The Return of Mr Campion

by Margery Allingham

  "What are you going to do?" Francine's voice trembled a little.

  Ricci laughed. It was the fat mischievous chuckle of a child.

  "I'll show you. I am going to manage my own publicity. I am going to show these fellers. I am the Beauty King! I am Ricci Blomme! You wait, Francine." Francine smiled unexpectedly.

  "Yes, I'll wait all right," she murmured.

  Ricci eyed her suspiciously. "You stick around here all the same," he advised. "You'll see."

  He went out to his car, limping over the pavement in unlaced patent leathers and drove away without thinking of her. But Francine was happy and did not cry in bed that night.

  The end of Chez Blomme off Bond Street and the appearance of Ricci Blomme's Temple of Beauty in Oxford Street provoked a fashionable stir.

  Old clients tried everything from bribery to blackmail to prevent the cheapening of the Process and, such is the spite of women, even the police had many anonymous complaints.

  Once again it was the simple excellence of the Process itself which saved the situation. A single treatment lasted for six months and no woman who had tasted the fruits of loveliness for so long could face a return to natural insignificance for the sake of a trip to Ricci's Temple.

  Ricci rejoiced. He had plenty of money and saw himself a mighty public benefactor. He went ahead with enthusiasm. Francine was happy, her position as Ricci's personal assistant gave her a new importance and she saw him every day.

  The organization of the business was itself a miracle. Ricci set about it with that fearless common sense which is so often a byproduct of genius. He conducted classes of picked assistants, instructing and inspiring them even while they laughed at his enthusiasm.

  His private eyebrow treatment, alone worth a small fortune, he divulged happily, alternately coaxing and bullying his small army into his own methods. He expanded, overworked and was sublimely content. Francine watched and adored him.

  George Briesemann appeared during the first month of the new venture when the beauty trade of London and Paris was seething with indignation and alarm, since Ricci tore up all offers for the Process indiscriminately and took a childish delight in throwing out importunate business visitors personally.

  Briesemann was a sleek, soft-voiced young man with a keen clever face and large, shining, light brown eyes. There was an efficiency about his work which should have warned his employer, but Ricci was too happy to be suspicious of anybody and he liked George.

  The only secret which Ricci kept religiously was the Lotion Blomme which was the main basis of the Process. His method of preserving it was simple in the extreme. Since its secret lay in the blending and not in the actual ingredients he did not fear analysis but merely took the precaution of manufacturing it himself in the kitchenette of his flat, bringing it by car to the shop in the mornings in gallon-size stone beer jars.

  Sometimes when he was very rushed he took Francine home with him to help. This signal honor gratified Francine, but only because it gave her more time with him and it did not occur to her to be surprised that Ricci should trust her.

  George Briesemann, on the other hand, was tremendously impressed and Francine found him more attentive than any man she had ever known. She was a little flattered and when he looked at her with soft, pathetic eyes she felt a twinge of dangerous pity for him.

  Probably the whole thing would never have happened if it had not been for the window. The Temple of Beauty had been built as a cafe and, although the inside had been converted when Ricci took the place over, he had been far too occupied with the immediate necessities of his business to worry about the facade.

  Curiously, it did not matter. The Process Blomme was its own advertisement. However, unfortunately, once the internal arrangements of the Temple were in good working order, Ricci became aware of the large plate-glass window and it was his undoing.

  He stood out in the street early one Friday morning and regarded it thoughtfully. At that moment it was simply hung with purple velvet and contained only the small silver sign from the other shop. Ricci sighed. It was inadequate. It was mean. It was a snub to his genius.

  He stood out on the pavement for some little time, sublimely unconscious of the passersby. His short legs were straddled, his great head was thrown back and his eyes were screwed up in an ecstasy of creation. Suddenly, the idea came to him as he had known it would; a notion of genius, beautiful in its simplicity. He went slowly up to his office and sent for Francine.

  She came at once, unaware of the approaching crisis. She was a little breathless on entering, having had to hurry up the staircase, and there was a suggestion of color in her cheeks. Ricci walked slowly across the room, took her by the hand and led her to the window. Then he looked at her.

