Early One Morning (10 page)

They ordered brandy and Robert frowned at the clarinettist on the stage, playing a breathtakingly fast ‘Cake-Walking Babies From Home’. Robert wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t sure about Bechet, especially the small, straight saxophone he sometimes played; he found it coarse and wailing.

When Bechet finished there was a commotion at the next table. One of the men had his wallet out and was trying to tip the player twenty dollars. His wife was trying to stop him. As usual, Bricktop refereed, gliding over and giving Bechet five, but then confiscating the wallet of the patron. ‘Don’t worry, Scott, I’ll keep the tab running.’

The wife smiled gratefully, and the Scott character slumped down in front of his whiskey. ‘Sing for us then.’

‘Later, lover, later,’ and she waddled off, pushing her ample frame among the tightly packed customers, schmoozing and kissing and shaking hands as she went.

Williams’ head had a faint buzz to it now, and he knew he was relaxed enough to broach the subject that had been worrying him. The band, minus Bechet, had begun playing a blues.

‘Robert, there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

‘Why I am such a good driver?’

‘Not quite. Well, that as well.’

Robert stretched his arms expansively. ‘How long have you got? I could talk about myself all night.’

‘Why did you give the painting back?’

Robert narrowed his eyes and Williams felt himself sweat a little. A glare from Robert was one glare too many. ‘Wedding present. Which reminds me. When are you getting married?’

‘Soon. Very soon. So is that all it was?’

‘Rubbish.’ The voice boomed over the patrons from the bar. ‘Keep the rhythm, man. You’re all over the place.’

Williams looked round. It was Bechet, at the small bar at the rear of the room, verbally abusing his own band. They carried on, ignoring him.

‘Horace, that is some terrible bass playing.’

Horace let the big instrument fall to the stage with a reverberating crash that shimmered around the room. From his inside pocket he produced a revolver and waved it towards his employer. ‘Sidney, you dumb fucker. Just shut up. Go home.’

There were squeals as people realised exactly what he was wielding in such a cavalier fashion, and heads hit tables and arms folded over them as if they could protect them from bullets. One or two patrons slithered off their seats to sit it out on the floor.

The first shot caused a puff of masonry to bloom from the stage. It was then Williams realised that Bechet had a gun of his own. Robert reached over and gripped his arm. ‘Don’t move.’

‘I wasn’t planning to.’

The exchange lasted five seconds, a fusillade of rapid fire, booming around the confined space, rolling clouds of cordite mixing with the cigarette smoke. It ended when Bricktop took the gun from Bechet’s hand and slapped him about the head with it, careful to avoid his mouth. Last thing she needed was a star with a ruined embouchure.

‘Sidney, go home. Go on. Out. Horace, gimme that thing. Here. Now.’

Sheepishly the big man handed over his Gat, Sidney was packed off, it was confirmed that, miraculously, nobody had been hit and Bricktop decided it was time to sing ‘Miss Otis Regrets’.

Robert let out a breath. ‘They are such terrible shots. Best place to be is where they are aiming. Aaah,’ he said as Bricktop launched into a smoky-voiced Cole Porter medley, ‘this is more like it.’

They ordered a second round of drinks. ‘So it was a wedding present?’ persisted Williams. ‘Nothing more to it than that?’

‘I said. Yes. Why are you so interested all of sudden?’

‘I’d never have given it away.’

‘No, I can see that.’

‘Then why did you?’

Robert gripped Williams’ hand and pulled him closer. ‘Two things, my friend. One, you won that race and if you ever tell anyone I said that I’ll rip your tongue out.’

‘I didn’t. You won it.’

‘It wasn’t fair. Eve was right. I have raced Montlhery dozens of times. If you knew that course, knew the line, like I do … you’d have won.’

‘And the second?’

Robert smiled, a big, warm, regretful grin. ‘I realised to have that painting, to have that woman on the wall and not have the real thing to touch and feel and love … I realised, Will … that way, madness lies.’

They married the following year. Deliberately low-key, because there were those in the village who had never realised they weren’t already married. Just a discreet service, a few of Eve’s family and a celebratory lunch.

