‘You mean he’s gone?’
‘Disappeared. Never went home last night. Very mysterious.’
It was cold. Myatt shut the window and with his hands in the pockets of his fur coat walked up and down the room, three paces this way and three paces that. He said slowly, ‘I’m not surprised. He couldn’t face me, I suppose.’
‘He told me a few days ago that he felt you didn’t trust him. He was hurt, very hurt.’
Myatt said slowly and carefully, ‘I never trust a Jew who has turned Christian.’
‘Oh come, Mr Myatt, isn’t that a little dogmatic?’ Stein said with a trace of discomfort.
‘Perhaps. I suppose,’ Myatt said, stopping in the middle of the room, with his back to Stein, but with Stein’s body reflected to the knees in a gilt mirror, ‘he had gone further in his negotiations than he had ever let me know.’
‘Oh, the negotiations,’ Stein’s image in the mirror was less comfortable than his voice, ‘they, of course, were finished.’
‘He had told you we wouldn’t buy?’
‘He’d bought.’
Myatt nodded. He was not surprised. There must have been a good deal behind Eckman’s disappearance. Stein said slowly, ‘I’m really worried about poor Eckman. I can’t bear to think he may have killed himself.’
‘I don’t think you need worry. He’s just retired from business, I expect. A little hurriedly.’
‘You see,’ Stein said, ‘he had worries.’
‘Worries?’
‘Well, there was the feeling that you didn’t trust him. And then he didn’t have any children. He wanted children. He had a lot to worry him, Mr Myatt. One must be charitable.’
‘But I am not a Christian, Mr Stein. I don’t believe that charity is the chief virtue. Can I see the paper he signed?’
‘Of course.’ Mr Stein drew a long envelope folded in two from the pocket of his tweed coat. Myatt sat down, spread the pages out on a table, and read them carefully. He made no comment and his expression conveyed nothing. No one could have told how great was his happiness at being back with figures, with something that he could understand and that had no feelings. When he finished reading, he leant back and stared at his nails; they had been manicured before he left London, but they needed attention already.
Mr Stein asked gently, ‘Had a good journey? Trouble in Belgrade didn’t affect you, I suppose?’
‘No,’ Myatt said, with an absent mind. It was true. It seemed to him that the whole unexplained incident at Subotica was unreal. Very soon he would have forgotten it because it was isolated from ordinary life and because it had no explanation. He said, ‘Of course you know we could drive a coach through this agreement.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Mr Stein said. ‘Poor Eckman was your credited agent. You left him in charge of the negotiations.’
‘He never had the authority to sign this. No, Mr Stein, this is no good to you, I’m afraid.’
Mr Stein sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs. He smelt of pipe smoke and tweeds. ‘Of course, Mr Myatt,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to force anything down your throat. My motto is: Never let down a fellow businessman. I’d tear that agreement up now, Mr Myatt, if it was the fair thing to do. But you see, since poor Eckman signed this, Moults’ have given up. They won’t reopen their offer now.’
‘I know just how far Moults’ were interested in currants,’ Myatt said.
‘Well, you see, under the circumstances, and in all friendliness, Mr Myatt, if you tear that agreement up, I shall have to fight it. Mind if I smoke?’
‘Have a cigar.’
‘Mind if I have a pipe?’ He began to stuff a pale sweet tobacco into the bowl.
‘I suppose Eckman got a commission on this?’
‘Ah, poor Eckman,’ Mr Stein said enigmatically. ‘I’d really like you to come along and see Mrs Eckman. She’s very worried.’
‘She has no need to worry if his commission was big enough.’ Mr Stein smiled and lit his pipe. Myatt began to read the agreement over again. It was true that it could be upset, but courts of law were chancy things. A good barrister might give a lot of trouble. There were figures one would rather not see published. After all Stein’s business was of value to the firm. What he disliked was the price and the directorship granted to Stein. Even the price was not out of the question, but he could not bear the intrusion of a stranger into the family business. He said, ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. We’ll tear this up and make you a new offer.’
Mr Stein shook his head. ‘Come now, that wouldn’t be quite fair to me, would it, Mr Myatt?’ Myatt decided what he would do. He did not want to worry his father with a lawsuit. He would accept the agreement on condition that Stein resigned the directorship. But he was not going to show his hand yet; Stein might crumple. ‘Sleep on it, Mr Stein,’ he advised.
