The Lives and Times of Bernardo Brown (17 page)

‘But I tell you they are not lost. They are not in the
laundry. They were laid decently upon a chair. They have disappeared while I slept as in my mother’s arms. I have been robbed, I tell you!’

Bernardo asked exactly what was missing.

‘Mon caleçon!’

He could of course have stolen her drawers while she was out of the room. So could the supposed chambermaid, who must be cleared at once. He was about to confess the incident of the night when it occurred to him that she herself had never mentioned it. What was the catch? She must surely remember.

‘Madame, I hope, does not accuse me?’

‘I accuse no one. Give me back my drawers and not a word more!’

‘Perhaps the maid may be allowed to search Madame’s room?’ the Manager suggested.

‘On no account!’

She slammed the door. Possibly she was embarrassed by the empty bottles at the bottom of the cupboard, yet the chambermaid knew as well as Bernardo how the Nightingale calmed her nerves.

It seemed unlikely that the Prince of the Rosicrucians was a type to steal female underclothing. But in spite of the racket not a sound came from behind his closed door. That was suspicious. When the passage had cleared, Bernardo knocked on his door, knocking more loudly when there was no answer.

‘Who’s there? Who’s there?’

‘Only Mitrani.’

‘Ah, it’s you. Wait a minute!’

Perseus’ brazenly innocent face left no doubt who was the culprit.

‘Sit down, my dear Mitrani, sit down! I am glad to have this opportunity of thanking you. What was all the noise about?’

‘Madame Hortense. It appears she has lost an intimate garment.’

‘Her spirits were a little elevated. Is it possible she threw it out of the window?’

‘If she did, no doubt a conjurer such as monsieur will be able to return it to her room. I will be his stooge.’

‘You suspect me, Mitrani?’

‘I am sure.’

‘But what motive could I have?’

‘If monsieur would prefer to tell me rather than the police....’

Perseus sighed and dived into his trunk. From its depths he hauled out the missing garment and spread it wing and wing with one flick of his conjurer’s wrist. It was a pair of knee-length drawers of remarkable size and elaboration with lace insets and frills, threaded with blue and pink ribbons.

‘You ask my motive, Mitrani. You are a man of imagination. Conceive, I implore you, the enthusiasm, the laughter when I produce these from a hat. I could search for years without finding such a property.’

Bernardo saw his point; it was impossible for Perseus to resist the temptation. Doves and goldfish were trivial. Some delicate article of female underwear—well, it would only produce a polite titter. But this now unobtainable
caleçon
presented by itself the pre-war world of Empires, the luxury of Archdukes. It belonged in a
chambre privée
of Maxim’s where—culmination of supper after the Opera—it had been respectfully removed by some Paraguayan Papal Count and laid upon the velvet of the day-bed while its owner parted noble, Edwardian thighs and whispered—if she didn’t sing it—‘Excellency, my resistance is at an end.’

Yes, the Prince of the Rosicrucians must have it. Mme. Hortense would have to adjust herself to the shorter silken fantasies of the nineteen twenties. Bernardo regretted that money had to enter into the transaction, but he was in no position to be charitable.

‘I will do my best to arrange the matter with Madame Hortense, monsieur. What’s it worth to you?’

‘Five thousand lei,’ Perseus suggested, a little too hastily.

It was more than Bernardo expected, equal to about seven pounds and double that in what it would buy. No need to jump at it, however.

‘It is a pleasure to serve monsieur. But there will also be the police.’

‘What would you recommend?’

‘Another five thousand. They are very poorly paid.’

Perseus handed over the money at once and asked if he could safely hang on to his prize.

‘We will see. If you hear nothing from me, we are safe.’

He cautiously slipped out of the room. The row at the other end of the passage had started up again, and the Manager was evidently on the point of sending for the police. That could be the end of David Mitrani who dared not be questioned about his past and that arrival with a horse from Morocco. Perseus would have to unstick at once from Mme. Hortense’s property. He assured the Manager that it would be found.

‘To hell and the devil with her
caleçon
! Someone has stolen my bath salts.’

It was a most expensively cut crystal jar which had been presented to the Manager by a grateful client. He kept it in his bathroom cupboard and valued it highly. Nobody in the hotel would have dreamed of telling him that the luxurious jar with its Coty label had been empty and that the client had refilled it with Romanian bath salts from the nearest chemist.

