‘I was telling Odo—the Widmerpools, among others.’
‘Good heavens, the Frog Footman, and that ghastly wife of his. What can Jacky be thinking of? Thank goodness you warned me. Who are the other unfortunates?’
‘An American film tycoon called Louis Glober. Baby Clarini, who used to be Baby Wentworth. Those are the only ones I know about, in addition to the Widmerpools.’
Rosie made a face at the name of Baby Wentworth.
‘Jacky certainly can take it on the chin, Baby and Pamela Widmerpool under the same roof. What about Louis Glober? I seem to know the name. Is he up to the weight of the others? I hope so.’
One of the Americans enquired about Glober.
‘What’s he up to now? Louis Glober hasn’t made a picture in years. The last I heard of him was automobile racing, in fact saw him at the Indianapolis Speedway.’
They talked of Glober and his past exploits. Gwinnett remained silent. I had not caught the name of the Americans, indeed never found that out. The husband began to enlarge on the Glober legend.
‘Did you ever hear of Glober’s Montana caper?’
That looked a possibility as the story of Glober’s meeting with Pamela, but turned out to have bearings of interest chiefly on Glober’s many-sidedness. It explained, too, a Montana connexion.
‘One time Glober was in Hollywood, he went north with a cowboy actor—I’ll think of the name—who was starring in a picture of Glober’s. The Indians were bestowing some sort of a tribal honour on this actor, who’d invited Glober to accompany him, and watch the ceremony. Montana, it seems, went to Glober’s head. That’s how he is. He talked of starting life again up there, buying a defunct cattle business, refinancing Indian leases, that sort of stuff. He was crazy about it all.’
‘Wouldn’t mind that kind of life myself,’ said Stevens. ‘In the open all day.’
‘Oh, darling?’ said Rosie. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Glober stayed up there quite a while, talking of becoming a cattleman. All sorts of yarns came back to the Coast about his doings. There was supposed to have been a gun fight. A rancher found Glober in compromising circumstances with his wife. He pulled a gun, took a shot at Glober, and missed. Glober must have been prepared for trouble, because he had his own gun by him, blazed back, and missed too. They ran out of shells, or the lady herself intervened, so they settled to cut the cards for her. Glober lost, and returned to Hollywood.’
‘His luck was in,’ said Stevens.
The story suggested the monde in which Cosmo Flitton had come to rest. I caught Gwinnett’s eye.
‘That’s all pure Trapnel—the sort of thing X would have loved, but never managed to bring off.’
Gwinnett nodded, without giving any indication whether or not he agreed.
‘When the tale got back to Beverly Hills, Dorothy Parker said Glober planned to take the lead in his next picture himself. It was to be called The Western of the Playboy World,’
The American lady broke in.
‘Louis Glober’s got a fine side too. All that money he gave for the mental health research project, that institution for schizophrenics. It was all done on the quiet. Not a soul knew it was Glober, until—’
Stevens kicked me under the table. I lost track of the precise history of Glober’s generous act, but caught enough to gather it had been brought about in deliberate secrecy, the teller of the story having happened quite by chance on the magnanimous part Glober had played. I could not at once understand whatever Stevens was signalling. His eyes stared fixedly in front of him. Glancing round in the direction towards which they were set, I was now able to observe Pamela Widmerpool moving between the closely packed tables and chairs. As usual she gave the impression almost of floating through the air. She was apparently looking for someone thought likely to be sitting at Florian’s. At least that was the impression given. Possibly she was merely taking an evening walk, choosing to wander through the crowded caffè to give spice to a stroll, cause a little inconvenience, draw attention to herself. The people at the tables stared at her. As she wove her way amongst them, she paused from time to time to stare haughtily back. Stevens was rather rattled.
‘She’s bloody well making in our direction,’ he muttered.
