‘On the lawn?’ I exclaimed. It was a clear night: the stars were as brilliant as chips of ice, and the temperature was below zero.
‘I think you will find it warm enough, sir.’
He led me through the lounge in which I had first met Mrs Montgomery and then through another room, where the walls were lined with books in expensive calf bindings – they had probably been bought in sets. (‘The library, sir.’) It would have been much cheaper, I thought, to have used false backs, for the room had an unused air. French windows opened on to the great lawn which sloped down to the invisible lake and for a moment I could see nothing at all but a blaze of light. Four enormous bonfires crackled away across the snow, and lights were hanging from the branches of every tree.
‘Isn’t it wonderful and crazy and beautiful?’ Mrs Montgomery cried, as she advanced from the edge of the dark to meet me with the assured air of a hostess addressing an intimidated guest. ‘Why, it’s a real fairyland. I don’t believe you’ll even need your coat, Mr Jones. We are all of us so glad to see you back among us. We’ve quite missed you.’ ‘We’ and ‘us’ – I could see them now undazzled by the bonfires; the Toads were all there, standing around a table prepared in the centre of the fires; it glittered with crystal glasses which reflected the to and fro of the flames. The atmosphere was very different from what I remembered of the Porridge Party.
‘Such a shame that this is the very last party,’ Mrs Montgomery said, ‘but you’ll see how he’s giving us a really great farewell. I helped him with the menu myself. No porridge!’
Albert was suddenly beside me, holding a tray of glasses, whisky, dry martinis and Alexanders. ‘I am an Alexander girl,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘This is my third. How absurd it is when people tell you that cocktails spoil the palate. What I always say is, it’s just not-feeling-hungry that spoils the palate.’
Richard Deane in his turn came out of the shadows carrying a gold-embossed menu. I could see he was already well plastered, and there beyond him, between two bonfires, was Mr Kips who actually seemed to be laughing: it was difficult to be quite sure because of his stoop which hid his mouth, but his shoulders were certainly shaking. ‘This is better than porridge,’ Deane said, ‘what a pity that it’s the last party. Do you think the old fellow’s running out of cash?’
‘No, no,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘He always told us that one day there would be the last and the best and the most exciting party of all. Anyway I don’t think he has the heart to go on any longer. After what’s happened. His poor daughter . . .’
‘Has he a heart?’ I asked.
‘Ah, you don’t know him as all of us do. His generosity . . .’ With the automatic reflex of a Pavlov dog she touched the emerald hung around her throat.
‘Drink up and seat yourselves.’
It was Doctor Fischer’s voice which brought us to heel from a dark corner of the garden. I hadn’t seen until then where he was standing. He was stooped over a barrel some twenty yards away, and I could see his hands moving within it as though he were washing them.
‘Just look at the dear man,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘He takes such an interest in every small detail.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s hiding the crackers in the bran tub.’
‘Why not have them on the table?’
‘He doesn’t want people crackling them all through the dinner to find out what’s inside. It was I who told him about the bran tub. Just fancy, he had never heard of such a thing before. I don’t think he can have had a very happy childhood, do you? But he took to the idea at once. You see, he’s put the presents in the crackers and the crackers in the bran tub and we’ll all have to draw them out at random with our eyes shut.’
‘Suppose you get a gold cigar-cutter?’
‘Impossible. These presents have been chosen to suit everyone equally.’
‘What is there in the world which can possibly suit everyone?’
‘Just wait and see. He’ll tell us. Trust him. At bottom, you know, he’s a very sensitive sort of person.’
