Flames Coming out of the Top (15 page)

Dunnett paused. “What do you want with me?” he asked.

“I wanted you to dine with me,” Señor Muras answered. “I wished to be sure that you had forgiven me for Señor Olivares's behaviour.”

“There's nothing to forgive,” Dunnett replied. “You told the man not to allow anyone near the stock rooms and he did his best to do so. You ought to congratulate him, not apologise to me.”

“But I must apologise,” Señor Muras said hastily. “I must apologise for his clumsiness, his lack of breeding. I have told you already that he misunderstood me.” The smile continued to wrinkle Señor Muras's eyes, but the voice went on more coldly than before. “It is really too absurd to imagine that I should have told the man to throw himself on you. Besides, there are many other ways in which I could have stopped you if I were really afraid of what you might find out there. So very many ways.”

“Such as?”

Señor Muras appeared to be considering the question; his mouth was pursed reflectively and he kept pulling at the lobe of his ear. “Oh, I could have asked you myself not to go there,” he replied quietly. As he spoke he leant forward and absent-mindedly pulled open the flap of one of the doors as though playing with it: the space revealed a service revolver and two slips of regulation cartridges. He caught Dunnett's eye. “On account of long journeys unaccompanied,” he said vaguely. “We are not really a civilised community remember. It is more than distance that divides London from Amricante. …” With that he let the flap snap back again, and smiled into Dunnett's face once more. “But we are wasting time,” he said. “If we are to dine let us get into the mood for dining.”

He moved over into the farther corner of the car as he spoke and indicated the now vacant seat beside him. Dunnett paused; and then, remembering that it was he who was bluffing Señor Muras, he climbed in and sank into the Bedford-cord lap of the resplendent Cadillac.

Señor Muras was evidently well known at the Gran; he was treated by waiters and manager alike with that mixture of delight and concern which is the measure of a guest's importance. His passage from the front door to his table in the centre window of the room was more like that of a cardinal archbishop; all along the route heads were reverently bowed at his approach, and the head waiter who brought up the rear might have been carrying the canopy. At that moment, tottering along on his little pointed feet beneath that colossal envelope of flesh, he looked not merely the most important man in Amricante but the chief figure in any company in which he might find himself; a kind of Pacific coast Nero in whose presence opposition wilted and was consumed.

“I am glad that you found yourslf free to dine with me,” he said when the Gran had finally launched them upon its apparently endless course of dainties, “because there are so many things about which I wished to discuss.” Señor Muras paused as though to gather breath. “For instance,” he went on, “I wanted to speak of the prospects of an importing house such as my own in the face of internal competition; the attitude of my London principals towards the efforts I am making; the state of the firm's accounts and the possibility of a leakage; the position of my daughter
vis-à-vis
yourself; the question of brokerage of bills drawn in Amricante and presented abroad …” his voice continued on a steady and impersonal level.

“The position of your daughter
vis-à-vis
myself?” Dunnett interrupted him.

“Precisely,” Señor Muras answered. “You must not imagine that a father necessarily remains in entire ignorance of everything that is done. She wrote to you, did she not?”

“She did,” Dunnett answered. “You can see the letter if you like. I haven't replied to it yet.”

Señor Muras swung round in his chair. “Mr. Dunnett,” he said, “my daughter is no more than a child. She knows nothing of the world, nothing of the perils, nothing of the temptations. You are the first man I have introduced into the
household since she returned. I must ask you most sincerely to show that my trust in you has not been misplaced.”

Dunnett pushed his chair back from the table. “Would you mind explaining yourself?” he asked. He rose to his feet as he said it, but Señor Muras laid his hand on his arm.

“Do not misunderstand me,” he said. “I was only about to say that I trusted you would not refuse her invitation to revisit us at the
hacienda
. And I had hoped that you might be able to spare the time to see a little of her, to take her out of herself as it were. If only she could share the company of a man of the world, someone who had travelled and knew the real values to set on things, what a difference we should see.”

