by Ngaio Marsh
“Yes. Somethin’ to the effect that I happened to show you a thing I’d written, you know, and you were taken with it and that I’ve decided that my métier lies in this direction and all that. What?”
“Quite.”
“I come out and we play it once through and then we swing it, and then there’s the shootin’, and then, by God, I go into my solo. Yes.”
Lord Pastern took up his drumsticks, held them poised for a moment and appeared to go into a brief trance. “I’m still not so sure the other routine wasn’t the best after all,” he said.
“Listen! Listen!” Breezy began in a panic.
Lord Pastern said absently: “Now, you keep your hair on. I’m thinkin’.” He appeared to think for some moments and then — ejaculating “Sombrero!” — darted out of the room.
Breezy Bellairs wiped his face with his handkerchief, sank on to the piano stool and held his head in his hands.
After a considerable interval the ballroom doors were opened and Rivera came in. Bellairs eyed him. “How’s tricks, Carlos?” he asked dolefully.
“Not good.” Rivera, stroking his moustache with his forefinger, walked stiffly to the piano. “I have quarrelled with Félicité.”
“You asked for it, didn’t you? Your little line with Miss Wayne…”
“It is well to show women that they are not irreplaceable. They become anxious and, in a little while, they are docile.”
“Has it worked out that way?”
“Not yet, perhaps. I am angry with her.” He made a florid and violent gesture. “With them all! I have been treated like a dog, I, Carlos de…”
“Listen,” said Breezy, “I can’t face a temperament from you, old boy. I’m nearly crazy with worry myself. I just can’t face it. God, I wish I’d never taken the old fool on! God, I’m in a mess! Give me a cigarette, Carlos.”
“I am sorry. I have none.”
“I asked you to get me cigarettes,” said Breezy and his voice rose shrilly.
“It was not convenient. You smoke too much.”
“Go to hell.”
“Everywhere,” Rivera shouted, “I am treated with impertinence. Everywhere I am insulted.” He advanced upon Bellairs, his head thrust forward. “I am sick of it all,” he said. “I have humbled myself too much. I am a man of quick decisions. No longer shall I cheapen myself by playing in a common dance band…”
“Here, here, here!”
“I give you, now, my notice.”
“You’re under contract. Listen, old man…”
“I spit on your contract. No longer shall I be your little errand boy. ‘Get me some cigarettes.’ Bah!”
“Carlos!”
“I shall return to my own country.”
“Listen, old boy… I… I’ll raise your screw…” His voice faltered.
Rivera looked at him and smiled. “Indeed? By how much? It would be by perhaps five pounds?”
“Have a heart, Carlos.”
“Or if, for instance, you would care to advance me five hundred…”
“You’re crazy! Carlos, for Pete’s sake… Honestly, I haven’t got it.”
“Then,” said Rivera magnificently, “you may look for another to bring you your cigarettes. For me it is… finish.”
Breezy wailed loudly: “And where will I be? What about me?”
Rivera smiled and moved away. With an elaborate display of nonchalance, he surveyed himself in a wall-glass, fingering his tie. “You will be in a position of great discomfort, my friend,” he said. “You will be unable to replace me. I am quite irreplaceable.” He examined his moustache closely in the glass and caught sight of Breezy’s reflection. “Don’t look like that,” he said, “you are extremely ugly when you look like that. Quite revolting.”
“It’s a breach of contract. I can…” Breezy wetted his lips. “There’s the law,” he mumbled. “I suppose…”
Rivera turned and faced him.
“The law?” he said. “I am obliged to you. Of course one can call upon the law, can one not? That is a wise step for a band leader to take, no doubt. I find the suggestion amusing. I shall enjoy repeating it to the ladies who smile at you so kindly, and ask you so anxiously for their favourite numbers. When I no longer play in your band their smiles will become infrequent and they will go elsewhere for their favourite numbers.”
“You wouldn’t do that, Carlos.”
“Let me tell you, my good Breezy, that if the law is to be invoked it is I who invoke it.”
“Damn and blast you,” Breezy shouted in a frenzy.
“What the devil’s all the row about?” asked Lord Pastern. He had entered unobserved. A wide-brimmed sombrero decorated his head, its strap supporting his double chin. “I thought I’d wear this,” he said. “It goes with the shootin’ don’t you think? Yipee!”