We sat down at the table. I found myself seated this time between Mrs Montgomery and Richard Deane, and opposite me were Belmont and Mr Kips. The Divisionnaire was at the end of the table facing our host. The array of glasses was impressive and the menu informed me that there would be a 1971 Meursault, a 1969 Mouton Rothschild, and I can’t remember the date of the Cockburn port. At least, I thought, I can drink myself stupid without the help of aspirin. The bottle of Finnish vodka, served with the caviare (this time the caviare was handed to all of us), was enclosed in a solid block of ice in which the petals of hothouse flowers had been frozen. I took off my overcoat and hung it on the back of my chair to guard me from the heat of the bonfire behind. Two gardeners like sentries moved to and fro, their steps unheard on the deep white carpet of the snow, feeding the flames with logs of wood. It was a curiously unnatural scene – so much heat and so much snow, and the snow beneath our chairs was already beginning to melt from the warmth of the bonfires. Soon, I thought, we shall be sitting with our feet in slush.
The caviare in a great bowl was served to us twice, and everyone but myself and Doctor Fischer took a second helping. ‘It’s so healthy,’ Mrs Montgomery explained. ‘Full of vitamin C.’
‘I can drink Finnish vodka with a good conscience,’ Belmont told us, accepting a third glass.
‘They fought a remarkable campaign in the winter of 1939,’ the Divisionnaire said. ‘If the French had done as well in ’40 . . .’
Richard Deane asked me, ‘Did you by any chance see me in The Beaches of Dunkirk?’
‘No. I wasn’t at Dunkirk.’
‘It’s the film I meant.’
‘No. I’m afraid I never saw it. Why?’
‘I just wondered. I think it was quite the best film I ever made.’
With the Mouton Rothschild there was a rôti de boeuf. It had been cooked in a very light pastry which preserved all the juice of the meat. A magnificent dish, of course, but for a moment the sight of the red blood sickened me – I was back at the foot of the ski-lift. ‘Albert,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘you must cut up Mr Jones’s meat for him. He has a deformed hand.’
‘Poor Mr Jones,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘Let me do it. Do you like the pieces cut small?’
‘Pity, always pity,’ the Doctor said. ‘You ought to rewrite the Bible. “Pity your neighbour as you pity yourself.” Women have such an exaggerated sense of pity. My daughter took after her mother in that. Perhaps she married you out of pity, Jones. I’m sure Mrs Montgomery would marry you if you asked her. But pity wears off quickly, when the pitied one is out of sight.’
‘What emotion doesn’t wear off?’ Deane asked.
‘Love,’ Mrs Montgomery replied promptly.
‘I’ve never been able to sleep with the same woman for more than three months,’ Deane said. ‘It becomes a chore.’
‘Then that isn’t real love.’
‘How long were you married, Mrs Montgomery?’
‘Twenty years.’
‘I must explain to you, Deane,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘that Mr Montgomery was a very rich man. A big bank balance helps real love to last longer. But you aren’t eating, Jones. Don’t you find the beef tender enough or perhaps Mrs Montgomery hasn’t cut it up in small enough pieces?’
‘The meat is excellent, but I have no appetite.’ I helped myself to another glass of Mouton Rothschild; it wasn’t for the flavour of the wine that I drank it, for my palate seemed dead, it was for the distant promise of a sort of oblivion.
‘In the normal course, Jones,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘you would have lost your prize by not eating, but at this last party of ours no one will forfeit a prize except by his own express wish.’
‘Who could possibly refuse one of your presents, Doctor Fischer?’ Mrs Montgomery asked.
‘That is what in a few minutes I shall be very interested to discover.’
‘You know it could never happen, you generous man.
’
‘Never is a big word. I’m not so sure that tonight . . . Albert, you are neglecting the glasses. Mr Deane’s is almost empty, and so is Monsieur Belmont’s.’
It was not until we had begun to drink the port (at the end of the meal in the English manner served with Stilton) that he explained his meaning. As usual it was Mrs Montgomery who set him off.
‘My fingers are itching,’ she said, ‘to get at that bran pie.’
‘Just a lot of crackers,’ Doctor Fischer said. ‘Mr Kips, you really mustn’t fall asleep until you pull your cracker. You are blocking the port, Deane. No. Not that way. Where were you educated? Clockwise.’
‘Just crackers,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘You silly man. We know better. It’s what’s in the crackers that counts.’
