Nightwork (34 page)

I handed her my handkerchief to wipe away her tears. She also blew her nose. I was glad that there was an automatic lock on the door so that nobody could come into the room and see us. I refrained from telling her that when she reached my age she would find out everybody didn’t get what they wanted. Not by a long shot.

“You kissed me on the hill today, when we got off the lift,” she cried. “What did you do that for if you didn’t mean it?”

“There are kisses and kisses,” I said. “I apologize if you misunderstood.”

Suddenly she threw the coat off her and sat up in the bed. She put out her arms. “Try it once more,” she said.

I took a step back, involuntarily. “I’m leaving,” I said, as convincingly as I could. “If you’re still here when I get back, I’m going to call your school to come and get you.”

She laughed. “Coward,” she taunted me, “coward, coward.”

In full possession of the field, she was still repeating the word when I got out of the door.

I went down to the bar. I needed a drink. Luckily, there was no one I knew there and I sat on a stool in the dim light, staring into my glass. I had thought I could live by accident, taking everything that was offered as it came along—the long tube on the floor of room 602; Evelyn Coates in Washington; Lily in Florence; the outlandish proposition of that not quite certifiably sane man, Miles Fabian, slightly bloodied from where I had broken the lamp over his head; buying a racehorse; investing in a dirty French movie; dabbling in gold and soybeans; saying, Why not? when Fabian had suggested inviting an unknown British girl to join us; venturing into Swiss real estate; backing him for half, even as I sat there, in a head-to-head poker game against a rich and vengeful American gambler.

But there were limits. And Didi Wales had reached them. I told myself I had behaved honorably—no decent man would take advantage of the freakish, adolescent passion of an unhappy child. But I was nagged, in the quiet of the midnight bar, by a small, disturbing doubt. If Eunice hadn’t gone into the room with me to discover Didi lying there, would I be in the bar now? Or still in my room? In retrospect, sitting alone staring into a glass, I had to admit that the girl had been marvelously attractive. Regret played in a little scudding cloud at the outer reaches of my conscience. What would Miles Fabian have done, confronted with a similar situation? Chuckled good-naturedly, said, “What a charming visit?” Thought, this is my lucky year, and climbed into bed? No doubt.

I resolved not to tell him a word about it. His scorn, tempered only by pity for my scruples, would be unbearable. I could just hear him say, mildly, paternally, “Finally, Douglas, one
must
learn the rules of the game.”

Eunice. I broke into a light sweat as I thought of the next morning’s breakfast, with Lily and Miles Fabian, and Eunice saying, over the orange juice and coffee cups, “The most extraordinary thing happened last night when old Gentle Heart and I got back from the party …”

I finished my drink, signed for it, and started toward the door. Just as I reached it, Lily came in with three enormous men, not one of them under six feet four. I had noticed them at the party and had seen Lily dancing with one of them. This seemed to be her night for size and quantity. She stopped when she saw me. “I thought I saw you go off with Eunice,” she said.

“I did.”

“And now you’re alone?”

“I am.”

She shook her head. There was an amused glint in her eye. “Peculiar man,” she said. “Do you want to join us?”

“I’m not large enough,” I said.

The three men laughed, their laughter resounding like bowling balls off the bottles behind the bar. “Have you seen Miles?” Lily asked.

“No.”

“He said he’d try to make it for a nightcap by one.” She shrugged. “I guess he’s so immersed in stripping that desperate oaf Sloane of his last penny he can’t be bothered with poor little me. Did you like the party?”

“Smashing,” I said.

“It was almost like being in Texas,” she said ambiguously. “Shall we drink, chaps?”

“I’ll order the champagne,” the tallest of the men said, lurching among the tables toward the bar like an ocean liner pulling out of a slip.

“Night, Gentle Heart,” Lily said. “Persist.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. Instant memories. I bowed a little and went out.

Ripe for havoc, she had said about Didi Wales. How right she was.

A minute later I was at the door of Eunice’s room. I listened, but there was no sound inside. I didn’t know what I expected to hear. Weeping? Laughter? Sounds of revelry? I knocked, waited, knocked again.

The door opened. Eunice was standing there in a lace dressing gown. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. Her tone was neither welcoming nor unwelcoming.