When Rivera left her, Félicité had sat on in the study, her hands clenched between her knees, trying to bury quickly and forever the memory of the scene they had just ended. She looked aimlessly about her, at the litter of tools in the open drawer at her elbow, at the typewriter, at familiar prints, ornaments and books. Her throat was dry. She was filled with nausea and an arid hatred. She wished ardently to rid herself of all memory of Rivera and in doing so to humiliate and injure him. She was still for so long that when at last she moved, her right leg was numb and her foot pricked and tingled. As she rose stiffly and cautiously, she heard someone cross to the landing, pass the study and go into the drawing-room next door.
“I’ll go up to Hendy,” she thought. “I’ll ask Hendy to tell them I’m not coming to the Metronome.”
She went out on the landing. Somewhere on the second floor her stepfather’s voice shouted: “My sombrero, you silly chap — Somebody’s taken it. That’s all. Somebody’s collared it.” Spence came through the drawing-room door, carrying an envelope on a salver.
“It’s for you, miss,” he said. “It was left on the hall table. I’m sure I’m very sorry it was not noticed before.”
She took it. It was addressed in typescript. Across the top was printed a large “Urgent” with “by District Messenger” underneath. Félicité returned to the study and tore it open.
Three minutes later Miss Henderson’s door was flung open and she, lifting her gaze from her book, saw Félicité, glowing before her.
“Hendy — Hendy, come and help me dress. Hendy, come and make me lovely. Something marvellous has happened. Hendy, darling, it’s going to be a wonderful party.”
CHAPTER V
A WREATH FOR RIVERA
Against a deep blue background the arm of a giant metronome kept up its inane and constant gesture. It was outlined in miniature lights, and to those patrons who had drunk enough, it left in its wake a formal ghost pattern of itself in colour. It was mounted on part of the wall overhanging the band alcove. The ingenious young man responsible for the décor had so designed this alcove that the band platform itself appeared as a projection from the skeleton tower of the metronome. The tip of the arm swept to and fro above the bandsmen’s heads in a maddening reiterative arc, pointing them out, insisting on their noise. An inverted metronome had been considered “great fun” by the ingenious young man but it had been found advisable to switch off the mechanism from time to time and when this was done the indicator pointed downwards. Either Breezy Bellairs or a favoured soloist was careful to place himself directly beneath the light-studded pointer at its tip.
On their semicircular rostrum the seven performers of the dance band crouched, blowing, scraping and hitting at their instruments. This was the band that worked on extension nights, from dinner time to eleven o’clock, at the Metronome. It was known as the Jivesters, and was not as highly paid or as securely established as Breezy Bellairs and His Boys. But of course it was a good band, carefully selected by Caesar Bonn, the manager and maître de café, who was also a big shareholder in the Metronome.
Caesar himself, glossy, immeasurably smart, in full control of his accurately graded cordiality,
moved, with a light waggle of his hips, from the vestibule into the restaurant and surveyed his guests. He bowed roguishly as his headwaiter, with raised hand, preceded a party of five to their table. “Hullo, Caesar. Evenin’,” said Lord Pastern. “Brought my family, you see.”
Caesar flourished his hands. “It is a great evening for the Metronome, my lady. A gala of galas.”
“No doubt,” said her ladyship.
She seated her guests. She herself, with erect bust, faced the dance floor, her back to the wall. She raised her lorgnette. Caesar and the headwaiter hovered. Lord Pastern ordered hock.
“We are much too close, George,” Lady Pastern shouted above the Jivesters, who had just broken out in a frenzy. And indeed their table had been crammed in alongside the band dais and hard by the tympanist. Félicité could have touched his foot. “I had it put here specially,” Lord Pastern yelled. “I knew you’d want to watch me.”
Carlisle, sitting between her uncle and Edward Manx, nervously clutched her evening bag and wondered if they were all perhaps a little mad. What, for instance, had come over Félicité? Why, whenever she looked at Edward, did she blush? Why did she look so often and so queerly at him, like a bewildered and — yes — a besotted schoolgirl? And why, on the landing at Duke’s Gate, after a certain atrocious scene with Rivera (Carlisle closed her memory on the scent), had Ned behaved with such ferocity? And why, after all, was she, in the middle of a complicated and disagreeable crisis, so happy?
