Black Mischief (8 page)

‘That
is how they keep in touch with the town. He is an old fox, Sir Courteney.’

‘It is
quite true that they have made no attempt to fortify the Legation. I have
confirmed it.’

‘No
doubt they have made their preparations in another quarter. Sir Courteney has
been financing Seth.’

‘Without
doubt.’

‘I
think he is behind the fluctuations of the currency.’

‘
They are using a new code. Here is a copy of today’s telegram. It
means nothing to me. Yesterday there was one the same.’

‘Kt
to QR3 CH.
No, that is not one of the ordinary
codes. You must work on that all night. Pierre will help.’

‘I
should not be surprised if Sir Samson were in the pay of the Italians.’

‘It is
more than likely. The guard has been set?’

‘They
have orders to shoot at sight.’.

‘Have
the alarms been tested?’

‘All
are in order.’

‘Excellent.
Then I will wish you good night.’

M. Ballon
ascended the stairs to bed. In his room he first tested the steel shutters,
then the lock of the door. Then he went across to the bed where his wife was
already asleep and examined the mosquito curtains. He squirted a little Flit
round the windows and door, sprayed his throat with antiseptic and rapidly
divested himself of all except his woollen cummerbund. He shipped on his
pyjamas, examined the magazine of his revolver and laid it on the chair at his
bedside; next to it he placed his watch, electric torch and a bottle of Vittel.
He slipped another revolver under his pillow. He tiptoed to the window and
called down softly:

‘Sergeant.’

There
was a click of heels in the darkness. ‘Excellence.’

‘Is all
well?’

‘All
well, Excellence.’

M. Ballon
moved softly across to the electric switches, and before extinguishing the main
lamp switched on a small electric night-light which shed a faint blue radiance
throughout the room. Then he cautiously lifted the mosquito curtain, flashed
his torch round to make sure that there were no insects there, and finally, with
a little grunt, hay down to sleep. Before losing consciousness his hand felt,
found and grasped a small carved nut which he kept under his bolster in the
belief that it would bring him good luck.

Next morning by eleven
o’clock the Bishop had been seen off the premises and the British Legation had
settled down to its normal routine. Lady Courteney was in the potting-shed; Sir
Samson was in the bath; William, Legge and Anstruther were throwing poker dice
in the chancery; Prudence was at work on the third chapter of the
Panorama
of Life. Sex,
she wrote in round, irregular characters,
is the crying
out of the Soul for Completion.
Presently she crossed out
‘Soul’
and
substituted
‘Spirit’
; then she inserted
‘of man’,
changed it to
‘manhood’
and substituted
‘humanity’.
Then she took a new sheet of paper and
copied out the whole sentence. Then she wrote a letter.
Sweet William. You
looked so lovely at breakfast you know all half awake and I wanted to pinch you
only didn’t. Why did you go away at once? Saying ‘decode’. You know you hadn’t
got to. I suppose is was the Bishop. Darling, he’s gone now so come back and I
will show you something lovely. The Panorama of Life is rather a trial to-day.
Very literary and abstruse but it won’t get any
LONGER.
Oh dear. Prudence.
XXXX.
She folded this letter very carefully into a three-cornered hat,
addressed it
The Honble William Bland, Attaché Honoraire, près La Legation
de Grande Bretagne,
and sent it down to the chancery, with instructions to
the boy to wait for an answer. William scribbled,
So sorry darling
desperately busy today see you at luncheon. Longing to read Panorama. W.,
and
threw four kings in two.

Prudence
disconsolately abandoned her fountain pen and went out to watch her mother
thinning the michaelmas daisies.

Prudence
and William had left an inflated india-rubber sea-serpent behind them in the
bathroom. Sir Samson sat in the warm water engrossed with it. He swished it
down the water and caught it in his toes; he made waves for it; he blew it
along; he sat on it and let it shoot up suddenly to the surface between his
thighs; he squeezed some of the air out of it and made bubbles. Chance treats
of this kind made or marred the happiness of the Envoy’s day. Soon he was rapt
in daydream about the pleistocene age, where among mists and vast, unpeopled
crags schools of deep-sea monsters splashed and sported; oh happy fifth day of
creation, thought the Envoy Extraordinary, oh radiant infant sun, newly weaned
from the breasts of darkness, oh rich steam of the soggy continents, oh jolly
whales and sea-serpents frisking in new brine … Knocks at the door. William’s
voice outside.

‘Walker’s
just ridden over, sir. Can you see him?’

Crude
disillusionment.

Sir
Samson returned abruptly to the twentieth century, to a stale and crowded
world; to a bath grown tepid and an india-rubber toy. ‘Walker? Never heard of
him.’

‘Yes,
sir, you know him. The American secretary.’

‘Oh,
yes, to be sure. Extraordinary time to call. What on earth does the fellow
want? If he tries to borrow the tennis marker again, tell him it’s broken.’

‘He’s
just got information about the war. Apparently there’s been a decisive battle
at last.’

‘Oh,
well, I’m glad to hear that. Which side won, do you know?’

‘He did
tell me, but I’ve forgotten.’

‘Doesn’t
matter. I’ll hear all about it from him. Tell him I’ll be down directly. Give
him a putter and let him play clock golf. And you’d better let them know he’ll
be staying to luncheon.’

Half an
hour later Sir Samson came downstairs and greeted Mr Walker.

‘My
dear fellow, how good of you to come. I couldn’t get out before; the morning is
always rather busy here. I hope they’ve been looking after you properly. I
think it’s about time for a cocktail, William.’

