The Case of the Gilded Fly (7 page)

‘Have another drink, old boy.'

‘Thanks, I've had one, old man,'

‘Well, have another.'

‘Thanks.'

‘… bit arty, some of these people, aren't they?'

‘I really do feel awfully sick,'

‘Well, go outside then.'

‘Tchekov … disintegration of …'

‘… an appallingly earthy play about a farm with a
great flock of chickens
all over the stage … my dear, they were
uncontrollable …
whenever one went into one's dressing-room, there they were,
roosting
in the number nine …'

‘… arrived at Manchester in pouring rain and found the theatre had been bombed the night before. So we had to go straight on to Bradford and open about an hour after the train came in …'

‘… so my agent said to Gielgud: “A splendid reliable all-round man. He can do anything, except act …”'

‘Bit of a bloody type, eh, old man? …'

‘Oh, well; takes all sorts, you know …'

‘… then Shaw
re-integrated
the hero …'

‘I
wish
I didn't feel so sick …'

Nicholas sat immovably in his corner, talking to Richard about Berkeleyan metaphysics; whenever one of the younger women came near him, he beckoned her solemnly over, kissed her equally solemnly on the lips, and then dismissed her with an airy wave of his hand and continued the conversation. Donald Fellowes was sulking on his own. Yseut was attached to Robert, saying:

‘Darling, you must be nice to me this evening, you must! Please don't spoil the party for me, Robert darling! Darling!' She was already very drunk.

Nigel sought out Helen early in the evening, and with a few breaks stayed with her until the end. The row and the heat of the room were beginning to give him a headache. There was a good deal of horse-play going on, and he had no wish to become involved in it. He looked at his watch, discovered that he had already been there two hours, and suggested to Helen that they should go.

‘In a minute, darling. I must look after Yseut; she'll never get home on her own.'

Nigel looked for Yseut, and was alarmed to see her in the middle of a large group, waving a heavy army revolver.

‘Look what I've found,' she was shouting, ‘look what little me's found!'

Peter Graham elbowed his way through the group.

‘Now, Yseut dear,' he said, ‘you'd better give me that; damn dangerous, you know.'

‘Nonsense, 's not dangerous! Hasn't got 'ny bullets in.'

‘All the same, old girl, better let me have it. Never know what'll happen.' He took it away from her, more or less by force, and said soothingly: ‘Now, we'll put it away in the drawer with the cartridges, and forget all about it. There!'

‘Beast!' said Yseut glumly; then suddenly turned on him and tried to claw viciously at his face with her long nails.

‘Now, now!' he said, catching hold of her arms. ‘Can't have that sort of thing, you know. All friends here,' he added a trifle vaguely.

Yseut became petulant. ‘Let me go!' she said, tugging her arms away from him. ‘Let me go, you great – lout!' She turned suddenly to Robert and flung her arms round his neck.

‘Darling,' she whined, ‘did you see what the swine did to me, darling? He tried to – to – molest me, darling.' She grinned foolishly. ‘Go 'n – knock him down – if you're a man. Go 'n knock the swine down.'

Robert, acutely embarrassed, tried to detach her arms, but she was so far gone that she would have dropped if he let her go. Helen went across to her.

‘Come on, Yseut,' she said brusquely. ‘We're going now. Hang on to me.' She supported Yseut to the door, refusing vague and unenthusiastic offers of assistance. ‘Good night, everyone,' she said with remarkable
sang-froid
. ‘Thank you, Peter, for a lovely party.' And went.

Nigel followed to see if he could help. He met them coming out of the lavatory, Yseut pale, sweating and shivering. Helen flushed with sudden embarrassment when she saw him.

‘Here, let me help,' said Nigel.

‘No, thanks, Nigel. I can manage. You go back and enjoy yourself.' None the less, he went with them to the door of the hotel.

‘Good night, darling,' said Helen, pressing his hand. ‘If this doesn't cure me of going to parties, nothing will.'

‘It was pretty beastly. Are you sure you can manage?'

