Courts of Idleness (19 page)

“Not a sign of him,” I said. “But I thought you’d stay—”

“He had a knife,” she said slowly. “And you had nothing. I just couldn’t have stayed. Besides, there was a man coming. I saw him.”

I slid her arm into mine and held it.

“Dear little Adèle.”

“We must go back,” she said, in a low voice. “Oh, how cruel and treacherous it was! That poor man… What ghastly misery in some home tonight!”

“He mayn’t be dead,” I said hopefully, as we turned to make our way back to the quiet square.

Adèle brushed a hand across her eyes.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “He was dead. He was lying too still, too unnaturally. He was dead.”

“I don’t know what we’d better do,” said I. “I suppose there’ll be some police there by now, and I’d better give them my card and say where I’m staying. I don’t want you to be mixed up in it, if we can help it, but I’d like to see justice done.”

“I’m so afraid no one’ll speak English. Would it be best to go straight back to the hotel and write a note to the Chief of the Police, saying you witnessed the murder and are willing to give them what information you can, if they communicate? They’ll have to get an interpreter to translate it, and it’ll show them you can’t talk Italian. Or you could say so in the note.”

“I think that would be best. But, all the same, I think I’ll give one of the police my card right away. It might convey something to him. And then we’ll go straight back to the hotel.”

Two minutes later we were back in the little square. Save for two large pigeons, sleeking themselves in the sun, it was quite empty.

An hour or so later, when we were finishing tea, I drew up my chair and told the others exactly what we had seen. Adèle had gone to her room, and had not yet reappeared. When I had finished—

“Hallucination,” said Berry shortly. “What you saw was a mirage.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said I. “I want to know what to do.”

“What did you drink for lunch?”

“All right. Ask Adèle. She drank nothing.”

“I’d better go to her,” said Daphne, rising. “I expect she’s rather upset.”

“My dear fellow,” said Berry, “the effect of the sun upon alcoholism is notorious.”

I turned to Jonah.

“You believe me?”

“I do. And I should leave it alone. They’re a funny crowd, these Italians. Looks to me like the Camorra or something. And they simply hate being interfered with. After all, you did what you could.”

“I’m not at all easy about it. I feel I ought to put my knowledge at the disposal of the police. It seems only fair to the wretched fellow who was done in.”

“But he wasn’t,” said Berry.

“Well, somebody’d got him away, but, if he wasn’t actually dead, it was a devilish near thing. He went down like an ox.”

“No blood on the cobbles?” said Berry.

I shook my head.

“Of course, he might have been bleeding internally. I confess it beats me. But there you are. I don’t attempt to explain it.”

“My advice is to sit tight and do nothing,” said Jonah.

“I agree,” said Berry, yawning. “If you’ve nothing better to tell the police than what you’ve told us, they’ll detain you as an idiot.”

“I expected this,” I said bitterly. “I knew you’d ridicule the whole thing. I only wish you’d been there yourself.”

“I remember,” said Berry, “when I was in Anti-macassar, a very similar experience. As I was returning from the club about midnight, a large skewbald goat stopped me and, speaking in broken Pekingese, asked if he could use the telephone. On my refusing, the animal burst into tears and changed into a minefield.”

This was too much. I rose with such dignity as I could command and, glancing sorrowfully at Jill and Jonah, both of whom were shaking with laughter, strolled out of the lounge.

As we sat down to dinner that evening – five of us only, for Adèle was still resting – my brother-in-law handed me an unsealed letter.

“I’m afraid I was hasty this afternoon,” he said. “By way of reparation I have drafted a letter for you to send to the Chief Constable or whatever they call him.”

“Thank you,” said I, giving it back. “Take it as read.”

With a sigh Berry passed it to Jill.

In a shaking voice the latter read as follows:

Sir,

I witnessed the murder which was not committed in the square this afternoon. Two men were concerned. The victim looked like a merchant, but fell like an ox. I cannot explain this. The victor had a scared look and a bent nose. For this the aroma of my cigar may have been responsible. In spite of the fact that he was well out of sight before I started to run after him, I failed to overtake him. I cannot explain this. When we got back to the square, the victim had disappeared. I am almost sure it was the same square, too.

