Flames Coming out of the Top (12 page)

At the top he stopped suddenly. He had almost walked into someone. The landing was in darkness and all that he could see in front of him was a figure. Then the figure moved. It was the tall daughter of the house.

He said good-night to her hurriedly and passed on. As a stranger he was better out of the way; no doubt upsets of this kind were of frequent enough occurrence at the Avenida. And then a doubt crossed his mind. Perhaps she was going to tackle the thing single-handed. He turned back again and saw that she was already halfway down the stairs.

“Hi! don't do that,” he shouted. “I'll come and help you.”

The landlord had taken up a stand when they got to him. He held the bamboo table before him in the attitude of a gladiator. Whenever his daughter addressed him he raised it threateningly.

“Put it down,” she advised.

“And lose my liberty?”

“You've been drinking too much.”

“You insult me.”

“Will you put that table down?”

“Go back to bed before I drive you there.”

“Must we take it away from you by force?”

“If you lay a finger upon this table I'll call the police.”

“Put it down.”

“And lose my liberty?”

Dunnett finally got it away from him by guile. He edged up in his direction as though he were a friend and suddenly knocked the table clean out of his grasp. The landlord appeared dazed for a moment and then collapsed onto a couch, his head between his knees. He did not move. After a moment it became apparent that he was crying. His shoulders heaved and the red silk sash of the Order of Bolivian Eagles came away and hung limply across his knees. Dunnett helped him to his feet.

Considering his state he came quietly. His legs dragged a little and his whole body seemed to resent the vertical. But
he did not struggle. Only once did he begin to expostulate. That was when he reached the top of the stairs and turned and looked back to the work he had left half done. He gave a little cry of vexation when he saw one side of the room entirely untouched.

Once upstairs, too, the landlord appeared to regain possession of his legs. He insisted on walking. He swayed down the corridor as though it were the alleyway of a ship, volubly thanking Dunnett for his assistance. It was, he assured him over his shoulder, a service which he would never forget. He turned into the bedroom at the far end and the door slammed after him. From the room into which he had just gone came the sounds of things falling over.

The girl turned to Dunnett. “It is only sometimes that he is like this,” she said. “He has been in bad company.”

As soon as he had breakfasted, Dunnett went round to the Post Office to register his formal complaint. The place wore a strangely shut-up and sequestered air; evidently the people of Amricante did not concern themselves very much with correspondence in the morning. Most of the counters had cardboard signs hung over the ornate brass rails to indicate that the presiding genii were away; and the expanse of black and white flooring was broken in its monotony only by the scrubbing apparatus of a withered cleaner who was struggling to keep up the appearance of civic dignity. Dunnett walked angrily up to the grille marked
Telégramas
and waited. There was only one elderly official there. He was sticking postage stamps and sealing wax and rubber imprints all over a small registered parcel that had just been handed to him. Between these operations he would reweigh it, always with the same intent look of fascination on his face. Then he would put it on the desk in front of him and copy out all the particulars once more. From the way he was cherishing it and fondling it he might have been trying to hatch it. He eyed Dunnett with distaste as soon as he had understood his question.

“Was I given your cable?” he asked.

“You were not,” Dunnett answered.

“Have we ever met before?”

“Not so far as I know.”

“Then how do you imagine I should know anything about your cable?” He hammered on his desk with his fist and thrust his face to the bars. “Do you imagine that I can interrupt my work at all times to hear complaints such as these? Here I have an important parcel to send off”—he indicated the little object on the pad in front of him—“and I am asked about a
cable”
His voice rose into a shrill scream of contempt at the word.

“Then I must see the Postmaster?” Harold replied. “It is impossible to see the Postmaster.”

“I shall demand to see him.”

“About your cable?”

“Certainly.”

“I tell you it is impossible. It has never been heard of.”

“Well, it's going to be heard of now.”

“Never.”

“Why not?”

“The Postmaster is not here.”

“Well, when will he be here?”