Pamela had hit him in the face the last time I had seen them together, but no doubt he feared her unhappy moral impact on his wife, rather than physical violence. The others had not noticed Pamela’s onset. Rosie, always a great talker, had a conspicuous rival in the American lady. Gwinnett seemed resigned to the position in which he found himself. Pamela had marked down our table. She was steering for it, without the least hurry. The course unquestionably was intentional. She was still wearing her white trousers, carrying from her shoulder a bag hung from a gold chain. Stevens was surprisingly disturbed.
‘Had this got to happen?’
Pamela halted behind the chair of the male American. He was unaware of her presence there.
‘Have you seen Louis?’
‘Glober?’
‘No, Louis the Fourteenth.’
‘I haven’t seen either since lunch.’
‘Did you lunch with Louis?’
‘Yes, Glober—not the Roi Soleil.’
‘I thought he was giving lunch to that old cow Ada. Do you know she put round a story that I left a picador in Spain because I found a basket-ball player twice his size?’
‘Ada was there too.’
‘Where?’
‘The restaurant in the Giardini.’
‘Did he take Ada back to screw her—if he can still manage that, or can’t she face a man any longer?’
‘So far as I know Glober left for the Gritti Palace to meet a business acquaintance, and Ada returned to the Lido to work on a speech she’s going to make at the Conference.’
‘Louis’s been seen at Cipriani’s since he was at the Gritti.’
‘Then I can’t help.’
‘I want some dope from him.’
Although the word might be reasonably used for any entity too much trouble to particularize, Pamela spoke as if she meant a drug, rather than, say, schedule of airflights to London, programme of tomorrow’s sightseeing, name of a recommended restaurant. She sounded as if she felt a capricious desire for a narcotic Glober could supply, no breathless despairing longing, just what she wished at the moment. The possibility was not to be wholly dismissed as an aspect of Glober’s courtship. The men of the party had risen, standing awkwardly beside their chairs, while this conversation proceded, waiting for her to move on.
‘How are you, Pam?’ asked Stevens.
He still sounded nervous. She glanced at him, but gave no sign of having seen him before. Stevens himself may have hoped matters would rest there, that Pamela, failing to obtain the information she sought, would continue on her way without further acknowledgment. She remained, not speaking, looking coldly round, regarding Gwinnett with as chilly an eye as the rest. There was no suggestion they had met, far less touched on the religious life, shared some sort of physically sexual brush. Gwinnett himself was hardly more forthcoming. Absolutely poker-faced, his expression was that of a man determined not to fall below the standard of politeness required by convention towards an unknown woman pausing by the table at which he had been sitting, at the same time not unwilling that she should move on as quickly as possible to enable him to resume his seat. Pamela had no intention of moving on.
‘I’m not going to drag the canals for Glober. I’ll get the stuff from him tomorrow.’
She stepped forward to occupy the chair temporarily vacated by the American husband, thereby putting an end to any hope that she was not going to stay. The American managed to find another chair, then good-naturedly asked what she wanted to drink.
‘A cappuccino.’
Stevens was forced into mumbling some sort of general introduction. Rosie, of course, knew perfectly well who Pamela was, but either the two of them, by some chance, had never met, or it suited the mood of both to pretend that. G
winnett, without emphasis, allowed recognition of previous acquaintanceship of some sort by making a backward jerk of the head. Rosie, undoubtedly angry at Pamela imposing herself in this manner, was at the same time, unlike Stevens, quite unruffled in outward appearance.
‘We heard you and your husband were staying with Jacky,’ she said. ‘How is he? Free from that catarrh of his, I hope?’
She expertly eyed Pamela’s turn-out, letting the assessment pause for a second on what appeared to be a wine-stain, at closer range revealed, on the white trousers, which Pamela, in spite of other signs of grubbiness, had not bothered to change. Rosie also contemplated for a moment the crocodile-skin bag. Its heavy chain of gold looked rather an expensive item. This was all very cool on both sides, the sense of tension—though neither glanced at the other—between Pamela and Gwinnett, rather than Pamela and Rosie. When the cappuccino arrived, Pamela did not touch it. She sat there quietly, taking no notice of anyone. Then she seemed to decide to answer Rosie’s question.
