Ngaio Marsh - Swing, Brother, Swing

‘She’s had things too much her own way. Make her sit up a bit and a good job, too.’

‘Aren’t you making a great number of blank cartridges?’ Carlisle asked idly.

‘I rather like making them. You never know. I shall probably be asked to repeat my number lots of times. I like to be prepared.’

He glanced up and saw the journal which Carlisle still held in her lap. ‘Thought you had a mind above that sort of stuff,’ said Lord Pastern, grinning.

‘Are you a subscriber, darling?’

‘Y’ aunt is. It’s got a lot of sound stuff in it. They’re not afraid to speak their minds, b’God. See that thing on drug-runnin’? Names and everything and if they don’t like it they can damn’ well lump it. The police,’ Lord Pastern said obscurely, ‘are no good. Pompous incompetent lot. Hidebound. Ned,’ he added, ‘does the reviews.’

‘Perhaps,’ Carlisle said lightly, ‘he’s GPF too.’

‘Chap’s got brains,’ Lord Pastern grunted bewilderingly. ‘Hog-sense in that feller.’

‘Uncle George,’ Carlisle demanded suddenly, ‘you don’t know by any chance, if Fée’s ever consulted GPF?’

‘Wouldn’t let on if I did, m’dear. Naturally.’

Carlisle reddened. ‘No, of course you wouldn’t if she’d told you in confidence. Only usually Fée can’t keep anything to herself.’

‘Well, ask her. She might do a damn’ sight worse.’

Lord Pastern dropped the two bullets he had extracted into the waste-paper basket and returned to his desk. ‘I’ve been doin’ a bit of writin’ myself,’ he said. ‘Look at this, Lisle.’

He handed his niece a sheet of music manuscript. An air had been set down, with many rubbings out, it seemed, and words had been written under the appropriate notes. ‘This Hot Guy,’ Carlisle read, ‘does he get mean? This Hot Gunner with his accord-een. Shoots like he plays an’ he tops the bill. Plays like he shoots an’ he shoots to kill. Hide oh hi. Yip. Ho de oh do. Yip. Shoot buddy, shoot and we’ll sure come clean. Hot Guy, Hot Gunner and your accord-een. Bo. Bo. Bo.’

‘Neat,’ said Lord Pastern complacently. ‘Ain’t it?’

‘It’s astonishing,’ Carlisle murmured and was spared the necessity of further comment by the sound of voices in the drawing-room.

‘That’s the Boys,’ said Lord Pastern briskly. ‘Come on.’

The Boys were dressed in their professional dinner suits. These were distinctive garments, the jackets being double-breasted with steel buttons and silver revers. The sleeves were extremely narrow and displayed a great deal of cuff. The taller of the two, a man whose rotundity was emphasized by his pallor, advanced, beaming upon his host.

‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘Look who’s here.’

It was upon his companion that Carlisle fixed her attention. Memories of tango experts, of cinema near-stars with cigarette holders and parti-coloured shoes, of armoured women moving doggedly round dance floors in the grasp of younger men; all these memories jostled together in her brain.

‘– and Mr Rivera –’ her uncle was saying. Carlisle withdrew her hand from Mr Bellairs’ encompassing grasp and it was at once bowed over by Mr Rivera.

‘Miss Wayne,’ said Félicité’s Carlos.

He rose from his bow with grace and gave her a look of automatic homage. ‘So we meet, at last,’ he said. ‘I have heard so much.’ He had, she noticed, a very slight lisp.

Lord Pastern gave them all sherry. The two visitors made loud conversation: ‘That’s very fine,’ Mr Breezy Bellairs pronounced and pointed to a small Fragonard above the fireplace. ‘My God, that’s beautiful, you know, Carlos. Exquisite.’

‘In my father’s hacienda,’ said Mr Rivera, ‘there is a picture of which I am vividly reminded. This picture to which I refer, is a portrait of one of my paternal ancestors. It is an original Goya.’ And while she was still wondering how a Fragonard could remind Mr Rivera of a Goya, he turned to Carlisle. ‘You have visited the Argentine, Miss Wayne, of course?’

‘No,’ said Carlisle.

‘But you must. It would appeal to you enormously. It is a little difficult, by the way, for a visitor to see us, as it were from the inside. The Spanish families are very exclusive.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh, yes. An aunt of mine, Donna Isabella da Manuelos-Rivera used to say ours was the only remaining aristocracy.’ He inclined towards Lord Pastern and laughed musically. ‘But, of course, she had not visited a certain charming house in Duke’s Gate, London.’

‘What? I wasn’t listening,’ said Lord Pastern. ‘Look here, Bellairs, about tonight –’

‘Tonight,’ Mr Bellairs interrupted, smiling from ear to ear, ‘is in the bag. We’ll rock them, Lord Pastern. Now, don’t you worry about tonight. It’s going to be wonderful. You’ll be there, of course, Miss Wayne?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it,’ Carlisle murmured, wishing they were not so zealous in their attentions.

‘I’ve got the gun fixed up,’ her uncle said eagerly. ‘Five rounds of blanks, you know. What about those umbrellas, now –’

‘You are fond of music, Miss Wayne? But of course you are. You would be enchanted by the music of my own country.’

‘Tangos and rhumbas?’ Carlisle ventured. Mr Rivera inclined towards her. ‘At midnight,’ he said, ‘with the scent of magnolias in the air – those wonderful nights of music. You will think it strange, of course, that I should be’ – he shrugged up his shoulders and lowered his voice –’performing in a dance band. Wearing these appalling clothes! Here, in London! It is terrible, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘I suppose,’ Mr Rivera sighed, ‘I am what you call a snob. There are times when I find it almost unendurable. But I must not say so.’ He glanced at Mr Bellairs who was very deep in conversation with his host. ‘A heart of gold,’ he whispered. ‘One of nature’s gentlemen. I should not complain. How serious we have become,’ he added gaily. ‘We meet and in two minutes I confide in you. You are simpatica, Miss Wayne. But of course, you have been told that before.’

‘Never,’ said Carlisle firmly, and was glad to see Edward Manx come in.

‘Evenin’, Ned,’ said Lord Pastern, blinking at him. ‘Glad to see you. Have you met –’

Carlisle heard Mr Rivera draw in his breath with a formidable hiss. Manx, having saluted Mr Bellairs, advanced with a pleasant smile and extended hand. ‘We haven’t met, Rivera,’ he said, ‘but at least I’m one of your devotés at the Metronome. If anything could teach me how to dance I’m persuaded it would be your piano accordion.’

‘How do you do,’ said Mr Rivera, and turned his back. ‘As I was saying, Miss Wayne,’ he continued. ‘I believe entirely in first impressions. As soon as we were introduced –’

Carlisle looked past him at Manx who had remained perfectly still. At the first opportunity, she walked round Mr Rivera and joined him. Mr Rivera moved to the fireplace before which he stood with an air of detachment, humming under his breath. Lord Pastern instantly buttonholed him. Mr Bellairs joined them with every manifestation of uneasy geniality. ‘About my number, Carlos,’ said Lord Pastern, ‘I’ve been tellin’ Breezy –’

‘Of all the filthy rude –’ Manx began to mutter.

Carlisle linked her arm in his and walked him away. ‘He’s just plain frightful, Ned. Félicité must be out of her mind,’ she whispered hastily.

‘If Cousin George thinks I’m going to stand round letting a bloody fancy-dress dago insult me –’

‘For pity’s sake don’t fly into one of your rages. Laugh it off.’

‘Heh-heh-heh –’

‘That’s better.’