The Whip Hand

by Victor Canning

  “Another job later. Breaking it in. Like it?”

  “All you need is a pair of sabots.”

  I held a lighter to his cigarette, and he said, after a puff, “Thank you, Mother Jambo. I’ve a message for you – left at the Hotel Florida. Also, I gather, you may have something for me.”

  He was strolling at my side and he might have been with me and he mightn’t. I gave him a quick run down on the results of my visit to the suite, including the whip, and he slipped an envelope into my hand and melted faster than any genie.

  In the cab I opened the envelope. It was from Katerina, and as I read it I wondered why I’d been working my fingers to the bone in the last hour.

  It read—

  Sorry, darling. Can’t make Solferino. Big boring Embassy dinner date. Flying Dubrovnik tomorrow. Is there a bridge there? Love. K

  Why was she so certain that I would follow her wherever she went? She was, and she was prepared to give leads which other people paid me to work for? Curious.

  So far as I knew, it was the first time I’d had dinner with a woman who had shot her husband. It made me take a fresh look at Vérité. She still came out all right in my book. Her face was a beautiful piece of work, with a bone structure which, no matter from what angle the light came, created an arresting combination of shadows and light planes. Her deep brown eyes had long lashes, and the thin dark eyebrows were so perfect that they made you want to put out your finger and smudge them even though you knew they were real. Not once while I was there did she really smile, but I had the impression that when she did it would be something worth waiting for.

  The flat was neat and impersonal, and the kitchen was like a small clinic. But she could cook. We had wafer-thin slices of veal done in Gruyère cheese with little slips of anchovy on top, and a bottle of Meursault of which she drank very little.

  I said, “Mrs Vadarci and the Saxmann girl are flying to Dubrovnik tomorrow and staying at the Hotel Argentina. I think we ought to do the same, but not on the same plane. Day later, if necessary. Will you fix it?”

  “Certainly.” She was peeling a pear with neat movements – and no drip, no mean feat.

  “Tell Herr Malacod that I went through the Vadarci suite at the George Cinq. There was nothing there of any interest – unless he’s interested in Edwardian clothes – except a whip.”

  “Whip?” There was no surprise in her voice as she cut the pear in half.

  “A fancy number, but serviceable.” I described it to her.

  When I had finished she said, “Please have some of this. I can’t eat it all.” She put half of the pear on my plate, and went on, “Was it necessary to break into the suite?”

  “I wouldn’t know they were taking off otherwise. And break is the wrong word. I borrowed a key.”

  “You are very competent.”

  I was not sure from her tone whether it was a question or a compliment. I took some of the pear and, as I knew it would, it dribbled down my chin. She reached for my napkin which had fallen to the floor. I suddenly realized what it was about her that kept us in different leagues. She was treating me like a small boy ... peeling fruit, keeping me tidy, pouring my wine ... drink it up like a good boy. I did not mind. Something told me that it made her feel safe with me. With me – and she had shot her husband three times at point-blank range and then calmly telephoned the police!

  “I have to be,” I said. She was half-way to the kitchen to do something about coffee.

  “Be what?” she said over her shoulder.

  “Competent.”

  “Oh, that, yes.” She went into the kitchen and came back with a tray. There were a couple of cups on it with those tin percolator things on top that produce a lukewarm brown liquid after fifteen minutes of waiting and banging. As though there had been no break in the conversation, she said, “And thorough?”

  “Thorough?”

  “Yes.” She held an open cigarette box towards me and when I took one, there was a lighter in her hand, flame waiting. “I presume you have made inquiries about Herr Malacod?”

  “Such as I could, yes. His credit rating is very high.”

  There was no smile from her.

  “He is a very good man. And me?”

  “What about you?”

  “You have made inquiries about me? It would be natural.”

  I said, “Of course not.”

  She lit herself a cigarette and said without emotion of any kind, “It is very nice of you to lie. It was unnecessary, but I appreciate it.”

  I could not think of anything to say to that, so I rapped the top of my percolator, and she said, “It does no good to do that.” Small boy again, getting impatient.

