Lord Foxbridge Butts In (15 page)

“Do you think he would?” the Baron seemed surprised.

“What else
could
he do with them?” I shrugged, “The paper-knife has probably already been pawned, you can easily buy it back if you can find the shop; but nobody other than yourself would pay anything for those papers.”

“But why would he do that?” the Baron got up to pace around a bit, “I paid him quite well for his services, why would he steal from me?”

“He may be in some kind of trouble, and needed the extra money,” I offered a probable explanation; it had always been my experience that molly-boys were relatively honest creatures — chiselers and gold-diggers to be sure, but fairly open about it.  Yet they were often in the power of men with less-than-exacting ethical codes, pimps and drug-pushers and the like.

“Oh, I would hate for him to be in trouble,” the Baron was aghast; he’d obviously developed a bit of a
tendre
for the boy. As embarrassing as their transaction might have been, he seemed to care about Gabriel, which I thought was very sweet.

“I’ll tell you what, Gustaaf,” I stood and put my glass down, “Why don’t you leave this to me? I can negotiate with Gabriel for the return of your papers. I doubt it will be a matter of more than twenty or thirty pounds. And if he’s in trouble, I’ll find out if there’s anything we can do to help him.”

“You would do that?” the Baron came forward and took both my hands in his, shaking them warmly, “You relieve my mind extremely. Let me give you some money.”

“No, no,” I took one of my hands away from him to wave off the matter of cash between gentlemen, “I’ll undertake the negotiations and you can write me a cheque later. It will be my pleasure to be of assistance.”

“
Mooie jongen
!
Ik ben in uw schuld
,” he gushed in his native tongue and grabbed me by the shoulders, kissing me wetly on both cheeks.

When I returned to my rooms, I walked around the circuit that I’d come to think of as my Thinking Circle, starting in front of the fireplace and slowly skirting the chairs and sofa before returning to my starting point. I had a similar circuit worn into the carpet of my Oxford study. I am not sure why, but walking in a circle always helps me order my thoughts.

I was surprised that the Baron was so ashamed of going with a prostitute: a man of the world takes such expediencies in stride, a matter of course, especially when in a foreign country. I wondered if he perhaps had the male equivalent of a wife-at-home, some men I knew were involved in such long-term arrangements, and it was fear of this man finding out about Gabriel that had caused his fear of discovery. But that didn’t really make sense, for how would that information get from me to the wife-at-home?

It also occurred to me that the Baron may have only recently come to accept his nature — some men tried very hard to deny themselves; and if they were strong enough, that denial could survive into middle-age. He might very well have an actual Baroness van der Swertz at home in Holland, maybe even children and grandchildren. It was certainly not uncommon. In such a case, one could imagine a man feeling ashamed of going with a prostitute who was of an age to be his own grandson.

“Ah, Pond,” I ceased my perambulation when he entered the room, “I have some questions for you.”

“Yes, my lord?” he spared my smoking-jacket an exasperated glance before taking on the cigar-store Indian pose he favored when enduring my inquiries.

“How does the bell-pull here connect to bells in your room and the basement? Is it cord in a pipe, or electricity?”

“It is an electric system, my lord,” he explained patiently, “which is controlled by a switchboard. Your lordship’s bell-pull closes a circuit that sends electric currents to various terminals around the building.”

“So if I pull the bell and it rings in your room, does it also ring in the staff-room?”

“No, my lord, there are switches at each terminal: one in my own room, one in the staff room, one in the pantry out on the landing where I spend much of my day, and one at the front desk. I only activate your lordship’s bell in the staff-room if I am there for any length of time, or the front desk bell if I am out of the house while your lordship is in and may require service.”

“Oh! That’s very sensible,” I smiled with the warm glow of curiosity satisfied, “Next, how intimate are you with Baron van der Swertz’s manservant?”

“My lord?” he wasn’t sure if I meant ‘intimate’ spiritually or physically.

