CHAPTER 4
IT was at ten minutes to eight that night that Mr Soup Slattery entered the cocktail bar of the Hotel des Etrangers and, breathing heavily, placed his foot on the rail and ordered a dry Martini. He was panting like a stag pursued by hounds.
The Festival of the Saint had found in Mr Slattery an unap-preciative audience. He was not en rapport and would have preferred to ignore it. But when you are in St Rocque on the fifteenth of July the Festival of the Saint rather thrusts itself upon you.
It had begun under Mr Slattery's window at 7 a.m., a fact which in itself would have been enough to create a prejudice, for, when not engaged in his profession, he was one of those health-loving sleepers who like to get their full eight hours. It had continued in the shape of a waiter in complete peasant costume, who sang some old Breton folk-song in an undertone as he brought him his coffee. It had haunted him all day in the crowded, vocal streets. And now it had driven him into what seemed the only sane spot in town, the cocktail bar of the Hotel des Etrangers.
Soup Slattery shared Packy Franklyn's austere distaste for fancy dress. Men who donned it he considered sissies, and, as for the other sex, he held that Lovely Woman forfeited all claim to reverent devotion when she put on baggy check trousers and went about blowing a squeaker. And when positive dowagers, who should have been setting an example, suddenly assaulted perfect strangers with those long, curly things which shoot out like serpents when you puff into them, he felt that the limit had been overstepped.
It was a distressing occurrence of this nature which had finally sent him hurrying for sanctuary. His thoughts, like drifting thistledown, had been floating about the Château Blissac and the jewellery in its interior, when the beastly thing caught him squarely on the tip of the nose, utterly disorganizing his whole nervous system.
And it was with a strong sense of being unfairly persecuted by Fate that he now perceived that even in the quiet, almost ecclesiastical atmosphere of the Hotel des Etrangers' cocktail bar he was not safe. Leaning against the counter not three feet away from him was a young man in apparel so curious and exotic that it smote Mr Slattery like a blow.
The Vicomte de Blissac's costumier's conception of a lizard had been planned on broad and impressionistic lines. The finished product suggested more some sort of parrot. The Vicomte, as he leaned on the counter exchanging civilities with the man behind it, was covered from head to foot in bright green scales and his shapely nose was concealed beneath a long crimson beak. And Mr Slattery, having shied like a horse and blinked violently, became conscious of an overwhelming urge to get to the bottom of this sad affair. It made him ill to contemplate the Vicomte, but, mingled with the nausea, there was this feeling of intense curiosity. He felt he would not be able to sleep that night if he did not ascertain what on earth the other supposed he was representing.
Finishing his Martini accordingly, he sidled along the bar and tapped him on the arm.
'Hey!' he said.
The Vicomte turned. And it was evident from his demeanour that he was in a spacious, friendly mood.
''Allo-'allo!' he replied genially. 'Have a drink, my old dear sir. Something for the gentleman, Gustave.'
Mr Slattery was a little mollified by this cordiality. Looking a shade less grim, he ordered another dry Martini.
'Say, what are you made up for?' he asked.
'I'm a blizzard.'
'Oh?' said Mr Slattery, still unenlightened. 'Well, pleased to meet you.'
He produced a card. The Vicomte eyed it owlishly, tucked it under a convenient scale, and after some complicated groping brought out his own card-case.
'Have one of mine.'
'Thanks.'
'Have two.'
'Sure.'
'Take the whole lot,' said the Vicomte, overflowing with generosity. There was nothing small about the De Blissacs.
Mr Slattery regarded the collection with a wooden stare. He seemed to be wondering how many of these he had to collect before becoming entitled to a cut-glass tobacco jar. Then he started. The name had impressed itself upon him.
'Say! Are you Veecount D. Blissac?'
His companion considered this question with the gravity it deserved. It was not one to be answered off-hand. He studied the nearest of the cards, then the one next to that.
'Yes,' he said, convinced.
'From that Chatty-o place up the hill?'
'Completely.'
