot had pointed out that these would be studio portraits and touched up, which was not quite what was wanted. Also there was, apparently, some possibility that that little Italian, Mr. Mantoni, and Mr. Stemkos’ secretary. Mr. Libercksin, might be here. Disguised. And they—Mme de Brillot and Mr. Stemkos, that was—felt that, as an artist, one might find it easier to penetrate any such change in appearance than they—Mme de Brillot and Mr. Stemkos—would.
At last Miss Seeton felt that she was being asked to undertake work of which she was capable. Also Mme de Brillot had been most helpful over Bob and Anne’s wedding present. Such a clever idea. And not one, one must admit, that one would have thought of. A long, narrow, stainless steel platter for serving food, either hot or cold. The shop, too, had been very kind and had insisted on writing her name and address on the parcel, saying they would send it to the Ritz-Palace. But she had felt that with the possibility of going home tomorrow it would be safer to carry it with her. And so she was. Carrying it with her—although it was a little heavy. But it was such a comfort to know that it was done.
Mme de Brillot paid off the taxi and led Miss Seeton to an inconspicuous door at one side of the theater. The stage-door keeper shouted, the front-of-the-house manager arrived, read a note that Mme de Brillot handed to him, took the ladies up stone steps and through a heavy door into the bedlam of the wings. He glanced again at Mme de Brillot’s note.
“En v’la Lilianne,” he murmured, indicating a statuesque young woman who was approaching them. The first half of the revue, he explained, was to end in a spectacle showing the resurgence of the spirit of different countries arising from the grave and Lilianne was to portray the spirit of England. Mme de Brillot translated.
The young woman was simply dressed in a spangled cache-sexe, with a transparent cloak across her back fastened to her hands by finger rings. The cloak when spread purported to represent the Union Jack, but, Miss Seeton noticed with disapproval, displayed it upside down. Lilianne, unconscious of their scrutiny, sauntered toward the side wall. The manager turned and, clearing a path through an assortment of overdressed men and underdressed women, led the way to the pass door into the auditorium. Mme de Brillot followed him.
Miss Seeton was gazing around her with interest. So like—so very like—in some respects, a life class in anatomy. Except that here, of course, these were better looking. She made to follow Mme de Brillot only to be confronted by a basket of improbable blue roses painted on canvas. She moved to one side; the basket followed her. She sidestepped again, but basket after basket in a seemingly endless procession blocked her path. Finally the stagehand carrying the end of the ground row passed her and she found herself against the side wall by a circular iron staircase leading downward.
Downward? Oh, yes, of course. One had forgotten that the audience was below the level of the stage.
• • •
Anatole Librecksin was consumed by resentment.
Mixed blood is a gamble and the odds depend upon the individual’s acceptance or rejection of the converging streams. Librecksin had rejected both his main arteries, Arab and Yugoslav, and had never bothered to explore the contributing tributaries. Born a bastard, he had graduated in bastardy, lacking the depth of character to speculate whether softer emotions in conflict with prejudices and difficulties of environment might not have formed the root of his being. From street Arab in Tangier at the age of eight years old to pimp for innumerable “sisters” at the age of twelve, he had fought his way upward to a position of credit as the trusted social secretary of a multimillionaire. Now that the position and power for which he had striven had crumbled through a flaw in his character which denied faith in others, he was prepared to blame anyone and everyone except himself.
A moment of panic engende
red by the guilt of his and Natalie’s attempt to kill Miss Seeton had driven him to worm his way beneath the tarpaulin covering the lorry’s load rather than remain to bluff out the accident with the police. The extreme discomfort of the ride; his flight to France with only the money he had on him and the packet of diamonds in his pocket as potential capital; the jolt he had received on his arrival in Paris when, telephoning Lilianne, he had learned that she had been visited by the police and was afraid that her apartment might be under surveillance—for all he held Stemkos, Natalie, Mme de Brillot, even Lilianne herself, in part responsible, but principally he blamed the English agent, this Miss Seeton.
Lilianne was nervous; nervous of the flics; nervous of Anatole. A visit by the police, alerted by Interpol to check on all Librecksin’s contacts in Paris, had unsettled her. A second call, of which she had not told Librecksin, had intrigued her. A brigadier from the préfecture de police, arriving unofficially and alone, had pointed out that the insurance company would be prepared to pay a substantial reward for the diamonds abstracted from the stolen Stemkos jewelry.