“The Postmaster is never present in the mornings. He can be seen by appointment only in the afternoons.”

“Then I'll see the Sub-Postmaster.”

“You are speaking to the Sub-Postmaster.”

Harold paused, “And you decline to do anything?”

The Sub-Postmaster spread out his hands. “I am powerless,” he said.

“Then I'll refer the whole matter to the British Consul.”

The note of diplomatic formality was evidently something which the bureaucratic mind understood. The Sub-Postmaster was clearly impressed. His attitude changed when he saw the incident as something that might mean British warships standing off the town in Amricante Bay.

“The British Consul could not assist you,” he said. “Only the Postmaster could do that.”

“And I can't wait for the Postmaster,” Dunnett answered. “The Postmaster can try to explain to the Consul when he sees him. It's out of my hands now.”

He turned on his heel and left him. When he had reached the door he heard a shout behind him. It was the Sub-Postmaster. He was in a rage about something. For a moment Dunnett could distinguish nothing that he was saying. And then the words reached him. “You have made me put a wrong stamp on this parcel,” he was crying. “The wrong stamp for the first time in thirty years. The wrong stamp on an important parcel. …”

Dunnett found the English Consul down by the Docks. There was certainly no mistaking the house when he got there. The front was covered with national emblems—British, Finnish, Turkish, Brazilian, and Dutch; Señor Costello had evidently got himself a corner in the consular business. Apart from the official connections, however, the house was not a particularly prepossessing one. The lower part was a chandler's and marine store dealer's: the windows were filled with balls of tarred twine, oil lamps swung in gimbals, packs of playing cards, Sou'westers, bottles of aperient entitled “The Sailor's Friend,” reliable watches, packets of dubious looking picture postcards and prismatic compasses. On hooks above the doorway hung a collection of fashionable misfits for shore wear—pale yellow overcoats with brown velvet collars, shoes in black-and-white calf, hats with nine inch brims. Dunnett went inside and asked if Señor Costello was about. The small, unshaven man behind the counter was polite and servile, he enquired the nature of Dunnet's business and then asked to be excused for a moment. Dunnett could hear him talking to someone inside, and then he reappeared. “Please to follow,” he said. He led the way into what was clearly a private sitting-room. Dunnett noticed that he had put a coat on and combed his hair; altogether he had spruced up considerably since Dunnett's arrival. He seated himself at the round table in the middle and faced his visitor importantly.

“Your complaint, please,” he said, “I will write it down.” As he spoke he produced a pen, a large bottle of ink and a writing pad.

“You are Señor Costello?”

“Si.”

“Then I wish to complain about the conduct of the local Post Office.”

“The Post Office. But that is quite impossible.”

“Why is it impossible?”

“It is a Government department. No good can come of complaining about a Government department.”

“You refuse to help me?”

“No; I do not refuse. I only advise you that it will be of no use. The letters have always been late here. It is the old trouble; when the postmen cannot read they are unable to discover the addresses, and when they can read they stop to open the letters. There is no way out.”

“I didn't come to complain about my letters being late. I came because the contents of my cable were communicated to a third party.”

“Perhaps it was a mistake.”

“It was a very interested third party. It was no mistake from his point of view.”

“Then perhaps the third party bribed someone. You cannot hold the Post Office responsible for that.”

“I hold the Postmaster responsible.”

“But the Postmaster is a very good man.”

“Then no doubt he will do something when he finds out.”

“But he will not be able to find out in time.”

“He will if you tell him.”

“But he will not be there.”

“Why not?”

“His child died to-day. He is a very unhappy man.”

“They didn't say anything about that at the Post Office this morning.”

“Why should they to you-—a stranger?”

“But they said he would be there this afternoon.”

“Perhaps they did not know of his bereavement.”

“When did his child die?”

The British Consul spread his hands. “Who knows?” he said. “No doubt last night, or early to-day. Death does not wait on ceremony.”