‘Yes. It's not far.' She made as if to go; then, turning, said hesitantly:

‘Yseut's not bad, you know. Just silly.' A slight smile lit up her face. On an impulse, he went up to her and pressed her hand. Yseut, clinging to her arm, was mumbling inanely.

‘God bless you, my very dearest,' he said. And then they were gone.

When he got upstairs again, the party was already beginning to break up. The guests went down the stairs in twos and threes, yawning and chattering. Nigel found Rachel standing by herself while Robert gave Jean some instructions for the next morning.

‘How dare that girl make a fool of Robert like that, in front of everybody!' she exclaimed.

‘Of course nobody blames Robert,' he answered. ‘Why should they? It's not his fault.'

‘I don't think he's altogether averse to having her hanging on to him,' she said with a sudden venom that astonished him.

‘But surely you don't think –?'

She dismissed the subject with an impatient gesture. ‘Robert's like all other men: any change is a change for the better. But if he, or she, imagines I'm going to sit by and play the tolerant –'

She stopped abruptly. Nigel felt acutely uncomfortable. Another thread! he thought. This situation is certainly getting unpleasantly complicated.

After the farrago of ‘good nights' Nigel and Nicholas found themselves alone with Peter Graham. The amount of drink he had had suddenly took effect in an unexpected manner, and while they were still talking to him he collapsed into a chair and began to snore profoundly. Nicholas sighed.

‘Now, I suppose, we shall have to put him to bed,' he said.

This with some difficulty they accomplished. When they came out into the sitting-room again, Nicholas looked about him in disgust, at the empty bottles, dirty glasses, flowers scattered or broken, furniture disarranged, a blue haze of cigarette smoke and innumerable cigarette stubs, more or less concentrated round ash-trays. ‘What a filthy mess this place is in,'
he said. ‘I pity the poor devil who has to clear it up.' He yawned and stretched. ‘Oh, well, bed, I suppose. Coming?' Nigel nodded.

When they were out in the corridor, Nicholas said: ‘Oh Lord, I've got a foul headache. If I don't get some fresh air I shall never sleep. I'm going out for a stroll. What about you?'

‘No, thanks. If I want any fresh air I shall stick my head out of the window.'

‘Right you are,' said Nicholas amiably. ‘But mind the blackout. By the way,' he added, ‘what was that Rachel was saying to you before she left? I thought I heard some strictures on our admirable sex.'

‘The usual paean in praise of Yseut.'

‘Oh, that!' Nicholas laughed. ‘Rachel hates that girl. The “cool, sensible woman” pose wouldn't deceive a babe. She loathes her.'

‘
Is
it a pose?' Nigel ventured.

Nicholas shrugged. ‘Who knows? I think it is, anyway. “Men are all the same”,' he quoted mockingly. ‘“Any change is a change for the better.”'

‘Isn't that so?'

‘Any change, however good, is a change for the worse,' said Nicholas firmly. ‘Enough of this chatter, anyway. Good night to ye.' He went off downstairs, and Nigel returned to his room and began to undress.

In the long corridors of the hotel, the main lights had long since been extinguished; only a few pale, widely-spaced glims remained. Peter Graham groaned, and turned uneasily in his sleep. In the big entrance hall, lit only by a single bulb in the roof, the night porter dozed uncomfortably in his box, and so failed to see either the person who flitted silently up the big staircase to Peter Graham's room, or what that person was carrying on its return. The swing-doors creaked a little, and the night porter half awoke; then, seeing nobody dozed again. In his bedroom, Nigel dropped a collar-stud under the dressing-table.

‘Damn!' said Nigel.

He was inexplicably uneasy; something was crying out to be investigated. Cool reason told him to forget it and go to bed.
But an irrational fear and premonition proved to be stronger than cool reason. This is a damned silly wild goose chase,' he said to himself as he slipped on his dressing-gown. Two minutes later he was opening the door of Peter Graham's sitting-room.

He switched on the light. Nothing was different; the haze of cigarette smoke still hung about, the ash remained as it had been, trodden into the carpet. Cursing himself for a superstitious fool, he went softly over to the drawer where the revolver had been put. His scalp tingled unpleasantly as he opened it and looked in.

The drawer was empty. Revolver and cartridges were gone.