All Mr Slattery's moroseness had left him. If there was one person he had been wanting to meet, it was somebody with an inside knowledge of the Château Blissac, somebody who would give him the low-down on its personnel. More than anything else, he desired to know how well off for dogs the place was. On one occasion in his career his most careful plans had been wrecked by a wholly unforeseen Pekingese.
He pressed genially upon the Vicomte, therefore, going so far as to place a friendly arm about his shoulders. And it was thus that Packy, coming in on the stroke of the hour, discovered them.
By this time, Mr Slattery's whole outlook on the Festival of the Saint had undergone a radical change. A very different man from the frowning recluse who had fled to the cocktail bar to seek refuge from it, he was now undisguisedly pro-Festival. And it was with something of a shock, democratic mixer with his fellow-men though he was, that Packy learned that this exceedingly tough-looking citizen was to be his companion at dinner and that after dinner all three of them were to go on and dance in the Public Amusement Gardens. For an instant, a vision of Beatrice rose before him, and he could not see any soft light of approval in her eyes.
Then there came to him the restorative reflection that Beatrice was a long way away. It cheered him immensely. There are few things which so spruce up a fiancé on these occasions as the realization that a good, broad strip of water separates the loved one and himself. Shaking hands with Mr Slattery, he prepared to be – if not the life and soul of the party, for the Vicomte was obviously going to be that, at any rate a willing celebrant.
And he was giving uniform satisfaction in this respect when their little gathering of three kindred souls suddenly turned into a gathering of four. Bustling through the doorway there came a small, stout man in what appeared to be an Oriental costume of some kind. He paused for a moment on the threshold, as if savouring the delights within, then circled towards the bar like a homing pigeon.
And as he caught sight of Mr Slattery a look of intense pleasure came into his face and he broke into a sort of primitive step-dance.
'Ee-yah!' he cried. 'Ee-yah! Ee-yah!'
In the days which had passed since his wife's departure for England, J. Wellington Gedge had not faltered in his resolve to take advantage of her absence and attend the Festival of the Saint. The passage of time, indeed, had cemented rather than weakened that determination. Senator Opal's obvious unfriendliness from the very moment of his arrival had seemed to indicate to him that there was little anxiety to be felt regarding that Ambassador project. The fact that the Senator could not look at him without snorting like a buffalo appeared to Mr Gedge proof positive that the other had no intention of supporting his candidature. A great load had rolled off his mind, and in its place had come an intense desire to celebrate his escape. Knowing nothing of the fateful letter, for Mrs Gedge was always slow in taking him into her confidence, he felt care-free and elated.
The future seemed bright, and the manifest duty that lay before him was to make the present brighter still. As he came down the hill from the Château, old memories of Shriners' Conventions were turning Mr Gedge's blood to flame. His only regret, as he entered the cocktail bar, had been that he had no companion to share these golden moments.
And at this particular golden moment whom should he espy but his dear old friend, Mr Slattery, the nicest stick-up man he had ever met. The encounter seemed to him to place the seal of success on the night's proceedings.
'Ee-yah! Ee-yah! Ee-yah!' he whooped, jumping rapidly up and down.
Nor was there any lack of answering cordial
ity in Mr Slattery's manner. He had had three dry Martinis, an orange-blossom, and something which the man behind the bar called a Gustave Special, and he was feeling like the little brother of all mankind.
'Well, I'm darned!'
'Ee-yah!' said Mr Gedge.
'Ee-yah!' said Mr Slattery.
'Whoops!' said Mr Gedge.
'Whoops!' said Mr Slattery.
'Well, well, well!' said Mr Gedge.
'Lafayette, we are here!' said Mr Slattery.
He turned to the others, to make this added attraction known to them.
'Meet my friend, Mr Gedge.'
The Vicomte uttered a cry that sounded like the howl of a pleased hyena.
'Not Mr Skeleton Gedge?'
'Yessir.'
'Well, well, well!' said the Vicomte. He smote Mr Gedge lustily on the back, then tapped his own chest with an identifying finger. 'Me – the Vicomte de Blissac!'
'You don't say!'
'Completely!'
'Well, well, well!'
Nothing could have exceeded Mr Gedge's astonishment and enthusiasm at this unexpected meeting with his young guest. Well-well-welling once more, he grasped the Vicomte's hand, shook it, clung to it, released it, grasped it again. You could see that this was a big moment in his life.
