Bond Street Story (53 page)

“Don't wonder,” Sir Harry answered. “You're not his sort.”

He had moved away from the fireplace and was walking about the room again.

“Better try my way,” he said. “Better for the boy. It's quieter.”

For once Mrs. Rammell heard her son mentioned without her whole heart turning over.

“And if she refuses?” was all she said.

This time the grin was more pronounced.

“There's always Eric,” he said. “You leave 'im to me.”

At the door, he paused.

“Can't remember what it is,” he said. “But there
was
something else. On Tuesdays, I think it was. With light refreshments. And a dress show. Never mind. Leave it all to me. I'll look after it. And don't worry. I'll give you a ring when it comes back to me.”

 

Not that Mr. Rammell knew anything of what was happening. So far as he was concerned, the whole of the Marcia affair had been kept discreet. Concealed. Unobtrusive. And the other piece of trouble, the extraordinary non-appearance of Mr. Bloot, his first unexplained absence in nearly twenty-seven years of unblemished service, had not yet even been reported to him. It seemed at the time altogether too insignificant to be brought to the ears of the managing director.

In any case, Mr. Rammell was busy. He had discovered a new kind of dyspepsia tablet that had to be dissolved in half a glassful of warm water. It was pale pink in colour. Like drinking crushed geraniums. And Mr. Rammell was watching one of the little tablets dissolve at this moment.

He certainly hoped to God that it would do the trick. He needed something. Marcia had been on again about that desert island of hers. And the strain had been too much for him. As usual, it had been his digestion that had suffered. If he had been living on a diet of Worcester sauce and toasted feathers he could not have felt more uncomfortable inside.

When Miss Winters, paler than usual and keyed-up like a watch spring, came in to say that Sir Harry was on the phone, Mr. Rammell merely shook his head. “Not in,” he said. “Say that we'll ring back later.” How much later was for the little pink tablet to decide. Mr. Rammell was not his own master this morning.

Sir Harry, on the other hand, had never felt better. From the moment he had left Mrs. Rammell's, a source of new life had been flowing through him. He adored delicate negotiation. Handling people. Intrigue. It was right up his street. And he wasn't afraid, if necessary, to show his strength. That was where the secret of his mastery lay. It was, in fact, why he had just telephoned to his son. It had occurred to him at breakfast that after all the best course would be to get him round to lunch. Just the two of them. Talk it over, man to man. Have it out with him. Knock some sense into his head. Show him where he got off. Give him a real thick ear, if necessary. But nicely, of course. With all the gentle understanding of which only the truly loving father is capable.

But, of course, if his own son did not want to talk to him that was different. And if he thought that he could prolong his love nest
activities just by not answering the telephone he was making a big mistake. Shilly-shallying was something that Sir Harry had never been prepared to stand for. Action was his motto. Strike while the iron was hot. If there was a bud, nip it ... At the mere thought that he was being played about with, given the brush off, Sir Harry felt his blood mounting. He'd show them. He'd get his spoke in first. Reaching out for the receiver, he dialled Bond 7000.

But it was not to speak to Mr. Rammell this time. It was the Staff Supervisor he asked for. He wanted to get hold of Marcia, he explained. Now. At once. Before she went in to Bond Street. She was to come round to his suite at the hotel. Straight away. Take a taxi. Expect her within half an hour. Suite 314. Just ask at the desk. Centre lift. Come straight up. Third floor, and turn left when you got out ...

It was nearly ten-thirty when Sir Harry phoned. And nearly midday when they found Marcia. That was because she had just been trying out a new beauty treatment. Radio-active moss. It was an American woman beautician of over sixty—either miraculously well preserved by her own imported lichens or merely lying inversely about her age—who had introduced it to London. And she had been writing and telephoning to Marcia ever since she had got here. Inevitably, there is something flattering about personal invitation. Especially when it is repeated. And Marcia was particularly susceptible to anything that was free. Always had been. Ever since childhood. Had been forced, in fact, to
train
herself to refuse. But she saw now how wrong she had been to refuse this one. Already a well-known Viscountess had given an interview to the Press saying how much better she felt after wallowing about in the stuff, and two TV lady panellists were next on the list. Marcia had felt that she could wait no longer. And, in the result, she was at that moment in a clinically redecorated Knightsbridge basement, lying in a kind of bath, with a load of faintly evil-smelling undergrowth on top of her and the smooth pink-and-white face of the proprietress smiling down like an expensive moon.

