Not to Disturb (4 page)

‘Is everything going to be all right?' Anne says. Alex
has got into the car waiting for her. Anne gets in and puts her hands on the
wheel without certainty. She looks at Alex as if for guidance. Meanwhile Mr
Samuel has flicked himself in a graceful and preoccupied way to the back door of
the house and now selects a key.

The couple in the car stare after him and he gives them
one more glance; he lets himself in and quietly closes the door upon them. They
drive off, then, up the long avenue, round the winding drive, past the lawns
which in summer lie luminously green and spread on the one hand towards the
swimming-pool in its very blue basin, and on the other towards the lily-pond,
the animal-shaped yews, the fountains and the sunken rose garden. Behind them,
and beyond the darkness, twinkles the back of the house — a few slits of light
peppering its whole length — and behind that again, in the further darkness, the
sloping terraces leading to the Lake of Geneva where the boats are moored and
the water stretches across to the mountain shore. The little dark green car,
leaving it all behind, reaches the lodge. Anne sounds the horn. Theo, wrapped
up, now, in a heavy coat, stands evidently forewarned; he unlocks the gate and
swings it wide.

When they have reached the main road and are off, he goes
indoors; there he writes down the number of their car on a scribbling block
which he has set out ready in the hall.

His wife stands by in her cord-trimmed dressing-gown.
‘Why are you doing that?' she says.

‘I don't know, Clara. But seeing I've been told to expect
an all-night spell of duty without any relief-man, I've been taking a note of
all numbers. I don't know, Clara, I really don't know why.' He tears off the
sheet and crumples it, tossing it on the sitting-room fire.

‘What's wrong with the relief-men tonight?' Clara says.
‘Where's Conrad, where's Bernard, where's Jean-Albert, where's Stephen? Why
don't they send Pablo, what's he doing with them up there at the house? My sleep
is terrible, how can I sleep?'

‘I'm a simple man,' says Theo, ‘and your dreams give me
the jitters, but setting all that aside I smell a crisis. The Baroness hasn't
been playing the game, and that's about it. Why did she let herself go to rack
and ruin? They say she was a fine-looking woman a year ago. Lovely
specimen.'

‘She used to keep her hair frosted or blond-streaked,'
Clara whispers. ‘She shouldn't have let go her shape. Why did she suddenly start
to go natural? She must have started to be sincere with someone.'

‘Don't be frightened, Clara. Don't be afraid.'

‘It's true what I say, Theo. She changed all of a sudden.
I showed you her in the magazines in her ski-outfit. Wasn't she
magnificent?'

‘Go to bed, Clara. I say, go up to bed, dear.'

‘Can't I have the wireless on for company?'

‘All right. Keep it low. We aren't supposed to be here to
enjoy ourselves, you know.'

Theo steps forth from his doorway as another car
approaches the gate, flicking its large headlights.

The chauffeur puts his head out while Theo opens the
gate, but Theo speaks first, apparently recognizing the occupant of the back
seat.

‘His Excellency, Prince Eugene,' Theo says,
respectfully.

The chauffeur's mouth smiles a little, his eyes drooping,
perhaps with boredom, perhaps with tiredness.

‘I'm pretty sure they're not at home. Were they expecting
his Excellency?' Theo says.

‘Yes,' says the visitor from the depths of the back
seat.

‘I'll just call the house,' says Theo and returns to the
lodge.

‘Drive on,' says Prince Eugene to his driver. ‘Don't wait
for him and all that rot. I said to Klopstock I'd look in after dinner and I'm
looking in after dinner. He should have told his porter to expect me.' As he
speaks, the car is already off on its meander towards the house.

Lister is waiting at the door. He runs down the steps
towards the big car as the driver gets out to open the door for the prince.

‘The Baron and Baroness are not at home,' Lister
says.

Prince Eugene has got out and looks at Lister. ‘Who are
you?' he says.

‘Excuse me, your Excellency, that I'm in my off-duty
clothes,' Lister says. ‘I'm Lister, the butler.'

‘You look like a Secretary of State.'

‘Thank you, sir,' says Lister.

