Cargo of Eagles

by Margery Allingham

  9

  Social Evening

  BY THAT ESPECIAL mixture of perspicacity and effort which is an almost infallible formula for success, Dixie Wishart had built up the reputation of The Demon beyond the confines of Saltey as being worth a visit on Saturday nights. Judicious selection, coupled with flattery and liberality in the matter of drink had produced an excellent team of dart players and she paid handsomely for visiting musicians. The youth who performed on the electric guitar was not only accomplished but personable and the pianist had the true and unmistakable honky-tonk touch, particularly when the majority of the instrument’s outer shell had been removed.

  The mysterious working of Providence, which often decrees that the occasion produces the man, had also conjured a self-appointed master of ceremonies to complete the circle. Mr H. Hamilton Dashwood was small and dapper from his unnaturally black hair and his boot button eyes to his highly polished shoes. He had suddenly appeared two years before, when the ‘Social Evening’ was in embryo, taking charge of the proceedings at a moment when apathy was fighting with insularity for the upper hand and had turned impending disaster into triumph.

  Dixie, who enjoyed decorative embroidery whether it was plastic or romantic, had decided that he was a widower working in a gentlemanly way as a commercial traveller, a lonely soul who lived for the golden moments when he could command the attention and the ephemeral affection of a crowd. Each Saturday at eight he arrived in a small car, sometimes armed with a cardboard suitcase containing a quantity of false noses or paper hats. To his hostess he was a godsend and even if he never had occasion to buy a drink there were always plenty of others to perform this office for him, so that his glass of practically neat whisky became a miraculous cruse throughout the evening.

  Morty, who had dined in solitary by no means austere gloom at Nine Ash, returned to find the saloon of The Demon crowded with seekers after pleasure and the air thick with smoke and noise. His arrival went unmarked, for the ‘Social’ attracted customers from a distance and apart from Mossy Ling in his alloted corner he recognised only a handful of regulars. Of Mr Lugg there was no sign.

  Mindful of Mrs Weatherby’s final instruction he had dressed with some care in a pair of slimly cut canvas trousers, a dark blue shirt and a silk scarf of such virulent puce that it glowed as if radioactive. This was the limit his wardrobe permitted but the effect, he considered, was not displeasing.

  Mr H. Hamilton Dashwood was displaying a new discovery as he arrived. He spoke in the hearty avuncular style of the old time music hall chairman. ‘Direct from the patronage of King George the Fourth, the Duke of York, the Marquis of Granby and the Blue Boar itself, for the first time at The Demon . . . I give you a master at the art of spooning—no, not your sort, madame—the manipulation of two spoons as a musical instrument. . . . A very big hand for the largest dwarf in captivity, Mr Clarence Dodgson.’

  There was general appluase at the announcement and Mr Dodgson, who was mild, bald and meagre on first inspection, burst into a rattle of metal with a pair of spoons which he vibrated dexterously over every available section of his person including his head. The pianist picked up his cue and soon the majority of the company were united in song.

  ‘Knees up, knees up, don’t get the breeze up . . .’

  Morty worked his way with some difficulty to the bar and finally attracted Dixie’s attention. She was hot and dishevelled and her blue hair had lost some of its artificial resilience.

  ‘You want to watch your step tonight, Mr Kelsey dear,’ she whispered. ‘I think we may be in for a bit of trouble. I’d send for that Simmonds if I hadn’t had enough of him already.’

  As she spoke she jerked her head towards a corner of the room where the dart board hung, flanked by a pair of scoreboards made almost illegible from constant use. Five youths surrounded it, flinging darts casually at the target, making no attempt to play but giggling amongst themselves when one of the feathered needles went dangerously wide of its mark. Four of them still affected dark glasses and the group were ostentatiously aloof from the general entertainment. Calculated trouble brooded over their truculent isolation.