“May I come in?”

“If you want.”

“I want.”

She held the door wider and I went in. Her clothes were piled haphazardly all over the room. The window was open and a cold Alpine breeze was whistling in. I shivered a little, my resistance to the elements weakened by the events of the night. “Aren’t you cold?” I asked.

“Remember, I’m English,” she said. But she closed the window. Full-bodied, barefooted, rustling of lace.

“May I sit down?”

“If you wish.” She indicated a little upholstered chair. “Throw those clothes anywhere.”

I picked up the silk dress she had worn at the party. I imagined it was still warm from her skin. I laid it gently across a little writing desk. I sat down on the chair and she lay back against the piled pillows on the bed, her legs revealed as the dressing gown fell away. She had long legs like her sister, but fuller. Shapelier, I thought. I smelled lightly scented soap. She had scrubbed her face when she undressed, and her skin glowed in the light of the bedside lamp.

I mourned for the evening.

“Eunice,” I said, “I came to explain.”

“You don’t have to explain. Somebody got their appointments mixed, that’s all.”

“You don’t think I asked that little girl to come up to my room, do you?”

“I don’t think
anything
. She was just there. And she’s not that little. Well-developed, I’d call it.” Her tone was flat, weary. “One of us was
de trop
. I happened to think it was me.”

“Tonight,” I said, “I thought, finally …”

“That was my impression, too.” She smiled wryly.

“I wish I could have been bolder,” I said, “I mean even before tonight. Only I’m not built that way.” I made a small helpless gesture with my hands. “And then there were always Miles and your sister.”

“Miles and my sister. Didn’t my sister tell you there were no preliminaries necessary with me?” Her voice took on a sudden harshness.

“I won’t say what your sister told me.”

“She likes to give the impression that I’m the wildest girl in London. Bitch,” she said. “On the fingers of one hand.”

“What’s that?” I asked, puzzled.

“Never mind.” She lay back in the piled pillows and crossed her arms over her face. She talked, muffled, through soft flesh. “If you must know, I didn’t come to Zurich for you. Whoever you might have turned out to be. Though you turned out to be much dearer that I had ever imagined an American could be, Gentle Heart.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.”

“We could forget the little accident in my room, you know.”

I could see her head shaking behind her arms. “Not me. I should really be grateful to that naked fat girl. Because I was coming up to your room for all the wrong reasons.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I wasn’t doing it for you. Or for me.”

“Who, then?”

“For Miles Fabian,” she said bitterly. “I was going to have the most blatant, sexy, public affair with you anyone could imagine—to show him—”

“To show him what?”

“To show him I didn’t care a penny’s worth for him anymore. That I could be as fickle and callous as he was.” She was weeping now behind her arms. It had turned out to be my night for feminine tears.

“I think you had better explain, Eunice,” I said slowly.

“Don’t be dense, American,” she said. “I’m in love with Miles Fabian. Have been since the day I met him. I asked him to marry me years ago. So he fled. Into the arms of my bitch sister.”

“Oh.” For the moment, it was all I could say.

She took her arms away from her face. The tears had made gleaming silvery streaks on her cheeks. But her expression was calm, relieved. “If you hurry,” she said, “maybe that little fat girl will still be there. So the evening won’t be a total waste.”

But Didi had already gone, leaving a note in schoolgirl handwriting on the desk. “I took your coat. So I would have a memento. Maybe one day you’ll want to get it. You know where I am. Love. Didi.”

As I was finishing reading, the phone rang. I nearly didn’t answer it. It was not a night on which I could expect good news over the telephone.

I picked it up.

“Douglas?” It was Fabian.

“Yes?”

“I hope I didn’t interrupt you at anything serious,” he said with the hint of a chuckle.

“No.”

“I thought you might like to hear how it went tonight.”

“I certainly would.”

There was a little sigh on the phone. “I’m afraid I didn’t do so well, old chap. Sloane had a phenomenal streak of luck. We’ll have to do some banking in the morning.”

“How much?”

“Around thirty thousand,” Fabian said matter-of-factly.”

“Francs?”

“Dollars, Gentle Heart.”

“Son of a bitch,” I said, and hung up.

T
HE NEXT MORNING THE
following things happened to me.