Hoping you are quite well,

Yours, etc.

PS – Wasn’t it funny?

When the laughter had subsided:

“As a matter of fact,” said Daphne, “you’ve omitted the best piece of evidence he’s got.”

“What’s that?” said Jonah.

“Adèle.”

“What about her?”

“She’s so unlike herself that I’ve sent for a doctor.”

After a good night’s rest, Adèle was much better, but the impression created by the indisputable fact that she had experienced a severe shock of some kind was manifest.

Early the following morning Berry apologized for his scepticism, and desired me to conduct him to the scene of the tragedy. Jill stayed with Adèle, but Daphne and Jonah insisted upon accompanying my brother-in-law to the little square.

The crime was reconstructed, my pursuit of the assassin was re-enacted, and every aspect of the affair was scrutinized – all upon the very spot where the strange event had taken place.

Berry insisted on playing the part of the victim, and nothing would do but that I should push him in the back and bolt up the curling street. And Jonah was prevailed upon to run after me. Then Berry pushed Jonah, and I ran after him. Then Jonah pushed Daphne and bolted, and I told Berry when to start in pursuit. This last attempt at reconstruction proved not only abortive, but costly, for, on rounding the second bend of the alley, Jonah came into violent collision with a fat man who was pushing a perambulator full of vegetables, and brought them both down. He was in the act of assisting the indignant and tearful owner to get the perambulator upon its wheels, when Berry crashed into the trio, sending Jonah reeling into a doorway, the perambulator once more on to its side, and bringing the luckless Roman heavily to the ground for the second time. The latter was now thoroughly frightened and considerably hurt, while the inhuman but inevitable laughter into which his two aggressors subsided exasperated him to the point of madness. The more he wept and raved, the more helpless they became, and when Daphne and I arrived upon the scene, it was clear that between fright, suspicion, and rage, he was in some peril of losing his reason. A crowd was beginning to collect, when I thrust a note for fifty lire into his hand and hustled the others away.

“And that’s that,” said Daphne, as we hurried back the way we had come. “No more reconstruction for me. Silly stupid rot. I was a fool to come. I might have known—”

“Not at all,” said Berry. “I count this a good morning’s work. The solution of all great problems depends upon successful elimination. Just now I overtook Jonah. Why? Because his withdrawal was obstructed by a foreign body in the shape of a comic merchant complete with pram. That Boy did not overtake the assassin establishes the fact that the latter met with no such obstruction. We can therefore eliminate—”

“Valuable, no doubt,” said I grimly, “but hardly worth fifty lire.”

“More,” said Berry. “We have this day forged such a link in the chain of evidence as shall never come unstuck. Frankly, I regard it as the second nail in the assailant’s coffin.”

“Fool,” said Daphne. “What was the first?”

“This,” said her husband, drawing a button from his pocket. “It came off my trousers this morning, but I shall tell the bloodhounds I found it in the square.”

Precisely at four o’clock on the following afternoon Adèle and I were standing upon the steps of Monseigneur Forest’s house. The maid who opened the door seemed to be a little uncertain whether to admit us or no, and murmured something in Italian in response to the mention of her master’s name. Doubtless the latter had few visitors. However, at a glance from me, Adèle stepped boldly into the cool hall, and a moment later we were ushered into a pleasant, sunny room, whose tall French windows opened directly on to a little flagged terrace overlooking the garden. The door closed, and we were alone.

Adèle sank into a chair, and I stood looking about me. The room was quietly furnished, but everything was in excellent taste and beautifully kept. The polished floor gleamed, the sheen of the silver candlesticks was reflected by the rosewood table upon which they stood, and a slow wood fire was burning upon the well-swept hearth. Two or three old rugs were spread upon the parquet, and the rich blue curtains that swayed about the open windows made with the soft grey wall-paper a silent harmony that should still the restlessness of the most troubled mind. A grand piano stood at one end of the chamber, and, while there were no flowers, the air was charged with the magic of potpourri, that clean, sweet, rosy breath that instantly remembers long, low rooms, cool in the summer’s heat, and the old quiet of English country, as can neither pen nor brush, charm they never so wisely.

“I like your Monseigneur,” I said.

“I told you you would.”