‘Well, that,’ Mr Stein said cheerfully, ‘I doubt if I shall be allowed to do. Not if I know the girls of today. I’m meeting a niece here this afternoon. She travelled out on your train from Cologne. Poor Pardoe’s child.’
Myatt took out his cigar-case, and while he chose and cut a cigar, decided what he would do. He began to despise Stein. He talked too much and gave away unnecessary information. No wonder his business had not prospered. At the same time Myatt’s vague attraction to Stein’s niece crystallized. The knowledge that her mother had been a Jewess made him feel suddenly at home with her. She became approachable, and he was ashamed of the stiffness of his company the night before. They had dined together in the train on his return from Subotica, but all the time he had been on his best behaviour. He said slowly, ‘Oh yes, I met Miss Pardoe on the train. In fact she’s down below now. We came from the station together.’
It was Mr Stein’s turn to weigh his words. When he spoke it was at a slight significant tangent. ‘Poor girl, she’s got no parents. My wife thought we ought to have her to stay. I’m her guardian, you see.’ They sat side by side with the table between them. On it lay the agreement signed by Mr Eckman. They did not mention it; business seemed laid aside, but Stein and Myatt knew that the whole discussion had been reopened. Each was aware of the thought in the other’s mind, but they spoke in evasions.
‘Your sister,’ Myatt said, ‘must have been a lovely woman.’
‘She got her looks from her father,’ Mr Stein said. Neither would admit that they were interested in Janet Pardoe’s beauty. Even her grandparents were mentioned before her. ‘Did your family come from Leipzig?’ Myatt asked.
‘That’s right. It was my father who brought the business here.’
‘You found it a mistake?’
‘Oh. come now, Mr Myatt, You’ve seen the figures. It wasn’t as bad as that. But I want to sell out and retire while I can still enjoy life.’
‘How do you mean?’ Myatt asked with curiosity. ‘How enjoy life?’
‘Well, I’m not very much interested in business,’ Mr Stein said.
Myatt repeated with amazement, ‘Not interested in business?’
‘Golf,’ said Mr Stein, ‘and a little place in the country. That’s what I look forward to.’
The shock passed, and Myatt again noted that Stein gave away too much information. Stein’s expansive manner was his opportunity; he flashed the conversation back to the agreement: ‘Why do you want this directorship then? I think perhaps I could come near to meeting you on the money question if you resigned the directorship.’
‘I don’t want it for myself necessarily,’ said Mr Stein, puffing at his pipe between his phrases, squinting sideways at Myatt’s lengthening ash, ‘but I’d like—for the sake of tradition, you know—to have one of the family on the board.’ He gave a long candid chuckle. ‘But I have no son. Not even a nephew.’
Myatt said thoughtfully, ‘You’ll have to encourage your niece,’ and they both laughed and walked downstairs together. Janet Pardoe was nowhere to be seen.
‘Miss Pardoe gone out?’ he asked Mr Kalebdjian.
‘No, Mr Myatt, Miss Pardoe has
just gone to the restaurant with Mr Savory.’
‘Ask them to wait lunch twenty minutes, and Mr Stein and I will join them.’
There was a slight tussle to be last through the swing door; the friendship between Myatt and Mr Stein grew rapidly.
When they were in a taxi on the way to Mr Eckman’s flat, Stein spoke, ‘This Savory,’ he said, ‘who’s he?’
‘Just a writer,’ said Myatt.
‘Is he hanging round Janet?’
‘Friendly,’ Myatt said. ‘They met on the train.’ He clasped his hands over his knees and sat silent, contemplating seriously the subject of marriage. She is very lovely, he thought, she is refined, she would make a good hostess, she is half Jewish.
‘I’m her guardian,’ said Mr Stein. ‘Ought I perhaps to speak to him?’
‘He’s well off.’
‘Yes, but a writer,’ said Mr Stein. ‘I don’t like it. They are chancy. I’d like to see her married to a steady fellow in business.’
‘She was introduced to him, I think, by this woman she’s been living with in Cologne.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Stein, uncomfortably, ‘she’s been earning her own living since her poor parents died. I didn’t interfere. It’s good for a girl, but my wife thought we ought to see something of her, so I invited her here. Thought perhaps we could find her a better job near us.’