  The reason for their choice of a strategic position became clear when the artist with the spoons ended his performance and Mr Dashwood stepped forward to take the floor.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the principal item of the evening. I refer, of course, the the semi-final round of the Saltey and District Darts Contest for the Challenge Shield so kindly presented by our gracious hostess, Mrs Dixie Wishart. A big hand, please, for a beautiful lady—I can say that on this occasion since her husband appears to be off duty. Tonight’s event is between the challengers from the Blue Boar at Firestone and our own, our very own team at The Demon.’

  The applause which greeted the announcement was courageous rather than wholehearted. The eight genuine players began to shuffle forward but the group by the board stood its ground. A silence born of embarrassment and apprehension swept over the room and for a moment or two nobody moved.

  It was broken by the thwack of a dart as it struck the edge of the wooden mantelpiece very close to the head of one of the official team. The group by the board tittered and the self-appointed Master of Ceremonies tripped delicately towards them.

  ‘Now I’m sure you gentlemen don’t want to spoil the evening’s pleasure. . . .’

  The tallest of the interlopers placed the flat of a large hand on Mr Dashwood’s chest and propelled him violently backwards almost into the lap of the pianist.

  ‘You oughta take it easy, man. We’re using the board just now.’

  The M.C. recovered his balance and stood brushing an elbow. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen all, please. If you’ll just . . .’

  His words were smothered by an angry grumble from the company. The teams of Firestone and Saltey included men with powerful shoulders and despite the restraining twitter of female voices and an imperative but unrecognisable cry from Dixie, several of them moved uncertainly towards the aggressor.

  ‘Wanna make something of it?’ He was standing in front of his party, a gangling menacing figure, gripping a dart by the feathered end so that the point faced his audience. He took off his glasses revealing pink lashless eyes which gave his face the unexpected expression of a large and dangerous rat. His companions stood together, each with a similar weapon.

  ‘Come on, big boy. Now’s your chance for a punch up.’

  Behind the bar a glass splintered on the ground but neither group moved and no single head turned in the direction of the sound.

  The frozen silence and the immobility of the crowd gave Morty a chance which he could not resist. The chief destroyer of the evening’s peace was standing in the typical position adopted by a would-be attacker in an elementary demonstration of unarmed combat. The moment was too good to miss. Morty edged through the silent crowd and caught the threatening figure completely according to first instructions as given in the Vere University gymnasium course on self-defence.

  The effect was spectacular. The youth appeared to twist backwards into the air and then to crumple forward. A judicious and accurately placed knee in the pit of the stomach brought him winded to the floor, the dart still in his hand. Morty stood briefly above the squealing figure and then trod sharply on the clenched fist so that the weapon skidded away amongst the feet of the spectators.

  ‘Out!’ shouted Dixie, her voice now clear and authoritative above the uncertain murmur of voices suddenly free of panic. ‘Out! Out, the lot of them. Chuck ’em out, boys.’

  Tension snapped like a bowstring. The two teams surged forward, propelled by new found courage and the curiosity of those behind. One of the remaining quartet lowered his head and charged through the crowd for the door, leading the retreat.

  Within seconds, only the writhing retching creature on the ground remained with Mr Dashwood bending over him.

  ‘He’ll be O.K. when he gets a little air, sir. Just help him to the door, gentlemen, and wish him a very goodnig
ht from one and all.’

  By inspiration or instinct the guitarist struck a couple of preliminary chords and began to sing:

  ‘Bless ’em all, bless ’em all.

  The long and the short and the tall . . .’

  The chorus was widely and uproariously received. Even the insolent gunfire of departing motor cycles failed to punctuate the rhythm and as an acknowledgment of the occasion Mr Dashwood led the company in a verse which would not normally be tolerated in the presence of ladies. It was a concession in celebration of victory which everyone present understood and approved.

  Morty alone was uneasy. He had acted on the spur of the moment and achieved a success which was far more spectacular than its actual skill merited. His chance of penetrating the ranks of disorder had been annihilated and he had made enemies where he most needed co-operation. Mrs Weatherby, he decided, might have handled the situation more adroitly but he could not picture her as a patron of a social evening.