Lilianne was typically French, which is to say she was essentially practical. She had no intention of coming to bad terms with the police—unless of course it was made worth her while. Until now Anatole had done so, but if he was on the run there might be more profit in selling than in aiding him. For safety’s sake she had taken the stolen canvases which had been brought to her apartment for delivery to Elio and hidden them in the theater, where, even should they be discovered by some unlucky chance, no connection with herself could be proved. Also she had no desire to risk Anatole’s presence in her apartment at this juncture until a meeting had given her an opportunity to assess his present and her own future prospects. She had arranged, therefore, to meet both Librecksin and Mantoni at the theater, choosing the day of the dress rehearsal, when the traditional confusion would make it simple for them to slip in unnoticed and find their way below the stage. The murky cavern of the sous-scène, where old props are stored and small pieces of scenery are stacked, provided plenty of opportunities for concealment.
Lilianne herself could have a valid reason for being there and she decided that her best moment would be to go down early during the two scenes which preceded the finale of the first half. If questioned she would claim that the lining to her coffin was uncomfortable and she wished to adjust the padding. The other girls and their dresser, who disliked the dusty gloom of the “cellar,” would not come down to take their positions until the last moment. And the stagehand responsible for working the mechanism was never sent below until shortly before his cue to operate the complication of levers which trundled each coffin onto the lift which in turn sent them through a trap to the height of the staircase set upstage, tipping them upright, before sinking down to collect the next.
By the side wall, behind the stage manager’s back, and unchallenged, Lilianne hurried down the perforated iron treads of the circular stairs. The undercroft by any building is apt to be a limbo. In a theater an errie quality is added by the ghosts of past productions awaiting their resurrection. Lilianne acknowledged the atmosphere of the place with a shiver. The only illumination was a pilot light above the row of gilded boxes destined to take aloft the reviving “spirits of the nations.” Although prepared, Lilianne started when the small figure of Elio Mantoni edged from behind a flat. She went to the third sarcophagus, lifted the lid, took from it a sealed cardboard cylinder and held it out. In the shadows behind them Anatole Librecksin watched and waited. He had no wish to be seen by the Italian if it could be avoided. Mantoni’s extended hand fell to his side at the sound of footsteps on the iron stairs. He turned, his eyes dilated, his jaw dropped and he emitted a thin whinny of terror. He bolted, roughly shouldered aside the figure at the bottom of the stairs, sprang, grabbed the handrail, scrambled upward and disappeared.
Good gracious. Miss Seeton recovered her balance. That, surely—yes, certainly—had been Mr. Mantoni. She looked up, but the Italian was already out of sight. Mme de Brillot had been quite right. She must tell her at once. And he was not, after all, as one had been led to expect, wearing a disguise. Now, where . . .? Perhaps the young woman over there . . . Oh. It was the one they had pointed out as Lilianne. The one they wanted her to draw. Doubtless she would know which way Mme de Brillot had gone. Miss Seeton approached.
“Excusez-moi—” Lilianne stood petrified, still holding out the cardboard cylinder which contained the stolen paintings. How very odd, thought Miss Seeton, that an actress, if that was the correct term, should not have bothered to conceal that small pear-shaped birthmark on the inside of the upper arm. Perhaps, under the strong lights of the stage, it did not show. “Voulezvous,” she asked—now what was “tell me” in French?—“direr moi oo est gone—that is to say . . .” But Miss Seeton’s quandary as to whether “partie” or “allée” would be the best translation was unexpectedly resolved. She had not noticed that Lilianne was looking past her; had not heard Librecksin’s silent advance in her rear. A piece of timber wrested from the back of the “old monument” behind which he had been concealed thwacked into the back of her head. A black explosion: pinpoints of light like falling meteorites, twisting, diminishing, and Miss Seeton spiraled with them, diminishing, until only the black remained.
Librecksin knelt, hoisted the inert form and thrust it into the empty coffin, throwing her handbag and umbrella after her. But four into one would not go and the parcel which she had dropped failed to fit. A quick consultation with Lilianne and the girl pulled off her veiling, which they spread atop Miss Seeton, then they smacked down the ventilated lid. There was little time to spare. They looked around. Coveralls on a wall hook solved Lilianne’s problem and, while she zipped them on, the length of the trouser legs concealing her silver sandals, Librecksin, who had found the cardboard cylinder and Miss Seeton’s parcel to be of a length, forced the roll under the string, then gave his hat to Lilianne, who pulled it low over her forehead. Above them the intermittent thump of changing scenery had ceased. There was a muffled clash of cords followed by a drum roll from the orchestra. Lilianne gasped.