  The great moments of life, if long awaited, are apt to be disappointing and marred by unexpected reactions in oneself. Francine found herself alarmed lest her knees should give way and she suffered a childish impulse to cover her face with her hands now that those bright eyes were fixed searchingly upon her, taking in every curve and feature with professional interest. It was happening. The dream was materializing. She was terrified.

  "Uh!" said Ricci after what had promised to be an unending silence. He ran a short finger over her eyebrows and tested the texture of her hair at the roots. "Good," he continued and strode down the room laughing. He appeared to be delighted.

  Francine leaned against the windowsill and wished her heart would stop beating so clumsily. Ricci sat down at his desk, swinging his short legs and crowing with suppressed amusement. "I'll show that Graustadt," he said. "Publicity he don' know anything. I'll show him."

  Francine did not seek to hurry him, although her heart was bursting. She stood looking at him dumbly, waiting for him to speak.

  "Tell you what, Francine," he went on at last. "I won't tell anyone 'bout this till I got it done. Ricci's going to surprise 'em. You come round to the flat on Sunday and I'll fix you, see?"

  "Fix me?" She stood very still, her dark eyes burning in her small pale face. Ricci beamed. "That's right. I fix you up. Your face is all right, Francine. It's good. You'll look all right. Run 'long now. Don' tell anyone. You'll be my masterpiece. You'll see."

  Francine stumbled from the room. Briesemann found her crumpled in a corner of the enormous linen cupboard half an hour later. He picked her up and sat her on a chair, watching her with sharp intelligence behind the gentleness in his eyes. When she had stopped trembling he put his question. "Had a row with Blomme?"

  The inquiry was so unexpected that she did not wonder at his eagerness. "Oh, no," she said. "Not at all." Briesemann's eyes grew moist. "You're such a sweet kid," he said, dropping his voice a tone or so. "It's mean of him not to let you have the treatment. I'd do it for you myself if I could get the stuff. You could also make some, couldn't you?"

  She began to laugh and he paused aghast, terrified that his approach had been too crude. When she said nothing, however, he went on cautiously.

  "He'll wear himself out, superintending each skinning himself, twenty to thirty a day. It's more than a man can stand."

  "He always worked very hard," said Francine and stood up. Briesemann laid a hand on her shoulder.

  "He's not the only man in the world," he said. "I'd like to take you for a ride in the country on Sunday."

  The words were not eloquent but his round liquid eyes were soft and contained an unspoken longing, while Francine was both feminine and inexperienced. She touched his hand lightly.

  "I'm very sorry, George, really very sorry," she said earnestly and hurried away.

  Briesemann, who flattered himself that he understood women, was completely fogged. That evening, when he dropped in to see his brother-in-law Louis Bernstein, president of the Bernstein and Fleischmann Beauty Range Ltd, he said so.

  Ricci sent the car for Francine two hours before the appointed time on Sunday morning and Petersen, the chauffeur, had almost unbearably gratifying news for her.

  "Beside himself,"
he said swinging the car into Shaftesbury Avenue. "Like a kid with a game on. If he's told me to fetch you at twelve once he's told me a dozen times."

  Francine did not speak he was sitting very still, savoring the precious minutes like a connoisseur breathing over a rare brandy. It was happening. It was coming true. Miser-like, she guarded each sweet second of her joy.

  Ricci received her like an excited dog. He was so delighted with his glorious idea that he could hardly contain himself. Before she had taken her coat off he had dragged her into his spare room where the whole paraphernalia had been installed.

  "Sit down, Francine, sit down," he commanded. "I've been waiting for you. Now I don't want no mirrors, see? It's going to be a surprise to you same as everyone. You're going to congratulate me. Francine."

  Francine moved slowly he was still conscious of a need to conserve her happiness storing it away scrap by scrap so that its full avalanche should not overwhelm her.