  The room was now intolerably close and sweaty. Jovial faces began to bob up before him, loud with congratulations. Hot hands patted his back and he realised that honour could not be satisfied but by the acceptance of drink.

  The problem of etiquette in selection was solved by Dixie who announced her decision by the pop of a champagne cork. ‘He’ll drink with me, ducks, and we’ll all toast his health. I’ve seen it done on the telly but never thought to find it happen in my own bar.’

  She filled a tankard with the golden elixir and thrust it into his hand. ‘Here’s to you, Mr Kelsey dear.’

  ‘Properly smart,’ said Mossy Ling from his corner. ‘I seen it done on the telly too. Use wires, so they do now. A powerfully good little old trick. Reckon you could teach me, mister? Better if there are two of us when they come back.’ He sniffed, managing to put a suggestion of malice into the sound, and gestured down the bar with his glass. ‘Some of ’em ain’t even gone, I see.’

  In the happy back-slapping tumult of the moment the ominous little shaft passed unnoticed or was ignored. Morty accepted his tankard with acclamation and it was several minutes before he glanced in the direction the old man had indicated.

  Even before he moved he was subconsciously aware of what he was going to see, as a man often is when his shoulder blades are the subject of concentrated attention from a forceful personality.

  The girl leaning with one elbow on the bar was watching him with the deliberation of a cat at a mousehole. Her sombre eyes were over-emphasised in the fashion of the day but she had transformed herself from the leather jacketed virago of the morning into something wholly female. The mark on her cheek had been obliterated by careful make-up and her dark tightly curling hair had been combed over her forehead so that it mellowed the hardness of well defined skullbones and a square determined chin. She was wearing a white sleeveless blouse and black trousers which fitted like a skin.

  For a long moment she outstared him and he was grateful to Mr Hamilton Dashwood’s mellow claim on the company’s attention to witness the official peak of the evening.

  When he turned his head again she was standing next to him apparently watching the contest, her shoulder within an inch of his arm.

  ‘I’m Doll Jensen,’ she said. ‘Remember me?’

  Morty took his time before he answered. He was acutely conscious of the animal magnetism which the girl was exerting and he began to suspect that the change in her appearance had been made for his benefit. He looked down at her carefully groomed head and stylish white silk and decided that she had made a very good job of material which was better than he had first supposed.

  ‘Sure. You took a fall in all that broken glass.’ He spoke without enthusiasm, but his cautious curiosity was aroused. If the girl wanted to make the running he was quite prepared to let her go ahead.

  The attention of the company had now been given entirely to the contest and the hero of the minute before was forgotten. Conversation was conducted in lowered voices to allow the players to concentrate on the game. The girl was looking away from him, but he could feel the warmth of her arm through his sleeve.

  ‘That was Moo Moo,’ she said, ‘or so the boys reckon. Grotty great bastard. He knew I was coming down that night. He’s the one you put on the floor. That was a laugh. Lucky you didn’t knock his wig off or he’d have done you up rotten. He’s as bald as an egg and doesn’t like jokes about it.’

  ‘Moo Moo?’

  ‘They call him Moo Moo the Dog Faced Boy, up at the Flats. Comes from Wanstead. I hate his guts.’

  ‘Not a boy friend of yours?’,

  She continued to stare directly in front of her, talking out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Never fancied him . . . he’s just a layabout. They let him string along because he’s a fixer. You know—gets spares and all that jazz. Works in a garage and knocks the stuff off I shouldn’t wonder. Likes boys mostly. I don’t go for his type.’

  It was on the tip of Morty’s tongue to ask what her type was, but he thought better of it and enquired mildly, ‘Why do you come here? What’s the attraction in a dead end like this?’

  An obstinate frown crossed her face. ‘Because I bloody like it,’ she said. ‘It suits me. I’ve got a pad here in a caravan and the rest of them can mostly find a shed or a hut to doss in if they don’t want to go home. Nothing to pay. No questions asked. If the boys want a lay or a giggle or a kick-up they can please themselves—that’s their business—and there’s no one to tell them to get the hell out.’