All was now plain to Bernardo. That was why Mme. Hortense never mentioned that she had left her room and she objected to anyone searching it.

‘May I suggest, sir, that you leave the matter in my hands till lunchtime?’ he said. ‘I am sure I can clear myself and the chambermaid. After all I know more than anybody else of what goes on in this hotel between ten at night and seven in the morning.’

‘You are a scoundrel, Mitrani! You have all the vices of Jew and Christian in one!’

‘And so it is unnecessary to call in the police. Calm, dear sir, calm! By lunchtime I will tell you where your bath salts are.’

The small gathering dispersed. The big eyes in the little lemon-coloured faces vanished behind their doors. It was nearly time for Mme. Hortense’s
petit déjeuner
. Bernardo had no trouble in persuading the waiter to let him take up the tray.

‘Well, you! So you have the impudence to bring my coffee in person! Where is my
caleçon
?’

‘I do not know, Madame. Perhaps some admirer ...’

‘You disgust me. I await the police.’

‘Madame may not have to wait long. The Manager has lost his bath salts.’

‘His bath salts? What story is this? Who was using my lavatory last night? He is the thief. Two jolly presents for his girl! My
caleçon
and a little something to freshen her up where she needs it most!’

‘But whoever he was, he did not enter the Manager’s bathroom.’

‘Insolent! You dare to accuse me?’

‘Unavoidable, Madame. We are all under suspicion.’

‘Is it true that he is sending for the police?’

‘I doubt if I can prevent it. I only hope I shall be able to keep my mouth shut.’

‘Would you care for a little drink, Mitrani?’

‘Willingly, Madame.’

‘You will find a bottle in the cupboard. Serve yourself, and a little in my coffee if you would be so good.’

Bernardo took a quick look round the cupboard. Meanwhile Mme. Hortense allowed her bedjacket to slip back. It was only too evident that she would have won the red ribbon at any dairy show with Eva only a Highly Commended.

‘The needs of beauty excuse everything, Mitrani.’

Bernardo politely agreed but remained the passive servant of the hotel. Mme. Hortense, realising that there was no alternative, pulled out a neat little purse and presented him with a hundred lei. Bernardo gave it a cabman’s cold look and said nothing.

‘But that is for you on condition ...’

She put one finger to her lips.

‘I have my duty to consider, Madame.’

‘And there is another!’ she declared with an air of splendid generosity.

‘The police will be here shortly, Madame. Shall we say five thousand?’

‘But this is blackmail! I will report it.
Tiens!
I’ll give you a thousand. There!’

‘Five thousand lei, Madame.’

‘Two.’

‘Four or there will be a scandal.’

‘Mitrani, I was told the Romanians were gallant. I will give you three. Or, naked and defenceless as I am, I will consent to be dragged to gaol.’

Bernardo gave up. It was impossible to bargain with a Frenchwoman. He took his three thousand and removed the tray.

He threw on his uniform coat and shot into the Manager’s office, feeling that he had not done badly for one whose commercial experience had been limited to shipping and Susana. But his nerve was going. The Manager was furiously throwing papers from the Out tray to the In tray with the fateful telephone far too near his hand. He turned his temper on the night porter.

‘Well, Mitrani, well? Where are my salts, half-wit?’

‘I have warned you, sir, not to leave the key over the door of your bathroom.’

‘And I told you that the girls were not tall enough to reach it.’

‘But Mme. Hortense? On tip-toe? You must remember
that when she returns at two she is almost alone in the hotel.’

‘Why should she? She has everything she needs.’

‘Like Bluebeard’s wife—merely because the door is locked. And a cupboard! Wherever she is, she is incapable of not rummaging in it.’

‘She’d never take the risk.’

‘Excuse me, sir! The jar was full. So there was a chance that you never used it and would not miss it. And soon she leaves for Belgrade.’

‘At her age can one be a thief?’

‘Impulse, dear sir. The needs of beauty excuse everything.’

‘Beauty, my backside!’

‘One must be charitable. The years pass so quickly.’

‘You learned that from your English papa?’

‘It’s in the works of St. Spiridon.’

‘And her pants, clown?’

‘Obviously, sir, she invented this story of a thief in case the salts were missed.’

‘But how can I get them back without a scandal?’

