The English Assassin (15 page)

The guests were now arriving thick and fast. Vladimir Ilyitch Ulianov, resident in China and extremely old and bad-tempered now, wearing a baggy black suit, hobbled in. Following him was his friend and protector the Eurasian warlord General O.T. Shaw, ruler of North China. Beside Shaw was Marshal Oswald Bastable, renegade Englishman and chief of Shaw’s air force. After them came Karl Glogauer the Revivalist, small, shifty, intense; a tall, moody albino, whose name nobody caught; the ex-Literary Editor of the
Oxford Mail
; a score or so of assorted conference delegates; Hans Smith of Hampstead, Last of the Left-Wing Intellectuals; the Governor-General of Scotland; the Viceroy of India, the King of North Ireland, the recently abdicated Queen of England; Mr Roy Hudd, the entertainer; Mr Frank Cornelius and his companion Mr Gordon ‘Flash’ Gavin; Mr Lionel Himmler, the theatre impresario; Mr S.M. Collier, the demolition expert; Mr John Truck, the transport expert and Minister of Controls; the Israeli Governor of Central Europe; Admiral Korzeniowski, President of Poland; General Crossman (Crossman of Moscow) and Lady Crossman; Miss Mitzi Beesley and Dr Karen von Krupp; Miss Joyce Churchill, the romantic novelist; the cathedral correspondent of
Bible Story Weekly
and his son and daughters; the Paris correspondent of
Gentleman’s Quarterly
and his friend Sneaky Jack Slade, the blues singer; Miss Una Persson and Mr Sebastian Auchinek, her agent; a Lapp parson called Herr Marek; Colonel Pyat and Miss Sylvia Landon, Présidente of the Académie Française; more than a hundred of the finest male and female film stars; a round thousand politicians from all over the world; thirty American deserters; five fat field marshals; eighty-six ex-nuns from the original Convent of the Poor Clares; some Arabs and a German; Spiro Koutrouboussis, the Greek tycoon, with a group of other Greek millionaires; a bank manager and a television script-writer; a Dutch soldier, the King of Denmark and the King of Sweden; the Royal Canadian Mounted Police rugby team; Mr Jack Trevor Story, the jazz band leader, and Miss Maggie Macdonald, his star singer; the Queen of Norway and the ex-Emperor of Japan; the Governor of England and his chief advisor General U.W. Cumberland; Mr Francis Howerd, the comedian; a number of dons who wrote children’s novels at Oxford; the most corrupt and feeble-minded paperback publisher in America; Mr Max Miller, the comedian; a number of television producers; Nik Turner, Dave Brock, Del Dettmar, Robert Calvert, Dik Mik, Terry Ollis: members of the Hawkwind orchestra; some advertising executives, pop music critics, newspaper correspondents, art critics, editors and recording artists and showbiz personalities including Mr Cliff Richard, Mr Kingsley Amis, Mr Engelbert Humperdinck and Mr Peter O’Toole; the Dalai Lama; some Trades Union officials; thirteen schoolmasters; Mr Robert D. Feet, the pedant (who had thought it was a Fancy Dress Ball and had come as G.K. Chesterton); Miss Mai Zetterling and Mr David Hughes; Mr Simon Vaizey, the society wit, and a host of others. They ate, they conversed, they danced. The mood became gay and the worst of enemies became conciliatory, claiming with sincerity and passion that they had never really disliked one another. Peace was just around the corner.

“We could all be said to be prisoners, Mr Cornelius,” Bishop Beesley was saying as he munched a piece of shortbread, “and these revolutionists are perhaps the most hopeless of all prisoners. They’re prisoners of their own ideas.”

“I’ll drink to that, bishop.” Frank Cornelius raised his champagne glass. “Still, abolish war and you abolish revolution, eh?”

“Quite so.”

“I’m all for the good old status quo.”

Miss Brunner was laughing. Gordon Gavin, for all he was dressed in evening clothes, still managed to give the impression that he was clad from neck to knee in an old gaberdine raincoat. The seamed and seedy face, the hot, guilty eyes, the hands that rarely left the pockets of his trousers or else hovered helplessly near his flies, all contributed to the impression. “I’m flattered,” said Miss Brunner. “but I’m afraid all my dances are spoken for.” Flash looked relieved.

The musicians were playing Alkan’s
Symphony for the Piano on the theme ‘Five’
to waltz-time. Mrs Cornelius was having marvellous fun. All the boys were after her! She clutched the little Lapp parson, Herr Marek, to her and raced him round the floor. He was scarcely visible, buried, as he was, in her bulk, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. He had an evil glint in his eye as his muffled, heavily accented English came from the region of Mrs Cornelius’s bosom. “Morality, my dear lady, what is that? If it feels good, do it. That’s my philosophy. What do you say?”