It turned into something of a wake. Eve had just finished organising the food when the letter arrived, informing her that Orpen had died. She cried for much of the morning, and Williams offered to cancel the day, but she decided the last thing Orpen would want was people to stop drinking and enjoying themselves on his behalf. So the wedding lunch was served in the courtyard at a long table, and the racing drivers and the dog breeders seemed to get on remarkably well once they passed the couple-of-glasses-of-wine-each mark, and it was only after the heat was starting to fade that Eve realised that she had lost her husband.

She excused herself and wandered down to the river, following the sound of heated voices until she was sure it was Williams and his cantankerous friend. She found a vantage point and, feeling just a little guilty, settled down to watch and listen for a few minutes.

‘You are a very stubborn man,’ said an exasperated Robert. ‘I think you just lack the fire in the belly.’ He pointed at his own stomach and was infuriated when Williams laughed and turned away.

Robert grabbed his arm, softening his tone. ‘Don’t do that. I didn’t mean to insult you. Not on your wedding day.’

Williams shrugged. ‘None was taken.’

‘I didn’t mean you are a coward. I know you are not.’

‘Robert, I don’t expect you to understand.’ He put his hand on the other man’s shoulder, a gesture Eve found oddly intimate. ‘You have a wife, a mistress—’

‘Two, if you don’t mind.’

‘A doting brother. Ettore thinks of you as his eldest son. You have the showroom, your customers … but it’s not my life. Mine is different. I am what I am.’

‘And what is that?’

‘Oh God, you sound like Eve now.’

She coughed to reveal her presence and they both looked round. Williams came over, kissed her on the cheek and said, ‘You try and explain to him. I need another drink.’

She walked over to Robert, his hands firmly in his pockets, jaw jutting out. ‘Your husband …’ He turned to look at her. ‘Your husband makes me mad. Mad.’

‘Why?’

‘He wants Wimille to drive in his place at Monza. But Wimille has a benefactor, he will buy a car. We don’t have to give him one.’

She had heard of Jean-Pierre Wimille, a young, phlegmatic driver who Williams reckoned had astonishing natural flair. ‘Why does he want him to have the place?’

Robert blew out his cheeks. ‘He says the Fifty-four we want to sell Wimille is not good enough. Will also says …’ This was clearly the part that made Robert mad. ‘That Jean-Pierre is a better driver than him.’

Eve sat down on the river bank, almost out of shock. Admitting that there might be a better racer, to these men, was tantamount to owning up to poor sexual performance. ‘Is he?’

Robert knelt down next to her, his knee touching her shoulder, possibly accidentally. ‘Wimille is … Wimille is a great driver. Or at least will be. One day. Will …’ Robert tore a reed from the river bank and began to shred it while he marshalled his thoughts. He flung strands ineffectually towards the swans gliding regally by, who returned a stare worthy of Benoist himself.

‘It is as if God gives some people this gift, to be able to control machines. Will has the best ability to read a car I know. To pinpoint what is wrong, how to fix the roadholding, the cornering. Wonderful. But God, being God, decides that there must be a system of checks and balances. To offset such a marvellous gift. In Will’s case … he’s lazy.’

Eve watched the sun filter through the leaves and play on the water’s surface and considered this. It didn’t add up. ‘You think Will is lazy?’

‘Not lazy as you mean it. I’ve seen the kennels he has built. Seen him strip down engines and gearboxes. Not physically, but here.’ He tapped his temple. ‘You see, he wins a race, it is enough for him. He has proved something for a while. The best of them—Nuvolari, Chiron back there, Rudi … maybe even I in my prime, we have to go out and do it the next day and the next and the next. Will, he comes home to his new wife and plays with his dogs.’

‘You make that sound like a crime. I would say that makes him a better human being.’ And, she wanted to add, a better husband, but thought Robert might take that personally.

‘You are right. Except at Bugatti, we don’t want human beings. Too troublesome.’ He laughed. ‘Will thinks too much.’

‘What is Jean-Pierre’s flaw?’

‘Wimille? He wants two things: glory and money. Wants them so, so bad. Then again, that probably isn’t a flaw in this game.’

Robert stood up and tossed the last of the reed into the water, watching it spiral away in the eddies.

‘And yours, Robert? How has God cursed you?’

Robert rested a hand briefly, lightly, on her head and laughed. ‘Me? I fall in love too easily.’

