The Loo Sanction

by Trevanian

  “If you wish.”

  “Good. There are one or two points that want clarifying.”

  “Personally, I’d like to get around to the topic of the sale of the Marini Horse. Focusing our attention particularly on what profit I can expect from it.”

  Strange laughed. “In due course. After all, we’re still not absolutely sure that you are going to survive this interrogation, are we? Come along.”

  The center mirror hinged open like a door, swilling the scores of reflected images around the room in a blurred rush. They passed into a small sitting room about the size and shape of a projection booth, dimly lit, its walls made of glass. Three sides looked out onto the principal salon of The Cloisters: a large, brilliantly illuminated room in the Art Deco style. Glass beads, mechanical foliage, repetitious angular motifs, rainbow and sunrise patterns pressed into buffed aluminum wall panels.

  The patrons were dressed in extravagant costumes provided by the management; and shepherdesses, devils, inquisitors, cavaliers, and Mickey Mouses lounged about, chatting, drinking, laughing. But all this panoply was in pantomime; the glass walls were soundproof.

  Moving among the patrons were half a dozen hostesses dressed in flapper style: long loops of beads, cloche-bobbed hair, bound breasts under silk frocks, rolled-down hose exposing rouged and dimpled knees. With their artificial lashes of the stiff “surprise” style, their beauty spots, and their bee-stung lips, they looked like mannequins in back issues of high-fashion magazines as they served drinks and exotic canapés, or bent over patrons in teasing, flirtatious conversation.

  One of the patrons, a Catherine de Medici of uncertain years, with face skin tight from cosmetic surgery that had not included her wattle, approached the glass wall and stared in unabashedly. She moistened the tip of her little finger with the tip of her tongue and made a minute adjustment in her eyeliner, then she patted the back of her hair, turned, and took a long appreciative sideways glance into the room before pivoting away to greet an approaching highwayman with the boneless face, whimpering smile, and lank hair of his class.

  “One-way mirrors,” Strange said unnecessarily as he settled into a deep leather chair after carefully hitching up the crease of his trousers. “The decor was Grace’s idea. There is something fundamentally evil about the New People of the 1920 s that seems to liberate our customers.”

  Jonathan stood near the one-way glass wall and looked out, his arms folded on his chest. “Art Deco was a monstrous moment in art. When the flamboyant decay of Art Nouveau percolated down to the masses, through the intermediary of machine reproduction, it was unavoidable that the half-trained, ungifted, self-indulgent artists would proclaim the resultant hodgepodge a new art form. After all, here was something even they could do. In my view, the recent revival of interest in Art Deco indicts the modern artist and the modern critic—people who communicate and communicate, yet remain inarticulate.”

  “Oh, I am terribly sorry that our taste doesn’t please you. But, de gustibus . . .”

  “Nonsense. It’s the only thing really worth disputing.”

  Strange laughed shallowly. Laughter was his substitute for smiling, preferred because it did not necessitate creasing the cheeks. And there were as many tones to his laughter as there are nuances in other people’s smiles. “At all events, I enjoy this little chamber here. We call it the Aquarium. But it’s an aquarium in reverse. The fish are out there in the salon, and the amused observers here in the bowl. And it is charming to realize that that room out there contains a good fifty percent of the real governmental power in Britain.”

  “All gathered here to find respite from the heavy burdens of leadership by losing themselves in the ecstasy of your contrived orgies?”

  “You shouldn’t sneer at the exoticism of our offerings. Quite naturally, our patrons expect something out of the ordinary: prenubile girls, catamites, fellatio—that sort of thing. One cannot blame them. Coming here for common garden variety sex would be like ordering sausage, chips, and two veg at Maxim’s. But what is really amusing is that half the silly asses out there don’t even know what goes on in our splendid cloaca. They believe The Cloisters is only a fashionable, bizarre, and exclusive club with excellent food and wine and charming hostesses.”

  “Oh? The flapper types aren’t hookers?”

  “Oh, no. Young models, aspiring actresses, university girls—just window dressing. The costuming goes with the decor. The more enterprising and promising graduate to the more lucrative activities upstairs, but most of them stay with us only a month or so, then pass on to duller activities: careers, marriages, suchlike. We’re constantly replacing hostesses. But I am forgetting my duties as host. I have promised you refreshment. May I suggest brewer’s yeast in fresh tangerine juice?”

  “It’s tempting. But I think I’ll have Scotch. Do you have Laphroaig?”

  Strange turned the question to the dapper, two-mouthed minion who stood behind them, having accompanied them into the Aquarium while Leonard was dressing.

  “I’ll see, sir.” But he did not depart until Leonard came in to relieve him.

  “I’m afraid I’m not up on the finer points of Scotch,” Strange said. “I never drink alcohol. By the way, tell me about the man we found dead in your bathroom. Who was he?”

  “I don’t know,” Jonathan said as smoothly as possible. He had been anticipating this tactic of the sudden question.

  “Who killed him?”

  “I did.”