‘It isn't a compliment,' says the prince. ‘What do you
mean, they're not at home? I saw the Baron this morning and he asked me to drop
in after dinner. They're expecting me.' He mounts the steps, Lister following
him, and enters the house.

In the hall he nods towards the library door from where
the sound of voices come, ‘Go and tell them I'm here.' He starts to unbutton his
coat.

‘Your Excellency, I have orders that they are not to be
disturbed.' Lister edges round so that his back is turned to the library door,
as if protecting it. He adds, ‘The door is locked from the inside.'

‘What's going on?'

‘A meeting, sir, with one of the secretaries. It has
already lasted some hours and is likely to continue far into the night.'

The prince, plump, with pale cheeks, refrains from taking
off his coat as he says, ‘Whose secretary is it, his or hers?'

‘The gentleman in question is the one who's been
secretary to both, sir, for the past five months, nearly.'

‘Almighty God, I'd better get out of here!' says Prince
Eugene.

‘I would do that, sir,' Lister says, leading the way to
the front door.

‘The Baron seemed all right this morning,' says the
Prince on the threshold. ‘He'd just got back from Paris.'

‘I imagine there have been telephone conversations
throughout the afternoon, sir.'

‘He didn't seem to be expecting any trouble.'

‘None of them did, your Excellency. They were not
prepared for it. They have placed themselves, unfortunately, within the realm of
predestination.'

‘You talk like a Secretary of State to the Vatican.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘It isn't a compliment.' The Prince, buttoning up his
coat, passes out into the night air through the door which Lister is holding
open for him. Before descending the steps to his car, he says, ‘Lister, do you
expect something to happen?'

‘We do, sir. The domestic staff is prepared.'

‘Lister, in case of investigations no need, you
understand, to mention my visit tonight. It is quite a casual neighbourly visit.
Not relevant.'

‘Of course, your Excellency.'

‘By the way, I'm not an Excellency. I'm a Highness.'

‘Your Highness.'

‘A domestic staff as large and efficient as yourselves is
hard to come by. Quite exceptional in Switzerland. How did the Baron do it?'

‘Money,' says Lister.

The voices, indistinguishable but excited, wave over to
them from the library.

‘I need a butler,' says his Highness. He takes out a card
and gives it to Lister. Jerking his head towards the library door he says, ‘When
it's all over, if you need a place, come to me. I would be glad of some of the
other servants, too.'

‘I doubt if we shall be looking for further employment,
sir, but I thank you deeply for your offer.' Lister puts the card in a note-case
which he has brought out of his vest pocket.

‘And his cook? That excellent chef? Will he be free?'

‘He, too, has his plans, your Excellency.'

‘There will of course be a scandal. He must have paid you
all very well for your services.'

‘For our silence, sir.'

Upstairs a voice growls and the shutters bang.

‘That's him in the attic,' says Prince Eugene.

‘A sad case, sir.'

‘He inherits everything.'

‘How, sir? He's a connection of the Baroness through her
first marriage. A cousin of the first husband. I think the Baron could hardly
bequeath a vast estate to him, poor thing in the attic. The Baron is succeeded
by a brother in Brazil.'

‘The one in Brazil is the youngest. The one in the attic
is next in line — no relation to her at all.'

‘That,' said Lister, ‘I did not know.'

‘Few people know it. Don't tell anyone I said so.
Klopstock would kill me. Would have killed me.'

‘Well, it makes no difference to us, sir, who gets the
fortune. Our fortunes lie in other directions.'

‘A great pity. I would have taken on the cook. An
excellent cook. What's his name?'

‘Clovis, sir.'

‘Oh, yes, Clovis.'

‘But he will be giving up his profession, I dare
say.'

‘A waste of talent.' The prince gets into his car and is
driven away from the scene.

Mr Samuel has taken off his leather coat and is sitting in
the large pantry office which gives off from the servants' hall, looking through
a file of papers. He leans back in his chair, dressed in a black turtle-necked
sweater and black corduroy trousers. The door is open behind him and the large
window in front of him is black and shiny with blurs of light from the
courtyard, like a faulty television screen. A car draws up to the back door. Mr
Samuel says over his shoulder to the servants in the room beyond, ‘Here's Mr
McGuire, let him in.'

