Spinsters in Jeopardy (6 page)

“She’s quite fun.” He stood there, still with an air of hesitancy. Alleyn shifted Ricky and looked at Troy, who held out her hand to Robin.

“Don’t come any further,” she said. “Goodbye and thank you.”

“Goodbye. If we may, Ginny and I will call at the hotel. It’s the Royal, I suppose. I mean, it might amuse you to come for a drive. I mean, if you don’t know anybody here…”

“It’d be lovely,” Troy temporized, wondering if Alleyn wanted her to accept.

“As a matter of fact,” Alleyn said, “we
have
got someone we ought to look up in Roqueville. Do you know anybody about here with the unlikely name of Garbel?”

Robin’s jaw dropped. He stared at them with an expression of extraordinary consternation. “I… no. We haven’t really met any of the local people. No. Well, I mustn’t keep you standing in the sun. Goodbye.”

And with a precipitancy as marked as his former hesitation, he turned and limped off down the passageway.

“Now what,” Troy asked her husband, “in a crazy world, is the significance of that particular bit of lunacy?”

“I’ve not the beginning of a notion,” he said. “But I suggest that when we’ve got time to think, we call on Mr. Garbel.”

i

Ricky woke up before they could get him to the car and was bewildered to find himself transported. He was hot, hungry, thirsty and uncomfortable, and he required immediate attention.

While Troy and Alleyn looked helplessly about the open platform Raoul advanced from the car, his face brilliant with understanding. He squatted on his heels beside the flushed and urgent Ricky and addressed him in very simple French which he appeared to understand and to which he readily responded. Marie, of the figurines, Raoul explained to the parents, would offer suitable hospitality and he and Ricky went off together, Ricky glancing up at him with admiration.

“It appears,” Alleyn said, “that a French nanny and those bi-weekly conversational tramps with Mademoiselle to the Round Pond have not been unproductive. Our child has the rudiments of the language.”

“Mademoiselle,” Troy rejoined, “says he’s prodigiously quick for his age. An amazing child, she thinks.” And she added hotly: “Well, all right, I don’t say so to anyone else, do I?”

“My darling, you do not and you shall never say so too often to me. But for the moment let us take our infant phenomenon for granted and look at the situation Chèvre d’Argent. Tell me as quickly as you can, what happened before i cropped up among those cups of tea on the roof-top.”

They sat together on the running-board of the car and Troy did her best. “Admirable,” he said when she had finished. “I felt in love with you in the first instance because you made such beautiful statements. Now, what do you suppose goes on in that house?”

“Something quite beastly,” she said vigorously. “I’m sure of it. Oberon’s obviously dishing out to his chums some fantastic hodgepodge of mysticism-cum-religion-cum, I’m very much afraid, eroticism. Grizel Locke attempted a sort of résumé. You never heard such a rigmarole… yoga, Nietzsche, black-magic. Voo-doo, I wouldn’t be surprised. With Lord knows what fancy touch of their own thrown in. It ought to be merely silly but it’s not, its frightening. Grizel Locke, I should say, is potty but the two young ones in any other setting would have struck me as being pleasant children. The boy’s obviously in a state about the girl, who seems to be completely in Oberon’s toils. It’s so fantastic, it isn’t true.”

“Have you ever heard of the case of Horus and the Swami Vivi Ananda?”

“No.”

“They appeared before Curtis Bennett with Edward Carson prosecuting and got swinging sentences for their pains. There’s no time to tell you about them now, but you’ve more or less described their setup and I assure you there’s nothing so very unusual about the religio-erotic racket. Oberon’s name, by the way, is Albert George Clarkson. He’s a millionaire and undoubtedly one of the drug barons. The cult of the Children of the Sun in the Outer is merely a useful sideline and a means, I suspect, of gratifying a particularly nasty personal taste. They suggested as much at the Sûreté though they don’t know exactly what goes on among the Sun’s Babies. The Sûreté is interested solely in the narcotics side of the show and the Yard’s watching it from our end.”

“And you?”

“I’m supposed to be the perishing link or something. What about the red-headed gentleman with painty hands and a carryover who was letting you out?”

“He might be serious, Rory. He’s Carbury Glande. He paints those post-surrealist things… witches’ sabbaths and mystic unions. You must remember. Rather pretty colour and good design, but a bit nasty in feeling. The thing is, he knows me and although I asked him not to, he’ll probably talk.”

“Does he know about us?”

“I can’t tell. He might.”

“Damn!”

“I shouldn’t have come, should I? If Glande knows who you are, he won’t be able to resist telling them and bang goes your job.”