‘Jacky’s no worse than usual. Only worried about having a couple like us staying with him.’
‘You and your husband?’
‘Yes.’
Rosie laughed lightly.
‘Why should he be worried by that?’
‘One accused of murder, the other of spying.’
‘Oh, really. Which of you did which?’
Still smiling, Rosie spoke quite evenly. Pamela allowed herself a faint smile too.
‘The French papers are hinting I murdered Ferrand-Sénéschal.’
‘The French writer?’
Rosie’s tone suggested that to have murdered Ferrand-Sénéschal was an act, however thoughtless, anyone might easily have committed.
‘They haven’t said in so many words I did it yet.’
‘Oh, good—and the spying?’
Pamela laughed.
‘Only those in the know, like Jacky, are fussing about that at present.’
‘I see.’
‘Jacky thinks he’ll get in wrong with one lot, or the other, through us. Jacky’s got quite a lot of Communist chums, movie people, publishers, other rich people like himself. Some of them are Stalinists, and quarrelling with the new crowd. Jacky doesn’t want a stink. It looks as if a stink’s just what he’s going to get. He didn’t bargain for that when he said we could come and stay, though he wasn’t too keen in the first place. I had to turn the heat on. He thought I’d keep an American called Louis Glober quiet, and we might both be useful in other ways. Now he wants to get rid of us. That may not be so easy.’
She laughed again. The joke had to be admitted as rather a good one, even if grimmish for Jacky Bragadin. Rosie smiled tolerantly. She did not pursue further inflexions of the story by asking more questions. She picked up the bag resting on the table, its long chain still looped round Pamela’s shoulder.
‘How pretty.’
‘Do you think so? I hate the thing. This man Glober gave it me. He keeps saying he’ll change it. He’ll only get something worse, and I can’t be bothered to spend hours in a shop with him.’
‘Is Mr Glober over for the Film Festival?’ asked one of the Americans.
‘That’s what he’s put out. He probably wants to pick up some hints from the German film about the blackmailing whore.’
‘I rather wish we were staying for the Film Festival,’ said Rosie. ‘I’d like to see Polly Duport in the Hardy picture. We know her. She’s so nice, as well as being such a good actress.’
There was a lull in conversation. Stevens remarked that his new interest was in vintage cars. The Americans said they would have to be thinking of returning to their hotel soon. Rosie confirmed the view that it had been a tiring day. Stevens looked as if he might have liked to linger at Florian’s, but any such intractability would clearly be inadvisable, if matrimonial routines were to operate harmoniously. He did not openly dissent. Within the limits of making no pretence she found the presence of Pamela welcome, Rosie had been perfectly polite. Stevens could count himself lucky the situation had not hardened into open discord. Retirement from the scene had something to offer. Pamela appeared indifferent to whether they stayed or went. Goodbyes were said. She nodded an almost imperceptible farewell and dismissal. The Stevens party withdrew. They were enclosed almost immediately by the shadows of the Piazza. We sat for a minute or two in silence. The orchestra sawed away at Tales of Hoffmann.
‘What a shit Odo is,’ said Pamela.
‘Rosie is nice.’
It seemed best to make that statement right away, declare one’s views on the subject, rather than wait for attack. That would be preferable to a follow-up defending Rosie, as a friend. Rather surprisingly, Pamela agreed.
‘Yes, she’s all right. I suppose she gets a kick out of keeping that little ponce.’
‘You must admit his war record was good.’
‘What’s that to me?’
To stay longer at the table would be not only to prejudice Gwinnett’s opportunity for further pursuit of Trapnel investigations, but also, if Pamela had taken a fancy to him, risk being told in uncompromising terms to leave them à deux.
‘I’m off too.’
Pamela herself rose at that.
‘I’ve had enough of this place,’ she said.
