The Sibyl in Her Grave (19 page)

Rather to my alarm, the waiters all greeted Terry like a long-lost brother or nephew: the thing most likely to inspire such fond and enduring memories seemed to me to be a habit of reckless overtipping, which I feared I would be expected to emulate.

It also occurred to me that this might well be the same restaurant in which Sir Robert was taken ill in the summer. I decided not to risk the
moules marinières
.

I refrained throughout the meal from any mention of bookcases. Terry was in an odd sort of mood, one moment excessively animated, the next despondent, so that I was reluctant to say anything which might depress his spirits. Besides, on the first evening of his holiday, I felt it would be unkind to reproach him. On the other hand, I thought it no more than polite to enquire about his plans for the refurbishment of Benjamin’s flat.

“Oh,” he said vaguely, “I’m thinking
fin de siècle
. Aubrey Beardsley and winters in Egypt and so on—you know the kind of thing.”

But I was dismayed to observe that he spoke listlessly, with none of the enthusiasm which he used to show for such matters. I began to wonder if there were such a thing as carpenters’ block, like writers’ block, causing carpenters to be incapable of getting on with any work, and, if so, how long it might last.

So preoccupied was I with this question that I almost failed to notice the entry into the restaurant of the very people in whom I was so deeply interested—that is to say, Sir Robert Renfrew and his two codirectors, accompanied, of course, by Miss Tavistock.

For some reason—perhaps Lady Renfrew had objected to spending an evening hearing them talk business—they had evidently decided, like ourselves, to eat out. It was clear that Sir Robert was a known and valued customer: the headwaiter greeted him by name and deferentially conducted him with his guests to the table in the alcove next to ours.

I now felt no doubt at all that this was indeed the restaurant where he had suffered his attack of food poisoning last summer. It seemed likely, however, from the fact of his returning there, that he did not hold the restaurant to blame for it—presumably he is well aware that on that occasion he had not actually eaten anything. I even began to wonder, indeed, whether he himself suspected that one of his codirectors had had some hand in the business and was staging one of those reenactments of the crime which I believe are popular in detective fiction. I thought that if so he was being extremely foolhardy.

The new arrivals took no particular notice of Terry and myself. There was no reason why they should—apart from Sir Robert’s unfortunate collision with Terry a few months ago, which we all hope he has entirely forgotten, none of them had met either of us before. And since Terry was gossiping away with one of the waiters in fluent
though ungrammatical French, they probably did not even realise that we were English.

In these circumstances I found that I was able—as of course you know, I would not dream of deliberate eavesdropping, but these carved screens do give an illusion of privacy and they were making no effort to lower their voices—that I was unable to avoid hearing a substantial part of their conversation. Moreover, when we had finished our main course Terry went off to the kitchen to say hello to the chef, who he said was an old friend of his, leaving me with nothing to distract me from it.

I gathered that Sir Robert had suddenly decided that morning that the time was ripe to proceed with a major acquisition which the Bank had for some time been considering on behalf of a client; he had summoned his fellow directors to Cannes with a view to taking action before the Christmas holiday. If I had known which company they were talking about, I might have managed to persuade myself that there would be nothing improper in having a modest flutter on it: but they all discreetly referred to it as “the target company,” rather than by name. Indeed, it appeared that before their arrival here neither Albany nor Bolton had known which company was to be the subject of discussion.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Chairman,” said Albany, sounding decidedly peevish, “it’s a pity you didn’t feel able to tell us before we left London which target you had in mind. We’d have found it helpful to check what we had on file about it—at least, I know I would.”

“Ah well,” said Bolton, in his pronounced Lancashire accent, “I dare say we’ve looked at this one often enough to know pretty well what’s what.”

“It’s a question of security,” said Sir Robert. “Once you start mentioning names on the telephone, you might as well make a public broadcast and have done with it.”