Even when the Staff Supervisor's message reached her, there was nothing that Marcia could do. She was only about halfway through the treatment. And the stuff all had to be scraped off again. It was getting on for twelve-thirty before she re-emerged into the daylight. Hot and rather prickly feeling, as though it might have been measles and not merely moss that she had contacted, she called a taxi and set out for the hotel.

Sir Harry had a brandy and soda in his hand when she got there. And he was smoking one of the lighter sort of cigars that he preferred before lunchtime. Marcia refused the glass of sherry that he offered her. Declined even a cigarette out of the big silver box with the two kinds in it. Just sat there, pale despite the prickly heat that was still running all over her, her hands in her lap and her legs half-crossed as the deportment school had taught her. On the whole, Sir Harry was rather pleased with her. Seen at close quarters, she was less hard and brassy than he had expected. And Marcia felt herself every moment warming more and more towards him. For a start, he was so much younger than she had realized. Not in years, exactly. But in manner. And appearance. As long as she could remember she had always adored men in fancy waistcoats. And Sir Harry's was certainly one of the fanciest. Tapestry damask of some kind, she supposed it was. She would rather have liked an evening-dress in the same material. But it wasn't only his waistcoat. It was his shoes, as well. Obviously handmade and rather pointed, they were pin-pricked all over the toecaps with that kind of lacework design that comes from only the most expensive kind of shoemakers. It was all strangely warming and reassuring. Like the room they were sitting in. Wherever she looked, she saw comfort. Luxury. Affluence. And naturally she relaxed.

She was so much relaxed, in fact, that she did not hear Sir Harry when he spoke to her. As it happened, she was thinking about his shoes again. Wondering whether they all had designs like that on them. Even the slippers. She was therefore surprised when he seemed to be speaking to her so loudly. Almost as though he hadn't been able to make himself heard. And the words, now that they reached her, sounded strangely familiar. It seemed the way in which all Rammells began their conversations.

“Well,” he said. “I expect you know why you're here.”

Even so, she paused for a moment before answering.

“No,” she said, at last slowly and distinctly.

“Then d'you want me to tell you?”

Marcia paused again.

“Yes,” she said. And because just “yes” seemed so brief, so perfunctory, so rude almost, she added “please.”

The “please” was said in a lower tone than the “yes.” It was slightly husky. And strangely pleading. Sir Harry lowered his cigar for a moment and looked at her.

“You're a cool one,” he said.

She raised her eyes for a moment to his. This, she knew, was the moment for the slight stammer, the almost imperceptible one.

“Am ... am I?” she asked.

It was then that Sir Harry experienced for the first time the basic difficulty of all conversations with Marcia. There was no progress in it. Nothing coming back. No assistance. Purely a oneway traffic.

He started up again.

“I'll say you are,” he told her.

He leant forward as he said it, thrusting his head out towards her. It was a gesture that would have been recognized immediately by his colleagues as definitely threatening. Something unpleasant was obviously bound to come. And it came.

“What's more,” he added. “I've had my eye on you for some time.”

But Marcia misunderstood it. Mistook the whole gist of it. It seemed so terribly sudden, that was all. Before she had scarcely sat down. It took her completely unawares. She knew that under all that flat pancake make-up blushing was impossible. It would have been no use even attempting it. But it was funny that she should so much as have been thinking about it. The thought was something that simply hadn't occurred to her for years.

“Have ... have you?” she said.

“Yes, I have. And let me tell you ...”

There was a knock, and the door opened. It was the floor-waiter, with Sir Harry's lunch all laid out neatly on a trolley. Sir Harry waved the man away. It had been a long-standing rule of Sir Harry's that if there was something unpleasant to be done it was better to get it over. And he hadn't even begun yet with Marcia. On the other hand, it was ten past one already. He was hungry. Never had liked being kept hanging about for his food. And it occurred to him that at this rate he'd be missing his tea as well. He called the waiter back again.