“I know he’s just your cup of tea, enormous bruiser like that, shoulders like the Epsom Downs. How far have you got with him?” I clarified.

“Mr.  Nilssen and I are colleagues, my lord,” Pond said very coldly, though I didn’t think he was offended by the question, which was fairly tame for me (though I still called him Pond, I’d decided to talk to him exactly as I’d talked to him when I called him Reggie); this led me to understand that he was a little bitter about not being able to climb that particular mountain.

“Well, if there’s anything I can do to fan the flames of a romance, let me know. I have undertaken to retrieve some papers on the Baron’s behalf, and it would help if I could rely on you to get information from Nilssen for me.”

“Mr.  Nilssen does not speak English, my lord,” Pond explained.

“And you don’t speak Swedish or Dutch,” I supplied the nub of the problem.

“No, my lord.”

“If I might make a suggestion,” I resumed my circuit, “You could always learn a few useful phrases. And since doing so would also be useful to me, I will actually ask you to visit a book-seller and get a Swedish dictionary first thing tomorrow. Household expenses.”

“Yes, my lord,” he seemed struck by the idea, and quite pleased.

“The thing I really want to know, though, is where I can find a molly-boy called Angel Gabriel.”

“That information does not require learning Swedish, my lord,” Pond smiled his informal smile that I always like to see, “Angel Gabriel is one of Soho’s most popular boys, and can usually be found at the Green Parrot in Dean Street.”

“You
amaze
me!” I cried, deeply impressed, “You are an absolute fountain! The Green Parrot, eh? I’ve never heard of it. Is it the sort of place I can go, or do I have to send you?”

“Your lordship would find the establishment comfortable enough. There is a cabaret some evenings, and dancing, and a well-stocked cocktail bar. But if your lordship prefers, I would be happy to undertake any commissions in the neighbourhood.”

“I bet you would,” I teased, “Maybe you can come with me? In mufti, of course. Divide and conquer, what?”

“If your lordship wishes,” he tried to make it sound like an odious chore, but I could tell he liked going to the Green Parrot and was perfectly happy to take any opportunity to visit.

“Do I have any dinner invitations for tomorrow?”

“You have accepted an invitation to dine with the Traverses in Eaton Square, my lord.”

“I can’t even remember which ones they are,” I groaned, sinking into a chair.

“A very County family, if I may say so, from Worcestershire. Their daughter is named Angela, my lord,” he explained, “They are relations of Lord Yaxley.”

“Does this Angela have a pretty brother?” I rolled my eyes a bit, still unclear on the memory. And I didn’t know any Yaxleys.

“I believe Master Travers is still at school,” he smirked at me.

“Well, I’m afraid I am going to have to come down with a nasty summer cold. Will you remember to phone the Traverses in the morning, Pond?”

“Of course, my lord. Would you require anything before I retire for the evening, my lord?”

“I’ll undress myself, thanks. But if you could get hold of some bread and cheese, I wasn’t able to finish my dinner and I’m a bit peckish.”

*****

After an early supper in my room, Pond very carefully dressed me in the cheapest-looking suit I owned, a soft brown ready-made with a faint amber houndstooth that I’d bought from a clothiers in Oxford when my luggage went astray coming back from Foxbridge last long vac; and joy of joys, I was allowed to wear my apricot silk shirt, along with a rather pretty pink-and-gold necktie. Pond even went so far as to re-dress my hair, arranging a little fall of effeminate curls over my forehead — I was to be playing a part, as he saw it, and this was more-or-less fancy dress.

He was dressed in well-worn tweeds and a soft cap as we set out for the Green Parrot by our separate paths: I came out through the front door, while Pond emerged from the service entrance below and met me at the top of the area stairs. We stopped and bickered about about getting a cab at Piccadilly: it was one of those awkward distances that isn’t quite far enough to be worth the bother of a cab, yet more of a hike than a casual stroll; but it was a lovely evening, and a saunter up Piccadilly to Shaftesbury Avenue would be quite pleasant, so we set off on foot.