That remark had all the appearance of being Gwinnett’s cue, a chance not to be missed to take her elsewhere, get out of her whatever he wanted. Florian’s could reasonably be regarded as a distracting spot for serious discussion. Gwinnett himself stood up, but without putting forward any alternative proposal. There was a pause. As a matter of form, I offered to see Pamela back to the Bragadin palace. If Gwinnett did not want to settle immediately on another port of call, he could easily suggest the duty of taking her home should fall to him. He said nothing. Pamela herself categorically refused escort.
‘Where’s your hotel?’
I named it.
‘Both of you?’
‘Yes.’
She turned to Gwinnett.
‘Are you going back too?’
‘That was my intention.’
Pamela fully accepted the implication that he did not propose to take her on at that moment. She showed no resentment.
‘I’ll walk as far as your hotel, then decide what I want to do. I like wandering about Venice at night.’
Gwinnett was certainly showing himself capable of handling Pamela in his own manner. He seemed, at worst, to have accomplished a transformation of rôles, in which she stalked him, rather than he her. That might produce equally hazardous consequences, not least because Pamela herself showed positive taste for the readjustment. The hunter’s pursuit was no doubt familiar to her from past experience, only exceptional, in this case, to the extent that Gwinnett was already in her power from need to acquire Trapnel material.
‘OK,’ he said.
The three of us set off together. Nothing much was said until we were quite close to the hotel. Then, on a little humped bridge crossing a narrow waterway, Pamela stopped. She went to the parapet of the bridge, leant over it, looking down towards the canal. Gwinnett and I stopped too. She stared at the water for some time without saying anything. Then she spoke in her low unaccentuated manner.
‘I’ve thought of nothing but X since I’ve been in Venice. I see that manuscript of his floating away on every canal. You know Louis Glober wants to do it as a film, with that ending. It might have happened here. This place just below.’
Gwinnett seemed almost to have been waiting for her to make that speech.
‘Why did you do it?’
He asked that quite bluntly.
‘You think it was just to be bitchy.’
‘I never said so.’
‘But you think it.’
He did not answer. Pamela left the parapet of the bridge. She moved slowly towards him.
‘I threw the book away because it wasn’t worthy of X.’
‘Then why do you want Glober to make a picture of something not worthy?’
‘Because the best parts can be preserved in a film.’
I supposed by that she meant her own part, in whatever Trapnel had written, could be recorded that way; at least her version of it. Then Gwinnett played a trump. Considering contacts already made, he had shown characteristic self-control in withholding the information until now.
‘Trapnel preserved the outline himself in his Commonplace Book.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Something you don’t know about.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I’ve got it.’
‘He says there what he said in Profiles in String?’
‘Some of it.’
‘I’ll destroy that too—if it isn’t worthy of him.’
Gwinnett did not answer.
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘I entirely believe you, Lady Widmerpool, but you don’t have the Commonplace Book.’
In another mood she would certainly have shown contemptuous amusement for Gwinnett’s prim formality of manner. Now she was working herself up into one of her rages.
‘You won’t take my word—that I threw the manuscript into the Canal because it wasn’t good enough?’
‘I take your word unreservedly, Lady Widmerpool.’
Gwinnett himself might have been quite angry by then. It was impossible to tell. As usual he spoke, like Pamela herself, in a low unemphatic tone.
‘X himself knew it was a necessary sacrifice. He said so after. He liked to talk about that sort of thing. It was one side of him.’
What she stated about Trapnel was not at all untrue, if strange she had appreciated that aspect of him. She was an ideal instance of Barnby’s pronouncement that, for a woman, being in love with a man does not necessarily imply behaving well to him. Some comment of Trapnel’s about the destruction of the manuscript must have come to her ears later.
‘That was why he threw away his swordstick too.’
This settled the fact of someone having given her an account of the incident. Not myself, unlikely to have been Bagshaw, the story had just travelled round.
‘You knew that?’