Still, it must have been a little disconcerting for them, like being at school and having an unexpected exam—particularly for Albany, who evidently remembered almost nothing about the company under discussion. His rival, on the other hand, despite the lack of preparation, seemed to have all the relevant details at his fingertips.

Becoming, as a result of this, increasingly illhumoured, Albany rather forgot himself. He began making remarks to Bolton which were close to being openly offensive, most inadequately disguised as the kind of jovial banter acceptable between friends and colleagues. For example, after Bolton had asked some question about the meaning of something on the menu: “I say, Bolton, old chap, don’t you find it a bit of a bore not knowing any French? Why don’t you go on one of those courses?

“Nowt wrong with plain, old-fashioned English, in my opinion. It were good enough for old Bill Shakespeare, weren’t it? And he were a great writer—or so they tell me.”

“So most educated people seem to think. But I suppose they didn’t go in for literature much at that college of yours at—where was it? Sorry, I always forget—Birmingham, was it?”

“It were Worcester—bit southwest of
Birmingham. Oh aye, there were a few lads there that studied poetry and such, but I wanted summat that would help me make a bit of brass.”

Even without the possibility of anyone being poisoned, I could hardly imagine, in such an atmosphere, that any of them was having a very agreeable evening. It must have been rather a relief to them when the lights, already low, were dimmed still further, the pianist took his place at the piano and the patron stepped forward to tell us that we were to have the inestimable privilege of hearing
la belle Zingara
, who had just returned to Cannes after her acclaimed tour of European capitals.

Whether Madame Zingara had any just claim to be described as beautiful it was impossible to tell: one had an impression merely of a tall, slim woman with a mass of dark hair and wearing more than enough makeup to conceal any defects of complexion. She was swathed in some kind of white, gauzy material, draped round her in the manner of a sari or toga. Inasmuch as it completely covered her from neck to ankle, one might have considered it a rather decorous garment; but the undulating movement of her hips and shoulders somehow made it look as if it were continuously in the process of slithering to the ground, so that the actual effect was rather the reverse.

When she began to sing, however, her voice was unexpectedly attractive: a husky contralto with a touch of harshness, not of course in the class of Lenya or Mercouri but more than acceptable for delivering the same songs. So we had “Surabaya Johnny” and “Banal” and several others of that sort, mainly on the theme of overtrusting women deserted
by heartless lovers. These were interspersed with songs of a rather different type, all unfamiliar to me and in the highest degree improper: from what I understood of them, which was rather less than half, I was extremely glad of my inability to understand the rest. The audience, however, seemed to find them amusing: they were greeted with much laughter and enthusiastic applause.

I felt a certain uneasiness, while all this was going on, about those in the adjoining alcove. The conditions were rather worryingly suitable, if one really believed Albany or Bolton to be capable of such a thing, for putting something unwholesome in someone’s coffee cup. Still, there was nothing I could do about it. So far as I could tell, nothing untoward occurred save for Bolton suffering a fit of coughing and Albany, with manifestly insincere solicitude, thumping him on the back.

Madame Zingara concluded her performance with “Pirate Jenny” from
The Threepenny Opera
. She moved round the restaurant as she sang it, hips and shoulders still undulating, white muslin still apparently precarious, pausing at each table to hold out a large copper bowl. Having not quite expected this, I wondered anxiously what sort of sum it would be proper to contribute.

By chance, or so I imagined, my table was the last in her circuit, so that I had ample time to reflect on this question and to curse Terry for staying gossiping in the kitchen—I assumed that as an habitué he would have known how much was expected.

I finally settled on fifty francs as an amount
which could be neither insultingly small nor ludicrously generous and by the time she reached my table had a note of that value ready to place in the copper bowl. She waved it away, however, saying,
“Ah, on ne prend pas de l’argent d’un joli garçon comme vous.”

I looked at her in surprise and considerable embarrassment. She smiled and fluttered her long, mascaraed eyelashes. Under the heavy makeup I now recognised the features of our truant carpenter.

