The Rich Are Different (3 page)

‘Never met her in my life, sir,’ declared the boy, blushing furiously as he raised the lid. He was quite the worst liar I had ever encountered.

Inside the hamper was a quantity of green paper strands and nestling in this simulated grass was a jar of caviare and a bottle of Veuve Pommery 1915.

‘Delightful!’ I exclaimed. ‘Miss Slade has excellent taste!’

The grass stirred and as the boy leapt forward to remove the caviare and champagne the strands began to rise with the steadiness of a loaf of bread baking in the oven.

‘Watch out!’ yelped Peterson, reaching for his gun.

‘Don’t shoot!’ squeaked the youth, his eyes round with fright as he saw Peterson’s holster.

As I lounged amused against the mantel it was left to O’Reilly to demonstrate his usual efficiency by darting forward to whip away the paper.

‘Ouch!’ said a voice inside the hamper. ‘My foot’s gone to sleep.’

She stood up gingerly, steadying herself by gripping the wicker sides, and peered at me through a strand of hair.

‘Are you Paul Van Zale?’ she demanded incredulously.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Don’t I look the part?’ Then unable to resist a smile I added: ‘Miss Dinah Slade, I presume,’ and held out my hand to help her from the hamper.

[1]

She was neither short nor slender, facts which made her concealment in the hamper the more remarkable. She had some bobbed dark hair, a large nose which needed powdering and a wide mouth which she had coloured bright pink. I am old-fashioned enough to dislike paint on women. Her dowdy iron-grey skirt had not risen to mid-calf in accordance with the unpleasant dictates of post-war fashion but loitered a couple of inches above the ankle, and her well-worn white blouse had come untucked at the waist. Like many English girls she had a beautiful skin. Her other redeeming feature was her eyes which were a commonplace shade of brown but so thick-lashed and wide-set that they compensated for her oversized nose and mouth.

She smiled at me and miraculously was no longer plain. As her eyes
sparkled I at once sensed her quick adventurous mind but then she retreated, hiding her nervousness behind a fashionably blasé pose.

‘I must look a wreck!’ she drawled languidly. ‘How dare you make me hide in a hamper like that! Mr Fortnum and Mr Mason must be turning in their graves!’

‘It’s lucky you’re not already turning in yours, Miss Slade, since Mr Peterson here was on the point of riddling your hamper with bullets. Congratulations on your survival! May I offer you a glass of your champagne?’

We settled down comfortably. Peterson removed the hamper, O’Reilly disappeared in search of glasses, and Miss Slade, after swiftly patting her hair, tucking back her blouse and crossing her legs to conceal the holes in her stockings, motioned to her henchman.

The boy was evidently older than he looked. He was introduced as ‘Geoffrey Hurst, my solicitor,’ and turned out to be a lawyer who had qualified the previous year and was now in practice with his father in Norwich. I was just wondering how to get rid of him when Miss Slade said carelessly: ‘You can go now, Geoffrey. I’ll meet you in the tea-shop as we arranged. Thanks so much for your help.’

The boy clearly thought it would be unwise to leave her in the lion’s den; when I saw his mouth turn down stubbornly at the corners I decided to soften the dismissal by offering him a glass of champagne, which I knew he would be intelligent enough not to accept. He was a tall, fair, good-looking young man with a freckled nose and short hair, which stood straight up at the crown. I wondered how he had escaped being mentioned in O’Reilly’s report.

‘An old friend of yours?’ I inquired after we had ousted him from the office.

‘Very old. His father used to be the Slade family solicitor until my father gave up lawyers for Lent two years ago.’ She seemed uninterested in Geoffrey Hurst, and already her glance was flickering around the room as she sized up her surroundings. ‘This place surprises me,’ she remarked, her blasé pose forgotten. ‘I thought merchant bankers lived like potentates. Isn’t this office a little modest for a gentleman of your standing?’

‘I’m afraid I left my harem at home today,’ I said as the cork popped discreetly out of the bottle. ‘Now, Miss Slade, before we go any further, let me stress that I specialize in long-term capital investment, not short-term loans, and since I deal with the issuing of securities, my clients are corporations, not private individuals. If you want a loan I suggest you approach the manager of your local commercial bank in Norwich – or offer your truly remarkable Mallingham Hours for sale at Christie’s.’

