The Lighthearted Quest (40 page)

‘Oh, splendid!” said Julia, laughing. “You wouldn't have a job for me too, as a sort of Mata Hari, or something?”

“Not till I have young Colin properly run in and thoroughly stabilised—not on your life!” said the Major. “Apply again three years hence. But will you try to get him released to carry on with me?”

“It doesn't really depend on me—but I'll try to foster it. If Colin stays with you, where will it be?”

“God knows! Wherever we're wanted next.”

Julia and Major Torrens descended from the roof in high good humour, exchanging laughing remarks; at the foot of the stairs they encountered a new arrival coming in from the front door, a very diminutive figure indeed—it was Mr. St John. Hugh greeted him warmly—“Oh, splendid, Sir. I'm so glad you made it; my aunt will be delighted. I believe you know Miss Probyn, don't you?” he added blandly.

“Er—yes, we have met,” said Mr. St John stiffly; but he made no movement to shake hands—he stood looking from one to the other with the aspect of an incredulous, resentful, and completely bewildered tortoise. Julia's ready pity awoke.

“Major Torrens and I have made it up,” she said gently. “And I have seen Colin at last—in fact he's here tonight! So perhaps you will let me say how sorry I am to have caused you so much anxiety in Fez, when you had been so good to me.”

Mr. St John opened his mouth and shut it again two or three times, soundlessly, like a lizard catching flies; then he turned his small reptilian eyes enquiringly to Torrens.

“She's perfectly right, Sir. I'm so glad you're down—we must have a word later on. But I have practically retained Miss Probyn's services as an assistant! I think she may be able to help me very much.”

“Miss Probyn's
ability
was never in doubt,” the old gentleman enunciated dryly. “Therefore it is almost certainly better to have her as an assistant than as an opponent; and though I confess to surprise at this development, for your sake, Torrens, I welcome it.” He turned to Julia, and glanced at the long strip of plaster on her forehead.

“I was sorry to hear of your accident,” he said, in his precise tones; “but you may remember that I warned you that your intervention might be dangerous. I hope you are
recovered, and that there will be no permanent disfigurement?”

“Oh, I don't expect so, thank you so much. But am I forgiven?”

“If Major Torrens has forgiven you, clearly I may also,” the old man said, a little smile at last appearing on his withered lips.

A Moorish servant came up with a tray of drinks—several of these creatures, hardly less wild in appearance than the lantern-bearers outside, constantly moved through the rooms; Julia guessed that they were some of the hangers-on who took their toll of Lady Tracy's peas and eggs. Mr. St John took a glass of sherry; Julia and Major Torrens went on with cocktails.

“Look, Sir,” Torrens said, after politely raising his glass to the old man—“Before you come and talk to my aunt, have you any news? You can say anything in front of Miss Probyn,” he added rather hastily—“she is practically on the strength!” Julia grinned at this statement.

“Yes,” said Mr. St John, with his customary deliberation. “Very interesting news, in fact. Of course you left Marrakesh rather hurriedly, and in any case your contacts are on somewhat different lines to mine.” He paused, and sipped his sherry.

“Yes, Sir?” Torrens said, with rather studied patience.

“I hear that the Glaoui is changing his mind,” the old gentleman pursued. “He recognises, it seems, that resentment at the deposition of the ex-Sultan is stronger than he had reckoned on, and he is considering the idea of his return.”

“Good Lord! You don't say so!” Torrens exclaimed. “But the Glaoui took the main part in throwing him out.”

“Quite so. He miscalculated—not a usual Arab mistake. But the broadcasts from Cairo have been intensified considerably since he took that decision, something he could not foresee. Anyhow he is now trimming his sails to suit the prevailing wind—it may not emerge for some time, months, perhaps—but it will happen.”

“Will that be a good or a bad thing?” Julia asked, putting in her oar. “You told me before that the ex-Sultan was frightfully recalcitrant, and held up all reforms, so that he really had to go.”

Hugh Torrens' eyebrows went up at this statement—Mr. St John gave an unexpectedly genial twinkle.