“They didn’t give me Glande’s name at the Sûreté. He must be a later arrival. Never mind, we’ll gamble on his not knowing you made a
mésalliance
with a policeman. Now, listen, my darling, I don’t know how long I’ll be up here. It may be an hour: md it may be twenty-four. Will you settle yourself and Ricky at the Royal and forget about the Chèvre d’Argent? If there’s any goat on the premises it will probably be your devoted husband. I’ll make what hay I can while the sun shines in the Outer and I’ll turn up as soon as maybe. One thing more. Will you try, when you’ve come to your poor senses, to ring up Mr. Garbel? He may not be on the telephone, of course, but if he is…”

“Lord, yes! Mr. Garbel! Now why, for pity’s sake, did Robin Herrington run like a rabbit at the mention of P.E. Garbel? Can cousin Garbel be a drug baron? Or an addict, if it comes to that? It might account for his quaint literary style.”

“Have you, by any chance, brought his letters?”

“Only the last, for the sake of his address.”

“Hang on to it, I implore you. If he is on the telephone and answers, ask him to luncheon tomorrow and I’ll be there. If, by any chance, he turns up before then, find out if he knows any of Oberon’s chums and is prepared to talk about them. Here come Raoul and Ricky. Forget about this blasted business, my own true love, and enjoy yourself if you can.”

“What about Miss Truebody?”

“Baradi is pretty worried, he says. I’m quite certain he’s doing all that can be done for her. He’s a kingpin at his job, you know, however much he may stink to high heaven as a chap.”

“Shouldn’t I wait with her?”

“
No
. Any more of that and I’ll begin to think you like having your hand kissed by luscious Oriental gentlemen. Hullo, Rich, ready for your drive?”

Ricky advanced with his hands behind his back and with strides designed to match those of his companion. “Is Raoul driving us?” he asked.

“He is. You and Mummy.”

“Good. Daddy, look! Look, Mummy!”

He produced from behind his back a little goat, painted silver grey with one foot upraised and mounted on a base that roughly traced the outlines of the Château de la Chèvre d’Argent. “The old lady made it and Raoul gave it to me,” Ricky said. “It’s a silver goat and when it’s nighttime it makes itself shine. Doesn’t it, Raoul?
N’est ce pas, Raoul
?”

“
Oui. Une chèvre d’argent qui s’illumine
.”

“Daddy, isn’t Raoul kind?”

Alleyn, a little embarrassed, told Raoul how kind he was and Troy, haltingly, attempted to say that he shouldn’t.

Raoul said: “But it is nothing, Madame. If it pleases this young gallant and does not offend Madame, all is well. What are my orders. Monsieur?”

“Will you drive Madame and Ricky to their hotel? Then go to M. le Commissaire at the Préfecture and give him this letter. Tell him that I will call on him as soon as possible. Tell him also about the operation and of course reply to any questions he may ask. Then return here. There is no immediate hurry and you will have time for
déjeuner
. Do not report at the Château but wait here for me. If I haven’t turned up by 3:30 you may ask for me at the Château. You will remember that?”

Raoul repeated his instructions. Alleyn looked steadily at him. “Should you be told I am not there, drive to the nearest telephone, ring up the Préfecture and tell M. le Commissaire precisely what has happened. Understood?”

“Well understood. Monsieur.”

“Good. One thing more, Raoul. Do you know anyone in Roqueville called Garbel?”

“Garr-bel? No, Monsieur. It will be an English person for whom Monsieur enquires?”

“Yes. The address is 16 Rue des Violettes.”

Raoul repeated the address. “It is an apartment house, that one. It is true one finds a few English there, for the most part ladies no longer young and with small incomes who do not often engage taxis.”

“Ah well,” Alleyn said. “No matter.”

He took off his hat and kissed his wife. “Have a nice holiday,” he said, “and give my love to Mr. Garbel.”

“What were you telling Raoul?

“Wouldn’t you like to know! Goodbye, Rick. Take care of your mama, she’s a good kind creature and means well.”

Ricky grinned. He was quick, when he didn’t understand his father’s remarks, to catch their intention from the colour of his voice. “
Entendu, “
he said, imitating Raoul, and climbed into the car beside him.

“I suppose I may sit here?” he said airily.

“He
is
a precocious little perisher and no mistake,” Alleyn muttered. “Do you suppose it’ll all peter out and he’ll be a dullard by the time he’s eight?”

“A lot of it’s purely imitative. It sounds classier than it is. Move up, Ricky, I’m coming in front, too.”

Alleyn watched the car drive down the steep lane to the main road. Then he turned back to the Château de la Chèvre d’Argent.

ii

On the way back to Roqueville Raoul talked nursery French to Ricky and Troy, pointing out the places of interest: the Alpine monastery where, in the cloisters, one might see many lively pictures executed by the persons of the district whose relations had been saved from abrupt destruction by the intervention of Our Lady of Paysdoux; villages that looked as if they had been thrown against the rocks and had stuck to them; distant prospects of little towns. On a lonely stretch of road, Troy offered him a cigarette and while he lit it he allowed Ricky to steer the scarcely moving car. Ricky’s dotage on Raoul intensified with every kilometre they travelled together and Troy’s understanding of French improved with astonishing rapidity. Altogether they enjoyed each other’s company immensely and the journey seemed a short one. They could scarcely believe that the cluster of yellow and pink buildings that presently appeared beneath them was Roqueville.