Dunnett resumed his seat. “I should have thought there would have been plenty of that sort in Amricante,” he observed.

Señor Muras shook his head. “There is a quality in the Bolivian,” he said, “that makes him unsuitable. He is so— susceptible. That is why “—here Señor Muras directed his widest and most friendly smile on Dunnett—” I turn to you. Everyone knows that an Englishman carries a woman's picture engraved on his heart. It is a wonderful safeguard. A Bolivian uses his eyes: an Englishman feeds on his memory.”

There was a pause, and when Señor Muras spoke again he was serious and restrained. “There is also another matter I wish to talk about,” he said. “And frankly I do not know how to begin.”

“What is it?” Dunnett enquired.

“It is the matter which brings you here,” Señor Muras replied gravely. “The matter which removed you from a comfortable position at home and set you wild goose chasing half-way across the world to investigate. You must know as well as I do, Señor Dunnett, that an importing establishment does not suddenly suspend payments to its parent houses without some very good reason; and only your good manners have prevented your asking what it is.”

“You mean shortage of ready money, I suppose?” Dunnett put in bluntly.

Señor Muras sounded almost relieved. “You have saved me a great deal of embarrassment,” he said. “Not that it is the first time in the history of wholesale commerce that money has been hard to come by. With us, the real cause is the war; it has destroyed everything. Our bills are not met and yet we are pressed for payment. The market has gone to pieces before our eyes. It is not sewing-machines and patent-medicines that people are wanting any more, but
guns
. To make money in these days one should be an armaments manufacturer, not a general merchant.” Señor Muras shook his head sadly over the unpeacefulness of the world and the prospect of his vanished profits.

Dunnett sat back and regarded him. Señor Muras's wine had mellowed him slightly and he felt strong and confident. “Tell me, Señor Muras,” he said, “which is it you really mind about—all those people getting killed, or your business being run at a loss?”

Señor Muras considered the point attentively. “I am managing director of a company,” he said simply. “My first duty is towards that. And to make a loss is a betrayal of my duty. I cannot really see that my feelings enter into it.” He paused as though wrestling with some deep inner problem, and then added, “It is our helplessness in the struggle that is so terrible. For my own part I would gladly give everything I have—everything—if only I could stop the carnage. But what good would that do? I should only be the poorer, and the war would go on just the same.”

They sat for a moment without speaking, and Dunnett waited expectantly for what was to come. He felt pretty sure, from Señor Muras's manner, that something else was coming. And he was right. The man had cleared a track across the table so that he could lean forward and talk confidentially.

“Señor Dunnett,” he said with an air of hesitation, “I do not know quite how to proceed. It complicates everything your being an Englishman. If you were Spanish, or Italian, or Portuguese, I should offer you a bribe and there
would be no further trouble. But with you, I do not suggest it.”

“That's very considerate of you,” Dunnett answered, “because I should inform Mr. Govern immediately if you were to do anything of the kind.”

Señor Muras made a pacifying movement with his hand. “It is just as I thought,” he said. “You are offended if I only mention it. And yet there is nothing dishonourable in what I want you to do.”

“Then why try to bribe me?”

“Because it is a little irregular,” Señor Muras explained, “and I was not sure if you would understand. All that I want you to do is not to act too impetuously, not to jump to rash conclusions. In short, I want you to postpone making any sort of report for another month or six weeks.”

“What good would that do?” Dunnett enquired.

“By then,” Señor Muras answered, “I shall have recovered some of the money which I have paid out, and I shall be able to settle my debts in full.” He passed his hand across his eyes. “Those terrible stock rooms,” he murmured. “Full to the ceilings. Shall I ever see them clear again?”

“You've had nine months in which to pay,” Dunnett reminded him.

“Then why quarrel about a further six weeks?”

“I'm afraid it's not possible,” Dunnett said curtly. “My report goes back to Mr. Govern as soon as it's ready.”