  “In the tourist season,” I said, going on with my tapping, “you can hear this sound from English people all over France.”

  There was no smile. I think that was the moment that I made a bet with myself that if I didn’t get a smile out of her in the next five days I would send a cheque for ten pounds to Doctor Barnardo’s Homes.

  She said, “Would you like a liqueur?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “A whisky and soda?”

  “Well ...”

  She was on her feet and going to the sideboard. With her back to me, she said, “You are armed?”

  You had to jump to keep up with her. “Yes,” I said.

  “You had better let me have it before we get on the plane. I can get it through the customs much easier than you.”

  “If you insist.” But I was thinking that with a girl of her build it was going to make a pretty obvious bulge inside her girdle. I even contemplated saying so but I knew there would be no smile. I was beginning to feel out of my depth. She put me far out into deep water as I left.

  I put out my hand, French fashion, and thanked her for the meal and the pleasure of her company. You would have thought that I was wearing velvet pants and a lace collar, remembering to thank my hostess. She took my hand and her fingers were long and cool, and she said, “I very much enjoyed it, Mr Carver, but I think I should make one thing very clear.”

  “If you do,” I said, “you’ll be the first one in days.”

  “I think,” she said evenly, “that you are a nice person. Naturally, we may see a great deal of one another, but I should like you to know that I have no intention of allowing you to sleep with me.”

  She riled me then.

  “Was that necessary?” I asked.

  “It has been in the past.”

  I walked down the stairs feeling like a dog that has been kicked from the step before he has even asked to come in.

  As I stepped off the pavement to cross the road, a car coming at speed down the opposite side of the quiet street suddenly swerved at me, flashed up its headlights, and missed me by six inches as I started a backward jump to the pavement. It pulled up ten yards down and a man got out and hurried back to me. I was on my feet before he got to me, but not before his frank, jolly, phoney voice reached me.

  “Sorry, lover-boy, but the steering on that old jalopy makes it as crazy as a one-winged snipe at times. No damage done, I hope? Jeez, I might have killed you.”

  Good old Howard Johnson was reaching out his hands across the steps to dust me down. I took one of them gratefully and, with a wrist and upper arm hold, I threw him over my shoulder against the house wall. I went through his pockets while he snored like a drunk and found nothing of interest, except a packet of Beograd filter-tips. Then I walked down to the car. There was no one in it, so I took it. It saved a big taxi fare from the Porte de la Villette, where Vérité lived, to my flat. I parked it a hundred yards down the road from the flat, dropped the keys down a drain, and let the air out of the four tyres. A French tart, who was slightly tight on duty, watched me and said, “Vous vous amusez, no?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  As I went to move away, she said, “Bien. Maintenant, nous allons nous amuser beaucoup plus?”

  “No,” I said.

  I went up to my fl
at, taking with me the only thing of interest which I had found in the car. It was a paper-back book written in English, published by a firm I’d never heard of in London called Unity Books, Ltd. It was a translation from the German, so the fly-leaf said, and was entitled – Stigmata: A Study of European National Neuroses. It sounded like light bedtime reading, but I hadn’t taken it because of that, and I don’t think Howard Johnson had been reading it because of that. The name of the author had caught my eye. It had been written by a Professor Carl Vadarci. I was interested, among other things, to see if Professor Vadarci took the same line on the subject as, I had gathered from Wilkins’s summary, The Times had in their second leader on 16 February, 1947.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  OYSTERS WITH OGLU

  Vérité could not get seat reservations for the next day. We left the morning of the day after in a Caravelle. She turned up in a neat blue travelling suit and with one case, and she ran neck and neck with Wilkins for efficiency. She took charge and shepherded me around quietly but firmly. I began to wonder if all she had left now was a frustrated mother instinct.

  We sat together and, as we took off, she handed me the daily papers and an English edition of a Fodor’s Modern Guide – Yugoslavia (with illustrations and maps) to keep me from getting bored during the trip. I knew it would not be worth while even trying the mildest flirtation with the Air France hostess. Vérité would tell me I wasn’t old enough.