“Yore naughty, that’s wot I say!” She laughed comfortably, completing a pirouette which took him off his feet. He giggled. They just missed colliding with Colonel Pyat and one of the most beautiful of the ex-nuns, Sister Sheila.

The dance ended and the laughter and the conversation swelled. Not only the main ballroom was packed, now. All the subsidiary ballrooms and many of the guest rooms were crowded. As Dick Lupoff was to report to the
LA Free Press
, “the world’s finest were letting their hair down that night”.

The band struck up with ‘A Bird in a Gilded Cage’ and many of the guests began to sing the words as they took their partners for the dance. The babble of voices grew gayer and gayer. Champagne corks popped and glasses clinked.

Prinz Lobkowitz was commiserating with the ex-Queen of England as they waltzed discreetly in the shadows beneath the musicians’ gallery. “My dear Helen, it is a situation one can never really get used to. Training, you know, and background. Not, of course, that you were expecting anything, I suppose, at the beginning.”

“The epidemic…”

“Exactly. At least Lady Jane was executed. Poor girl.”

“It’s a bit warm in here, isn’t it?” Frank Cornelius was saying on the other side of the ballroom as he danced expertly with Helen Sweet. “You look thoroughly washed out.”

“Oh, it’s all right.” Helen Sweet glanced timidly into the gap between his chest and her breasts.

Lady Sue swept past in a flash of crystalline blue. “Don’t overdo it, Helen!” Lady Sue was dancing with her friend the ex-emperor of Japan. Dressed in traditional Japanese costume, the old man was finding the waltz steps a bit difficult.

Catherine Cornelius, feeling a trifle dizzy, leaned against a buffet table. She was a picture of beauty and well supplied with beaux. They crowded round her. She brushed a lock of fair hair from her forehead, laughing as Captain Nye, who had brought her another drink, said: “I’m afraid they’ve nothing non-alcoholic left. Will champagne do?” She accepted the glass, but put it down on the table. All of a sudden she began to shiver. “Are you cold?” asked three Austrian hussars solicitously and simultaneously.

“I shouldn’t,” she said. “Is anything speeding up?”

Captain Nye was filled with foreboding.

They started to play ‘The Wind Cries Mary’ as a foxtrot. Captain Nye held out his hand to her and smiled kindly. “This must surely be mine.” She gave him her hand. It was ice cold. He could barely hold on to it. With an enormous effort of self-discipline he drew her freezing body close to his. She had turned very pale.

“If you are not well,” he said, “perhaps I might have the honour of escorting you to your door.”

“You’re kind,” she said. Then she almost whispered: “But it is not kindness I need.”

Major Nye had already had three dances with Miss Brunner. This was the fourth. Major Nye asked Miss Brunner if she knew anything of the theatre.

“Only what I see,” she said.

“You must let me take you backstage sometime, at one of my theatres. You’ll like it.”

“I’m sure.”

“You’re a very lovely woman.”

“And you’re a very handsome man.”

They stared into each other’s eyes as they danced.

In the third bedroom of the Casa del Monte, seated on a black walnut panelled Lombardy bed, covered in seventeenth-century carvings, the most corrupt and feeble-minded paperback publisher in America sipped his vodka and tonic and stared sourly at his tennis shoes while one of the Oxford dons bored him with a long and enthusiastic description of the joys and difficulties involved in doing
Now We Are Six
into Assyrian. It was what they both deserved. Of all those at the ball, only the publisher was not enjoying himself.

Colonel Pyat and Prinz Lobkowitz smoked their cigars and strolled in the gardens, stopping on the terrace of the Casa del Monte. “Peace at last,” said Colonel Pyat, breathing in the richly scented air. “Peace. It will be such a relief, don’t you think?”

“I, for one, will be happy,” the Prinz agreed.

“It will give us so much more time to enjoy our lives.”

“Quite.”

Miss Brunner and Major Nye found themselves by the Venetian fountain outside the Casa del Sol. Most of the security guards had gone, withdrawn discreetly as the ball progressed. The house itself glowed with light and the waters of the fountain, topped by a copy of Donatello’s David, were illuminated with a dozen different soft colours. Miss Brunner put her hand into the water and watched it run up her three-quarter-length evening glove and drip from her elbow. Major Nye gently stroked his moustache. “Lovely,” he said.

“But imagine the expenditure.” Miss Brunner smiled to show that she was not being vulgar. “And no-one knows who paid for it. What a splendid piece of tact. Who do you think it is?”

“It’s hard to guess who’s got that kind of money in England today,” he said without much interest.

Miss Brunner’s eyes became alert. “That’s true,” she said. And she was thoughtful. “Oh, dear.” She removed her hand from the fountain and placed it lightly against Major Nye’s hip. “What a kind man you are.”