“Bring the menu,” he said. “There'll be two of us.”

He was naturally a good host. Always had enjoyed entertaining people. And it was years, literally years—getting on for quarter of a century in fact—since he had entertained a lady. The Edwardian in him took possession. He chose oysters. Nine of 'em apiece. And half a Chablis. And two small Tournedos. With a bottle of his favourite Barton. And some fresh pineapple.

He looked across at Marcia when he had finished ordering. But she hadn't moved. If it had been a photographer's sitting, she could not have remained more motionless. And he could tell at once what it was that Mr. Rammell had seen in her. Something to do with the way her head joined on to her neck. A sort of graceful droop. And her eyelashes. Halfway down her cheeks when her
gaze was downwards. And, as he looked, he wondered what on earth his son could ever have seen in Mrs. Rammell.

But Sir Harry did not allow himself to be distracted. He had not forgotten the purpose of Marcia's visit. And he smiled a little to himself as he reflected on the sheer devilish smoothness of it all. The quiet, elegant lunch. The good wine. The coffee and liqueurs afterwards. The feeling of safety and security as he led the conversation along pleasant, conventional lines ... Then,
Bingo
! Let her have it when she was least expecting anything. The whole works. Cancelled contract. Detectives round at her flat to see if she had been hiding any of Rammell's property. Threat of an enticement suit from Mrs. Rammell ... Unless, of course, she decided to do the sensible thing, and let go. He was quite ready to make things easy for her. And, once he had really shown his strength, she'd be cracked wide open. Ready to agree to anything.

The waiter brought in the Chablis in a little silver bucket, and Sir Harry looked at it appreciatively.

“That's the ticket,” he told himself. “If she's not used to it, so much the better. She'll never know what hit her.”

But Marcia refused the Chablis, too. Refused it firmly and adamantly. She had been weighed in that mossy Knightsbridge cavern. And the result had appalled her. She had put on nearly five ounces. If Sir Harry had invited her to eat a block of milk chocolate she could not have been more determined. Or explicit.

“No, thank you,” she said. “No. No wine. No, thank you.”

And it was the same with the claret. That meant that Sir Harry had to finish the bottle of Barton, too. While Marcia pecked and toyed with her Tournedos, Sir Harry filled and refilled his glass and kept the conversation going.

He was, in point of fact, surprised to find how easy Marcia was to talk to provided that no answer was required. Easier than any other woman he had ever met. That was because she was so good at not interrupting. And how he talked. About race meetings of long ago. About important deals he had pulled off in the smoking-room of the old Grosvenor. About days at Brighton with friends no longer living. About wasp-waists and picture hats. And about photography. Mostly about photography. With Marcia's deep, intense eyes fixed full on him he described stops, exposure meters, Pan F, trick effects, coated lenses. And, as he talked, he felt himself warming towards her. She was the first person with whom he had ever really shared his hobby. He felt as though he had known her for years.

Over the liqueurs, when they had moved back into the pair of easy-chairs by the fireplace, he brought out his collection of colour stereoscopes. They were the real pride of his collection. Shove the slides into the black vulcanite box, press the little red button at the side and there, miraculously, the three-dimensional world, glowing in the hues of God's creation, was held imprisoned in the human hand. Together they went through the whole boxful, the failures as well as the successes. Laughing like children—at least Sir Harry was laughing—over the one of the strangely inclining lamp-post. Soberly admiring the stark magnificence of the red bus passing Marble Arch ...

It was while he was bending over her, showing her how to hold the black box properly, that he was aware of the strange perfume that she was using. It was faintly briny. Like dried seaweed. Or moss that had been gathered and left neglected. It didn't seem worthy of her. And suddenly he felt sorry for her. Just because, any moment now, he was going to be so truly horrible there seemed no reason why he shouldn't be kind as well. Even indulgent. If his son hadn't got the sense to buy her any decent scent he'd buy it for her himself.