Raoul turned aside from the steeply descending road and drove down a narrow side-street past an open market where bunches of dyed immortelles hung shrilly above the stalls and the smells of tuberoses was mingled with the pungency of fruit and vegetables. All the world, Raoul said, was abroad at this hour in the market and he flung loud unembarrassed greetings to many persons of his acquaintance. Troy felt her spirits rising and Ricky dropped into the stillness that with him was a sign of extreme pleasure. He sighed deeply and laid one hand on Raoul’s knee and one, clasping his silver goat, on Troy’s.

They were in a shadowed street where the houses were washed over with faint candy-pink, lemon and powder-blue. Strings of washing hung from one iron balcony to another.

“Rue des Violettes,” Raoul said, pointing to the street-sign and presently halted. “
Numéro seize
.”

Troy gathered that he offered her an opportunity to call on Mr. Garbel or, if she was not so inclined, to note the whereabouts of his lodging. She could see through the open door into a dim and undistinguished interior. A number of raffish children clustered about the car. They chattered in an incomprehensible patois and stared with an air of hardihood at Ricky, who instantly became stony.

Troy thought Raoul was offering to accompany her into the house, but sensing panic in the breast of her son, she managed to say that she would go in by herself. “I can leave a note,” she thought, and said to Ricky. “I won’t be a moment. You stay with Raoul, darling.”

“O.K.,” he agreed, still fully occupied with disregarding the children. He was like a dog who, when addressed by his master, wags his tail but does not lower his hackles. Raoul shouted at the children and made a shooing noise driving them from the car. They retreated a little, skittishly twitting him. He got out and opened the door for Troy, removing his cap as if she were a minor royalty. Impressed by this evidence of prestige, most of the children fell back, though two of the hardier raised a beggar’s plaint and were silenced by Raoul.

The door of Number 16 was ajar. Troy pushed it open and crossed a dingy tessellated floor to a lift-well beside which hung a slotted board holding cards, some with printed and some with written names on them. She had begun hunting up and down the board when a voice behind her said: “Madame?”

Troy turned as if she’d been struck. The door of a sort of cubby-hole opposite the lift was held partly open by a grimy and heavily ringed hand. Beyond the hand Troy could see folds of a black satin dress, an iridescence of bead-work and three quarters of a heavy face and piled-up coiffure.

She felt as if she’d been caught doing something shady. Her nursery French deserted her.

“Pardon,” she stammered. “
Je désire — je cherche — Monsieur — Garbel — le nom de Garbel
.”

The woman said something incomprehensible to Troy, who replied, “
Je ne parle pas français. Malheureusement,
” she added on an afterthought. The woman made a resigned noise and waddled out of her cubby-hole. She was enormously fat and used a walking stick. Her eyes were like black currants sunk in uncooked dough. She prodded with her stick at the top of the board and, strangely familiar in that alien place, a spidery signature in faded ink was exhibited: “P.E. Garbel.”

“
Ah, merci
,” Troy cried, but the fat woman shook her head contemptuously and appeared to repeat her former remark. This time Troy caught something like… “
Pas chez elle… il y a vingt-quatre heures.
”

“Not at home?” shouted Troy in English. The woman shrugged heavily and began to walk away. “May I leave a note?” Troy called to her enormous back. “
Puis-je vous donner un billet pour Monsieur
?”

The woman stared at her as if she were mad. Troy scrambled in her bag and produced a notebook and the stub of a BB pencil. Sketches she had made of Ricky in the train fell to the floor. The woman glanced at them with some appearance of interest. Troy wrote: “Called at 11:15. Sorry to have missed you. Hope you can lunch with us at the Royal tomorrow.” She signed the note, folded it over and wrote: “M.P.E. Garbel” on the flap. She gave it to the woman (was she a concierge?) and stooped to recover her sketches, aware as she did so, of a dusty skirt, dubious petticoats and broken shoes. When she straightened up it was to find her note displayed with a grey-rimmed sunken finger-nail jabbing at the inscription. “She can’t read my writing,” Troy thought and pointed first to the card and then to the note, nodding like a mandarin and smiling constrainedly. “Garbel,” said Troy, “Gar-r-bel.” She remembered about tipping and pressed a 100 franc note into the padded hand. This had an instantaneous effect. The woman coruscated with black unlovely smiles. “Mademoiselle,” she said, gaily waving the note. “Madame,” Troy responded. “
Non, non, non, non. Mademoiselle,
” insisted the woman with an ingratiating leer.