  Strange looked at Jonathan with frank admiration at the immediacy of the answer. “Go on,” he said, after a nod of approval.

  “It was because of that man that I came looking for you. You’ve discovered that I used to work for CII in counterassassination. The work was not so dangerous as one might think. Since my targets were men who had assassinated CII agents, they typically came from a level of society neither lamented nor avenged—not by the various law enforcement agencies, at any rate. And, because I took random assignments, I could never be tied to the death by motive. Typically, I never met the mark before the moment of the hit. But . . . but because society is not yet prepared to counter the problem of overpopulation by sterilizing and terminating rotten and unproductive genetic stock, my targets were not without relatives.

  “From the few babbled words he got out before I shot him, it appears that he was the brother of some forgotten mark. He had come to retrieve the family honor, such as it was.”

  “But you shot him first.”

  “Just so.”

  “And left him in your bathroom?”

  “I didn’t pick the meeting ground. Bathrooms have tile floors that are easily cleaned up.”

  Strange nodded appreciatively. “I see.”

  Leonard entered from behind and replaced Two-mouths, who went off to fetch the drinks.

  “You certainly got rid of the body quickly. Our men returned to your rooms a few hours after first discovering the corpse, and it was gone. How did you manage that?”

  “I’ll make you a deal. I won’t ask you how to run a whorehouse, and you don’t ask me about assassination.”

  “That seems fair enough. You mentioned that this business in your bathroom was linked in some way to your desire to penetrate The Cloisters. Would you amplify that a bit?”

  “While that poor ass was babbling about how he had been on my trail for years, he let slip the name of the person who had fingered me. He was waving a gun in my face, and I suppose he imagined I would not live to benefit from the information.”

  “By the way, how did you kill this man?”

  “With his own gun.”

  “How did you get it from him?”

  “How do you keep your girls from getting the clap?”

  Strange laughed. “All right, all right. Go on.”

  “The informant was a man highly placed in CII. A man who never liked me because I could not pass up opportunities to point out the more blatant stupidities of that asinine and bungling organization. I have every reason to bel
ieve that he will continue putting the finger on me. And someday, someone may get lucky.”

  “Why don’t you kill this man?”

  “He knows me. I’d never get close enough to him. So I have to hire the job done. And for that, I need a lot of money. And that is why the deal with the Marini Horse attracted me.”

  “And so you began to seek me out?”

  “And so I began to seek you out.” That was it. His story was improvised and thin, just covering the major events with little of that extraneous fabric that fills out the good lie. There was nothing to do now but sit and see how it went down.

  Strange was silent for a time, his pale eyes looking phlegmatically out onto the salon scene playing mutely before him. Then he nodded slowly. “It is possible. Both your recent actions and my research into your past would seem to bear your story out. The only thing that disturbs me is the coincidence of it all. But then . . . I suppose coincidence exists.” He turned to Jonathan and rested his pale eyes on him. “Why don’t you take supper with Grace and me this evening. We can talk over the details of the Marini sale. Assuming all goes well, you might care to sample our exotic entertainments later. By way of a nightcap.”

  “I’ve had a hard day.”

  Strange laughed. “If it weren’t so late and the streets weren’t empty, I would tempt your fatigued appetite by sending a couple of my men out in a van to pick up something from the streets for you—fresh from the garden, you might say. A schoolgirl on her way home, perhaps, or a nun just back from confessional?”

  “Don’t you have some trouble with cooperation from those you abduct?”

  “Oh . . . not if they’re properly prepared. We use a concoction of hallucinogens and cantharis that seems to be effective—Oh, my dear Dr. Hemlock! I wish you could have seen the cloud of disgust that just swept over your face! I would have thought you had a more leathery conscience than that.”

  “It’s not conscience. Just taste.”

  “In this business only the bizarre is profitable. The basic components of sex are so mundane: a little heat, a little friction, a little lubrication. One must dress up such cheap raw materials considerably if he hopes to vend them at high profit. Packaging is everything. But, ah . . . here we are at last.”

  Two-mouths entered through the mirror door, bearing a tray with two glasses. Jonathan could not repress a surge of repulsion when he looked at Strange’s glass, the gray-tan yeast powder already settling in the tangerine juice and collecting at the bottom. Strange sipped off some of the liquid, then swirled the remainder to carry the yeast back into temporary suspension while he drank it.

  “Looks ghastly,” Jonathan commented.

  “You get used to it. In fact, one comes to rather like it.”

  Jonathan turned away in gastronomic self-defense. Out in the salon, one of the flapper hostesses caught his eye. As she chatted with a costumed customer, she brushed aside a vagrant wisp of amber hair with the back of her hand. She was only a few feet from the wall of one-way mirrors, and he could see the bottle green of her eyes.

  “What interests you so much out there?” Strange asked, joining him at the glass wall.

  “Your clients,” Jonathan said, indicating a group of men chatting with supercilious gravity, blithely ignorant of the risible effect of their outlandish costumes.