“You see that you are indeed to be congratulated on your new assistant, Torrens! She has quite a grasp; but then she is a disciple of de Foucauld.” He turned to Julia.

“Perhaps the ex-Sultan miscalculated too—and it may be that a disagreeable exile has caused him, also, to modify his attitude. As to that I have no information as yet, though I expect it presently. But you can count on the other development. And now I think I must really pay my respects to my hostess.”

Hugh was about to go with him when Julia laid a hand on his arm. “Just
one
second.”

“Yes?”

“I forgot to ask you upstairs. If you're closing down partly because Affaires Indigènes have got wise to your goings on, what about the East Germans? As they know now about them too, I mean.”

“Why do you suppose that Affaires Indigènes know about them too?”

“Well, don't they?”

He laughed.

“I certainly won't swear that they don't! But how
did you
know?”

“Good contacts. But won't they be cleared up?”

“Probably. It is being discussed, I believe.”

“Why not certainly?”

“Oh, because metropolitan France is in such a bloody mess!” said the man, with a sort of cold, weary anger. “Neutralism in high places—the Abomination of Desolation standing where it ought not, in this case in Paris. Has it ever struck you how apocalyptic the world is, today?”

“Yes, often,” said Julia. “When one was a child and read all those ghastly goings-on in the Old Testament, dashing children's heads against the stones and all that, one thought it just crazy barbarous rubbish, something the world had grown out of—but in this last war it became completely
à la page,
every bit of it.”

“How right,” he said, turning onto her a deep intense stare which startled Julia. “I see that you recognise our times for what they are. But then you are a disciple of de Foucauld, St John said?”

“Yes—anyhow, a student.” But her words were unimportant; what spoke was the interchange between their eyes—his fixed plunging gaze, the half-reluctant compelled response of Julia's dove's eyes.

“God! I should like to have you to work with,” he said at last. “All the root of the matter—and
such
natural camouflage!”

Julia laughed, in slight and quite unwonted embarrassment; but she was aware of a strong desire to respond somehow to this rather back-handed praise—it was of a different order to the tributes she was accustomed to receive. Before she had found any words—

“You were so sweet to the old boy,” Hugh Torrens went on, “when he'd been all set to do you down.”

“Weren't you, too? You were nearly as nasty as he was when we first met, tonight.”

“Was I? Perhaps I was. You weren't very friendly yourself, if I remember rightly! Anyhow I should like to take it all back now.”

“Julia, sweet!” Colin Monro, coming up, hooked an arm familiarly through hers. “I've got some good news—at least near-news.”

“Yes?” said Julia, with a certain lack of enthusiasm—at that precise moment she could have dispensed with the presence even of her dear Colin. Major Torrens made to move away.

“No, half-a-second, Hugh—this concerns you, too, even if it is a bit of a family secret still.”

“Well, what
is
it?” Julia asked impatiently, though beginning to guess.

“Well, I might not have to go home after all—I mean conceivably I might not be needed even if I
could
go—because Edina has mopped up a most delightful type—although he has a beard—and Angus says he knows all about sheep and farming, and moreover is very
rich,
believe it or not. So if they were to get married he could prop up Glentoran indefinitely, as well as run it.”

Major Torrens threw a glance of amused enquiry at Julia.

“And exactly how do I come into this, Colin?” he asked the eager young man.

“Well, Sir—“ belatedly, Colin remembered his official manners in Julia's presence—“you did say something about possibly keeping me on even if our show here has folded up; of course I should like that better than anything, if it didn't mean leaving Mother in the cart, and the place to go down the drain.” He paused.

“Yes—so?”

“Well, the position is this: Edina—my sister—has to go South in a day or so on some lunatic business about getting camels photographed for advertisements, and she had laid on this aspirant for her hand,” said Colin, with a grin—“to act as courier and so forth, because he speaks Spanish. But she has suggested that I might come along too, as I speak Arabic, to help out with the camel aspect, and—well, to act as chaperone, I suppose. Save any embarrassment, and generally foster the affair. But would that be all right by you?”