Though Pond remained Pond instead of turning back into Reggie, we chatted in a friendly way as we walked, and he even got off a few jokes without completely dropping his deferential manner, which I thought clever of him. When we arrived in Soho, though, he made sure I knew where I was going and then stopped to study the playbills on the corner for a few minutes so we wouldn’t arrive together: he felt we could cover more ground if we were not seen as a pair.

I thought all this rather silly, of course — we weren’t infiltrating an enemy headquarters on reconnaissance, we were looking for a molly-boy who would no doubt be
glad
to see me and the twenty or thirty quid I’d be giving him for the papers. But Pond was enjoying his subterfuges, and I found myself infected with his enthusiasm, so began to enjoy the cloak-and-dagger game, too.

The Green Parrot, when I found it, was a relatively large establishment stashed away in the basement of a French restaurant, of which there were quite a few in the neighbourhood. It was essentially invisible to the casual passerby, no sign or marquee announced its presence, one had to know it was there in order to find it. Clattering down the area steps, I was confronted by a sort of doorman in the vestibule, a plug-ugly boxer-type chap who looked me up and down most offensively before opening the inner door to me.

Inside it was quite dark, as such places often are. Short candlesticks in green baize shades stood on the tables, green-shaded lamps faintly illuminated the cocktail bar, and a small mirrored ball rotated pretty white lights around the empty dance-floor between the bar and the small stage; a very old man gamely tinkled out music-hall tunes on a weary upright piano, and a plump youth wearing a middy-blouse and short pants sang indifferently along. The wooden tables and chairs were serviceable rather than stylish, but some attempts at elegance were made with spotted old silver-gilt pier glasses on the emerald-green lacquered walls, and ink-green taffeta draped over the doors and corners.

There was not a single parrot, green or otherwise, in sight.

“A table,
monsieur
?” a small birdlike man with shining blue-black hair and thick false eye-lashes popped up in my path, startling me not a little, “or would
monsieur
prefer to sit at the bar?”

“A table I think,” I felt in my waistcoat-pocket for a shilling or two, wondering if the gleaming hair was real or made of ravens’ feathers.

“And what would
monsieur
like to drink? A cocktail, perhaps? We have all the latest recipes.”

“Why don’t you surprise me?” I offered with a big ingenuous smile, remembering that I was meant to pass myself off as a naïve undergraduate just up from University (not
too
far from the truth), who could easily be taken advantage of. Pond thought it would make people trust me more readily.

“I will bring you the
specialité de la maison
,” he pronounced his French oddly, like an English music-hall comedian, “It is made with green chartreuse and
absinthe verte
, and of course quite a bit of gin.”

“Sounds delicious,” I grinned fatuously; it sounded perfectly
poisonous
— though I have to admit that when the drink came, it was a very pretty color; it tasted almost exactly like one of Grandpa Savarell’s patent medicines, but not too bad for that.

I saw Pond come in a few minutes later, his hat slouched rakishly over his eyes, and he took a seat at the bar. He lounged there with a very attractive impudence and a big glass of lager, surveying the room with a delightful sneer — he was posing as rough trade, I surmised.

“Give us a light, ducky?” all of a sudden, a handsome blond youth in faultless white tie and a monocle was sitting next to me, poking an obscenely huge cigar in my face.

“Well, stap my vitals!” I goggled comically when the flame of my lighter revealed that the young man was no man at all, but the daughter of a duke, “Lady Caroline!”

“Not so loud with the ‘Lady,’ ducky,” she warned me with a smile, blowing smoke in my face, “They call me ‘Charley’ here. I
thought
you had to be a fairy, Foxy — I
may
call you Foxy, mayn’t I? My brother was at Eton with you, after all.”

“Of course, but what in the world are you doing
here
?” I wondered. She looked wonderful in white tie, but she was one of London’s most-photographed young ladies of fashion, a favorite of the traditional houses like Worth and Vionnet, ultra-feminine from the flowers of her hats to the frills of her shoes.