Ritual in the Dark (14 page)

The man came back. He said:

I’ve got a few phone messages, sir. People who want him to ring them back.

Thanks. Nothing else? No one has been here enquiring about him?

Enquiring? No, sir. Why, sir, is he expecting someone?

I think so. It doesn’t matter. Can I have the phone messages? He’s phoning me from Switzerland this evening.

Certainly, sir. The girl’s copying them out now. She won’t be a moment.

Thanks.

He crossed to the mirror and looked at himself closely. The leather bands around the cuffs of his jackets showed below the sleeves of the overcoat. The grey whipcord trousers looked baggy; one of the turn-ups was hanging down. He thought: I must buy more trousers and get my hair cut. I look a wreck.

In the taxi he glanced at the two sheets of paper headed ‘Phone Message’. The messages were written neatly with a ballpoint pen; they were dated from the previous Friday. ‘Will you ring Mr Beaumont before ten this evening?’ ‘Major Dennis will not be able to join Mr Nunne for dinner on Wednesday.’ He looked through the rest, then folded the papers and put them in his wallet. They told him nothing more of Nunne. Nunne was becoming increasingly the centre of his curiosity.

The sight of the Post Office at Netting Hill Gate reminded him of the telegram; he tapped on the glass, and asked the driver to stop at the next Post Office. He had forgotten what Nunne had asked him to say in the telegram; after consideration, he worded it simply: No enquiries, and signed it: Gerard.

The driver asked: What number, sir?

Is this Canning Place?

Yes.

Would you mind driving to the end of the street and waiting for me there? I shall be about ten minutes.

The end? Right.

He noted the surprise in the driver’s voice, and was about to explain; then he felt irritated with his own embarrassment, reflecting that it was none of the man’s business anyway. He stepped out of the cab, saying:

I shall want to return to Camden Town afterwards.

Afraid I’ll have to keep the clock tickin’, sir.

Right you are.

Number twenty-three was half way down the street. It was a tall, Victorian house with steps leading up to the front door. When he pressed the bell labelled ‘Vannet’, a voice spoke from a circle of wire gauze above the bell-pushes:

Hello. Who is it?

He addressed the wire gauze:

My name is Sorme. Austin Nunne asked me to call.

Oh yes.

The door clicked open. The voice said:

It’s the second door on your right.

He went into the badly lit hallway, closing the door behind him. The door was inscribed: Gerald Vannet, in white plastic letters. When he knocked, the voice called: Come in.

The man was levering himself out of an easy chair as he came into the room. He was six inches shorter than Sorme. He wore a loose green tee-shirt with a silk muffler underneath it. The flannel trousers had a knife-edge crease. Well, I’m delighted to meet you! You’re Mr Sorme. Austin rang up about an hour ago. Won’t you have a drink?

His voice was a neighing drawl, on an almost soprano note.

Sorme said uncertainly: That’s very kind of you. . . He was thinking of the taxi.

You’re not in a hurry, are you? Austin said you might want to spend an hour or two here. You haven’t got a taxi waiting, or anything?

Sorme’s immediate inclination was to admit that he had, until he recollected Nunne’s insistence on secrecy. He said quickly:

No. I’m not in a hurry.

Lovely. Do sit down. I’m afraid the room’s in a bit of a mess. I’ve not been up long. We had a party last night. What will you drink? Whisky, or gin and martini? I’m afraid I’ve nothing else except a little wine.

Gin and martini then, please.

Sweet or dry?

The room was stuffily warm, with two electric fires burning. It was a large and very comfortable bed-sitter. The carpeting was a plain fawn colour, and looked as if it had only just been hoovered. Nothing in the room suggested a party, or the untidiness associated with late rising. Sorme took his gin and Italian, and sat on the bed. Vannet stretched himself out on a piece of furniture that combined armchair and divan, with curves moulded to his body. He smiled at Sorme over the top of his glass, and then drank as though toasting some secret that they shared. He said:

I may say, it isn’t like Austin to send his. . . friends along to see me. You are a fairly new friend, aren’t you?

Fairly, Sorme said.

Vannet grinned, and took another sip of whisky, managing to imply that his tact would forbid further questioning. He said blandly:

I manage to meet all Austin’s friends sooner or later. Where’d you meet him—the Balalaika?