He closed it again, and on a sudden wild impulse wiped the handle where he had touched it, with a corner of his dressing-gown. Then he went over to the bedroom door, and pushed it a little ajar. A shaft of light cut into the darkness beyond. From the room came the heavy breathing of one who sleeps deeply. He closed the door softly and went back to his own room.

Nigel slept only fitfully that night. For long stages at a time he was awake, smoking, and thinking over what he had discovered. Nicholas, whose room was next door to Nigel's, returned late, and made what Nigel thought an unnecessary amount of noise in getting to bed. But that was the least of his worries. In itself there was nothing so particularly disturbing about the disappearance of the gun, which might have been taken as a joke, or might, for all he knew, have been lent by Peter Graham to someone at the party. Yet he had watched them all leave, and could have sworn that nobody had it hidden on his or her person – it was a heavy, bulky thing, a Colt .38. The only conclusion he could come to, then – and it was not a pleasant one – was that someone had slipped back and taken it after the party was over, between the time, that is, when Nicholas left him and the time when he returned to the room. Nicholas? He seemed the most likely person, but anyone could have done it.

He rose and breakfasted early, wondering as he did so what the more riotous members of the party must be feeling like.
Then at half past nine he went back to his room to get a book. His way led him through the corridor where Robert's and Rachel's rooms were situated, and made him a party to coincidence which afterwards proved to have been of some considerable importance. As he passed Rachel's room, she came out on her way down to breakfast.

And it was at that precise moment that Yseut emerged from Robert's room opposite.

All three of them stopped dead; and to Nigel at any rate the implications of Yseut's presence were obvious. To say that he was astonished would have been the wildest understatement; he was very nearly stupefied. It was unbelievable that Robert had slept with Yseut that night – particularly in view of her condition when Helen took her home. But what else could one think? Rachel apparently was of the same opinion, and the expression on her face was not pleasant to see. Besides, Yseut's appearance shocked Nigel unutterably. She was slovenly dressed in a blouse and slacks, carrying a bag and a thin red notebook; and in her eyes was an expression of mingled fear and satisfaction which was repellent to a degree.

They looked at one another in silence for a moment. Then Yseut, with a slight sneer, went off downstairs. Not a word had been spoken.

Rachel made to go into Robert's room, but Nigel caught her arm.

‘Is that wise?' he said.

After an almost imperceptible pause she nodded; and followed Yseut slowly downstairs.

Nigel went on to his room frankly bewildered. The whole business was inconceivable. Troilus' words came unbidden to his mind.

‘O madness of discourse,

That cause sets up with and against itself!

Bi-fold authority! where reason can revolt

Without perdition, and loss assume all reason

Without revolt …'

Of course it was none of his business; of course it was nothing to make such a hell of a fuss about. And yet speculation refused to be quieted, and an unformed fear hovered persistently at the
back of his consciousness. It was with difficulty that he persuaded himself to think of other things.

When he next saw Yseut he had been sitting in the bar since ten o'clock with Robert, talking rather awkwardly about indifferent things. About ten past ten Donald Fellowes had come in, deposited an armful of organ music on top of a radiator, and joined them. He was not pleasant company that morning – in fact he seemed to have relapsed into a permanent state of sullenness. He very ostentatiously directed his conversation towards Nigel, an attitude which succeeded in making Robert, who two days ago would have considered it merely amusing, extremely irritable; and since he talked mainly about music, a subject of which Nigel knew little and wished to know even less, conversation soon became merely sporadic all round. All three of them refused obstinately to refer to personal matters, which precluded more than a few vaguely conventional remarks about the previous night's party. And Donald was obviously suffering from a hang-over.

The rehearsal that morning was not until eleven o'clock. After the first rehearsal Nigel had not been to the theatre, and felt on the whole disinclined to do so before at any rate the dress-rehearsal.

‘We shall have an hour's break for lunch this morning,' Robert said, ‘and then go on through the afternoon.'

‘Would you tell Helen I'd be glad to see her if she cares to lunch with me? I shall be in the lounge here from twelve o'clock onwards.'

‘Helen? Yes, by all means.'