  The mood made her a trifle stupid but Ricci did not notice it. He forgot her and concentrated upon her face. The time passed slowly and gloriously for the girl. She dared hardly breathe while his quick plump fingers played over her face and neck. It was a long-drawn-out ecstasy like the moment before the play begins stretched into hours of swooning expectation.

  While the plasters were on and he was dressing her hair, drawing it all to one side, Ricci began to sing. Francine's heart leapt painfully. When Ricci sang things were going well. He had a curious repertoire "On with the Motley."

  "Red ails in the Sunset," and a portion of the "Song of the Flea," all sung execrably and with enormous power.

  It was nearly four and Francine had eaten nothing since a seven o'clock breakfast when at last he paused and stepped back from her. The cosmetic stage had come and gone and he had just applied the finishing touches with a pad of virgin cotton wool. Francine dared not look at him. Now that the crucial moment had arrived the instant when the reward of beauty actually became due she felt sick and faint and terrified. Ricci threw down the wool and clasped his hands.

  "Ha!" he exclaimed explosively. Glancing at him she saw that his eyes were dancing.

  "I'll show that Graustadt," he said. "Wait. Stay where you are. I'll get you a mirror and you'll laugh at him too. Publicity ... I'll show that fellow!" He went out to return with a slender pier-glass from the bedroom.

  "Don't look, Francine. Don't look till I say."

  There was a childish thrill in his voice and her arms ached to hold. She closed her eyes obediently. "Now!" Francine looked up. One of the peculiarities of the Process Blomme was its startling effect upon the color of the skin. It genuinely gave a soit pearly radiant complexion to any woman, sallow or red and was both unmistakable and lovely. "Well?" demanded Ricci in ecstasy. "Well?" Francine did not take her eyes from the mirror. She presented a remarkable spectacular. One half of her face divided by a perpendicular line from the peak of her forehead to the tip of her thymus bone was as beautiful as Ricci's an could make it. Her dark eyebrow was plucked into a perfect arch. Half her nose, half her mouth were miracles of gentle elegance and her skin was virgin cream. The other side of her face was as in had ever been sallow blurred and in determinations.

  Ricci had done his work with his customary attention to detail. One side of her hair was dressed as only he could dress it; the other was drab and untidy.

  The effect was startlingly bizarre the very contrast lending an added strength to each aspect. In life Francine had never looked so unprepossessing in dreams she had never looked so deliriously beautiful.

  "Now we will have a dress made one side fashionable. Servite and alluring the other not so good. You shall wear it arm sin in the window and what will that Graustadt say then, eh?"

  Ricci's voice was jubilant. He will revile himself, Francine. "That Ricci knows something, he will say that."

  Francine rose slowly to her feet. There was a thunder in her ears and her limbs were heavy. Ricci went on prattling excitedly.

  "You will have a gold chair, gold one side, deal the other and you shall wear odd shoes that's good, eh? Where are you going, Francine?"

  From the doorway she paused and looked at him. The light fell on the beautiful half of her face and he saw a strange new Francine who was so different from the old that a chill assailed him. It was the first symptom of the doubt that was to undermine his faith in the Process. Still she did not speak and he frowned with momentary misgiving.

  "Come 'ere," he said. "Listen to me, I got to tell you what to do in the window tomorrow. What's the matter with you? Come 'ere."

  Francine went out of the room and out of the flat, down into the street. She held a hand kerchief over one half of her face as do women who have been scarred. Because the world had ended and the floods had engulfed her she clutched at the first straw to present itself. She telephoned George Briesemann.

  That evening Ricci had the shock of his lifetime. He paced up and down the living room of the flat in his stockinged feet while the air still tingled with the force of his visitor's opening peroration.

  Briesemann, who in his own opinion had acquitted himself rather well, lounged against the armchair by the fire, his face alive and interested and his long thin fingers drumming on the upholstered back. Ricci thrust his hand through his coarse hair.

  "I'm sorry, George, you know. I'm sorry," he said helplessly. "I didn't know about you and Francine. I didn't know about her being your girl. I never thought she'd mind thought she'd be pleased. Francine's worked for me a long time now, you know that."