‘The
Minister thought that you’d like to have news of the battle. We got it on the
wireless from Matodi. We tried to ring you up yesterday evening but couldn’t
get through.’

‘No, I
always have the telephone disconnected after dinner. Must keep some part of the
day for oneself, you know.’

‘Of
course, we haven’t got any full details yet.’

‘Of
course not. Still, the war’s over, William tells me, and I, for one, a in glad.
It’s been on too long. Very upsetting to everything. Let me see, which of them
won it?’

‘Seth.’

‘Ah
yes, to be sure. Seth. I’m very glad. He was … now let me see … which was
he?’

‘He’s
the old Empress’s son.’

‘Yes,
yes, now I’ve got him. And the Empress, what’s become of her?’

‘She
died last year.’

‘I’m
glad. It’s very disagreeable for an old lady of her age to get involved in all
these disturbances. And What’s-his-name, you know the chap she was married to? He
dead, too?’

‘Seyid?
There’s no news of him. I think we may take it that we’ve seen the last of
him.’

‘Pity.
Nice fellow. Always liked him. By the by, hadn’t one of the fellows been to
school in England?’

‘Yes,
that’s Seth.’

‘Is it,
by Jove. Then he speaks English?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘That’ll
be one in the eye for Ballon, after all the trouble he took to learn Sakuyu.
Here’s William with the cocktails.’

‘I’m
afraid they won’t be up to much this morning, sir. We’ve run out of Peach
Brandy.’

‘Well,
never mind. It won’t be long now before we get everything straight again. You
must tell us all your news at luncheon. I hear Mrs Schonbaum’s mare is in foal.
I’ll be interested to see how she does. We’ve never had any luck breeding. I
don’t believe the native syces understand blood-stock.’

At the French Legation,
also, news of Seth’s victory had arrived. ‘Ah,’ said M. Ballon, ‘so the English
and the Italians have triumphed. But the game is not over yet. Old Ballon is
not outwitted yet. There is a trick or two still to be won. Sir Samson must
look to his laurels.’

While
at that moment the Envoy was saying: ‘Of course, it’s all a question of the
altitude. I’ve not heard of anyone growing asparagus up here but I can’t see
why it shouldn’t do. We get the most delicious green peas.’

Chapter Three

Two days later news of the
battle of Ukaka was published in Europe. It made very little impression on the
million or so Londoners who glanced down the columns of their papers that
evening.

‘Any
news in the paper tonight, dear?’

‘No,
dear, nothing of interest.’

‘Azania?
That’s part of Africa, ain’t it?’

‘Ask Lil,
she was at school last.’

‘Lil,
where’s Azania?’

‘I
don’t know, father.’

‘What
do they teach you at school, I’d like to know.’

‘Only
niggers.’

‘It
came in a cross-word quite lately.
Independent native principality.
You
would have it it was Turkey.’

‘Azania?
It sounds like a Cunarder to me.’

‘But,
my dear, surely you remember that
madly
attractive blackamoor at
Balliol.’

‘Run up
and see if you can find the atlas, deary …
Yes, where it always is,
behind the stand in father’s study.’

‘Things
look quieter in East Africa. That Azanian business cleared up at last.’

‘Care
to see the evening paper? There’s nothing in it.’

In Fleet Street, in the
offices of the daily papers: ‘Randall, there might be a story in the Azanian
cable. The new bloke was at Oxford. See what there is to it.’

Mr
Randall typed:
His Majesty B.A….
ex-undergrad among the cannibals
…
scholar emperor’s desperate bid for throne
…
barbaric splendour
…
conquering hordes
…
ivory
….
elephants
…
east
meets west
…

‘Sanders.
Kill that Azanian story in the London edition.’

‘Anything
in the paper this morning?’

‘No,
dear, nothing of interest.’

Late in the afternoon
Basil Seal read the news on the Imperial and Foreign page of
The Times
as
he stopped at his club on the way to Lady Metroland’s to cash a bad cheque.

For the
last four days Basil had been on a racket. He had woken up an hour ago on the
sofa of a totally strange flat. There was a gramophone playing. A lady in a
dressing jacket sat in an armchair by the gas-fire, eating sardines from the
tin with a shoe-horn. An unknown man in shirtsleeves was shaving, the glass
propped on the chimneypiece.

The man
had said: ‘Now you’re awake you’d better go. ‘The woman: ‘Quite thought you
were dead.’

Basil: ‘I
can’t think why I’m here.’

‘
I can’t think why you don’t go.’

‘Isn’t
London hell?’

‘Did I
have a hat?’

‘That’s
what caused half the trouble.’

‘What
trouble?’

‘Oh,
why don’t you go?’

So
Basil had gone down the stairs, which were covered in worn linoleum, and
emerged through the side door of a shop into a busy street which proved to be
King’s Road, Chelsea.

Incidents
of this kind constantly occurred when Basil was on a racket.

At the
club he found a very old member sitting before the fire with tea and hot
muffins. He opened
The Times
and sat on the leather-topped fender.

‘You
see the news from Azania?’

The
elderly member was startled by the suddenness of his address. ‘No … no … I
am afraid I can’t really say that I have.’

‘Seth
has won the war.’

‘Indeed
… well, to tell you the truth I haven’t been following the affair very
closely.’

‘Very
interesting.’

‘No
doubt.’

‘I
never thought things would turn out quite in this way, did you?’