I nodded.

“By the way, what do I do when he comes in? I mean, he’s a big fellow, isn’t he? And if I ought to take off my boots, or squint, or kiss his wrist-watch – well, I’d like to do the right thing. When in Rome, you know—”

Miss Feste smiled.

“Strictly,” she said, “you ought to keep your hat on and sing ‘Tipperary’ in Latin as he approaches. But he’s not very particular, and I dare say he’ll excuse you.”

“Nonsense. I shall be charmed.” I pointed to the piano. “D’you mind giving me B flat, or C sharp, or M for Mother, or something just to make sure I get off all right?”

Drawing off her gloves, Adèle stepped to the piano and took her seat on the wide stool. With her fingers upon the keys, she looked at me.

“I’ll just have a run through first,” she said, and with that she began to play.

The introductory chords rang out, faded, and up out of their cadence swelled the lullaby of an exquisite valse, rising and falling and sweeping so rarely that in a moment the quiet room was filled with melody.

It was manifest that Adèle Feste was no ordinary player of tunes.

I had never thought of her as a pianist, and I stood still, spell-bound, staring like a zany and thinking, too, how beautiful she was. And she sat there regardless, straight as an arrow, making me music fit for a king.

The valse faded, a brown eye glanced in my direction, a faint smile played about the red lips, and, with tuck of drum, the familiar pulse of “Come Over Here” came throbbing into audience. I crossed the room and sat down beside my lady on the broad seat.

The smile deepened.

“That wasn’t an invitation,” said Adèle.

“I know,” said I. “It was a challenge. You wicked girl. May I talk to you, or is it badgering as well as sacrilege?”

“Carry on.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? ”

“You never asked. Besides—”

I sighed.

“‘Orpheus with his lute made trees.’ You are making most precious melody. And I am about to make love.”

With a frown, Adèle threaded her way out of rag-time and into “The Soldiers’ Chorus.”

“No good,” said I. “And it isn’t the music, either. It’s the laughter in your eyes and the play of your lips and the sweep of your dark hair–” I stopped to gaze at the rosy, pointed fingers that fled so fast over the keys. “I always loved your hands, and now I shall reverence them, too.”

With a shrug of her dainty shoulders, Adèle stamped off the parade-ground and climbed into Montmartre. At the touch of those slender fingers the plaintive strains of “Bohême” rose up, hesitating and tremulous.

“You witch,” I whispered. “You Columbine. Adèle, I—”

“If you’re going to be silly, I shall stop.”

“That would be fatal. The minute you stop I shall kiss you. Your only hope is to go on playing till Monseigneur comes into the room.”

Adèle raised her eyebrows and shot me a curious glance. The next minute she tumbled out of opera and fell into rag-time again.

“Does she sing, too?” said I.

“She has been known to. But I think I’ve done enough harm for one day.”

“Harm?”

She nodded.

“You’ve given me the time of my life. You’ve translated yourself. You’ve expressed your charm in melody.”

The tune faltered, recovered its rhythm, and then, drawing to a close, slowed down and – stopped. But before its last notes had died away, the sensitive fingers had leaped again into life, and Adèle was floating into the valse of “The Lilac Domino.”

I bit my lip.

With the tail of my eye I saw her mouth quiver with suppressed laughter.

The haunting melody flowed on, and I closed my eyes. She was playing very softly, so that we both heard the steps in the room above and a door bang.

“The siege is raised,” said I. “Here comes the relieving force.”

Then I stood up.

“I’ve just loved it,” I said.

For a moment Adèle looked me in the face. Then she deliberately took her hands off the keys and examined her left palm.

“You know,” she began, “I—”

When I touched her on the shoulder, she put up her face like a child.

The steps came to a stop in the hall outside, and the next moment the door opened and a man came in.

From his dress and manner I took him to be a valet. Standing by the door, he bowed and then spoke rapidly in broken English.

“If Signor and Signora ’ave come to see Monseigneur, I am afraid ’e will not come for some time. ’E was go to ze Vatican ago one ’alf-hour.”

We stared at him in silence.

“I am very sorry,” he added, spreading out his hands and inclining his head to one side. With shrugged shoulders he stood there, Apology personified.