They swerved round a miniature policeman standing on a box to direct traffic and climbed a hill. Below them, between a tall bare tenement and a telegraph-pole, the domes of the Blue Mosque floated up like a cluster of azure soap bubbles.
Mr Stein was still uneasy. ‘It’s good for a girl,’ he repeated. ‘And the firm’s been taking up all my time lately. But when this sale is through,’ he added brightly, ‘I’ll settle something on her.’
The taxi drew into a small dark courtyard, containing a solitary dustbin, but the long stair they climbed was lighted by great windows and the whole of Stamboul seemed to flow out beneath them. They could see St Sophia and the Fire Tower and a long stretch of water up the western side of the Golden Horn towards Eyub. ‘A fine situation,’ said Mr Stein. ‘There’s not a better flat in Constantinople,’ and he rang the bell, but Myatt was thinking of the cost and wondering how much the firm had contributed to Mr Eckman’s view.
The door opened. Mr Stein did not trouble to give his name to the maid, but led the way down a white panelled passage which trapped the sun like a tawny beast between its windows. ‘A friend of the family?’ Myatt suggested. ‘Oh, poor Eckman and I have been quite intimate for some time now,’ said Mr Stein, flinging open a door on to a great glassy drawing-room, in which a piano and a bowl of flowers and a few steel chairs floated in primrose air. ‘Well, Emma,’ said Mr Stein, ‘I’ve brought along Mr Carleton Myatt to see you.’
There were no dark corners in the room, no shelter from the flow of soft benevolent light, but Mrs Eckman had done her best to hide behind the piano which stretched like a polished floor between them. She was small and grey and fashionably dressed, but her clothes did not suit her. She reminded Myatt of an old family maid who wears her mistress’s discarded frocks. She had a pile of sewing under her arm and she whispered her welcome from where she stood, not venturing any farther on to the sun-splashed floor.
‘Well, Emma,’ said Mr Stein, ‘have you heard anything from your husband?’
‘No. Not yet. No,’ she said. She added with bright misery, ‘He’s such a bad correspondent,’ and asked them to sit down. She began to hide away needles and cotton and balls of wool and pieces of flannel in a large work-bag. Mr Stein stared uncomfortably from steel chair to steel chair. ‘Can’t think why poor Eckman bought all this stuff,’ he breathed to Myatt.
Myatt said: ‘You mustn’t worry, Mrs Eckman. I’ve no doubt you’ll hear from your husband today.’
She stopped in the middle of her tidying and watched Myatt’s lips.
‘Yes, Emma,’ said Stein, ‘directly poor Eckman knows how well Mr Myatt and I agree, he’ll come hurrying home.’
‘Oh,’ Mrs Eckman whispered from her corner, away from the shining floor, ‘I don’t mind if he doesn’t come back here. I’d go to him anywhere. This isn’t home,’ she said with a small emphatic gesture and dropped a needle and two pearl buttons.
‘Well, I agree,’ Mr Stein remarked and blew out his cheeks. ‘I don’t understand what your husband sees in all this steel stuff. Give me some good mahogany pieces and a couple of arm-chairs a man can go to sleep in.’
‘Oh, but my husband has very good taste,’ Mrs Eckman whispered hopelessly, her frightened eyes peering out from under her fashionable hat like a mouse lost in a wardrobe.
‘Well,’ Myatt said impatiently, ‘I’m sure you needn’t worry at all about your husband. He’s been upset about business, that’s all. There’s no reason to think that he’s—that anything has happened to him.’
Mrs Eckman emerged from behind the piano and came across the floor, twisting her hands nervously. ‘I’m not afraid of that,’ she said. She stopped between them and then turned round and went back quickly to her corner. Myatt was startled. ‘Then what are you afraid of?’ he asked.
She nodded her head at the bright steely room. ‘My husband’s so modern,’ she said with fear and pride. Then her pride went out, and with her hands plunged in her workbasket, among the buttons and the balls of wool, she said, ‘He may not want to come back for me.’
‘Well, what do you think of that?’ Mr Stein said as he went downstairs.
‘Poor woman,’ Myatt said.
