Johnson Johnson 04 - Dolly and the Doctor Bird (4 page)

“I’m tired of Wallace,” she said. I could imagine it. Wallace Brady was interested in bridges, not in café society.

“Well, Johnson then?” he said. “He squired you about all day yesterday. Charm him into painting your picture for nothing.”

She gave a watery smile, and I gave her husband top marks for diplomacy. I said, “Would you like to use the hospital telephone, Lady Edgecombe? I think you could get Mr. Johnson at Coral Harbour.” I added, civilly, “He would give you a splendid evening out, I am sure.”

“I don’t much like yachts,” said Denise; but she was clearly thinking.

“Café Martinique? Junkanoo Club? Charley Charley’s? Tell him I’ll spring the cash,” said Edgecombe, smiling. He had had, I judged, just about enough, and I wished the woman would make up her mind before I had to do it for her. He added, “Or the Bamboo Conch, Denise. The nurse said they’re putting on a special show there for Krishtof Bey.”

I should think Lady Edgecombe and I stiffened at the identical moment. Her nylon lashes fell wide apart and she exclaimed,

“Not Krishtof Bey? Bart, is he going to be there?” But I was quite silent because I was using my brain.

I said, “You should meet him, Lady Edgecombe. He was on the plane yesterday morning, but perhaps Sir Bartholomew doesn’t remember? The young Turk who helped out the steward?”

His lips parted, and a little color came into his face. He had been, and was still, a man of striking appearance, and until lately, I judged, in perfect condition. I understood why Denise had married him, and thought too that he probably had all the qualifications for a secret agent in this part of the world: socially acceptable, noncompetitive, and a handy man, I supposed, in a fight.

He said, “Was he the ballet dancer? I didn’t even look at him properly. It was damned embarrassing as it was.” He grinned at me over his wife’s head. “A firsthand unique encounter with one of the world’s greatest dancers, and I can’t even describe it in company.”

“How kind you are, Doctor,” said Lady Edgecombe. “Did you say there was a telephone?”

I had her husband medicated and settled for the night by the time she came back. Her walk down the corridor was slow, and at first I assumed that Johnson had turned her down flat.

But it wasn’t that at all. She came in, leaving the door open, and said to me, “He would like
you
to go with us.”

I make it a matter of practice to show no surprise. In any case, I could think of one or two possible reasons why Johnson Johnson might want my presence at a nightclub attended by both Bart Edgecombe’s wife and one of our suspects, although Denise clearly could think of none. I said, “Well, I’m free, as it happens. But I am sure you would prefer a tête-à-tête.”

“No. I expect he’s right,” said Denise, and bending, ranged her husband’s two slippers firmly under the bed with brittle efficiency. She straightened. “In these colonies people do talk.”

I took her with me out of the room.

I went back once, to check on Edgecombe before I left. He was alone this time and not yet asleep. He looked up vaguely and smiled. “I hope you don’t find it too dreary. Johnson tells me you know what we’re up to.”

“Yes.”

He said, “I’ve got one worry. They might try to get at me through Denise.”

“I expect Mr. Johnson is thinking of that,” I said. “We’ll take good care of her.”

“She used to be in the theater,” he said. “She’d set her heart on ballet, and once she wants to do something, she’s really determined, you know. She would have done very well. But when she grew too tall, there was only show business. She missed the stage when we were young. And now, of course, she rather misses the embassy life.”

“You didn’t have any family?” I said.

He was far too sophisticated to show any emotion. He said, “Denise wasn’t too keen. And in my kind of job it isn’t wise. Look at the worry we might be having now if we had youngsters to think of as well.”

Look at the worry you are having now with Denise instead, I nearly remarked. But I didn’t. Recommending children as one form of therapy can be a dangerous business.

The Bamboo Conch Club is contained in the basement of a large Nassau hotel called the Ascot. I met Lady Edgecombe and Johnson there in the foyer, and he led us into the hotel Hibiscus Room restaurant, where the three of us were first to have dinner.

Lady Edgecombe was gracious, and in the faintest degree nervous of Johnson. I wore a navy blue, tailored, silk dress I had bought five years before for a wedding. Denise, her hair perfectly set, had put on a knitted silver dress which bared the fatty pads at the tops of her arms.

On the other hand, Johnson looked to my mind perfectly harmless. The terry shirt he had naturally changed, his black hair was brushed down and glossy, and his burnished bifocals glimmered in the fashionable dark of the foyer. He wore a wide shot-silk tie in crimson and a pale shantung jacket a shade too large for his shoulders.