LAKE SENLITZ, AUSTRIA, OCTOBER 2001

T
HE OLD LADY
sits in a canvas chair in the marquee they have hastily re-erected next to the recovered Humber. On the wooden pallet in front of her sits the trunk, scuffed and swollen and damaged. By narrowing her eyes she can see it as it was—swish and elegant, in that hotel room near Berlin, the day she packed it.

Hovering around her and the Vuitton are Warner, his technician, a bored Austrian policeman and Deakin. Rose can sense a sort of irritable excitement in Warner. He wants to see inside the trunk as much as anyone, but dislikes the way this woman has taken control in such a matriarchal manner.

‘OK, Deakin. Let’s take a look.’

Deakin unclips the trunk and, with great difficulty, levers the two halves apart. As the front cracks open, a thin stream of slimy water snakes across the floor on to the pallet. The technician hovers, forceps in hand. Deakin waves him back.

She can smell the long, slow decay within. As with herself, the years have taken a toll. How much of a toll though? Deakin works his fingers into the opening and pulls the two sides apart so it gapes like a razor clam.

Deakin thinks at first there is nothing but mush inside, but as he pulls the rotted fabric aside he realises it is only the top layer on each side that has emulsified, the clothes closest to the perished seal. Deakin peels off the remains of a man’s suit, opening the jacket to read the label. James Pyle. It means nothing to him. He hands it to the technician who carefully places it on a trestle table.

Underneath, still shimmering after all these years, is a beaded dress, the once luminous material flat and dissolved in places, but still clearly something special.

‘Odd choice for our Mr Williams. Did they have, what are they called, cross-dressers back then?’ he asks her.

‘It’s a Molyneux,’ she says tartly, as the technician lays it next to the suit and takes a photograph, the flash making her blink. ‘Very expensive. Or was.’

The items start to come out thick and fast. A pair of silver-backed hairbrushes, hair oil, Lobb shoes, a Hermes belt, some women’s underwear, a faded photograph album and a heavy object wrapped in greased paper. Gingerly Deakin unwraps it. A gun. A Colt .45 automatic pistol, still glistening with its sheen of protective oil. All are laid out and photographed before being labelled and bagged by the technician.

Finally one other object, right in the far corner, a piece of metal, a cylinder, maybe forty centimetres high. Deakin levers it out from its nesting place, where a film of rust has cemented it to the lining. There is no top, and poking out are the slimy remnants of bundles of money, French and English. A lot of money. Enough to want to kill someone for, he thinks. At least, back when it was worth something.

‘Let me see that.’

Deakin hands over the container and Warner comes across to take a look. ‘Please be careful,’ he pleads.

‘Of course.’ She looks up at him. ‘But it is mine.’

‘What do you mean?’ snaps Warner.

‘Well, I put it in the case.’

Warner opens his mouth to speak but thinks better of it. He knows his chances of getting a straight answer from a spook—even an old spook—are pretty slim.

As she carefully wipes away at the slime with a tissue, the small group huddled around her see there is a thin, fragile paper label wrapped around the outside of the canister. A skull and cross-bones slowly emerges. And just to hammer home the point, the legend ‘Danger de Mort’.

‘Is it safe?’ asks Deakin.

‘Oh yes. Emptied a long, long time ago. May I have a cloth?’

The technician obliges and carefully she scrubs away the final blobs of mud, revealing the stencilled details of the contents, the name of the producer and place of manufacture. She feels gratified at her little piece of theatre when she hears the collective intake of breath. They all know what it means. Still shocking after all these years. Good.

Rose hands the canister to a technician who holds it as if it is a bomb. Which it is. ‘Can you clean that up and preserve it for me? So the label remains legible? There are some chaps I want to show it to.’

‘Of course.’ The man gets to work with chemical sprays and preservatives.

‘Bloody hell—’ starts Warner, but Rose raises a hand to silence him.

‘Help me up will you, Deakin?’ she asks. ‘I need to take another look at the car.’

Deakin assists her out of the chair and they shuffle, slowly, out of the marquee and into the darkening afternoon light of Senlitz. Clouds are gathering over the mountains, and they seem to have taken on the black, threatening hue of the water.

Rose lets Deakin guide her round the ruined vehicle, and she squints in the windows, shaking her head. Finally, at the rear of the car, she asks him to open the boot once more and peers inside, holding her breath against the acrid smell of rapid, oxygen-driven decomposition.

She points a bony finger at a leather loop on the rear bulkhead.