No. What is it?

Ah! I can see you haven’t known him for long! You’ll see the Balalaika soon, no doubt.

What is it?

Oh, it’s a. . . well, a sort of a. . . It’s a club.

He simpered over his glass.

I see, Sorme said. I shall look forward to going there.

You ought to go tomorrow. Wednesday’s drag night. World-famous female impersonators! Oh, my dear!

He said this with a nasal Cockney accent, fluttering his hand stiffly from the wrist.

I’ll ask Austin—if he’s back, Sorme said.

Are you expecting him?

I’m not sure.

A pair of china blue eyes regarded him penetratingly for a moment, then dropped coyly. Vannet said:

Well, if you want to see it, and Austin’s not back, I could probably get you in. . .

That’s kind of you! But I can see it some other time.

That’s what you think! You don’t think they do it every week, do you? They have to arrange it. Then they pass the word around quietly. So the police don’t get wind of it. They don’t intend to be raided, don’t you see, dear? Don’t mind me calling you dear. It doesn’t mean anything. . . But if you’d like to see it, I’d be delighted. . .

Sorme grunted, and nodded noncommittally. Vannet stared wistfully into his glass, and asked:

Is Austin in Switzerland alone?

As far as I know. Why?

Oh, I’m not prying. But he had his eye on a rather nice little dish at the Balalaika on Friday.

Friday, Sorme said.

Yes. . . why? It was Friday, wasn’t it? Yes, I remember.

I was with him on Friday evening, Sorme explained. But he left me before midnight.

Oh, this was well after midnight. He was looking far gone. . . Cigarette?

No, thanks. Tell me, do you own all this house?

Yes, why? You looking for a room?

Again, the look was suggestive and coy. Sorme finished the martini.

No. I’ve only just moved into a room. Camden Town. But it seems a most impressive place. With all the gadgets.

Thank you. You touch me on my weak spot. This place is my pride. I own two more—in Highgate and Islington—but my heart belongs to twenty-three Canning Place. Another drink?’

No, thanks. I ought to get a move on.

An instinct told him that a second drink would mean at least another hour of conversation.

No. Perhaps you’re right. It wouldn’t improve your studies.

A buzzer sounded suddenly in the room, making Sorme jump. Vannet picked up a small microphone that stood by the chair, and flicked a switch. He said tartly:

Bugger off. I’ve got a visitor.

He smiled at Sorme, and pressed the switch again. A complaining voice said:

I don’t want to get you out of bed. I want Frankie.

He’s not here. He went hours ago.

When? the voice demanded through the microphone.

When? Don’t ask me. I’m not his bloody mother. Hours ago. Do you want to come in for a drink?

No, thank you! Not after that! He’s got to meet this producer chap at one. You’ve no idea. . . ?

Yes, I have. Try flat seven—Dilly’s.

Oh, you awkward bastard. Why didn’t you say so?

Vannet put the microphone down. He said:

Useful little things, these. They save my poor old feet. Not to mention the tenant on the top floor. Where were we?

You were saying something about my studies. I didn’t quite follow you.

Oh yes. Austin said to leave you down there so you could study, or something.

I shan’t be there long. I only want to look something up.

Oh. Pity. I was hoping you’d be here for lunch.

No. I must get back, I’m afraid.

He stood up to emphasise his intention of leaving. Vannet heaved himself regretfully off the curved armchair. He said:

Oh well, if you have to go.

Sorme was afraid he had offended him, but the intimacy of Vannet’s smile as he opened the door reassured him:

I’ll hope to see you again. And if you do want a room. . .

He led the way across the hall, and opened the front door. Sorme asked:

What about Austin’s flat?

That’s in the basement, Vannet said. Sorme caught a glint of amusement in his eyes, and guessed that Vannet had been curious as to whether he had been here before. He followed him out into the street and through the gate in the area railings.

A glance at the end of the street showed him the taxi still waiting there.

It’s quite self-contained, Vannet said. You can’t get into it from the house.

I see.

Vannet opened the front door. Immediately, a smell of some perfume met them; Sorme recognised it; it was the perfume of the Diaghilev exhibition, Mitsouko.

After you. The door is to your left.

