Oliver VII (15 page)

His vigilance produced a reward. Although, to his
puzzlement
and surprise, he failed to find the ex-King, he did come upon Count Antas, sprawling alone on the Lido sands and pining for Marcelle. Steel knew the Count by sight from his Alturian days. Wasting no time, he went quickly across and sat down on the sand beside him.

“I say, Count, there’s no denying it. I know everything.”

“Did my wife send you?” Antas replied, in mortal terror.

“Among others, Count.”

“It’s all a pack of lies,” he whined. “A person of my
standing
cannot move without attracting the most appalling
suspicion
and speculation.”

“I must advise you, Count, that I have proof in my
possession
. Handed to me by the secretary … ”

“Secretary?” he gasped. And he thought of Sandoval. Ah, yes, that rascally painter! And this detective—for what else could this American be?—thought that Sandoval was Marcelle’s secretary.

“Now listen here, my good friend,” he said. “Believe you me, the name Antas isn’t just empty air; and, take my word for it, there’s nothing between her and me. On my honour.”

Steel’s smile was benevolent, but sceptical.

“That’s what they all say.”

“I tell you, my feelings towards the young lady in question are those of a father. It’s her creative development that
interests
me. I want to help her become a great artist.”

(This was the usual formula, before the war.)

Harry Steel frowned.

“Don’t try to put one over on me, Count. What’s this girl you’re talking about?”

“What? You don’t know who I’m talking about, and yet you have the nerve to come here? You crooked rascal!” he shouted, his self-confidence returning. “Who are you anyway?”

“I am Harry Steel,” the reporter declared, and held out his hand. “Correspondent of the
New York Times
.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you,” Antas replied loftily. He did not offer his hand. “So what were you talking about, then? Whose secretary?”

“Now come on, Count, no use pretending. This isn’t
diplomacy
, it’s real life. I’m talking about Coltor’s secretary, of course.”

Once again Antas turned deathly pale.

“Look, it could just be that the secretary saw us together, when we paid our respects to Mr Coltor. But that really means nothing, nothing at all.”

“What? You went there with the King?”

“To hell with the King! What king are you talking about anyway?”

“I wouldn’t try putting one over old Harry Steel, Count. I know for a fact that Oliver VII has been negotiating with Coltor. He wants to get back on the throne and sign the treaty.”

Antas’ sense of mastery returned at once, and he exploded with furious laughter:

“King Oliver negotiating with Coltor? Wonderful. Quite wonderful … Now you can clear off, young man. We Antases like to enjoy the sunshine on our own.”

“Count, it seems you still don’t grasp what I’m talking about, or you wouldn’t think it a joke. They’re keeping it top secret. But it’s your duty to take an interest in what’s
happening
, and you could be of assistance to me … ”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about? I was the one who opened Coltor’s eyes to the fact that he had been caught by swindlers.”

Steel became highly excited.

“Swindlers? I didn’t know that. For God’s sake, tell me more, Count. At this moment the whole of America is
hanging
on your lips.”

The image seized Antas’ imagination. Half the world
dangling
from his lips, like a cigarette. He told Steel all he knew, while the reporter listened amazed, in a fever of curiosity. Then he jumped to his feet and said:

“Count, wait here a moment. I’ll be right back. Warm your illustrious person in the sun for a moment. It’s crucially important that you wait for me.”

“Just be quick, young man,” Antas replied. “My skin feels as if it’s starting to burn.”

Steel raced headlong to the nearest telephone booth and rang Coltor’s secretary.

“Hello. Steel here. Mr Secretary? Have you heard the great news?”

“Oh yes. Four this afternoon.”

“What’s at four this afternoon?”

“Letting the canary out.”

(This was the name for the negotiations that had been agreed for use over the telephone, to prevent Coltor’s
entourage
knowing of the secretary’s betrayal.)

“Where?” Steel asked.

“That I can’t tell you right now. Come to the hotel right away.”

Steel dashed back to the beach, then ploughed his way between the sprawling bathers.