“I don't care anything about the Postmaster's private affairs, do you understand?” Dunnett replied. “I ask you to make a report on this.”

The Consul shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, very well, if you want to create trouble.” He took up his pen and stood by ready to write. “In the first place, the name of the third party, please?”

“Señor Muras.”

The Consul put his pen down again. “But that is ridiculous,” he said. “Señor Muras has been our Mayor.”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“Señor Muras has a right to know.”

“Do you mean to tell me that the Señor has a right to know the contents of my cable?”

“But naturally. He is the Chairman of our Watch Committee. He is possessed of powers vested only in the police. If I had known that it was Señor Muras of whom you were speaking I would never have consented to act against him. Señor Muras is a trustee of the Opera: Señor Muras is a very influential man.”

“So that's your last word, is it?”

“How else?” The Consul became appealing. “Do you expect me to thrust my head into the lion's jaws? I have my business to consider. And my wife. And my family. And my wife's family. It is not to be thought of. …”

“Very well,” Dunnett replied. “We'll say no more about this at the moment, but you'll hear more from me later. I'm not going to let this drop. It's a scandal, do you hear me?”

The Consul rose and put his hand on Dunnett's arm. “Is it wise,” he said, “to add an indiscretion to a scandal? If you said anything in the cable that has offended Señor Muras you can always apologise. It may not affect you adversely. Besides,
you do not want the Post Office to refuse to accept your cables altogether. …”

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Dunnett reached the Compañia Muras. A small crowd was collected around the gateway. The object of their curiosity was one of the white stucco gateposts which had been knocked down on its side and had shed its stucco in great flakes across the roadway. As a spectacle it lacked perhaps some of the finer points: it was all climax. But the crowd was exhibiting its national genius for sensation. It stood round and chattered and gesticulated; when one of the children bolder than the rest picked up a piece of stucco as a memento and brandished it above his head the onlookers became quite out of hand for a moment: they all wanted a piece of stucco as a memento.

Dunnett pushed his way through them without pausing. They seemed to respect authority. Only the elderly negro who had apparently appointed himself custodian to this treasure interfered with him. He hobbled forward, his lips slavering with excitement. “Señor,” he exclaimed delightedly. “The gatepost. Last night. One of the lorries. The driver had been drinking. First to one side and then to the other. And then, crash.” The negro threw up his hands to indicate the magnitude of the impact and tried to catch Dunnett by the arm. “Ruin everywhere. If you wait I'll show you where it hit.”

When he had thrown the old man off, Dunnett looked at the compound. It was tracked and counter-tracked by the marks of lorries; they ran and crossed each other like the lines at a railway junction. Evidently there had been great activity at the Compañia Muras last night.

The polite, beautiful youth was ready for him when he got to the office. He had evidently seen Dunnett's approach, and was standing at the door, smiling and bowing. The German clerks did not pause to look up; to all appearances they might have been working without stopping ever since he last saw them. Dunnett walked past them into the inner-room
where the ledgers were kept. The day sheets which had been found with so much difficulty were now on the table ready. He did not doubt that one by one he would be able to extract the other ledgers as he needed them.

To anyone seriously interested in book-keeping, the ledgers were significant and revealing pieces of work. So far as the initial entries were concerned, everything was superficially all right. The totals at so much a gross, for bars of soap and packets of brass screws and tins of oil, had been correctly and painstakingly extended. Even the daily totals were beyond criticism. But there, good book-keeping stopped. Another and less precise pen had been through afterwards adjusting things to suit its own fancy. Twelve gross of this or that had been altered by progressive stages to ten, nine, eight and a half, and seven gross, and fifteen hundredweight of soft sugar had somehow dwindled to eleven. The total on the page had been suitably diminished as though to prove that this decimation of stock was not an illusion. But whoever had made the alteration had stopped at that point. His attention had not proceeded so far as the daily total. That remained at its original optimistic estimate. And the monthly total was similarly untouched. It was a smiling caricature of its correct self.