Джозеф Конрад - Suspense

The doctor stepped out into the hall, attractively dim and cool in the middle of the day. Spire had disappeared, but the doctor had given up the hope of Cosmo’s sudden return. In a dark corner he perceived the shadowy shape of a cocked hat, and made out the old lieutenant leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed and his chin on his breast. He had a bottle of wine and a glass standing in front of him.

“I suppose,” thought the doctor, “this is what he comes ashore for.”

The product of twenty years of war. The reeking loom that converted such as he into food for guns had stopped suddenly. There would be no demand for heroes for a long long time, and somehow the fact that the fellow had all his limbs about him made him even more pathetic. The doctor had almost forgotten Cosmo. He did not notice Spire coming down the stairs, and he started at the sound of the words: “I beg your pardon, sir,” uttered almost in his ears. The elderly valet was very much shaken. He said in a low murmur: “I am nearly out of my mind, sir. My master … ”

“I know,” interrupted the doctor. He pounced upon Spire like a bird of prey. “Come, what do you know about it?”

This reception roused Spire’s dislike of that sour and off–hand person, like no medical man he had ever seen, and certainly no gentleman. On the principle “like master like man,” Spire was more sensitive to manner than to any trait of personality. He pulled himself together and steadied his voice. “I know nothing, sir, except that you were the last person seen speaking to Mr. Latham.”

“You don’t think I have got him in my pocket, do you?” asked Dr. Martel, noting the hostile stare. “Don’t you attend your master when he retires for the night?”

“I got dismissed early last night. I am sorry to say I sat downstairs after supper very late, listening to tales about one thing and another. I … I went to sleep there,” added Spire with a sort of desperation.

“Listening to tales,” repeated the doctor jeeringly. “Pretty tales they must have been, too. Zillers is no company for a respectable English servant. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Well, and then?”

“I went up, sir, and … ”

“In the middle of the night,” suggested the doctor.

“It was pretty late. I … ”

He faltered at the remembrance. The waking up in the cold dark kitchen, the cold dark staircase, the light shining through the key–hole of Mr. Cosmo’s bedroom, the first vague feeling that there was something wrong, the empty room. And most awful of all, the bed not slept in, and the candles in the candelabras burning low. He remembered his horror, incredulity, his collapse into an arm–chair where he sat till broad daylight in a pitiable state of mental agitation.

A slight tremor passed through his portly frame before he forced himself to speak.

“Mr. Latham had emptied his pockets, sir, as if he were making ready to go to bed. All the change and his keys were lying on the mantel–piece. One would think he had been kidnapped. Of course, it can’t be,” he added in a low, intense tone.

“Do you mean to say he disappeared without his hat?” asked the doctor.

“No, sir, hat and cloak aren’t there.” And to the doctor’s further questions Spire confessed that he had spoken to no one in the house that morning. He would only have been told lies. He did not think much of the people in the inn.

“So I took the liberty of speaking to you, sir. Mr. Latham may turn up any moment, and I don’t know that he would like to find that I have been to the police already.”

“No, perhaps he wouldn’t,” assented the doctor reflectively.

“That’s just it, sir,” murmured Spire. “Mr. Cosmo is a very peculiar young gentleman. He doesn’t like notice to be taken.”

“Doesn’t he? Well, then, you had better wait before you go to the police. We had better give him till four o’clock.”

“Very well, sir,” said Spire, fighting down his feeling that nothing in the world would be worse than this waiting. The doctor nodded dismissal, then at the last moment:

“By–the–by, hadn’t you better look up all the papers that may be lying about?”

Spire was favourably impressed by the suggestion.

“Yes, sir, we have a small strong–box with us. I will go and do it at once.”

During that colloquy, conducted in low tones at the foot of the grand staircase, nobody had appeared in the hall. Not even the vigilant Cantelucci. But the elderly lieutenant had raised his head and his dull uninterested eyes followed the doctor across the hall and out through the door into the sunshine of the square. In all its vast and paved extent only very few figures were moving. The doctor’s tastes and even his destiny had made of him a nocturnal visitor to the abodes of the great. At this time of the day, however, there was almost as little risk of being seen entering the Palace of the Griffins as in the middle of the night. The populace, the shopkeepers, the Austrian garrison, the gendarmes, the sbirri , the spies, and even the conspirators were indulging in mid–day repose. The very team of dapple–grey horses harnessed to an enormous two–wheeled cart drawn up in the shade, dozed over their empty nose–bags. Dogs slumbered in the doorways in utter abandonment; and only the bronze griffins seated on their narrow pedestals of granite before the doorway of the palace preserved their alert, wide–awake pose of everlasting watchfulness. They were really very fine. And the doctor gave them an appreciative glance before crossing the empty quadrangle. He felt the only wide–awake person in a slumbering world. He wondered if he would succeed in getting admitted to the palace. If not, he confessed to himself, he would be at a loss what to do next. Very disagreeable. He had, however, the memorandum for the marquis in his pocket, as a pretext of his visit.

All was still without and within; but in the noble ante–room at the foot of the marble staircase he was met by a sight characteristic of the easy Italian ways. Extended face downward on one of the red and gold benches, one of the footmen in shirt–sleeves and with his breeches untied at the knees was sleeping profoundly. His dishevelled head rested on his forearm. At an unceremonious poke in the ribs he jumped to his feet, looking scared and wild. But Dr. Martel was ready for him.

“What’s the matter, my friend?” he asked softly. “Is there a price set on your head?”

The man remained open–mouthed, as if paralysed by the caustic inquiry.

“Fetch the major–domo here,” commanded the doctor, thinking that he had seldom seen a more bandit–like figure. While waiting, the doctor reflected that a livery coat was a good disguise. It occurred to him also that in the house of a man having such retainers all sorts of things might happen. This was Italy. The silence as of a tomb, which pervaded the whole house, though nothing extraordinary in the hour of siesta, produced the effect of sinister mystery. The arrival of the sleek Bernard did not destroy that bad impression. The doctor, who had never seen him before by daylight, said to himself that this was no doubt only another kind of villain. On learning that the marquis had been very ill during the night, and that Bernard could not think of taking in his name, the doctor inquired whether Madame de Montevesso would see him on most important business. To his great relief (because he had been asking himself all along how he could contrive to get private speech with the Countess) Bernard raised no objections. He simply went away. And again the dumbness around him grew oppressive to Dr. Martel. He fell into a brown study. This palace, famed for the treasures of art, for the splendours of its marbles and paintings and gildings, was no better than a gorgeous tomb. Men’s vanity erected these magnificent abodes, only to receive in them the unavoidable guest, Death, with all the ceremonies of superstitious fear. The sense of human mortality evoked by this dumb palazzo was very disagreeable. He was relieved by the return of the noiseless Bernard, all in black, and grave, like a sleek caretaker of that particular tomb, who stood before him saying in a low voice: “Follow me, please.”