“Count,” he puffed, “something doesn’t add up. Either they’ve misled you, or you’ve misled me. The King is going to negotiate with Coltor this afternoon. There’s no question about it. Coltor’s secretary told me.”

“What?” shouted the Count, as he scrambled to his feet. “It’s impossible. Coltor talking to those scoundrels after all that? In spite of my warning?”

“Did you give your warning sufficient emphasis, Count?”

Antas became troubled.

“Well, you know, the constraints of the situation …
considering
the long-standing intimate friendship between the two of us … it could be that I did express myself in too frivolous a manner; perhaps he was just carried away by my
irresistible
wit … ”

“ … and didn’t take you seriously?”

“Yes, that’s always possible. These Norlandians are such dour people, if you aren’t wearing sackcloth and ashes when you tell them something they don’t actually believe you. That could be it. How horrible! These swindlers will make Alturia a laughing stock forever!”

“We’ve no time to lose. We can still expose them, and then all the glory will be ours. What a report that’ll make!”

“I am at your service, Mr Editor. What do we have to do?”

“First of all, get your clothes on. Then be so good as to come to my hotel. You’ll get the rest of your instructions there.”

When the King and the Major returned after lunch to the Palazzo Pietrasanta, preparations had reached fever pitch.

A revoltingly ugly old woman was darting back and forth with surprising energy.

St Germain introduced her: “The Plantagenet Duchess. She’s a little deaf.”

“A little deaf, but very ugly,” the King observed.

“Not so fast! I heard that,” said the Duchess, alias Sandoval.

Honoré arrived from Sandoval’s upstairs studio,
brandishing
a large picture.

“Is the ladder here?” St Germain asked. “Now you need to hang it. I’ll tell you where in a moment.”

All expertise, he paced up and down the room, then
pointed
to a spot on the wall.

“We’ll put it there. It’ll be seen to best advantage there.”

Honoré nailed the picture to the wall.

“Who is this monster?” the King asked. “Why is he
leering
at me like that, and why has he got a tooth mug in his hand?”

“It’s the toothpaste advert. We repainted it,” said St Germain. “It was originally a king brushing his teeth, now it’s Philip II or the One-Eared, a former King of Alturia. You can recognise him from his enormous ear, a triumph of artistic skill by our friend Sandoval. Oscar, you should have learnt more Alturian history. I’ve told you enough about it.”

“But why is he grinning like that?” the King asked.

“Because in the advertisement there was a toothbrush in his hand. But I took it out,” Sandoval explained modestly.

“The canary, Honoré,” commanded St Germain.

Honoré had already brought it.

“Diogenes, His Highness’ favourite canary. It conjures up a bit of cosy Alturian atmosphere.”

Valmier entered, the perfect footman.

“Here’s the jewellery, boss.”

“Indeed? I’ll go and sort it out and have the necklace made up—the one Princess Ortrud is to have as a gift from the King. Oscar, time to robe up.”

“Me? What in?”

“The marshal’s greatcoat of course. I’ve already told you, young man, it’s a sacred tradition. He never appears in
public
without his marshal’s greatcoat on. It’s up in the studio. Sandoval will be so kind as to show you how to put it on and wear it. Off you go, young man.”

Off he went, at speed.

“The greatcoat?” he sighed. “My Milán,” he whispered: “is this what the revolution was for?”

In the room next door he stumbled over a gentleman
sleeping
in the depths of an armchair with his legs splayed out.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“That’s one of the Count’s great discoveries,” Sandoval answered. “Gervaisis, the eternal sleeper.”

“Wake him,” said the King.

Sandoval shook the man.

“Hey, mister, wake up.”

The sleeper came to and spoke:

“Who sows the wind will reap the whirlwind.”

“Excuse me?” the King replied.

“Nothing,” Gervaisis remarked. “Just an old proverb. I always say one when I wake up.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he retorted, and went back to sleep.

“St Germain brought him here because he thinks his
aristocratic
somnolence will raise the tone of the meeting.”

“I’ve also been wondering about the tone,” the King observed.

They arrived at the studio. Even with the assistance of two helpers the King had great difficulty getting the coat
on. It was rather more extravagant and ornate than the original.

