The Vesuvius Club

distance to my hotel.

A sulphurous yellow building loomed before me and I caught snatched glimpses of the great hot sun and the sapphire of the sky before being ushered into the lobby. For a long moment I stood, swaying on my feet in the sudden darkness, while the concierge attended to the details but soon I was being helped into the cool lift and ferried up, up to the sanctuary of my room.

The page unlocked the door and I stumbled past him, collapsing gratefully on to the bed. As I slipped into blissful sleep, I saw him lowering the blinds over the windows and the great blocks of blinding yellow light were shut out.

Sleep came and more sleep.

I dreamt of burst-open coffins and straw men staggering from within them, of a coach-chase through the landscape paintings on Miracle’s walls and of a monstrous regiment of veiled women, unwinding the stained bandages which encircled their heads in some horrid Salome-like bacchanalia.

Blinking awake what seemed like months later I found the room around me cool and dark. One of the veiled women seemed to have followed me through from my dreams, her shroud-like garments fluttering in the breeze, until I sat up on the bed and made sense of the curtains.

Feeling hugely better and absolutely ravenous, I raised the blinds and gazed out on the harbour below. Warm air as fragrant as incense washed over me. The weather — foul for most of the crossing — had cleared, revealing the most glorious blue sky and a strong, healthy sun. The wide road before my hotel was crowded with carriages and strolling couples, white parasols flaring painfully in the light. Close by loomed the ugly Castell dell’Ovo and from its rocky foundations skinny brown fisher-boys, as slippery as eels, were diving into the foam.

Dominating all, naturally enough, was the great volcano of Vesuvius, a fantastic hazy blue shape, its lower slopes verdantly fertile, its summit betraying only the faintest wisp of smoke, like a signal from the Vatican chimney.

Shading my eyes against the glare and breathing deeply, I flipped my watch from my waistcoat pocket and smiled in genuine contentment. I had a noon appointment with Cretaceous Unmann, giving me just enough time to bathe and change. I unpacked and set out my hairbrushes and cologne on the dresser. For sentimental reasons I had brought with me the spelter lancer that Bella had drawn on that memorable day. It would serve to remind me of that lovely personage until this curious case was over and I could return to her side.

I always think best in the bath. With the steam drifting about my ears, I mulled over recent events. As you may have guessed, dear reader, the Duce Tiepolo had indeed been the employer of Miss Kitty Backlash and behind the whole substitution scheme. But Inspector Flush’s men had found Tiepolo’s house shuttered and empty. The whole business might have been entirely unconnected to this affair of the professors were it not for the fact that Mrs Knight had once been married to Maxwell Morraine. But how the devil was I to unravel this tangled skein?

A couple of hours later, resplendent in a new dove-grey suit, I descended and launched myself upon old Napoli.

The fresh sea air and the sun on my face were like a tonic after the foetid stink of London and I took my time strolling through the teeming city, passing the great swooping crescent of Bianchi’s church before settling down at a table at the Cafe Gambrinus, a gorgeous beacon of extravagance to which I had become extremely attached on my previous visit. Ah, but what a callow youth I’d been in those days! I recalled the dazzling mirrored interior, fancy cakes and bitter black coffee, Guy de Maupassant arguing over his bill and, of course, the foiling of an attempted assassination of the Prince of Wales by means of a poisoned meringue that had been one of my first triumphs.

The cafe overlooked the opera house and a square that thrilled with bustling life. A grinning gelati-seller was peddling water-ices a few feet from me, his mouth packed with broken brown teeth. Filthy urchins, laughing hysterically and as bothersome as mosquitoes were pestering visitors almost to the point of distraction. The aria in rehearsal at the Opera House soared over all, a wonderful baritone that somehow blended perfectly with the smell of fresh rolls and coffee.

I took out the old book that Miracle had sent me as a lure for Professor Quibble and had just ordered a presse from a fat waiter in a crisp white apron when Unmann arrived. He greeted me, stumbling over a chair and giving me a handshake as weak as a baby’s. Unmann was what you might call a Natural Bland.

«Mr Box, I am so glad to see you! Joshua Reynolds wired to say you were on your way. Hot on the trail of Poop’s killer, I trust?»

«Perhaps. Have you traced that notepaper?»

«Yes. „K to V.C.“ was written on the rather good stationery of the Vesuvio Hotel.»

«But you have a residence in the city — what was Poop doing in there?»

Unmann shrugged. «No idea. Keeping an eye on someone, perhaps?» He rubbed his hands together excitedly. «But you must let me be your guide here, Mr Box! I can use every scintilla of my local knowledge…»

«Your contacts will be essential, Unmann,» I said, sipping my presse. «I’m interested in the activities of a woman and her husband who lived here back in the seventies.»

«I see.» He took out a pocket book and pencil. «Their names?»

«Mr and Mrs Maxwell Morraine.»

He wrote the names down with great care. «Does this have a bearing on the death of Poop?»

«I’m not sure yet. I think, though, that whoever did for him may well be on my trail.»

«Good Lord!»

«There have been two attempts on my life,» I said with studied casualness. I gave him a quick sketch of the chase by coach that had terminated in the cemetery and the incident of the venomous centipede. I omitted the attack in the steam-rooms by Pugg.

«At first I thought them unrelated to this business but I’m not so sure now. They were not merely vulgar attacks and I’m certain they will try again, this time with even greater cunning. You too must be prepared for the gravest danger.» I set my jaw firmly.

«Great Scott,» breathed Unmann.

The poor sap swallowed such stoic babble whole. I hoped it would keep the tick out of my way. He was, of course, the kind of dependable idiot upon whom the Diplomatic is founded but, really, was this the best they could do these days? If the king had any inkling of the state of things he’d probably pop another button off his waistcoat.

«Also, I need to know if someone called the Duce Tiepolo has recently re-entered the country.»

Unmann paused in his scribbling. «Illicitly?»

«I should think so. The new regime chucked him out. He has some curious connection to the business in hand.»

I snapped my fingers and ordered Unmann a cup of coffee. When it came he drank it in one swift gulp.

«Finally,» I continued, «I want whatever information you can dig up about the firm of Thomas Bowler, undertaker of London and Naples.»

Unmann nodded, scratching hurriedly in his pocket-book.

«Will you stay for lunch?» I offered, stomach rumbling.

«Can’t, I’m afraid,» he jabbered. «Office in a frightful mess. Got all old Jocelyn’s papers to sort through. Quite big shoes to fill. Now I’ll get on to these names just as soon as I can, Mr Box. I’ll cable the Santa Lucia if there’s any news. Got to dash» He glanced down at Poop’s book. «Holiday reading, eh? Might I ask—?»

«You may not. Most secret.» I flashed him my wide smile. «Good day to you.»

With a nod, Unmann was gone. At length, I ordered scrambled eggs and spiced sausage and turned my attention to the book. It was some kind of novel from what I could glean. And it must be precious indeed if it were to whet the appetite of the famous Sir Emmanuel Quibble.

The venerable scholar had always been, according to my researches, an exceptionally gifted man. He had shown extraordinary facility for music and the arts before turning his mind towards scientific matters at the ripe old age of seven after conducting a remarkable experiment with a song thrush and a vacuum tube. Tragically, only a few years later, he had been thrown from a gelding, sustaining a spinal injury that kept him confined, forever after, to a wheeled-chair. Ill-health had turned into a kind of mania and now he was said to positively thrive on his allergic reaction to the nineteenth (no, I keep forgetting, the twentieth) century. In recent years the old fellow had withdrawn entirely from the world, moving to Italy and taking solace in his unrivalled library of