‘My dear Mr Van Zale,’ said Miss Slade, ‘I’m not interested in borrowing a couple of sixpences. I want the deuce of a lot of money.’

Unable to think of any reply bordering on politeness, I merely handed her a glass of champagne with a smile.

‘Thank you so much,’ said Miss Slade. ‘Gosh, doesn’t that look delicious? Now, Mr Van
Zale, I expect you’re wondering about what I propose to offer as my collateral—’

‘Believe me, Miss Slade, I’ve thought of a number of possibilities, all of them alarming. You must understand that I don’t normally have the time to talk to people such as yourself, but since I admire originality and find your exploits mildly entertaining, I’ll give you …’ I pulled out my fob-watch and placed it on the desk ‘… two minutes, starting from now. Explain yourself.’

‘With pleasure,’ said Miss Slade serenely, her knuckles bone-white as she clasped her hands in her lap.

It took her forty-three seconds to outline the family situation which had given rise to her present predicament. Her father had married disastrously three times; on each occasion the wife had borne one child and walked out. Of the three children Miss Slade alone had grown up with her father at Mallingham, but that was only because her mother, the second Mrs Slade, had died not long after deserting her husband. The children had grown up separated. To Miss Slade her half-sister Chloe was a stranger who had spent the past twenty years in Yorkshire, and her half-brother Percy was a mere blurred memory in a christening robe. Before the previous October it would have been hard to imagine how this family could have become further estranged, but then Mr Harry Slade had committed the grand folly of dying intestate.

According to English Law in such circumstances, all real estate went to the ‘heir’, in this case the child Percy, while the personalty (which included the Mallingham Hours – I instantly resolved to buy it at the inevitable sale) had to be divided equally among the three children. Percy’s mother, acting on behalf of the child, wanted to sell the house and Dinah had no legal right to stop her. To complicate the situation creditors were springing up like weeds and it had become obvious that Slade had died with nothing in the bank.

‘So I’ve not only got to find the money to buy the house from Percy,’ said Miss Slade, ‘but I’ve got to earn the money to keep Mallingham going. The estate can’t provide an income for its owner any more – which is why my stepmother wants to sell it. She thinks it’s just a white elephant. It means nothing to her.’ She started to say more about her stepmother but checked herself when she realized she had entered the second minute I had allotted her.

‘So I’ve got to get a job and since no one is going to pay me the salary I need, I’ve got to be self-employed …’

She had decided to manufacture cosmetics. She wanted ten thousand pounds. Once she had that she was absolutely certain – ‘positive really’ – that she could pay me back within five years.

‘Cosmetics are becoming socially acceptable now,’ she said rapidly as the second hand glided on around the dial, ‘but all the present cosmetics are awful – they smudge and smear and don’t smell as attractive as they should. My father’s ayah had some marvellous formulae for cosmetics which she brought with her from India, and with certain chemical substitutions I
think they could be manufactured easily and inexpensively. I’ve been experimenting for about six months and I’ve had some most interesting results – if you were to come to Mallingham and see my laboratory—’

‘Miss Slade,’ I said, wishing I had not waited one minute and fifty-three seconds before aborting this pipe-dream, ‘are you asking me for ten thousand pounds to enable you to play with old wives’ recipes at some tumbledown hideyhole in Norfolk?’

‘Heavens, no!’ she said amazed. ‘That’ll only take five thousand pounds! I need the other five to buy off Percy.’

This was certainly a step towards financial reality but I kept my tone hostile. ‘Why should I even give you five thousand pounds?’

I saw panic struggle with anger. Anger won. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Because you’re an American, Mr Van Zale, and all the world knows the Americans can never resist the chance to make money!’

‘Touché!’ Laughing, I stood up and strolled towards the bottle of champagne on the table. She looked up at me mutely, too scared to be relieved by my change of mood, too suspicious to believe my amusement was genuine. ‘And what do you know of Americans, Miss Slade?’ I asked her kindly as I refilled her glass. Since she was such an entertaining child I decided we might as well spend another minute exchanging innocuous pleasantries before I sent her on her way.

‘Oh, I know all about Americans!’ retorted Miss Slade with spirit. ‘They wear funny light-coloured suits and awful ties and they have big cigars stuck in their mouths and huge hats on their heads and they use strange old-fashioned phrases like “it behooves” and “I opine”. They ride horses, own oil-wells, talk continuously about money and think that Europe is terribly cute.’