  “Hm-m. Silly asses. Look at them, playing out their dumb show of authority and power. Pompously going through the motions of statecraft. They are finished as a people, the English, but they haven’t sense to know it. There was a time when Darwinian laws applied to nations as well as to individuals—when the weak and incapable disappeared. If it hadn’t been for the sentiment of other nations—yours particularly, Dr. Hemlock— 1950 would have marked the end of this effete social organism. I enjoy making them dress up like that, and they take great delight in doing it. It’s a national trait—pageantry, make-believe. A nation of people who thirst to be what they are not. That probably accounts for their production of so many gifted actors.”

  “You despise the British, then?”

  “More scorn, I should say.”

  “But I thought the Germans rather admired and imitated them.”

  “Oh, we have much in common. Our weaknesses, to be specific. Our army organizations were modeled after theirs. It was the British, you know, who first experimented with the concentration camp as a vehicle for the final solution to genetic problems.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh, yes. In the Boer War. Twenty-six thousand women and children died of disease, malnutrition, and neglect. Vitriol in their sugar; small metal hooks implanted in their meat—that sort of business. Oh yes, the British have been world leaders in many things. But no longer. Now they inflict themselves on the Common Market and become the economic sick man of Europe. In fifteen years only Spain and Portugal will boast a lower standard of living. And it’s their own fault. With myopic management and the laziest, least competent workmen in Europe, they suffer from congenital inefficiency. Not the placid, happy inefficiency of the Latins, with their mañana mentalities and hedonistic lassitude. No, the British brand of incompetence is involute and labored. It’s a bustling, nervous inefficiency that fails to make up in charm and quality of life what it sacrifices in productivity. The Briton has become a compromise between the Continental, whom he used to despise out of contempt, and the American, whom he now despises out of envy. His is a land of Old World technology and New World beauty. And that’s all there is to say about the British.”

  Jonathan was going to protest against this gratuitous attack on their hosts when Strange continued, “You know, during the war there used to be a riddle in contempt of the Belgian army. One used to ask, ‘What would you do if a Belgian soldier threw a hand grenade at you?’ And the answer was, ‘Pull out the pin, and throw it back.’ If the question were asked of the British soldier, it would be totally academic because the hand grenades would arrive six months after the promised date of delivery, the workmanship would be faulty, and the army would be on strike anyway.”

  “If they disgust you so, why are you here?”

  “The police, old man! It is a popular myth that British criminals are Europe’s most clever, just barely kept in rein by the brain-children of Conan Doyle and Ian Fleming. These people glory in their train robbers and confidence men, their Robin Hoods from Stepney Green. It is typical of their blinkered Weltanschauung that it never occurs to them that it is not the dash and cleverness of their petty hoodlums that win the day, it is the monumental incompetence of their police. For a man in my profession, the British police are the most comfortable in Europe, just as the Dutch are the least. Of course, if you were interested in civil liberties, it would be quite the other way around. Surely the table is laid for supper by now. You must be looking forward to meeting Amazing Grace again.”

  Conversation in the small paneled dining room was light and oblique, never touching on the matter of the Marini Horse, nor indeed on the events that had led to this peculiar early-morning supper. Amazing Grace conducted the chat with the skill of a geisha, giving both men opportunities to display wit, and leavening all with her personal touch of ribald earthiness. As was her preference in social moments, she was nude, and so the room was kept warm and cozy by a gas fire set in a fireplace of curiously wrought iron. While she and Jonathan dined on rack of lamb, Strange went through a series of dishes featuring pallid substances with mealy aromas. In place of the wine they enjoyed, he drank goat’s milk. It was only with the fruit and cheese that his diet and theirs converged. The cheese board bore many cheeses, yet only one. There was Danish blue, Roquefort, Gorgonzola, and Stilton. Strange explained that, next to yogurt, the blue-veined cheeses were best for digestion. The fruits were all organically grown and free from insecticides, and there were no bananas, which, it seemed, were eatable only in the tropics where they were allowed to ripen naturally.

  Jonathan admired the way in which Amazing Grace excelled as hostess, enthroned on her specia
l elevated chair, and he remarked in passing that she had all the social graces of a parson’s daughter, together with some of the traditionally suspected appetites.

  “But I was a parson’s daughter,” she said with a rich laugh. “Not that all that many people have heard of The First Evangelical Synagogue of the Blessed Lord and All His Works.”

  Two-mouths brought in the brandy and coffee on a tray, then joined Leonard against the wall in silent vigil.

  “There’s a certain social advantage to eating in the destructive way you two seem to enjoy,” Strange said. “The arrival of brandy is the accepted signal for talk of business. And, as I have none of my own, may I use yours for that purpose?”

  “Well, if things are going to get serious,” Grace said, “I’ll slip into a robe. I wouldn’t want my bobbing little boobies distracting anyone.”

  Jonathan said that was a thoughtful gesture.

  “All right,” Strange began, flicking an imaginary bit of lint from his sleeve. “As you know, I intend to turn the Marini Horse into liquid money. The other evening, when I broached that possibility to you, you said that the five million pounds I was expecting to get would cause some comment in art circles.”