He was quick to notice my glance, ushering us into the floral delights of the Hibiscus Room. “It’s a double-blind controlled trial for Hung on You,” he said. “My underprivileged wardrobe has got itself burgled, and Lady Edgecombe has lent me the wherewithal to be a turned-on type for the evening. Denise, what will you do if my trousers fall down?”

Denise smiled, with dignity. “Time your reflexes,” I said. Someone had to say something.

It was one of those dining rooms with hibiscus blossoms lying all over the table and a bottle-top dance floor. Upon this, obese tourists of both sexes in pant suits revolved to the tunes of their courtship, watched with distaste by their offspring, attired in bow ties and a flourish of bacterial acne.

I do not dance. Johnson, maintaining a gay conversation of determined vacuity, managed to withstand until after the clam chowder the wistful gleam in Lady Edgecombe’s fringed eyes. After that, with an apology to me, he stood up and asked her to dance.

He had picked an unfortunate moment. The small, native orchestra, which up till then had contented itself with fox trots, waltzes, and cha-cha-chas of genteel moderation, suddenly broke with relief, for all I know, into a request number for jiving. Or it may have been rock and roll. At any rate, the rhythm became syncopated and ragged, the percussion appeared suddenly to have a major epileptic convulsion, and the elderly matrons melted away, to be replaced with three or four younger couples, and some who were obviously not couples at all in the traditional marital sense. These Johnson and Lady Edgecombe found themselves joining. They halted.

“Who’s got your bet?” said the voice of Wallace Brady unexpectedly from just above me. “I think I’d back Denise to pull him through, but it’s going to be a near thing.”

He stopped. Dressed in white tuxedo and tie, he looked both distinguished and nervous, I was not surprised to observe. He said, “Look, I hate misunderstandings, and I’d like to clear this one up. D’you think I could sit down? While they dance?”

I didn’t answer. I was watching the floor. “Christ,” said Wallace Brady with reverence, and sat down unasked. I couldn’t have stopped him.

Dragooned occasionally by fellow students into the Bring-and-Buy Sale for the King George V Fund for Sailors, I have known this stiff-arm, roll-and-unroll form of jig to break out, with a stack on the stereo, after the last fruitcake was bartered. But I have never seen it done with such impassive expertise as Johnson lent to it now.

Her eyes wide open, Denise found herself gripped, twirled, and launched into disciplined motion which lost never a beat, an opportunity, or a new angle for torso or limb. Johnson’s face, which wore a kind smile, altered not at all from the moment he flung her from him into the lip of the trumpet and sucked her with the next beat from the path of the advancing trombone. Lady Edgecombe’s, ranging quickly from amazed horror to dawning respect, settled for open-mouthed concentration.

In twelve bars she progressed from being an aging self-centered woman to one with the firm confidence of an expert performer, and Johnson helped it to happen. Then he released her to dance face to face. They improvised; they came together dead on the beat. They circled. They danced back to back, her long, well-shaped legs flashing, his hair bouncing above the gaudy swish of his tie, the shantung rippling like sheeted snakes down his arms.

“Christ,” said Wallace Brady again. “Will you look at that? Now, isn’t that just a breeze?”

It was a gale, and it wasn’t hard to look at them either: no one else on the platform was dancing. The diners made a ring around the two of them, applauding and laughing, and at length fell into a regular clap. The musicians dropped out. The drums carried on, coming to a rattling crescendo. Johnson hadn’t slowed up, but you could see the sweat as bright as the tinsel under Denise’s mesh.

I saw Johnson assessing her. He put her into a quick spin, which he braked almost immediately. Then with a brisk heave he swung Lady Edgecombe up to his shoulder, where she posed, arms outspread, while he walked off the floor. He let her down, the band stopped, and a great deal of alcoholic cheering broke loose, with some stamping and clapping.

A bottle of champagne, ordered by Wallace Brady, had appeared at our table. As the performers freed themselves and presently approached, Denise bright eyed and laughing, Johnson mopping his brow, Brady held out two brimming glasses. “Sir, we haven’t met, but I hope you’ll accept this in heartfelt tribute. Denise, I want to buy shares.”

“Wallace Brady,” I said to Johnson, to make everything clear. I added, “You have our congratulations, for as long as your diastolic pressure will allow you to enjoy it.”

He grinned and sat down beside me, accepting the alcohol.

“Look: no blood,” he observed in reply. And for the next five minutes, blandly, he parried Lady Edgecombe’s intensive if lilting inquiries, while I waited for the music to strike up so that I could make my diminished cordiality to Wallace Brady perfectly clear.