Edward Manx, seated between Félicité and Carlisle, was also bewildered. A great many things had happened to him that evening. He had had a row with Rivera in the dining-room. He had made an astonishing discovery. Later (and, unlike Carlisle, he found this recollection entirely agreeable) he had come on to the landing at the precise moment when Rivera was making a determined effort to embrace Carlisle and had hit Rivera very hard on the left ear. While they were still, all three of them, staring at each other, Félicité had appeared with a letter in her hands. She had taken one look at Edward and, going first white under her make-up and then scarlet, had fled upstairs. From that moment she had behaved in the most singular manner imaginable. She kept catching his eye and as often as this happened she smiled and blushed. Once she gave a mad little laugh. Edward shook his head and asked Lady Pastern to dance. She consented. He rose, and placing his right hand behind her iron waist walked her cautiously down the dance floor. It was formidable, dancing with Cousin Cécile.
“If anything,” she said when they had reached the spot farthest away from the band, “could compensate for my humiliation in appearing at this lamentable affair, my dearest boy, it is the change your presence has wrought in Félicité.”
“Really?” said Edward nervously.
“Indeed, yes. From her childhood, you have exerted a profound influence.”
“Look here, Cousin Cécile — ” Edward began in extreme discomfort, but at that moment the dance band, which had for some time contented itself with the emission of syncopated grunts and pants, suddenly flared up into an elaborate rumpus. Edward was silenced.
Lord Pastern put his head on one side and contemplated the band with an air of critical patronage. “They’re not bad, you know,” he said, “but they haven’t got enough guts. Wait till you hear us, Lisle. What?”
“I know,” Carlisle said encouragingly. At the moment his naïveté touched her. She was inclined to praise him as one would a child. Her eyes followed Edward, who now guided Lady Pastern gingerly past the band dais. Carlisle watched them go by and in so doing caught the eye of a man who sat at the next table. He was a monkish-looking person with a fastidious mouth and well-shaped head. A woman with short dark hair was with him. They had an air of comradeship. “They look nice,” Carlisle thought. She felt suddenly uplifted and kindly disposed to all the world, and, on this impulse, turned to Félicité. She found that Félicité, also, was watching Edward and still with that doting and inexplicable attention.
“Fée,” she said softly, “what’s up? What happened?” Félicité, without changing the direction of her gaze, said: “Something too shattering, darling. I’m all bouleversée but I’m in heaven.”
Edward and Lady Pastern, after two gyrations, came to a halt by their table. She disengaged herself and resumed her seat. Edward slipped in between Carlisle and Félicité. Félicité leant towards him and drew the white carnation from his coat, “There’s nobody else here with a white flower,” she said softly.
“I’m very vieux jeux in my ways,” Edward rejoined.
“Let’s dance, shall we?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Want to dance, C?” asked Lord Pastern.
“No thank you, George.”
“Mind if Lisle and I trip a measure? It’s a quarter to eleven, I’ll have to go round and join the Boys in five minutes. Come on, Lisle.”
You had, thought Carlisle, to keep your wits about you when you danced with Uncle George. He had a fine sense of rhythm and tremendous vigour. No stickler for the conventions, he improvised steps as the spirit moved him, merely tightening his grip upon her as an indication of further variations and eccentricities. She noticed other couples glancing at them with more animation than usually appears on the faces of British revellers.
“D’you jitter-bug?” he asked.
“No, darling.”
“Pity. They think ’emselves too grand for it in this place. Sickenin’ lot of snobs people are, by and large, Lisle. Did I tell you I’m seriously considerin’ givin’ up the title?”
He swung her round with some violence. At the far end of the room she caught a glimpse of her cousin and his partner. Ned’s back was towards her. Félicite gazed into his eyes. Her hand moved farther across his shoulders. He stooped his head.
“Let’s rejoin Aunt C, shall we?” said Carlisle in a flat voice.
Breezy Bellairs hung up his overcoat on the wall and sat down, without much show of enthusiasm, at a small table in the inner room behind the office. The tympanist, Syd Skelton, threw a pack of cards on the table and glanced at his watch. “Quarter to,” he said. “Time for a brief gamble.”