‘He has the keys,' says Heloise.

‘Show a little courtesy,' says Mr Samuel.

‘I hear Lister coming,' says Eleanor.

Mr Samuel then gets up and comes into the servants'
sitting-room. From the passage leading to the front of the house comes Lister,
while from the back door a key is successfully playing with the lock.

Lister stops to listen. ‘Who is this?'

‘Mr McGuire,' says Mr Samuel. ‘I asked him to come and
join us. I might need a hand with the data. I hope that's all right.'

‘You should have mentioned it to me first,' says Lister.
‘You should have phoned me, Mr Samuel. However, I have no objection. As it
happens I need Mr McGuire's services.'

A man now appears from the back door. He seems slightly
older than Mr Samuel, with a weathered and freckled face. ‘How's everything?
How's everybody?' he says.

‘Good evening, Mr McGuire,' says Lister.

‘Make yourself at home,' says Clovis.

‘Good evening, thanks. I'm a bit hungry,' says Mr
McGuire.

‘Secretaries get their own meals,' says Clovis.

‘I've come flat out direct from Paris.'

‘Heat him up something, Clovis,' Lister says.

‘Leave it to me,' says Eleanor, rising from her chair
with ostentatious meekness.

‘Mr Samuel, Mr McGuire,' says Lister, ‘are you here for a
limited time, or do you intend to wait?'

Mr McGuire says, ‘I'd like to see the Baron,
actually.'

‘Out of the question,' says Mr Samuel.

‘Not to be disturbed,' says Lister.

‘Then what have I come all this way for?' says Mr
McGuire, pulling off his sheepskin coat in a resigned way.

‘To hold Mr Samuel's hand,' says Pablo.

‘I'll see the Baron in the morning. I have to talk to
him,' says Mr McGuire.

‘Too late,' says Lister. ‘The Baron is no more.'

‘I can hear his voice. What d'you mean?'

‘Let us not strain after vulgar chronology,' says Lister.
‘I have work for you.'

‘There's veal stew,' Eleanor calls out from the
kitchen.

‘Blanquette,' says Clovis, ‘de veau.' He puts a hand to
his head and closes his eyes as one tormented by a long and fruitless effort to
instruct.

‘Do you have a cigarette handy?' says Heloise.

‘There's a lot of noise,' says Mr McGuire, jerking his
head to indicate the front part of the house. ‘It fairly penetrates. Who's the
company tonight?'

‘Hadrian,' says Lister, taking a chair, ‘give a hand to
Eleanor. Tell her I'd be obliged for a cup of coffee.'

‘When I was a boy of fourteen,' says Lister, ‘I decided to
leave England.'

Mr McGuire reaches down and stops the tape-recorder.
‘Start again,' he says. ‘Make it more colloquial, Lister. Don't say “a boy of
fourteen”, say “a boy, fourteen”, like that, Lister.'

They sit alone in Lister's large bedroom. They each
occupy an armchair of deep, olive-green soft leather which, ageless and unworn,
seems almost certainly to have come from another part of the house, probably the
library, in the course of some complete refurnishing. A thick grey carpet covers
the whole floor. Lister's bed is narrow but spectacular with a well-preserved
bushy bear-like fur cover which he might have acquired independently or which
might have once covered the knees of an earlier Klopstock while crossing a
winter landscape by car, and which, anyway, looks as if importance is attached
to it; indeed, it is certain that everything in the room, including Mr McGuire,
is there by the approval of Lister only.

Between the two men, on the floor, is a heavily built
tape-recorder in an open case with a handle. It is attached by a long snaky cord
to an electric plug beside the bed. The two magnetic bobbins, of the
18-centimetre size, have come to a standstill at Mr McGuire's touch of the
stop-switch; the bobbins not being entirely equal in their content of tape it
can be assessed that half-an-hour of something has already been recorded at some
previous time.

Lister says, ‘Style can be left to the journalists, Mr
McGuire. This is only a preliminary press handout. The inside story is something
else — it's an exclusive, and we've made our plans for the exclusive. All we
need now is something for the general press to go on when they start to question
us, you see.'