I was speechless. Fortunately, because anything I said would have been profane; it would also have been in English and audible at the next table.

“Mais comment ça arrive que vous trouvez tout seul?”
the shameless creature continued.

I collected myself sufficiently to reply in the same language that I was with a friend: and that if he did not shortly rejoin me I should be extremely cross.

By the time he returned to our table, dressed in the rather more conventional garments he had arrived in, Sir Robert’s party had left, apparently without mishap.

My intention had been, once we were back at the flat, to speak to him severely about his disgraceful conduct and then to retire early to bed. Somehow or other, this was not at all what happened. I had scarcely begun my lecture when he said, “Don’t scold me, Desmond, I only did it to cheer myself up a bit. I’m feeling so miserable,” and I could not bring myself to go on.

He has a broken heart, poor boy, having formed a deep attachment which he believed
reciprocal and found was not. “Cast aside,” he said, “like the proverbial soiled glove. Too banal for words, isn’t it?”

We sat up until nearly three in the morning, drinking Benjamin’s brandy and playing Marlene Dietrich songs while I tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade him that from time to time in human history the same thing has happened to other people and they have sometimes managed to get over it. I even suggested the possibility of a reconciliation with the object of his attachment; but I was given to understand that things had been said which made this out of the question. If the object were to walk barefoot across France to beg for Terry’s forgiveness and present him with a train of forty snow-white camels, laden with gold and diamonds and boxes of
marrons glacés
, such forgiveness would not now be forthcoming. I am not feeling optimistic about our bookcases.

The noises from the flat next door are becoming quite alarming—I can hardly imagine an ailment worth such an agonising cure as Natasha seems to provide.

So far I have not seen anyone on the roof terrace this morning, nor much expected to, having gathered last night that the morning’s work at the villa would consist mainly of Geoffrey Bolton making telephone calls. There has been, however, a certain amount of interesting activity in the
place
.

Shortly before ten o’clock, just as I was beginning my breakfast, Edgar Albany came into the
place
and walked across in the direction of the slightly disreputable bar I mentioned. Unfortunately, the bar itself is out of view from
here, being on the same side of the
place
as this building: I am thus unable to tell you for certain whether he actually went into it and if so whether he stayed there.

My guess, though, is that he did, because almost immediately afterwards Miss Tavistock also came into the
place
and sat down in the café on the opposite side, from which she would certainly be able to see all the comings and goings through the door of the slightly disreputable bar.

Miss Tavistock does not strike me as the sort of woman who would normally fritter her time away in a café on a morning when there is work to be done. I am now as certain as can be that Sir Robert is repeating the experiment he tried when Selena was here: Miss Tavistock is acting on instructions to keep Albany under surveillance while he is outside the villa.

But if I am right about that, I also think that he has somehow eluded her—perhaps inadvertently, with no idea that she was keeping watch on him. A few minutes ago, after she had been in the café for about half an hour, she made a telephone call. After that she paid her bill and left, presumably to return to the villa. I think that Albany must have come out of the bar and done something, such as hailing a taxi, which prevented her from following. The telephone call would have been to Sir Robert to report and ask further instructions.

I am becoming quite seriously concerned about what is happening next door. I have just seen Natasha driving away in her car, and yet the cries of pain continue unabated—indeed, they almost sound like cries for help. I do not wish to do
anything to offend her after she has been so kind, but it does seem irresponsible of her to have left her patient on his own in such a condition as he appears to be in.

I have decided to run down to the postbox, so that this catches the eleven o’clock post and has some chance of reaching you before Christmas Day, and on my way back to knock discreetly at her door. If there is no answer and the cries are still continuing, I shall climb across onto her balcony, which adjoins this one, and find out what is going on.

In haste, therefore, and hoping that you and your aunt both have a splendid Christmas and an excellent New Year,

Yours,
Desmond