On my breakfast tray, which I called for at ten o’clock, because I hadn’t been able to fall asleep until nearly dawn, there was a note from Eunice. “Dear Gentle Heart, I am taking the nine o’clock train out of Gstaad. I’m sure you understand why I’m doing this. Love.”

I understood.

Miles Fabian called on the telephone and asked me to meet him in town in front of the Union Bank of Switzerland at eleven o’clock.

I was arrested. Or at the time, it seemed that I was arrested.

I was shaving, looking with distaste at my yellowed eyes in the mirror, when there was a knock on the door. With the lather still on my face, I went to the door. One of the assistant managers was standing there, correct in his dark suit and white shirt, with a squat man in a belted dark overcoat and a porcupine head of gray hair, cut short.

“Mr. Grimes,” the assistant manager said, “may we come in?”

“I’m shaving,” I said. “And as you see, I’m not dressed.” All I had on was the bottom of my pajamas and I was barefooted. “Can’t it wait a few minutes?”

The assistant manager spoke rapidly in German to the gray-haired man, who said only one word. “
Nein
.”

“Police Officer Brugelmann says it can’t wait,” the assistant manager said apologetically.

Police Officer Brugelmann walked past me into the room.

“After you, Mr. Grimes.” The assistant manager bowed a little.

I went into the bathroom, got a towel, and wiped the lather off my face and put on a bathrobe. Police Officer Brugelmann stood in the middle of the room, his eyes roaming icily over the bureau, on top of which I had my wallet and money clip and watch, then onto the two suitcases set on stands under the windows.

Didi, I thought; oh, my God, they’ve found out about Didi. Or believe they’ve found out. I had no idea what the age of consent was in Switzerland. Probably it varied from canton to canton, like everything else in the country. We were in the canton of Bern. It could be anything up to twenty-one, with all those girls’ schools.

“I consider this an intrusion,” I said coldly. “And I’d like an explanation immediately.”

Again, the assistant manager spoke rapidly in German to the policeman. The policeman nodded. He had an extremely stiff mechanical nod. His neck was thick and rolled over his collar.

“Police Officer Brugelmann has authorized me to explain,” the assistant manager said. “Briefly, Mr. Grimes, a robbery has been committed. Last night. On floor number five of the hotel. A valuable diamond necklace has been reported missing.”

Eunice’s room had been on the fifth floor. “What’s that got to do with me?” I asked, relieved. At least Didi Wales wasn’t involved.

There was another exchange in German. Before I leave for anywhere next time, I thought, I’m going to Berlitz.

“You have been noticed last night, late, prowling in the halls of the hotel,” the assistant manager said.

“I was visiting a friend,” I said. “I was not prowling.”

“I was merely translating,” the assistant manager said unhappily. He was not enjoying his task and was probably regretting he had ever bothered to learn English.

The police officer said something softly.

“The lady you were visiting,” the assistant manager said, “checked out of the hotel at eight thirty this morning. Do you happen to know her destination?”

“No,” I said. Almost honestly. I had never asked Eunice for her address. The note she had sent me was crammed into the pocket of my bathrobe. I hoped it didn’t show.

The police officer rattled out several sentences that sounded unpleasant.

“The police officer asks permission to search the premises,” the assistant manager said. The words seemed to strangle in his throat.

“Does he have a warrant?” I asked, American to the last civil-rights,
amicus curiae
, Supreme Court brief.

There was another exchange in German.

“There is no warrant. As yet,” the assistant manager said. “If you insist on a warrant, Police Officer Brugelmann says he will have to take you to the bureau of police and keep you there until the warrant is made out. He warns that it may take a long time. Maybe two days. There will be no avoiding publicity, he says. There are always many foreign newspapermen here. Because of the quality and prominence of our guests.”

“Did
he
say all that?” I asked.

“I added some on my own,” the assistant manager admitted. “So that you can have a proper basis for action.”

I stared at Police Officer Brugelmann. He stared back glacially. It was warm in the room, but he hadn’t unbuttoned his overcoat. He was a naturally cyrogenic man. Snakes and birds were his blood cousins. “All right,” I said. I seated myself in an easy chair. “I have nothing to hide. Let him start looking. But please make it quick. I have an appointment at eleven.”