“Colin, I think you couldn't be better employed,” said Torrens. “Go by all means.”

“Thank you very much, Sir. I'll do everything in my power to see that they do get engaged—judicious absences and all
that. I'll go and tell Edina it's O.K.”—and he moved gracefully away.

“So it is Colin who is to ‘foster' this excellent arrangement, not you,” said Hugh Torrens to Julia, looking amused. “I should enjoy seeing him acting Cupid. I must say.”

“Lunatic child! But you know he will do it beautifully. He's very percipient and quick,” said Julia.

“That seems to run in the family! Well, I do hope he brings it off, or it brings itself off. Meanwhile, would you dine with me tonight, when this show is over, or are you entangled with your relations? My aunt I know will go straight to bed—she loves parties, but they exhaust her completely.”

“Yes—what a mercy she has someone like Feridah to take care of her.”

“Oh, you know Feridah? Of course you would. But did ‘Yes' mean that you will dine?”

“Well, I shouldn't think Edina and her ‘aspirant' will want an extra, and I daresay Colin will tag along with Angus Ross-shire,” said Julia. “Oh, by the way, why do you know him well enough to be called ‘Hugh', and Lady T. not know him at all?—Angus, I mean?”

“I was his fag at Winchester, and since he's been in and out of here I have seen him fairly often—my aunt of course lives in a certain isolation, in the sense that she doesn't meet all the casuals. But—forgive my persistence—
are
you going to do me the honour of dining with me?”

“Thank you. Yes, I should like to very much,” said Julia. “But not in your house,” she added quickly.

He looked at her in surprise.

“It shall be wherever you like, of course. But why not in my house?”

“Because it's the only house in the world where I have given my name, and then had the door shut in my face.”

He looked disturbed and astonished. “Please explain,” he said.

Julia explained.

“Yes, well Hassan was only obeying orders, up to a point—but he was being a little extra smart,” Torrens said at the end. “I dislike its having happened, though.” Suddenly he began to smile. “So you saw us on the roof? Well!”

“Purcell says he was always warning you not to sit out there,” said Julia; “but it was well for me you did, that day, because it gave me my only clue.”

“How did that clue help you?”

“Telling Bathyadis that the jeune Monsieur I was seeking worked with a red-haired man,” said Julia. Torrens pounced on this.

“Oh,
that
was what made the old Moor blow the gaff! We've all been wondering how on earth you worked that—whether you slipped a Truth Drug tablet into his mint tea, or what. I hope you will tell me every detail tonight—at the Minzah!”

“Chère enfant,
where
have you hidden yourself all the evening? One has not seen you, and now we leave,” said Mme La Besse, coming up with the Professor in tow.

“I got here rather late—I'm so sorry,” said Julia.

“You come tomorrow? We shall open some more of the coffins in the Museum.”

“Yes, assuredly.
Adieu, Chère Madame
—goodbye, Professor.”

Other people were beginning to leave; in the mysterious manner normal to the end of cocktail-parties the hall, so recently densely packed, in a matter of minutes was almost empty. “We must go. I wonder where Edina is?—I must find her,” said Julia, who with Torrens had begun to make her way over towards her hostess.

“Oh, good evening, Miss Probyn.” This was the young vice-consul. “I expect you know already, but your cousin for whom you were enquiring before is here tonight—I met him just now, with the Duke of Ross-shire.”

“Oh, thank you so much—yes, he came to see me yesterday. He's been away,” said Julia smoothly. “But you have been
so
kind. Goodbye.” The young man cast a curious glance at Major Torrens, still at her side, as he moved away.

“Born
for it!” Hugh exclaimed in delight.

“No, but tell me this—why didn't
he
connect Colin with the
Finetta
business? I went to ask him about that, and though he obviously knew
something
—he wouldn't say what—about the bother with the
Finetta,
he never connected Colin with her.”

“That was owing to the efforts of your humble servant.”

“At the Consulate-General! They
must
have known.”

“Another department,” he said blandly.