Ngaio Marsh - When in Rome

“Signor Questore, may I ask you to add to the many favours you have already granted? I am not familiar with your police regulations and procedures but I understand you are less restricted than we are. Would it be possible to put a man in Mailer’s flat at once and could that man answer the telephone and make a careful note of any calls, if possible tracing their origin? I think it’s highly probable that Marco of La Giaconda will at this moment be trying to get him and will try again. And again.”

“ Marco ! Indeed? But — yes of course. But—”

“I have spoken to him. He was discreet but his reaction to the disappearance was interesting.”

“In what way? He was distressed?”

“Distressed — yes. Not, I think, so much by Mailer’s disappearance as by the thought of his return. That prospect, unless I’m very much mistaken, terrifies him.”

“I shall attend to this at once,” said Il Questore.

“If Mailer is still missing, tomorrow, would you allow me to have a look at his rooms?”

“But of course. I will instruct my people.”

“You are too kind,” said Alleyn, as usual.

When he returned to the vestibule of La Giaconda he found all the party there except Lady Braceley. He noticed that Giovanni was having little conferences with the men. He spoke first with Kenneth Dorne, who responded with an air of connivance and cast furtive looks about him. Giovanni moved on to the Major, who, ignoring Kenneth, listened avidly but with an affectation of indifference much at odds with the grin that twitched the corners of his mouth. Giovanni seemed to send out a call of some sort to Baron Van der Veghel, who joined them. He too listened attentively, the Etruscan smile very much in evidence. He said little and presently rejoined his wife, linked his arm in hers and stooped towards her. She put her head on one side and gazed at him. He took the tip of her nose between his fingers and gently, playfully, waggled it. She beamed at him and tapped his cheek. He pulled her hand down to his mouth. Alleyn thought he had never seen a more explicit display of physical love. The Baron slightly shook his head at Giovanni, who bowed gracefully and looked at Grant, who was talking to Sophy Jason. Grant at once said quite loudly: “No, thank you,” and Giovanni moved on to Alleyn.

“Signore,” he said. “We go now to the Cosmo, a very elegant and exclusive nightclub where the guests will remain for as long as they wish. Perhaps until two when the Cosmo closes. That will conclude the programme for this tour. However, Signor Mailer has arranged that a further expedition is available for those who are perhaps a little curious and desire to extend their knowledge of Roman nightlife. Some drinks. A smoke. Congenial company. Boys and girls, very charming. Everything very discreet. The cars will be available without further charge but the entertainment is not included in the tour.”

“How much?” Alleyn asked.

“Signore, the fee is fifteen thousand lire.”

“Very well,” Alleyn said. “Yes.”

“You will not be disappointed, Signore.”

“Good.”

Lady Braceley re-entered the vestibule.

“Here I am!” she cried. “High as a kite and fit for the wide, wild way-out. Bring on the dancing girls.”

Kenneth and Giovanni went to her. Kenneth put his arm round her waist and said something under his breath.

“Of course!” she said loudly. “Need you ask, darling? I’d adore to.” She advanced her face towards Giovanni and widened her eyes.

Giovanni bowed and gave her a look, so overtly deferential and subtly impertinent that Alleyn felt inclined either to knock him down or tell Lady Braceley what he thought of her. He saw Sophy Jason looking at her with something like horror.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” said Giovanni, “to Il Cosmo.”

The Cosmo was a nightclub with a lavish floor show. As soon as the party was seated, bottles of champagne were clapped down on their tables. They hadn’t been there long before the members of the orchestra left their dais and walked severally to the front tables. The bass and cello players actually planted their instruments on the tables and plucked the strings. The fiddlers and saxophonists came as close as possible. The tympanist held his cymbals poised above the shrinking Major Sweet’s head.

Eight marginal nudes trimmed with tropical fruit jolted round the floor space. “Black lighting,” was introduced and they turned into Negresses. The noise was formidable indeed.

“Well,” Grant asked Sophy. “Still keeping Grandpapa Jason at bay?”

“I’m not so sure he doesn’t ride again.”

The uproar was such that they were obliged to shout into each others’ ears. Lady Braceley was jerking her shoulders in time with the saxophonist at her table. He managed to ogle her while continuing his exertions. “She seems,” Grant said, “to be on the short list of persona grata here as well as at the Giaconda.”

“It’s a bit hard to take, I find.”

“Say the word if you’d like to go. We could, you know. Or do you want to see the rest of the show?” Sophy shook her head vaguely. She tried to get her reactions into some kind of perspective. It was odd to reflect that less than twelve hours ago she had met Grant for virtually the first time. It was not the first time by many that she made an instant take, but she had never before experienced so sharp an antagonism followed for no discernible reason by so complete a sense of familiarity. At one moment they had blackguarded each other to heaps and at another, not fifteen minutes later, they had gossiped away in the shrine of Mithras as if they had not only known but understood each other for years. “Me,” thought Sophy, “and Barnaby Grant. Jolly odd when you come to think of it.” It would have been quite a thing if she could put it all down to the violent antagonism that sometimes precedes an equally violent physical attraction but that was no go. Obviously they were under no compulsion to fall into each other’s arms.

“If we stay,” Grant was saying, “I can snatch you up in my arms.”

Sophy gaped at this uncanny distortion of her thoughts.

“In a cachucha, fandango, bolero or whatever,” he explained. “On the other hand— Do pay attention,” he said crossly. “I’m making a dead set at you.”

“How lovely,” Sophy rejoined. “I’m all ears.”

The rumpus subsided, the orchestra returned to its dais, the Negresses were changed back into naked pink chicks and retired. A mellifluous tenor, all eyes, teeth and sob-in-the-voice, came out and sang “Santa Lucia” and other familiar pieces. He too moved among his audience. Lady Braceley gave him a piece of everlasting greenery from her table decoration.

He was followed by the star of the programme, a celebrated black singer of soul music. She was beautiful, and disturbing, and a stillness came over the Cosmo when she sang. One of her songs was about hopelessness, injury and degradation and she made of it a kind of accusation. It seemed to Sophy that her audience almost disintegrated under her attack and she thought it strange that Lady Braceley, for instance, and Kenneth could sit and look appreciative and join so complacently in the applause.

When she had gone Grant said: “That was remarkable, wasn’t it?” Alleyn, overhearing him, said: “Extraordinary. Do modern audiences find that the pursuit of pleasure is best satisfied by having the rug jerked from under their feet?”

“Oh,” Grant said, “hasn’t that always been so? We like to be reminded that something is rotten in the state of Denmark. It makes us feel important.”

The programme ended with a very stylish ensemble, the lights were subdued, the band insinuated itself into dance music and Grant said to Sophy: “Come on. Whether you like it or not.”