‘Yes, yes, poor woman,’ Mr Stein repeated, blowing his nose in an honest emotional way. He felt hungry, but Myatt had more to do before lunch, and Mr Stein stuck close. He felt that with every taxi they shared, their intimacy grew, and apart altogether from their plans for Janet Pardoe, intimacy with Myatt was worth several thousand pounds a year to him. The taxi rattled down a steep cobbled street out into the cramped square by the general post office, and then down-hill again to Galata and the docks. At the top of a dingy stair they reached the small office, crammed with card indexes and dispatch-boxes, with only one window that looked out on to a high wall and the top of a steamer’s funnel. Dust lay thick on the sill. It was the room which had given birth to the great glassy drawing-room, as an elderly mother may bear an artist as her last child. A grandfather clock, which with the desk filled most of the remaining space, struck two, but early as it was Joyce was there. A typist disappeared into a kind of boot cupboard at the back of the room.
‘Any news of Eckman?’
‘No, sir,’ said Joyce. Myatt glanced at a few letters and then left him, crouched like a faithful dog over Eckman’s desk and Eckman’s transgressions. ‘And now lunch,’ he said. Mr Stein moistened his lips. ‘Hungry?’ Myatt asked.
‘I had an early breakfast,’ said Mr Stein without reproach.
But Janet Pardoe and Mr Savory had not waited for them. They were drinking coffee and liqueurs in the blue-tiled restaurant when Myatt and Mr Stein exclaimed how lucky it was that his niece and Myatt had met already and were friends. Janet Pardoe said nothing, but watched him with peaceful eyes, and smiled once at Myatt. She seemed to Myatt to be saying, ‘How little does he know of us,’ and he smiled back before he remembered that there was nothing to know.
‘So I suppose you two,’ said Mr Stein, ‘kept each other company all the way from Cologne.’
Mr Savory asserted himself, ‘Well, I think your niece saw more of me,’ but Mr Stein swept on, eliminating him. ‘Got to know each other well, eh?’
Janet Pardoe opened her soft pronounced lips a little way and said softly, ‘Oh, Mr Myatt had another friend he knew better than me.’ Myatt turned his head to order lunch, and when he gave his attention again to them, Janet Pardoe was saying with a sweet gentle malice, ‘Oh, she was his mistress, you know.’
Mr Stein laughed heartily. ‘Look at the wicked fellow. He’s blushing.’
‘And you know she ran away from him,’ said Janet Pardoe. br />
‘Ran away from him? Did he beat her?’
‘Well, if you ask him he’ll try and make a mystery about it. When the train broke down he motored all the way back to the last station and looked for her. He was away ages. And the mystery he tries to make of it. He helped someone to escape from the customs.’
‘But the girl?’ Mr Stein asked, eyeing Myatt roguishly.
‘She ran away with a doctor,’ Mr Savory said.
‘He’ll never admit it,’ Janet Pardoe said, nodding at Myatt.
‘Well, really, I’m a little uneasy about it,’ Myatt said. ‘I shall telephone to the consul at Belgrade.’
‘Telephone to your grandmother,’ Mr Savory exclaimed and looked with a bright nervousness from one to the other. It was his habit when he was quite certain of his company to bring out some disarming colloquialism which drew attention to the shop counter, the apprentices’ dormitory, in his past. He was still at times swept by an intoxicating happiness at being accepted, at finding himself at the best hotel, talking on equal terms to people whom he had once thought he would never know except across the bales of silk, the piles of tissue-paper. The great ladies who invited him to their literary At Homes were delighted by his expressions. What was the good of displaying a novelist who had risen from the bargain counter if he did not carry with him some faint traces of his ancestry, some remnant from the sales?
Mr Stein glared at him. ‘I think you would be quite right,’ he said to Myatt. Mr Savory was abashed. These people were among the minority who had never read his books, who did not know his claim to attention. They thought him merely vulgar. He sank a little in his seat and said to Janet Pardoe, ‘The doctor. Wasn’t your friend interested in the doctor?’ but she was aware of the others’ disapproval, and did not trouble to search her mind for the long dull story Miss Warren had told her. She cut him short, ‘I can’t keep count of all the people Mabel’s interested in. I don’t remember anything about the doctor.’
It was only the vulgarity of Mr Savory’s expression to which Mr Stein objected. He was very much in favour of a little honest chaff about the girl. It would seal his valuable intimacy with Myatt. When the first course was on the table, he brought the conversation round again. ‘Now tell us some more of what Mr Myatt’s been up to.’