He dealt two poker hands. Breezy and Skelton played show poker on most nights at about this time. They would leave the Boys in their room behind the band dais and wander across to the office. They would exchange a word with Caesar or David Hahn, the secretary, in the main office, and then repair to the inner room for their game. It was an agreeable prelude to the long night’s business.
“Hear you’ve been dining in exalted places,” said Skelton acidly. Breezy smiled automatically and with trembling hands picked up his cards. They played in a scarcely broken silence. Once or twice Skelton invited conversation, but without success.
At last he said irritably: “What’s the trouble? Why the great big silence?”
Breezy fiddled with his cards and said: “I’m licked to hell, Syd.”
“For the love of Mike! What’s the tragedy this time?”
“Everything. I’ll crack if it goes on. Honest, I’m shot to pieces.”
“It’s your own show. I’ve warned you. You look terrible.”
“And how do I feel! Listen, Syd, it’s this stunt to-night. It’s his lordship. It’s been a big mistake.”
“I could have told you that, too. I did tell you.”
“I know. I know. But we’re booked to capacity, Syd.”
“It’s cheap publicity. Nothing more nor less and you know it. Pandering to a silly dope, just because he’s got a title.”
“He’s not all that bad. As an artist.”
“He’s terrible,” said Skelton briefly. “I know the number’s crazy and full of corn but it’ll get by. It’s not that, old boy, it’s him. Honest, Syd, I think he’s crackers.” Breezy threw his cards face down on the table. “He’s got me that nervy,” he said. “Listen, Syd, he’s — he hasn’t said anything to you, has he?”
“What about?”
“So he hasn’t. All right. Fine. Don’t take any notice if he
does, old man.”
Skelton leant back in his chair. “What the hell are you trying to tell me?” he demanded.
“Now don’t make me nervous,” Breezy implored him. “You know how nervy I get. It’s just a crazy notion he’s got. I’ll stall him off, you bet.” He paused. Skelton said ominously, “It wouldn’t be anything about wanting to repeat this fiasco, would it?”
“In a way, it would, Syd. Mind, it’s laughable.”
“Now, you get this,” Skelton said and leant across the table. “I’ve stood down once, to-night, to oblige you, and I don’t like it and I won’t do it again. What’s more it’s given me a kind of unpleasant feeling that I’m doing myself no good, working with an outfit that goes in for cheap sensationalism. You know me. I’m quick-tempered and I make quick decisions. There’s other bands.”
“Now, Syd, Syd, Syd! Take it easy,” Breezy gabbled. “Forget it, old boy. I wouldn’t have mentioned anything only he talked about chatting to you himself.”
“By God,” Skelton said, staring at him, “are you trying to tell me, by any chance, that this old so-and-so thinks he’d like my job? Have you got the flaming nerve to…”
“For crisake, Syd! Listen, Syd, I said it was crazy. Listen, it’s going to be all right. It’s not my fault, Syd. Be fair, now, it’s not my fault.”
“Whose fault is it then?”
“Carlos,” said Breezy, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Take it easy, now. He’s next door, having a drink with Caesar. It’s Carlos. He’s put the idea in the old bee’s head. He wants to keep in with him on account the girl can’t make up her mind and him wanting the old bee to encourage her. It’s all Carlos, Syd. He told him he was wonderful.”
Skelton said briefly what he thought of Rivera. Breezy looked nervously towards the door. “This settles it,” Skelton said and rose. “I’ll talk to Carlos, by God.” Breezy clawed at him. “No, Syd, not now. Not before the show. Keep your voice down, Syd, there’s a pal. He’s in there. You know how he is. He’s thrown a temperament once tonight. Geeze,” cried Breezy, springing to his feet, “I nearly forgot! He wants us to use the other routine in the new number, after all. Can you beat it? First it’s this way and then it’s what-have-you. He’s got me so’s I’m liable to give an imitation of a maestro doing two numbers at once. Gawd knows how his lordship’ll take it. I got to tell the Boys. I as near as damn it forgot, I’m that nervy. Listen, you haven’t heard what’s really got me so worried. You know what I am. It’s that gun. It’s such a hell of a thing, Syd, and his lordship’s made those blanks himself and, by God, I’m nervous. He’s dopey enough to mix the real things up with the phony ones. They were all mucked up together in a bloody drawer, Syd, and there you are. And he really points the thing at Carlos, old boy, and fires it. Doesn’t he now?”