“Le finale.”
Feet, accompanied by giggles and girlish twitter, sounded on the stairs. A hoarse voice shouted:
“En scène p’r l’finale.”
Lilianne darted into the gloom at the side of the motor for the revolving stage, dragged open a narrow door leading to the deserted scene dock. Librecksin eased the door shut behind them and, picking their way through the litter of wooden frames, cutouts and paintpots, they climbed a ladder, pushed the safety bar on a side door and gained the Rue Blanche, which left them only a few minutes’ walk to Lilianne’s apartment near the Place Pigalle.
Six girls, a dresser and a stagehand clattered down the last steps into the cellar.
“Mais où donc est Lilianne?” the dresser snapped. The girls looked at each other; one of them raised expressive eyes. “Mais merde alors qu’est-c’qu’elle fait, cette vache-là?” demanded the dresser. Indicative fingers followed the upward trend of the expressive eyes in a rude suggestion.
The stagehand pushed an indifferent path through the naked torsos, slouched across to coffin number three, raised the lid, saw the Union Jack, shrugged, said, “Déjà en place,” and slammed it down again.
Amid squeals and protests the dresser got the girls disposed in their respective caskets.
“En place—en place,” the voice from above yelled with increasing urgency.
A red light blinked, the stagehand pulled a lever and the dresser pushed the last, expressive, still expostulating “spirit” flat, banging the lid on her as the rollers began to turn and the line of coffins wavered toward the lift.
The director strode back and forth in the aisles between the rows of almost empty stalls; back and forth across the orchestra pit; leaped up the improvised ramp onto the stage to fulminate, to demand and to implore in a fury of—the backers lolled in their seats in a gloom of—despair.
; Front-of-house personnel, theater cleaners, occasionally stagehands, dressers and members of the press watched with apathetic or cynical indifference while bare bosoms came, bare bottoms went and sketch followed song in monotone broken by mildly diverting hitches from the scenery and lights, and the dress rehearsal of the much publicized new revue at the Casino de Paris, Les Femmes du Monde, proceeded to take no shape.
Mme de Brillot was not, to speak the truth, troubled—as yet; but she recognized the first pinpricks of disquiet. Nothing—but assuredly nothing—could have happened among such a crowd. And, among such a crowd back there and such confusion, it was easy to lose one’s way. She half rose from her seat in the stalls, then sat back. No. No, better to leave it to the manager. He had promised that he would find her friend and escort her here. And besides, as he had pointed out, alone he would be quicker and it would cause less distraction to the rehearsal. Evidently, that was true. And since she had used much influence to gain permission to attend this rehearsal, she had no desire to abuse her position. All the same, it must be . . . She consulted her watch. No, barely five minutes. Hardly time for him to have found Miss Seeton. Mme de Brillot relaxed. A series of crashing chords from the orchestra, a roll of drums and the curtain swept up for the finale of the first part. The boredom of such a revue as this without one new idea—one spark of originality.
An overflowing contralto sang of countries, of their origins, their revival, while the cast, singly or in groups according to their status, descended or posed on the glittering staircase. The sulky nudes jostled each other for the best positions. The chorus, one of whom had remembered to wear an eager smile, tripped down out of step and out of time. The music was flat, the contralto sharp. Lights flashing on the backcloth read JAPON. Another roll of drums heralded the appearance, high up at the back, of a large gilt coffin which, after a preliminary bump, lurched upright. A clash of cymbals nearly coincided with the opening of its lid and a slant-eyed beauty, her hands folded modestly across her breasts, stepped forward. Les Cyrcil Twins, two fairhaired boys in frilled white shirts, white clinging trousers and gold cummerbunds, ran lightly up the stairs in unison. Each took a hand and immodestly spread the beauty’s arms so that the diaphanous cloak behind her naked body displayed the Red Sun of Japan. The contralto, inappropriately, sang “La Petite Tonkinoise” while they led down Miss Japan, escorted her to one side and then ran back to repeat the treatment for Miss Norway to the refrain of “Solveig’s Song.”