‘Of course I recognized myself immediately from that description!’ I was so entertained that I took a second sip of champagne.

‘Now you can understand why I was so surprised when I first saw you! Do you spend most of your time in England?’

‘I often wish I did. I spent a year up at Oxford, and whenever I return to England nowadays I feel as if I’m making a pilgrimage – a pilgrimage to the grave of someone who died young,’ I added wryly, remembering the young man I had been decades ago, and remembering too the poem Catullus had written after making a pilgrimage to his brother’s distant grave I murmured: ‘“
Multas per gentes et multa per aequora vectus
—”’

‘“—
Advenio has miseras, frater
,”’ said Miss Slade, eliding the last syllable of ‘
advenio
’ and the single syllable of ‘
has
’ with a grace born of practice, ‘“
ad inferias
…”’

That was when I knew I was going to see her again. I had been roaming around the room in my usual restless fashion but now I stopped dead in my tracks to stare at her.

‘I do so admire Catullus!’ sighed Miss Slade. ‘So romantic! I love his poems to Lesbia.’

‘Catullus was
a fool,’ I said, ‘and his Lesbia was no better than a courtesan. But—’

‘Why quote him if you don’t like him?’

‘—but he was a good poet.’ I smiled at her. ‘Well, Miss Slade, I can spare you no more of my time at present but may I suggest we meet again as soon as possible to discuss your plans further? I’d like to take you out to dinner tonight. Where are you staying?’

‘With a friend in Chelsea. Eight, Carisbroke Row, flat B. It’s just north of Fulham Road.’

‘I’ll call for you at eight.’

‘Gosh, that would be marvellous! Thanks a lot!’ She swallowed the dregs of her champagne and stood up, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed.

‘Maybe after dinner,’ I said, still greatly entertained, ‘if you’re very good, I’ll take you home and show you the manuscript I bought the other day at Christie’s. It’s the Rouen Apocalypse, a most interesting treatment of the Book of Revelation.’

‘I adore revelations,’ said Miss Slade, discarding her schoolgirl’s manner with a flicker of her eyelashes, and gazing up at me with great big knowing dark eyes, ‘and I’d absolutely love to see your manuscript.’

She seemed to have an inexhaustible talent for surprising me. Having long since decided that O’Reilly’s judgement of her inexperience was valid, I now saw that he had committed one of his rare blunders.

‘That girl’s no virgin!’ I said afterwards, delighted to have an opportunity to remind him he was not so infallible as he thought he was, and began with exquisite pleasure and military precision to plan the details of Miss Slade’s seduction.

[2]

I telephoned Miss Phelps in Curzon Street, told her to cancel my engagements for the evening and asked her to book me a table by the window of the Savoy’s restaurant. When I returned home that evening I spent a mere five minutes with Miss Phelps to deal with my domestic correspondence before I retired to my room to attend to my appearance.

‘You needn’t wait up for me tonight, Dawson,’ I said to my valet.

I felt sharp and alert. It was delightful to have a diversion at last and, as I returned to the mirror to rearrange my front strand of hair, I sang my favourite aria from
Il Trovatore
with verve and wielded my hairbrush with élan. When I was finally satisfied that I could not improve on my appearance I ran briskly downstairs, collected Peterson in the hall and swept outside to my automobile.

We set off for Chelsea, and as I watched from the window I saw the crude marks of the twentieth century staining the London I remembered from my youth. The streets no longer reeked of horse dung but of gasoline fumes; the architectural grace of Nash was no longer so predominant, having been replaced by ugly grey monuments
commemorating nineteenth-century imperialism; even the little houses on Park Lane would probably no longer contain ladies holding ‘evenings’ but post-war men and women shouting trivialities at each other through a haze of cigarette smoke, and from the heart of Soho the night-clubs would already be simmering like black cauldrons about to burst into flames in some occult kitchen. Virginia tobacco and Dixieland jazz! Was that really all my country could contribute to the cultural life of Europe? But Europe needed a financial not a cultural contribution from America, and that at least we could provide.

I thought of Dinah Slade echoing the traditional myth that all Americans were rich, and at once I could hear my first wife Dolly saying furiously: ‘But you’re rich! You’ve got to be rich! All Americans are rich!’