  ‘If it suits them, why make trouble?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Search me. If you find life a bind don’t you bang around and get yourself a rave? It’s something to do. Better than a caff or a godawful youth club.’

  Morty began to feel old. There was a gap here which he could not bridge. The philosophy of life, if it could be defined by such a phrase, was beyond his grasp. The girl continued her deliberate touch against his arm with just enough pressure to make conversation intimate.

  Derisive groans and faint applause announced that the men of Saltey had lost the first leg of the match. He turned away from her to the bar but she moved with him so that they remained in contact. She accepted a vodka and tonic water much to Dixie’s disapproval and as she raised her glass to him he realised that she had established a degree of possessive intimacy which he could not defy. In Mrs Weatherby’s phrase book, he was being chatted up.

  Doll Jensen, he felt, was not a girl who did anything without a reason and yet he did not altogether credit the superficial purpose she conveyed. He found himself mildly excited and very curious.

  ‘What do you do for money?’ he asked. ‘You can’t go burning up the road on a Honda just with a handful of dimes.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s for sure. I do a lot of things. You’d be surprised. I’ve been a waitress. I’ve worked the knocker if you know what that means—the door-to-door selling racket. I tried the yachting crew-girl lark in the Med one summer but came unstuck in the winter. I get along.’ She talked easily, as between equals of two different worlds, giving him a glimpse of lives and backgrounds outside his experience or imagination.

  After a long reflective drink she looked up at him. She was a year or two older than he had first supposed, about twenty-one perhaps.

  ‘What about you? You’re a prof of some sort. And a Yank. What’s in it for you at Saltey? Digging up fossils or old bones?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Morty felt an urge to be entertaining but did not rate his chances as a lecturer very highly. ‘I’m researching. Manners and customs—history round about two hundred years back. Maybe I’ll write a book about it.’

  He struggled to explain without condescension but knew he was failing.

  She shook her head. ‘Beyond me, that’s for certain. I just wouldn’t know. History’s strictly for the birds if you ask me.’

  Suddenly she brightened. ‘Old stuff—you’re keen on old bits of nonsense. Did you ever see the Sex Pot? It’s ever so antique and groovy as al
l hell. Ever see that?’

  Morty was baffled. ‘You have me beaten. No one’s told me anything about a sex pot in these parts.’

  She laughed, showing very white even teeth. Her head was perhaps a shade too large for her body but in this oncoming mood she was undeniably desirable. Different clothes and change of warpaint, he decided, would make her a real eye-catcher.

  ‘Not what you mean, lover boy. We just call her that. She’s carved and painted—must be hundreds of years old. You ought to put her in your book. Want me to show you?’

  The guitar and piano were now pumping out pop rhythm and despite the open windows the smoke thick atmosphere was tepid as a London tube. She took his arm. . . .

  ‘Let’s get the hell out. I’ll show you.’

  The prospect of fresh air and adventure was too great to be resisted. Morty followed her as she twisted through the sweating revellers.

  The forecourt of The Demon was still lit by a single arc lamp focused on the hanging sign and as they emerged he saw that she had slung a black leather coat over her shoulders and was carrying a long business-like torch. She slipped a hand into his, not confidingly, but by right of being the leader. They crossed into the shadows and walked slowly towards the dim grey bulk of the weather-boarded sail lofts which stood on brick piles as a protection against the highest tides. Wooden steps from the road led to the main doors which were padlocked but she picked her way carefully by the side of the buildings through a confusion of small unpainted hulks, wire hawsers, ropes, planks and rusting marine engines on the muddy slope which led to the Bowl. At the back, within a few yards of high water, a ladder was propped steeply against a door, a small entrance which was part of a larger frame.

  She climbed lightly as a cat, pushed open the rotting timber and flashed the torch back on the rungs.

  ‘Up here.’

  He followed her nimbly enough and they stood together in the engulfing blackness of the great barnlike structure which smelt of the sea, tar, varnish and decay. With the door closed she took his hand again and led him cautiously, the beam directed to the wooden floor.