  I read the papers, saving the guide for later. I hoped it would not be such heavy reading as Stigmata by Professor Vadarci.

  Part of the past day I’d spent trying to pick out some of the jigsaw pieces with straight edges so that I could get a frame for the puzzle before I began to work inwards. I hadn’t found many. Beograd filter was easy. They wanted it to look as though Howard Johnson had been through the Vadarci suite. Sir Alfred and Katerina’s Embassy dinner had been easier – though it had cost me a phone call to Wilkins in London. One of the Counsellors at the British Embassy in Paris was a Sir Alfred Coddon, K.B.E., C.V.O. I guessed that he had gone quietly on leave somewhere, and that when the need arose Manston was taking his place. Why? No answer, except that I would gamble that Manston was working on the jigsaw by starting with the centre pieces. Professor Vadarci was much harder. Wilkins could find nothing on him. So I just had to keep my muzzle down to the scent and jog on. The money was good, and there was always a chance that some time or other I could make it better.

  I looked at Vérité. She had her eyes closed and could have been sleeping. I dipped into Fodor and started to read the serial story called “Tourist Vocabulary” at the back, which was all about an inquiring chap like myself who goes about hotels, shops, restaurants, garages and banks asking questions. I liked the episode in the restaurant best ... “Waiter! I would like to have lunch, dinner. The menu, please. Thank you. Soup. Bread. Hors d’oeuvre. Smoked ham. Ham omelette. (God, what an appetite – right down to fruit, cheese, fish, eggs.) Serve me on the terrace. Where can I wash my hands? Beer. Bottled water. Turkish coffee.” Poor bloody waiter.

  Vérité woke up.

  I said, “Where are we staying?”

  “At the Imperial. It’s quite close to the Argentina.”

  “Good. I hope I’ve got a sola prema moru?”

  “A what?”

  “If I’ve pronounced it right, it means a room with a view of the sea.”

  I didn’t get a smile. I turned to a section on national dishes and soon saw that I was going to be in for a great deal of mutton stew under different names.

  At Zagreb airport we changed to a DC.3 of the JAT airline, and all the way down to Cilipi airport I forced myself to sleep so that I wouldn’t have to watch the limestone mountains not so far below.

  I had a room with a view of the sea, though it was too dark to see much by the time we arrived. I flopped back on the bed to recover from a twenty-mile trip in from the airport over unmade roads, and I reached for the phone. It was answered by somebody who spoke English, and I ordered a large whisky up to the room and a personal call to Katerina at the Hotel Argentina. I was told that she had left the hotel that morning.

  I went next door, carrying my drink, to Vérité’s room, knocked and was admitted. She had a dressing-gown on, and her feet were bare. She had nice toes, but I kept my eyes off them.

  I raised the glass. “Like me to order one for you?”

  “No thank you.”

  I sat down on a chair and said, “They left this morning.”

  She nodded and bent over her case to get her toilet-bag. “I know. I telephoned the moment we got in.”

  “I could have saved a few dinars on the call then. What now?” This was me, asking her what to do. I made a note to watch that. I didn’t want to become dominated.

  “Most tourists in this country make all their travelling and hotel reservations through an agency ... Atlas, or Putnik. And they keep open late. I’ll go into the town and see what I can find out just as soon as I have changed.”

  “When you’re changed,” I said, “you’re having dinner with me – on the terrace. La Vadarci can wait until tomorrow morning.”

  “But won’t that—”

  “It’s an order,” I said. I smiled and drank to her over the glass. I was back in the saddle again.

  We had dinner on a high terrace overlooking the sea. Away to our right were the lights of Dubrovnik. It was warm, and there were trails of phosphorescence in the water. Most of the other guests in the hotel seemed to be Germans who all apparently knew one another and looked brown, beefy and self-assured. Professor Vadarci had had something to say about that in Stigmata.