My plan misfired completely. As the band returned, settled, and emitted the first notes of a tango, a brilliant figure arrived at our table, smiled at me, and addressed itself to Lady Edgecombe. “Doctor MacRannoch will tell you I had the honor of meeting your husband on his flight yesterday from New York to Nassau. I come to inquire if he finds himself better?”

He wore a silver rope bracelet and a tunic suit in plain violet silk. Krishtof Bey, the Turkish dancer, come to induce Denise Edgecombe to dance.

She did. She had already performed longer that evening than I personally would have suggested. I doubt however if the sure foreknowledge of a major cardiovascular event would have stopped her. She did well, and her partner’s muscular processes, I admit, were an exceptional treat. They were wildly applauded.

Wallace Brady watched their encore in a trance, his champagne dripping unnoticed onto his shirt cuff. Johnson, catching my eye, made a brief face indicative of deeply sympathetic emotion and excused himself to dry off in the washroom.

Brady came to, mopped up his cuff, and said to me, “I want to explain.”

I have no time for tedious repetitions. I said, “Do you build bridges?”

“Yes.”

“Then there is nothing to explain,” I said. There was no point in thanking him for the champagne, since I was drinking fruit squash.

“Yes, there is,” he said. He sounded quite firm, which surprised me. “I do make bridges, Doctor MacRannoch, and tunnels, and other major constructions which people are fortunately quite pleased to pay for. I have no need to tout for my business, even such important business as the MacRannoch of MacRannoch could give me. In point of fact, as I would have told you if you hadn’t rushed off in such a hurry, I know the Begum Akbar not through your father, but because I happen to be doing a job for her on Crab Island. I regard her as a great and elegant lady. I admire a professional in whatever field it may be, and I felt an equal admiration, Doctor MacRannoch, for the way you dealt with Bart Edgecombe at that airport, which was why I asked you to golf with me. Not to mention the hypodermic syringe.”

“What syringe?” I said. I was unable to prevent myself from flushing.

“It was sticking out of your dressing-gown pocket. Would it have put me to sleep?” he said. “That might have been awkward. The Trueman always makes the beds first thing in the morning.”

“It would have kept you quiet until the police took you away,” I said coldly. I do not enjoy being provoked.

“Incidentally, what did the police do about Bart?” Brady asked.

“What do you mean?” I said. The next course had come: sliced coconut and orange in sherry. I eyed it without appetite.

“Well, food poisoning’s dangerous, isn’t it?” said Brady. “Don’t they have to track down the bacillus by law in case other people get poisoned? Or did they fix the blame on Lady Edgecombe’s crab sandwich?”

“Luckily, New York seems to have escaped,” I said. “The doctor in charge, I imagine, found the crab was the culprit and took no further action. Certainly there were no police involved that I know of.”

I had got it in before Johnson came back. I saw him as I spoke, threading his way between tables. The music ended at the same time and Pavlova and her partner began to return.

“Poor Bart,” said Brady and grinned. “He had it public enough as it was, without the cops interfering. Listen, don’t you dance?”

“No. The place of science,” I said, “is to observe.”

In the end we were a party of eight for the cabaret, for Krishtof Bey and his three friends insisted on our joining them, and Brady stayed stuck like surgical tape to Lady Edgecombe, Johnson, and myself. We walked together out of the light of the restaurant, across the hall, and down the dim-lit stairs to the Conch Club. I was not feeling cheerful, and the general inebriated levity of the large crowd accompanying us into almost pitch darkness did nothing to make my mood less gloomy. It came to me that I was probably the only entirely sober person in the room. Then Johnson’s hand gripped my arm lightly, and I realized that I was not. We found a large round table with a red mat, and sat at it.

The cabaret at the Bamboo Conch Club, although paid for by the Ascot, is chosen and run entirely by the chief drummer, Leviticus, whose solo turn on the congo drums is the subject of most of their publicity. Inside the architect has tried to give the impression of a native hut, with a wickerwork lining dimly lit by fake torches burning luridly red on the walls. The roof, as I pointed out to Johnson, was low, dodecahedral, and wooden, thus increasing both the noise and the fire risk. Round tables like our own pressed against each other without order between the low stage and the doors and an ultraviolet light, placed strategically overhead, made Wallace Brady’s teeth glitter and turned Lady Edgecombe’s tall gin and tonic into a sugar-frosted tumbler of silver. I ordered a jug of fruit squash, and Johnson, surprisingly, a magnum of champagne. Krishtof Bey had whiskey and water.