The Vicomte indicated Packy.
'My friend, Mr Franklyn.'
'Well, well, well! What,' enquired Mr Gedge lyrically, 'is the matter with Franklyn? He's all right.'
'Who's all right?' asked Mr Slattery.
'Franklyn,' said Mr Gedge.
'Yay Franklyn!' said Mr Slattery.
'Yay Franklyn!' said Mr Gedge.
He released the Vicomte's hand once more and gripped Packy's. He gripped it warmly, but not so warmly as Packy gripped his. To Packy, it was as if a miracle had been performed while he waited. All day he had been goading his brain to discover some method by which he could enter the Château Blissac, and lo! here was the lessee of the place in person. So to ingratiate himself that the other would shower invitations upon him would surely be a simple task. By way of starting the treatment, he massaged Mr Gedge's shoulder and told him he looked fine.
'You like the costume?'
'It's great.'
'My own.'
'No!'
'Yessir. Thought it all out myself
'Genius!' said Packy.
Mr Gedge, having possessed himself of a small table, was beating rhythmically on the bar with it.
'We're going to have a drink to celebrate this,' he said authoritatively. 'Yessir, that's what we're certainly going to do. To-night, boys, I intend to step high, wide, and plentiful.'
'Try a Gustave Special,' was Mr Slattery's advice. 'Swell for the tonsils.'
'Perfectly,' agreed the Vicomte. 'They are good, those Gustave Specials.'
'They are?'
'They certainly are.'
Mr Gedge was convinced.
'Three cheers,' he cried buoyantly, 'for the Gustave Specials!'
The Vicomte went further.
'Four cheers for the Gustave Specials!' And Mr Slattery further still.
'Five cheers for the Gustave Specials!'
'Six!'
'Seven!'
'Eight!'
'Nine!'
'Ten!' vociferated Mr Gedge, topping the bidding. 'All together now, boys. Ten cheers for the Gustave Specials!'
It became increasingly evident to Packy that this was going to be one of those evenings.
CHAPTER 5
FAIRY lanterns, assisted by a rudimentary moon, lit up the Public Amusement Gardens of St Rocque, of which one may safely say that their best friend would not have known them now Normally, they are quiet and decorous, these Public Amusement Gardens, even to the point of dullness. Children walk in them with their nurses. Circumspect lovers whisper in them. Elderly gentlemen sit in them, reading the Figaro or Le Petit St Rocqueois. Their whole aspect lulls the observer to a stodgy calm: and, hearing their name, you cannot help feeling that St Rocque must be easily amused.
To-night, all was changed. Tables and waiters and bottles had broken out on every side like a rash. A silver band – and for sheer licentiousness you can't beat a silver band – was playing on the little platform in the centre, and round this platform, in many cases far too closely linked, pirouetted the merrymaking citizenry of St Rocque. The Festival of the Saint was in full swing.
So, also, were Mr Soup Slattery and the Vicomte de Blissac. The former, in intimate communion with a chance-met lady friend, was tearing off a few of those fancy steps which had made his name a byword at bootleggers' social evenings in Cicero. The latter, who preferred to be untrammelled by a partner, was performing some intricate gyrations by himself in the very middle of the fairway, a source of no small inconvenience to one and all.
Packy was not dancing. Nor was Mr Gedge. Mr Gedge had taken a turn or two earlier in the evening, but, chancing to trip over his feet and fall a little heavily against the bandstand, he had retired to a table on the edge of the arena and was now sitting there with a dark scowl on his face, regarding the revellers with every evidence of disapproval and dislike. He had, indeed, conceived a very deep-rooted loathing for his fellow-human beings. Spiritually, he was in the depths.
Much has been written against the practice of over-indulging in alcoholic stimulants: but to the thinking man the real objection to such over-indulgence must always be the fact that, beyond a certain point, the wine-cup ceases to stimulate and, instead, depresses. The result, as Packy was shortly to discover, being that, with a companion well under the influence, you never know where you are. You start the evening gaily with a sunny-minded Jekyll, and suddenly and without any warning he turns on your hands into a brooding Hyde.