‘Six crackers,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘and five contain the same pieces of paper.’
‘Pieces of paper?’ Belmont exclaimed and Mr Kips tried to swivel his head in Doctor Fischer’s direction.
‘Mottoes,’ Mrs Montgomery explained. ‘All good crackers contain mottoes.’
‘But what else?’ Belmont demanded.
‘There are no mottoes,’ Doctor Fischer said. ‘These pieces of paper are printed with a certain name and address – Crédit Suisse, Berne.’
‘Surely not cheques?’ Mr Kips asked.
‘Cheques, Mr Kips, and each one made out for the same sum, so that nobody need feel jealous.’
‘I don’t much like the idea of cheques between friends,’ Belmont said. ‘Oh, I know you mean to be kind, Doctor Fischer, and we’ve all appreciated the little presents you have often given us at the end of a party, but cheques – it’s not – well – not very dignified, is it, apart from any fiscal problems?’
‘I’m paying you all off – that’s what it amounts to.’
‘We are not your employees, damn it,’ Richard Deane said.
‘Are you so sure of that? Haven’t you all played your parts for my amusement and your profit? Deane, you for one must have felt quite at home taking my orders. I’ve been just another director, who lends you a talent you don’t possess yourself.’
‘I don’t have to accept your bloody cheque.’
‘You don’t have to, Deane, but you will. Why, you’d play Mr Darling in Peter Pan shut up in a dog kennel if the cheque was large enough.’
‘We’ve had an excellent dinner,’ Belmont said, ‘which we’ll always remember with appreciation. We mustn’t get over-excited. I can understand Deane’s point, but I do think he exaggerates.’
‘Of course you are quite at liberty to refuse my little farewell presents if you wish. I will tell Albert to take away the bran tub. Albert, did you hear me? Take the bran tub to the kitchen – no, wait one moment. Before you decide I think you ought to know what is written on those scraps of paper. Two million francs on each.’
‘Two million!’ Belmont exclaimed.
‘The name is left blank on all the cheques. You can fill in what name you wish. Perhaps Mr Kips would like to donate his cheque to some medical research on curing curvature of the spine. Mrs Montgomery may even want to buy a lover. Deane can partly finance a film. He is in danger of becoming what I believe in his world is called unbankable.’
‘It doesn’t seem quite proper,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘It sort of suggests that you think us mercenary friends.’
‘Didn’t your emerald suggest that?’
‘Jewels from a man one loves are quite different. You don’t realize, Doctor Fischer, how much we love you. Platonic perhaps, but is platonic less real than, well . . . you know what I mean.’
‘Of course I’m aware that not one of you needs two million francs to spend on yourselves. You are all rich enough to give the money away – though I wonder if any of you will.’
‘It does make a certain difference,’ Belmont said, ‘that our names are not on the cheques.’
‘Taxwise,’ Doctor Fischer said, ‘I felt sure it would be more convenient. But you know better about such things than I do.’
‘I was not thinking of that. I was thinking of human dignity.’
‘Ah, yes, I understand you really mean that it’s more difficult to feel insulted by a cheque for two million francs than one for two thousand.’
‘I would have phrased it differently,’ Belmont said.
For the first time the Divisionnaire spoke. He said, ‘I am not a financier like Mr Kips or Monsieur Belmont. I am only a simple soldier, but I cannot see the difference between accepting caviare and accepting a cheque.’
‘Bravo, General,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘It was just what I was going to say myself.’
Mr Kips said, ‘I made no objection. I only asked a question.’
‘I, too,’ Belmont said. ‘As our names are not on the cheques . . . I was only trying to be wise for all of us – especially for Mr Deane who is English. It’s my duty as his tax consultant.’
‘You advise me to accept?’ Deane asked.
‘Under the circumstances, yes.’
‘You can leave the bran tub where it is, Albert,’ said Doctor Fischer.
‘There is something unexplained,’ Mr Kips said. ‘You have mentioned six crackers and five pieces of paper. Is this because Mr Jones is not taking part?’