‘There is a large doll in her room in our glorious national costume and its stuffing is on the floor of her wardrobe among the empties. I suggest that before she leaves we put something of similar shape in its belly.’

‘Mitrani, you should be in the police!’

Bernardo took the opportunity to remind him that the help of the police was always expensive. No tip was forthcoming, but he did get the genial promise of a rise in pay. The precious bath salts must have been of great sentimental value.

With a total of thirteen thousand lei earned—when one came to think of it—solely by helping his fellows in their distress Bernardo jumped into a higher orbit of optimism. Another wad of this easy money and he might get a sight of Magda again. Meanwhile there was that child on his conscience. An abomination! God only knew where she could fetch up and what more indignities she might have to suffer.

He made some enquiries about fairs. Craiova was finished.
There was no regular route for the side-shows and amusement stalls which moved according to the hunches and preferences of the owners. Up in Moldavia were two possibles, besides some sort of grubby affair at Giurgiu on the Danube and a probable at Târgu-Jiu in Transylvania which seemed the easiest run from Craiova. Bernardo called up the police station at Târgu-Jiu, pretending to be the manager of the Alhambra, Bucarest’s smartest cabaret, to ask if the Stepanovs were at the fair.

He struck it lucky at once. He was warned to have nothing to do with them. An impossible show for the Alhambra—did he understand the nature of the exhibition? There had been complaints from some impertinent Protestant League of the Magyar minority. As men of the world, the police could see no harm, but they had had to shut the Stepanovs down and move them on. Bernardo asked if it was known where they had gone. Well, that filthy eunuch had asked for a Bulgarian visa and got it, so it was very likely that they were working the Giurgiu fair and would cross over to Rusciuc by the ferry when it closed.

Giurgiu was easy to reach. On his day off he was free from seven in the morning till ten p.m. the following day, thirty-nine hours if he did not sleep. He told himself—having no clear idea what sort of quixotry he intended—that he was killing two birds with one stone. He had always wanted to see the Danube.

After a couple of hours in the train there it was: a majestic river of silvers and browns rather than blue with a swirling, noticeable current although the water was at its autumn low. Barges and tugs seemed to be the main interest of the port, and two ocean-going tramps were alongside the quay with its familiar line of warehouses and consulates including his own. For a moment he was tempted to go in. But better David Mitrani than that badly wanted Bernardo Brown, that unspeakable outcast who had assaulted His Majesty’s representative.

The fairground was on the flood plain, upstream and well inland. He found it half dismantled with travelling carts packing up. He could see no sign of the Stepanovs, but did not explore too closely in case the man should spot him and become suspicious at his second appearance. It looked as though they had left. The time-table of the ferry showed only one crossing early every morning.

Recognising a small menagerie which had been close to the ‘interesting’ exhibition at the Moş, he stood around waiting for a chance of casual conversation. The mangy animals, each in a cage hardly bigger than itself, were being hoisted on to an open truck: a leopard, a lion and a bear at the bottom, wolves, snakes and monkeys together with the empty exhibition cages on top. Short lives they must have, with hardly room to lick their sores. The bars of the wolf cage broke, but it made no attempt to escape, cowering utterly uninterested while the lid of a packing case was nailed in place.

‘Going to Bulgaria?’ he asked the showman.

‘Not me! A cruel lot the Bulgars are—no better than Turks!’

‘Does anyone go over there?’

‘Only if the show is big enough to put on rail. That’s too expensive for most of us chaps.’

‘What about putting a cart on the ferry?’

‘No room. But it will tow a boat. There’s one dirty dog is going that way. Next to me he was, exhibiting his own daughter. Pfui!’

‘What’s the matter with her?’

‘Four tits.’

Bernardo showed a proper disgust, asked a few questions about the animals and strolled off. ‘Is going’ not ‘has gone’. So Stepanov must be waiting somewhere till next morning. There was no sign of him on the waterfront, on waste ground or in back streets, and so, after searching for a couple of hours, Bernardo settled down at a café table from which he could watch most of the activities of the port. His pro
fessional eye observed that it was difficult to load a showman’s cart from the quayside; it would have to be lifted by crane. In the barge basin anything could be wheeled on board, but there the lighters were too large, built for strings behind a powerful tug and probably unmanageable behind a small steam ferry in a current.