“Do I have to?” he asked. “Compared to this, the one at home was a housecoat.”

“Your Highness,” the Major implored him. “You can still reconsider!”

“How can you think that, Milán? Now that I’ve come this far, and actually got inside this damn thing? I’m not going to take it off now. You’d better get your major’s uniform on. It’s over there, on the bed. You’ll see what a strange feeling it is, meeting it again.”

By the time they returned to the hall, everyone was
assembled
. Honoré was strutting proudly up and down in his
military
costume; the eminent pseudo-lawyer Baudrieu, in a green jacket, was seated at the negotiation table, with its covering of green baize, putting his papers in order. Gervaisis was deep in an armchair, asleep. Suddenly he gave a loud snort.

“Thank you for bringing that to my attention, Gervaisis,” St Germain remarked. “It had quite slipped my mind.”

He drew a military decoration from his pocket and stuck it on Baudrieu.

Marcelle appeared, in her full Ortrud costume. It was very restrained. The train was as long as a barge.

“Let’s have a look at you, my girl,” the Count said. “Allow me to apply the final strokes of the brush. Stand over there, so we can see you better. Honoré, give me that illustrated newspaper.”

He jerked his head back, closed one eye, and compared Marcelle with the photograph.

“Perhaps the eyebrows a quarter of a centimetre higher, the mouth just a shade smaller … the nose is fine … the
coiffure
excellent. Very good, my girl. Your manner must be friendly but at the same time a little aloof, and don’t flirt with
Coltor—that might lead to complications—besides, a
princess
doesn’t do that sort of thing. You will greet him with the rest of us, but must leave before we sit down to discussions. When I say to Coltor, ‘We never doubted it for a moment,’ you must rise and invite the gentlemen to join you upstairs later for a cup of tea, and you can leave the room, attended by our Sandoval.”

Gervaisis gave another of his snorts.

“Quite right, Gervaisis,” said the Count. “This Gervaisis is an invaluable colleague. I almost forgot to say to you
gentlemen
that in Alturia people greet each other with ‘blessed be the memory of your grandfather’.”

The three Alturians exchanged a look.

“Is that right?” the Major asked. “They certainly did in the middle ages, but not now.”

“How’s that?”

“They say things like ‘good morning’ or ‘your humble servant’.”

“Mr Meyer, you share your countrymen’s habit of always knowing better than everyone else. But I understand, from very reliable sources, that this is how they greet one another. I read it in a Sunday newspaper. So would you all kindly stick to it.”

Marcelle drew the King aside.

“Oscar, you look so beautiful in that costume!”

“You too, my girl, you too,” he replied absent-mindedly. Then a thought suddenly struck him. It occurred to him how, in a very similar situation, he had said exactly the same thing to Princess Ortrud. What was happening? Was it becoming so difficult to distinguish between them?

“You should always go about dressed like that,” she added.

“Would you want me to? Well, take a good look then,
Marcelle. Who knows when you’ll have another chance to see me in this coat.”

Coltor stepped into the motorboat, with his two secretaries in tow. He was unusually nervous and talkative.

“If this comes off, it’ll be the biggest deal of my life,” he remarked thoughtfully. “It’ll be difficult; very difficult. I never had a deal collapse so very late in the day as that one did when the Alturian revolution broke out. I must say, the thing didn’t completely surprise me. That morning, after I’d left my house and was going to my office in the car, a huge black cat ran across the road in front of me. I knew at once it would mean trouble.”

The secretaries exchanged glances. His profound
superstition
was a shared joke between them.

“But the situation is quite different today. When I left my hotel this morning another black cat ran across the road. But immediately a second cat appeared, a tabby. It boxed its ears, and chased it away. So I am quite sure that we’ll have better luck today … unless I’m speaking too soon.”

That thought thoroughly alarmed him and plunged him into a restless silence.

They arrived alongside the Palazzo Pietrasanta.

“You see, gentlemen,” he declared, “the sort of place a real grandee lives in. From a distance the palace may not look much. There’s nothing ostentatious. The only adornment is its noble simplicity, and venerable age.”