‘Mr Jones will have the same chance as any of you. In turn you will go to the bran tub and fish for your cracker – you will pull it while you stand by the bran tub and then return to the table. That is to say if you return at all.’
‘What do you mean – if?’ Deane asked.
‘I suggest, before I answer your question, that you all take another glass of port. No, no, please, Deane. I told you before – not anti-clockwise.’
‘You are making us quite tiddly,’ Mrs Montgomery said.
Deane said, ‘You haven’t answered Mr Kips’s question. Why only five pieces of paper?’
‘I drink to the health of all of you,’ Doctor Fischer said, raising his glass. ‘Even if you refuse to draw your cracker you will deserve your dinner, for you are helping me in my last piece of research.’
‘What research?’
‘Into the greed of the rich.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Dear Doctor Fischer. It’s one of his little jokes,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘Drink up, Mr Deane.’
They all drank. I could tell they were more than a little intoxicated – it was only I who seemed hopelessly condemned to the sadness of sobriety however much I drank. I left my glass empty. I was determined to drink no more before I was at home alone and I could drink myself to death if I chose.
‘Jones doesn’t drink our toast. Never mind. Tonight all our rules are relaxed. I have for a long time wanted to test the strength of your greed. You have submitted to a great deal of humiliation and you have accepted it for the sake of the prize which followed. Our Porridge Party was merely the final test. Your greed was greater than any humiliation that I had the imagination to invent.’
‘There was no humiliation, you dear man. It was just your wonderful sense of humour. We enjoyed it all as much as you did.’
‘Now I want to see whether your greed can even overcome your fear – and so I have organized what I would call – a Bomb Party.’
‘What the hell do you mean, Bomb Party?’ Deane’s drinks had made him aggressive.
‘The sixth cracker contains a small charge, lethal probably, which will be set off by one of you when he pulls the cracker. That is why the bran tub is set at a good distance from our table, and that is why the crackers are well buried and the bran tub covered by a lid in case of a spark landing there from one of the bonfires. I may add that it would be useless – indeed perhaps dangerous – for you to crinkle your crackers. They all hold the same type of metal container, but in only one container is there what I call the bomb. In the others are the cheques.’
‘He’s joking,’ Mrs Montgomery told us.
‘Perhaps I am. You will know by the end of the party whether I am or not. Isn’t the gamble worth
while? Death is by no means certain, even if you choose the dangerous cracker, and I give you my word of honour that the cheques anyway are really there. For two million francs.’
‘But if someone was killed,’ Belmont said, winking rapidly, ‘why, it would be murder.’
‘Oh, not murder. I have you all as witnesses. A form of Russian roulette. Not even suicide. I am sure Mr Kips will agree with me. Anyone who doesn’t wish to play should leave the table at once.’
‘I am certainly not going to play,’ said Mr Kips. He looked around for support but he found none. ‘I refuse to be a witness. There will be a great scandal, Doctor Fischer. It’s the least you can expect.’
He rose from the table and, as he paced his back-bent way between the bonfires towards the house, I was again reminded of a little black seven. It seemed odd that a man so handicapped should be the first to refuse the risk of death.
‘There are five chances to one in your favour,’ Doctor Fischer told him as he passed.
‘I have never gambled for money,’ Mr Kips said. ‘I consider it highly immoral.’
In a strange way his words seemed to lighten the atmosphere. The Divisionnaire said, ‘I don’t see any immorality in gambling. I have passed many a happy week at Monte Carlo. I once won three times consecutively on 19.’
‘Sometimes I have been across the lake to the casino in Evian,’ Belmont said. ‘Never high stakes. But I am by no means a puritan in these matters.’ It was as if they had quite forgotten the bomb. Perhaps it was only I and Mr Kips who believed that Doctor Fischer had spoken the truth.
‘Mr Kips took you too seriously,’ Mrs Montgomery said. ‘He has no sense of humour.’
Doctor Fischer of Geneva or the Bomb Party Page 9