  I was not sure what we ate, but we drank a wine called Grk, and that was how it tasted. Vérité appeared, looking wonderful. I wondered how the hell her husband could ever have done it to her. There were a few moments when she began to crowd Katerina from my mind, but I held them back firmly. Somewhere at the back of me a three-piece orchestra was playing, and the Germans, to get a tighter cargo stow for more food, now and again got up and danced.

  I said, “How the hell do you travel a dress like that without getting it creased? Everything in my case comes out looking like a dog’s bed.”

  She almost smiled, but not quite, but I could see she was relaxing.

  We went through the usual plays. Yes, she’d been in Dubrovnik before. Herr Malacod travelled a lot. The island across the channel from us was called Lokrum. No, she did not speak the language. Yes, she always drank water with her wine. I tried her a little deeper when we got to the sweet – something called struklji, a preparation of nuts and plums stuffed into balls of cheese and then boiled, so Fodor told me later. I was not surprised that she tucked into it, because I’d met a lot of slim girls with the appetites of horses and nothing to show for it. No, she had no idea why Herr Malacod was so interested in Madame Vadarci. No, she knew nothing about Madame Vadarci. Or Professor Vadarci? No – it took a little longer coming, I thought – she knew of no Professor Vadarci.

  She finished the last stuffed cheese ball and I stood up.

  I said, “Hocete li da igrate?”

  She looked at me and one eyebrow went up in a delicious curve.

  “It could sound,” I said, “as though I’m asking you if you’ve got indigestion. Actually Fodor tells me it means – Will you dance with me?”

  It was then she really smiled and I thought to myself that the guy who’d made that smile a rare occurrence deserved three shots in him. I went round and took her chair and she looked up at me and said, “I shall be sorry I gave you that book.”

  “You’re not going to be sorry about anything,” I said. I wasn’t quite sure what I meant by that, but it didn’t matter because by then she was in my arms and we were moving away from the table. She could dance. Not what Dino would have called a “ball of fire” maybe, but she was certainly no cardboard cut-out.

  The next morning we took a taxi down to Dubrovnik. By then she was back to normal, efficient and cool, and I knew that I was
n’t going to get more than one or two smiles a day. She left me to make the round of the tourist agencies, promising to meet me in the main harbour café of the town in two hours.

  I am not a one for sightseeing. Just give me a beach with a lot of brown legs to look at and you can keep the baroque façades. I never want to flog around city walls or crick my neck in cathedrals. There was a time when I used to think I did, but after about fifteen minutes I would find myself thinking of ice-cold beer, and bikinis. Now, I know better than to try.

  Right at the top end of the town, at a cigarette-end’s flick from the Onofrio Fountain (fifteenth century, designed by the Neapolitan Onofrio de la Cava: Fodor) I found an oyster bar, just a cool cave opening on to the street, bead curtains, two tables, and Adriatic oysters at four shillings a dozen. I had two dozen to begin with, and a half a bottle of a dry white wine called Vugava which left Grk standing. I sat near the door, enjoying myself and, after a while, a tubby little number came in and took the chair next to me and, with a wink, helped himself to one of my oysters. I waited for him to say it and he did.

  “They’re good, no, Mother Jambo?”

  “If this is going to be a long session,” I said, “I shall have to order more.”

  “Allow me.” He called for another dozen, and then went on, “They grow on dead trees, waterlogged, sunk at the bottom. That’s because the sea bed is no good. People don’t know it, but they’re better than Portuguese or Whitstables. Small but all flavour. Rotten travellers, though. Having a good time?”

  I nodded. He was not English, though he spoke it well, but all in a sing-song, up and down. He was about forty, dressed in a faded blue shirt and canvas trousers, sandals, no socks, and a white cap cocked over one eye. There were streaks of paint on the shirt and the cap. He had a face like a Red Indian, the noble kind, and liked oysters as much as I did.

  He said, “What the news?”

  “They’ve gone, yesterday morning. Moved on. Any idea where?”

  He shook his head and passed me a card. “You’ll find me there. My studio. I’m a painter.” The name was Michael Oglu and the address 21 Ulica something-or-the-other. “How’s Manston?” he added.