The room was in complete darkness. He groped for the switch. A soft pink light came on, showing a room that was similar to Vannet’s bed-sitter. The air smelt of strong tobacco. Sorme looked into its corners, but saw no clothes. He set the leather grip down on the table.

This is it, Vannet said. There’s another room through there. I’ll leave you now. Make sure you slam the door as you go out. Enjoy yourself.

Thank you.

Vannet held out his hand. He said softly, almost pleadingly:

And if you’d like another drink, or a bite to eat, come into my place when you leave.

Thanks, Sorme said uncomfortably. But I don’t think I’ll accept this time. Perhaps another day. . .

Bye-bye. . . I don’t even know your Christian name.

Gerard.

It’s like mine—Gerald! Ah, well. Bye-bye, Gerard.

Goodbye. Thanks for the drink.

Come again!

The front door closed noisily. Sorme crossed the room immediately and opened the other door. The smell of Mitsouko was suddenly stronger. He switched on a light. Four wall-lights came on, filling the room with a blue glow.

It was smaller than the other room. The walls were almost completely hidden by velvet curtains that stretched from floor to ceiling. The hangings were black; they contrasted with the carpet and divan, which were wine-red. He said aloud: Christ! Shades of Edgar Poe! He suddenly felt grateful to Vannet for leaving him alone; it relieved him of any necessity to comment on the room. He sat on the divan-bed, and stared around. The room repelled and attracted him. He looked up at the ceiling, which had been painted night-blue. He stood up to stare more closely at the pictures that were spaced along the walls between the hangings. Two were Gauguins; they looked like originals or skilful copies. On either side of these were spaced four obscene drawings, signed and titled in a Chinese or Japanese script; these seemed to have been sketched with a fine brush dipped in Indian ink. One showed a naked giant of a man, with a proportionately large member, landing from a raft on a beach; across the beach hordes of laughing women rush to meet him. Its companion-picture showed the same man leaving the island, shrunken and withered, while the women tear their hair and wail. The other two drawings showed the same giant performing feats of strength: in one case, shattering a copper vessel with the immense member; in the other, holding off hordes of armed bandits by using it as a club. He observed that all four drawings bore in the bottom left-hand corner the minute letters: OG.

He slid aside the plain-glass doors of the bookcase. The bottom shelf was devoted to an edition of the Marquis de Sade. He took down a volume of Les 120 Journées de Sodome, and observed that the title page bore no publisher’s imprint. The other shelves contained volumes in French and German, uniformly bound in blue leather with silver lettering, and copies of limited editions of Petronius, Apuleius and Sappho, all lavishly illustrated. Finally, the top shelf contained several works on medicine and psychology, with volumes of Bloch, Stekel, Krafft-Ebing and Hirschfeld. The French and German volumes seemed to be mostly of nineteenth-century romantic writers. He opened the volume of Lautreamont, and found it thick with dust. Some of its pages were uncut.

He returned to the other room and investigated its doors. One was a clothes cupboard; the other led to a large kitchen in which everything seemed new, although when he looked more closely he realised from the undisturbed dust that no one had used it for a long time. Beyond the kitchen was a bathroom, in which the smell of Mitsouko was overpowering; it came from the bath, where the fragments of a large bottle were scattered. He pulled out the plug and turned on the tap; after a few moments, the water flowed hot, and clouds of scented steam rose around him. From the size of the fragments, he judged that the bottle must have held at least half a pint.

From somewhere above his head, he heard the sound of a telephone ringing. It reminded him of the reason he was in Nunne’s flat. He turned off the tap and returned to the bedroom. At first sight, he could see no sign of the clothes Nunne had mentioned. Then he tried looking behind the hangings, and found them immediately. They were lying beside the fireplace, which had been sealed up with black-painted hardboard. At the top of the heap lay a pair of women’s stockings. It seemed to be a complete women’s outfit. He was surprised; he had expected that the clothes would be Nunne’s own.

He opened the leather grip, and tried to push them inside in a bundle. They were too bulky; he had to fold them, and place them in one by one. There was a black raincoat with a torn lining, and a shabby navy blue skirt. The stockings were of good quality nylon, but the rest of the underclothes were evidently not new. Finally, there was a pair of black suede shoes; one of the high heels was broken off and missing. He packed these on top, and closed the grip.