“Very well,” Señor Muras shrugged his shoulders. “I shall have to sell my goods for what I can get, like a common bankrupt. And that will be nothing—absolutely nothing. It will mean ruin. You will have to find another representative and I shall have to start in business again when things are more settled. But if you are decided-”

A waiter approached them carrying a letter on a tray. Señor Muras appeared relieved. “Excuse me,” he said “I have been expecting this.” He tore the envelope hurriedly and read the scribbled lines on the thin, crinkled paper. The contents appeared to please him. His smile broke out quite
spontaneously and remained upon him. “I am participating in a little affair,” he explained in a whisper, “and I have been awaiting this message. It tells me exactly what I wanted to know: that I may come. To-night, after the Opera. She is singing until midnight and then we meet. I would entertain her at the
hacienda
but for my wife. The most jealous of women, you understand; at once so sensitive and so highly strung. I must ask you in no circumstances to mention this letter.”

Dunnett looked at his watch. “I expect you'll be wanting to get along,” he suggested.

Señor Muras's smile broadened. “That is very considerate of you,” he said. “I have one or two things to buy first— some orchids perhaps, or some dark red roses. Music and flowers—could anything be more beautiful?”

He began groping for his wallet and removed a bundle of notes like floreated wall-paper. He struck the side of his glass with a knife handle and called loudly for his bill. Then he turned to Dunnett, “Please God,” he said, “I shall never grow out of my weakness for women.”

Dunnett sat alone in his bedroom diligently killing the hour that remained until midnight. In one way, it all seemed so simple now: with Señor Muras out of the way, the assault on the stock rooms was as good as half completed. But it was the waiting itself that was difficult in the heat. Down there, on the level of the sea, the setting of the sun made no difference. The atmosphere merely became more humid and the whole place swam in a sea of torrid vapour. And in such a climate, sleep was always dangerously close at hand.

He did not leave the hotel until he had actually heard midnight chime. Or rather begin to chime. There were eleven chiming clocks in Amricante and each announced its individual version of the hour. It was ten minutes past twelve by the first of them when the last suddenly broke into mechanical celebration. By then Dunnett was walking rapidly through the sleeping town towards the Compañia Muras.

It was an odd time for a visit, admittedly. But his visit
in itself was odd enough. There hadn't been anything in the Board's instructions about waiting until Señor Muras's back was turned and then going through the pockets of his overcoat to see what he had hidden there. And looked at in the light of day perhaps it wasn't commercial life at its most honourable. But did honour really enter into it? Dunnett wondered. So far as honour and Señor Muras were concerned there seemed to have been a parting of the ways some distance down the road.

He reached the Compañia Muras without meeting anyone except a street walker, who murmured something soft as he passed, and a sailor too drunk to stand. Then he set to work to bribe the negro door-keeper.

The negro did everything in his power to assist him; as soon as he understood that the suggestion was one of bribery he held out his hand through the bars of the ornamental gates and took all that Dunnett offered him. A continuous rumble of thanks came from him. He kept thrusting out his fist like a marmoset in a cage. He did everything, in fact, except open the gates.

That was not achieved until Dunnett had given him a separate donation of five bolivianos. By then Dunnett was cautious and the money did not actually change hands until the gate was open and he had got his foot inside. The negro appeared to know the manoeuvre and not resent it. He locked the gate after him with a formidable show of efficiency. “To keep people out,” he explained.

There still remained the business of persuading the negro to let him make a tour of the stock rooms. The man began by pretending that he could not understand—always a bad sign when one is trying to persuade someone to do something illicit. Then he declared that it was as much as his job was worth, and hinted that his life might even be in danger. Only the offer of a further five bolivianos to be paid on entry overcame his scruples and his fears.

The night seemed very still when he had gone off for his keys. There was no one else moving in the compound: and
the sounds of the harbour and the town came over the high walls rarefied and uninsistent. The mist in the courtyard was scarcely more than waist high: it might have been poured in through the front gate and not been enough to fill the place. The moon, which was bright, cast two shadows—one on the uneven surface of the mist and the other on the ground below. Dunnett shivered as he stood there. He was glad even of the company of the negro when he returned.