“What kind? Oh, I don’t know.”

The night was full of music, laughter, witty conversation. It came at her from all sides. “It’s a magic night! I need someone, I think,” she murmured to herself. She decided she would be wise to stick with the material at hand. “I want you so much,” she breathed, propelling herself into the major’s arms. He was astonished and took a little while responding.

“By God! By God! You beauty!”

The German band on the nearby terrace struck up with a selection of Buddy Holly favourites.

Miss Brunner looked round Major Nye’s shoulder, scanning suspiciously the privet hedges. It was just a feeling, but it was getting stronger all the time.

“My dear!” Bishop Beesley lay on a yellow bedspread in the yellow-draped Yellow Room of the Casa del Sol. The room was furnished largely in early Jacobean style and the bedposts were topped by carved eagle finials. On the bishop’s right was a Giovanni Salvi
Madonna and Child
. Lying on the bishop’s left, and facing him, was the beautiful ex-nun with whom Colonel Pyat had lately been dancing. She had turned out to be an Australian. Now she had no clothes on. Bishop Beesley’s mitre had fallen to the pillow and his hands were completely covered in chocolate. He had brought the girl and the chocolate mousse up here together and was intently covering her body with the stuff. “Oh, delicious!” The girl seemed uncomfortable. She put her hand between her legs, frowning. “I think I’m feeling a little crook.”

Dr Karen von Krupp was dancing in the main ballroom with Professor Hira. Professor Hira had an erection because he could feel Dr Karen von Krupp’s girdle and garter-belt through her gown. He hadn’t had an erection since Sweden (and then it had proved his downfall). “The rhythm of the quasars, doctor,” he said, “is, essentially, a lack of rhythm.” He pressed his erection tentatively against her thigh. Her hand slipped from around his waist and patted him tenderly. His breathing grew more rapid.

“Quasars,” said Dr von Krupp romantically, closing her eyes, “what are they, compared with the texture of human passion?”

“They are the same! That is it! The same! Everything is the same. My argument exactly.”

“The same? Are we the same?”

“Essentially, yes.”

The music finished and they wandered out into the garden.

Everyone was smiling, shaking hands, patting one another on the back, exchanging addresses, laughing uproariously at one another’s jokes, making love, resolving to be more generous, more tolerant and to learn humility. The Peace Talks and the Gala Ball would not be forgotten by most of them for a long time. The whole spirit of the talks had been crystallised here. Nothing but improvement lay ahead. Strife would be abolished and heaven on earth would be established.

Only Miss Brunner, Catherine Cornelius and Captain Nye were beginning to wonder if there wasn’t a snag. Bishop Beesley and Frank Cornelius, who would normally have been swift to spot the signs, were both too absorbed in their own activities to notice anything.

Frank Cornelius had locked the door of the movie theatre (done in gold and crimson, with silk damask wall hangings and copies of Babylonian statues holding electric lights made to look like lilies) and sat in the back row with Helen Sweet with his hand up her skirt as they watched one of the prints of
Yankee Doodle Dandy
with James Cagney as George M. Cohan and Walter Huston as his father Jerry Cohan. Frank loved the feel of Helen’s lukewarm, clammy thigh; it made him nostalgic for the childhood he’d never had. Shakey Mo Collier, operating the projectors, tried to peer through his little window and get a good look at what Frank was doing.

Bishop Beesley and his ex-nun were now completely covered in chocolate and were prancing around the Yellow Room in an obscene version of the Cake-Walk.

Lady Sue Sunday, still in the ballroom, was doing the tango with Cyril Tome who had just proposed marriage to her. She was considering his offer seriously, particularly since he showed an unexpected aptitude for the tango. “We could probably both live on Sunday’s money, I suppose,” mused Lady Sue. “I have a certain income from my writing, moreover,” said Cyril Tome. “And there would be so much we could clean up together.”

‘Flash’ Gordon was in the garden taking a happy interest in the azaleas. Nearby, Mrs Cornelius was wandering hand in hand with Professor Hira while Herr Marek hovered jealously in the background, planning to murder the Indian. In the Games Room, where billiard and pool tables rested on travertine floors and where the walls were decorated with rare Gothic tapestries and antique Persian tiles, with its sixteenth-century Spanish ceiling showing scenes of bullfights, Dr von Krupp and Una Persson were playing billiards while Sebastian Auchinek and Simon Vaizey looked on. “I used to be rather good at this,” said Dr von Krupp, making an awkward shot awkwardly. The spot ball struck the red with a click. “Isn’t that a foul?” asked Una Persson politely. “I mean, I thought I had the spot.” Dr von Krupp smiled kindly at her. “No you didn’t, dear.” Simon Vaizey was seized by a fit of hysterical giggling. “I shouldn’t really be here, you know. I think I’m a gatecrasher.”