  Briesemann allowed his tongue to pass over his full lips. He was not aiming at reconciliation and Ricci's reception of his outburst had been unexpected.

  "You won't get out of it that way, Blomme," he said passionately. "Francine is my girl and I was going to pay you to give her that treatment when we could afford it. I don't want any woman made into an advertising guy."

  Ricci sat down with a jolt on the hard chair by the table. He was aware of the arrival of several new ideas that needed assimilating.

  Briesemann began to shout. "You'll put that girl's face right this evening and that's the last you'll ever see of her or me get that into your head. I could get damages off you, d'you know that? Any monkey stuff with me and I tell you I don't care who you are, I'll ..."

  "George!" Ricci put up a hand as though to deflect a blow.

  "George, I'm sorry. I feel kind of sick," he continued with genuine mystification. He placed a finger on his solar plexus. "I feel sort of sick 'ere. Maybe I'm going to be ill."

  "You'll do Francine's face tonight if you're dying," said Briesemann. "I've got her in a taxi outside." Ricci threw out his hands. "I'll do it, George. I'd have done it any time if she'd mentioned it. I didn't think of it."

  "You never think of anything but your damned Process."

  "No," said Ricci simply. "No, George, I don't. Go and fetch Francine. I'll fix her up all right."

  When the other man reached the threshold he added blankly: "I didn't know you and Francine were ... that way, George?"

  "I told you, you don't notice anything," said Briesemann over his shoulder.

  The second half of Francine's transformation took place in grim silence with George Briesemann watching every stage with alert, intelligent eyes. Francine was so quiet that she seemed scarcely to breathe and Ricci, who had begun with clumsy apologies, sank into moroseness very early in the proceedings.

  It was only when it was all done and the miracle was complete that Francine trusted herself to speak. She looked up from the only half-familiar face in the mirror and met Ricci's eyes.

  "Thank you," she said.

  The great hour had come and passed. The dream had turned out to be but a dream. It was cold and quiet in the room. Briesemann scented danger.

  "Good enough," he said briskly. "Come along, Francine, we've finished here. You've seen the last of us, Blomme. Come on, we won't waste the great inventor's time."

  Francine gazed at Ricci. Her eyes were tragic
and imploring, her face rigid and without expression. Ricci passed his hand over his forehead and regarded his handiwork with growing dubiety. "It don't look so good to me," he said. "I don' see what's wrong but it don't look so good." Francine's newly brightened eyes were tearful and Briesemann took her arm. "It's okay by me," he said. "And that's what counts, Mr Blomme. Come along, Francine."

  After they had gone, Ricci wandered up and down the flat, his hair tufty and on end. The doubt in his mind was increasing, and from time to time he went back to the spare room and examined the lotions he had used.

  At three in the morning, Petersen found him in the kitchenette at work on a new brew.

  "It's not so good," he said in reply to startled questioning. "I don' know what it is. Something is wrong. It's not so good. I got to see about it."

  "Your perishing Process!" said Petersen and went back to bed.

  With the departure of Francine for Bernstein and Fleischmann's Beauty Range Ltd, a new phase of the beauty war began. Francine was now lovely. Her natural daintiness was accentuated by the new beauty of her face. Bernstein's brought out a new line with her photograph in colors on the wrappers and the story went around that the Process Blomme had been repeated at last.

  Later it was rumored that Bernstein's were not satisfied with the blending of the new lotion. Either the girl was a fool or she had double-crossed them, they said; no one could determine which. Francine knew the truth and told it to George Briesemann.

  "Ricci is the secret," she said. "It is like an omelet."

  And, although he alternatively bullied and coaxed her, she seemed incapable of being more explicit. However, Bernstein's had Francine's face and they had a lotion complete with careful directions which were too complicated for either the general public or the small beauty specialists to follow.

  Some experts introduced a process based on the Bernstein lotion with considerable success but the general feeling was that something had gone wrong with the new-faces-for-old campaign.