A Wreath for Rivera

Rivera laughed with great virtuosity and made an effective exit into the hall. He left the door open. Edward heard his voice on the next landing. “What is the matter?” and after a pause, “But certainly, if you wish it.”

A door slammed.

Edward walked once round the table in an irresolute manner. He then wandered to the sideboard and drove his hands through his hair. “This is incredible,” he muttered. “It’s extraordinary. I never dreamt of it.” He noticed that his hand was shaking and poured himself a stiff jorum of whiskey. “I suppose,” he thought, “it’s been there all the time and I simply didn’t recognize it.”

Spence and his assistant came in. “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Spence. “I thought the gentlemen had left.”

“It’s all right, Spence. Clear, if you want to. Pay no attention to me.”

“Are you not feeling well, Mr. Edward?”

“I’m all right, I think. I’ve had a great surprise.”

“Indeed, sir? Pleasant, I trust.”

“In its way, wonderful, Spence. Wonderful.”

“There y’are,” said Lord Pastern complacently. “Five rounds and five extras. Neat, aren’t they?”

“Look good to me,” said Bellairs, returning him the blank cartridges. “But I wouldn’t know.” Lord Pastern broke open his revolver and began to fill the chamber. “We’ll try ’em,” he said.

“Not in here, for Pete’s sake, Lord Pastern.”

“In the ballroom.”

“It’ll rock the ladies a bit, won’t it?”

“What of it?” said Lord Pastern simply. He snapped the revolver shut and gave the drawer a shove back on the desk. “I can’t be bothered puttin’ that thing away,” he said. “You go to the ballroom. I’ve a job to do. I’ll join you in a minute.”

Obediently, Breezy left him and went into the ballroom, where he wandered about restlessly, sighing and yawning and glancing towards the door.

Presently his host came in looking preoccupied.

“Where’s Carlos?” Lord Pastern demanded.

“Still in the dining-room, I think,” said Bellairs with his loud laugh. “Wonderful port you’ve turned on for us, you know, Lord Pastern.”

“Hope he can hold it. We don’t want him playin’ the fool with the show.”

“He can hold it.”

Lord Pastern clapped his revolver down on the floor near the tympani. Bellairs eyed it uneasily.

“I wanted to ask you,” said Lord Pastern, sitting behind the drums. “Have you spoken to Sydney Skelton?”

Bellairs smiled extensively. “Well, I just haven’t got round…” he began. Lord Pastern cut him short. “If you don’t want to tell him,” he said, “I will.”

“No, no!” cried Bellairs, in a hurry. “No. I don’t think that’d be quite desirable, Lord Pastern, if you can understand.” He looked anxiously at his host, who had turned away to the piano and with an air of restless preoccupation examined the black and white parasol. Breezy continued: “I mean to say, Syd’s funny. He’s very temperamental if you know what I mean. He’s quite a tough guy to handle, Syd. You have to pick your moment with Syd, if you can understand.”

“Don’t keep on asking if I can understand things that are as simple as falling off a log,” Lord Pastern rejoined irritably. “You think I’m good on the drums, you’ve said so.”

“Sure, sure.”

“You said if I’d made it my profession I’d have been as good as they come. You said any band’d be proud to have me. Right. I am going to make it my profession and I’m prepared to be your full-time tympanist. Good. Tell Skelton and let him go. Perfectly simple.”

“Yes, but — ”

“He’ll get a job elsewhere fast enough, won’t he?”

“Yes. Sure. Easy. But…”

“Very well, then,” said Lord Pastern conclusively. He had unscrewed the handle from the parasol and was now busy with the top end of the shaft. “This comes to bits,” he said. “Rather clever, what? French.”

“Look!” said Bellairs winningly. He laid his soft white hand on Lord Pastern’s coat. “I’m going to speak very frankly, Lord Pastern. You know. It’s a hard old world in our game, if you under — I mean, I have to think all round a proposition like this, don’t I?”

“You’ve said you wished you had me permanently,” Lord Pastern reminded him. He spoke with a certain amount of truculence but rather absent-mindedly. He had unscrewed a small section from the top end of the parasol shaft. Breezy watched him mesmerized as he took up his revolver and, with the restless concentration of a small boy in mischief, poked this section on a short way up the muzzle, at the same time holding down with his thumb the spring catch that served to keep the parasol closed. “This,” he said, “would fit.”

“Hi!” Breezy said. “Is that gun loaded?”

“Of course,” Lord Pastern muttered. He put down the piece of shaft and glanced up. “You said it to me and Rivera,” he added. He had Hotspur’s trick of reverting to the last remark but four.

“I know, I know,” Bellairs gabbled, smiling to the full extent of his mouth, “but listen. I’m going to put this very crudely…”

“Why the hell shouldn’t you!”

“Well, then. You’re very keen and you’re good. Sure, you’re good! But, excuse my frankness, will you stay keen? That’s my point, Lord Pastern. Suppose, to put it crudely, you died on it.”

“I’m fifty-five and as fit as a flea.”