The Other Side of Silence

I’d just finished eating dinner when another guest presented herself at the front desk. And it was quite a present: lightly scented, sober, tightly wrapped in black, which left you a pretty good idea of what was under the paper, and with a nice little diamond bow on the front. I don’t know much about fashion but hers was a sort of ballerina bodice-shaped dress, with one shoulder uncovered and, now that I looked at it again, not a bow on the waist at all but a little diamond flower. In her matching black gloves and shoes, she looked every bit as fine as Christian Dior’s bank balance. Mrs. French was one of our local regulars, a rich and extremely attractive English lady in her forties whose father was a famous artist who’d once lived and worked on the Riviera. She’s a writer by all accounts and rents a local house in Villefranche, but she spends much of her free time at the Grand Hotel. She swims a lot in our pool, reads a book in the bar, uses the telephone a great deal, and then has a late dinner in the restaurant. Often she’s alone, but sometimes she’s with friends. A few weeks ago, Mrs. French seemed to be making a play for the French minister of national defense, Monsieur Bourges-Maunoury, who was staying here, but that came to nothing. It seemed that the minister had other things on his mind-like the Islamic threat posed by the Algerian FLN, not to mention Egypt’s cut-price Hitler, Gamal Abdel Nasser, and perhaps the anonymous woman who was in the room next to his. He’s not a bad-looking fellow, I suppose; dark-haired, dark-eyed, perhaps a little oily, a bit small, and frankly a couple of leagues below where Mrs. French plays. I thought a nice brunette like her could do better. Then again, Maurice Bourges-Maunoury is tipped to be the next prime minister of France.

“Good evening, Mrs. French,” I said. “I hope you enjoyed your dinner.”

“Yes, it wasn’t bad.”

“That doesn’t sound nearly as good as it should be.”

She sighed. “It could have been better.”

“Was it the food? Or perhaps the service?”

“To be honest, neither one of them was at fault. And yet there was something lacking. With only my book for company, I fear it was nothing that can be easily remedied by anyone here in the Grand Hotel.”

“Then might I ask what it is you’re reading, Mrs. French?” My manners have improved a lot since I started working in hotels again. Sometimes I sound almost civil.

She opened her crocodile-leather dispatch bag and showed me her book: The Quiet American by Graham Greene. My cop’s eyes took quick note of the bottle of Mystikum, a sheaf of French francs, a gold compact, and a little purple screw-top tin that might have contained a powder puff but more probably contained her diaphragm.

“Not one I’ve read,” I said.

“No. But I think you’ve probably forgotten more about how to render an American acceptably quiet than Graham Greene has ever learned.” She smiled. “Poor Mr. Biltmore. Let’s hope he puts his sore head down to alcohol tomorrow and not your fist.”

“Oh, you saw that. Pity. I had thought the bar was empty.”

“I was seated behind a pillar. But you handled it very well. Like an expert. I’d say you’ve done that kind of thing before. Professionally.”

I shrugged. “The hotel business always presents a number of interesting challenges.”

“If you say so.”

“Perhaps I can recommend something else for you to read,” I offered, hurrying to change the subject.

“Why not? You are a concierge, after all. Although in my own experience playing Robert Benchley is perhaps above and beyond the call of your normal duties.”

I mentioned a book by Albert Camus that had impressed me.

“No, I don’t like him,” she said. “He’s too French for my tastes. Too political, as well. But now that I think about it, maybe you could recommend a book about bridge. I’d like to learn the game and I know you play it often, Mr. Wolf.”

“I’d be happy to lend you some of my own books, Mrs. French. Anything by Terence Reese or S. J. Simon would do, I think.”

“Better still, you could teach me the game yourself. I’d be happy to pay you for some private lessons.”

“I’m afraid my duties here wouldn’t really permit that, Mrs. French. On second thought, I think you’re probably best to start with Iain Macleod’s Bridge Is an Easy Game.”

If she was disappointed she didn’t show it. “That sounds just right. Will you bring it tomorrow?”

“Of course. I regret I won’t be here to give it you myself, Mrs. French, but I’ll certainly leave it with one of my colleagues.”

“You’re not working tomorrow? Pity. I enjoy our little chats.”

I smiled diplomatically and bowed. “Always glad to be of service, Mrs. French.”

In bridge that’s what we call No Bid.

THREE

Well, this is a pleasant surprise. Fancy meeting you here.”