During dinner and for an hour or two after it, J. Wellington Gedge had had all the earmarks of one who on honeydew has fed and drunk the milk of Paradise. He had overflowed with amiability and good-will. A child could have played with him, and, what is more, he would probably have given it a franc to buy sweets with. And Packy, having no reason to suppose that he was not still in this Cheeryble-like frame of mind, felt encouraged and optimistic.
That Mr Gedge's mood had changed completely and was now like something Schopenhauer might have had after a bad night, he did not begin to suspect. True, the Seigneur of the Château Blissac had become a little quiet. But, then, if only to restore the average, it was about time that he stopped howling and singing for a moment or two.
It was with bright confidence, therefore, and without any inkling of the truth, that Packy, at last finding himself alone with Mr Gedge, started to bring the talk around to the subject nearest his heart.
'So you live at the Château Blissac?' he said.
Mr Gedge did not appear to have heard the remark. He was still staring with a kindling eye at the dancers. His lower jaw protruded a little, and he breathed heavily through his nose.
'So you live at the Château Blissac, Mr Gedge?'
'Eh?'
Packy repeated the observation for the third time, and his companion sat in silence for a while, turning it over in his mind. A close observer would have seen that it did not please him.
'At the Shattlebissack?'
'Yes.'
'I live there?'
'Yes.'
'Who says I don't?'
'I said you do, don't you?'
Mr Gedge frowned.
'If any man says I don't live at the Shattlebissack, I'll poke him in the nose. Yessir! They can't talk that way to Wellington Gedge.'
'No, no. Everybody says you do.'
'They better,' said Mr Gedge, quietly but none the less menacingly for that quietness.
He relapsed into a dark silence again, and for the first time it began to be borne in upon Packy that the other was not his former winsome self. He felt a little disquieted. So much, however, hung upon this thing that he tried again.
'It must be a wonderful place.'
'Eh?'
'I say it must be a
wonderful place.'
'What must?'
'The Château.'
'What Château?'
'The Château Blissac.'
'Never heard of it,' said Mr Gedge.
Packy was now definitely discouraged. It was plain to him that it was going to be difficult to extract a formal invitation from this sozzled man. He wished now that he had broached the all-important topic during dinner. There had been a point, just after the first bottle of champagne and just before the second, when Mr Gedge had been in the mood to invite anyone anywhere.
He was roused from his meditations by a choking sound at his side. Mr Gedge was glaring out at the dancing floor with open hatred.
'Frenchmen!' said Mr Gedge.
'I beg your pardon?'
'If you ask me what's wrong with the world,' proceeded Mr Gedge, gritting his teeth, 'there's too many Frenchmen in it. Never liked them and never shall. Alblassador to France? I won't do it. No, sir! Not even if they come to me on bended knees. You know what I'll say to 'em? I'll say "No, sir! Certainly not!" Who's that horrible tomato over there in green?'
'That's the Vicomte.'
'What Vicomte?'
'The Vicomte de Blissac.'
'He wants a good poke in the nose.'
'Would you say that?'
'I'd say a lot. Leaky cisterns!'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Granted.'
There was a pause, during which Mr Gedge threw a moody champagne cork at a passing couple.
'You said something about leaky cisterns,' prompted Packy.
His companion swung round with sudden passion.
'And why wouldn't I? Lookut! Suppose a Vicomte's mother told you the plumbing of a Shattlebissack was in good repair, and it wasn't? Suppose this Vicomte's mother kept a leaky cistern under her hat... never mentioned a word of it... practically swore there wasn't such a thing in the place... wouldn't you poke him in the nose?'
'Too bad,' said Packy diplomatically.
'Eh?'
'I said it was too bad.'
'It couldn't be worse,' said Mr Gedge severely.
Packy waited a few moments, but the other had apparently said his say. He had found half a roll and was balancing it in his hand. He seemed undecided whether to throw it at the leader of the orchestra or at an obese, middle-aged Gaul with a long spade-shaped beard who, though his best friends should have advised him against it, had come to the Festival dressed as a Swiss mountaineer.