I'm not sure.
A pair of china blue eyes regarded him penetratingly for a moment, then dropped coyly. Vannet said:
Well, if you want to see it, and Austin's not back, I could probably get you in…
That's kind of you! But I can see it some other time.
That's what you think! You don't think they do it every week, do you? They have to arrange it. Then they pass the word around quietly. So the police don't get wind of it.
They don't intend to be raided, don't you see, dear? Don't mind me calling you dear. It doesn't mean anything… But if you'd like to see it, I'd be delighted…
Sorme grunted, and nodded noncommittally. Vannet stared wistfully into his glass, and asked:
Is Austin in Switzerland alone?
As far as I know. Why?
Oh, I'm not prying. But he had his eye on a rather nice little dish at the Balalaika on Friday.
Friday, Sorme said.
Yes… why? It was Friday, wasn't it? Yes, I remember.
I was with him on Friday evening, Sorme explained. But he left me before midnight.
Oh, this was well after midnight. He was looking far gone… Cigarette?
No, thanks. Tell me, do you own all this house?
Yes, why? You looking for a room?
Again, the look was suggestive and coy. Sorme finished the martini.
No. I've only just moved into a room. Camden Town. But it seems a most impressive place. With all the gadgets.
Thank you. You touch me on my weak spot. This place is my pride. I own two more — in Highgate and Islington — but my heart belongs to twenty-three Canning Place.
Another drink?'
No, thanks. I ought to get a move on.
An instinct told him that a second drink would mean at least another hour of conversation.
No. Perhaps you're right. It wouldn't improve your studies.
A buzzer sounded suddenly in the room, making Sorme jump. Vannet picked up a small microphone that stood by the chair, and flicked a switch. He said tartly:
Bugger off. I've got a visitor.
He smiled at Sorme, and pressed the switch again. A complaining voice said:
I don't want to get you out of bed. I want Frankie.
He's not here. He went hours ago.
When? the voice demanded through the microphone.
When? Don't ask me. I'm not his bloody mother. Hours ago. Do you want to come in for a drink?
No, thank you! Not after that! He's got to meet this producer chap at one. You've no idea…?
Yes, I have. Try flat seven — Dilly's.
Oh, you awkward bastard. Why didn't you say so?
Vannet put the microphone down. He said:
Useful little things, these. They save my poor old feet. Not to mention the tenant on the top floor. Where were we?
You were saying something about my studies. I didn't quite follow you.
Oh yes. Austin said to leave you down there so you could study, or something.
I shan't be there long. I only want to look something up.
Oh. Pity. I was hoping you'd be here for lunch.
No. I must get back, I'm afraid.
He stood up to emphasise his intention of leaving. Vannet heaved himself regretfully off the curved armchair. He said:
Oh well, if you have to go.
Sorme was afraid he had offended him, but the intimacy of Vannet's smile as he opened the door reassured him:
I'll hope to see you again. And if you do want a room…
He led the way across the hall, and opened the front door. Sorme asked:
What about Austin's flat?
That's in the basement, Vannet said. Sorme caught a glint of amusement in his eyes, and guessed that Vannet had been curious as to whether he had been here before.
He followed him out into the street and through the gate in the area railings.
A glance at the end of the street showed him the taxi still waiting there.
It's quite self-contained, Vannet said. You can't get into it from the house.
I see.
Vannet opened the front door. Immediately, a smell of some perfume met them; Sorme recognised it; it was the perfume of the Diaghilev exhibition, Mitsouko.
After you. The door is to your left.
The room was in complete darkness. He groped for the switch. A soft pink light came on, showing a room that was similar to Vannet's bed-sitter. The air smelt of strong tobacco. Sorme looked into its corners, but saw no clothes. He set the leather grip down on the table.
This is it, Vannet said. There's another room through there. I'll leave you now.
Make sure you slam the door as you go out. Enjoy yourself.
Thank you.
Vannet held out his hand. He said softly, almost pleadingly:
And if you'd like another drink, or a bite to eat, come into my place when you leave.
Thanks, Sorme said uncomfortably. But I don't think I'll accept this time. Perhaps another day…
Bye-bye… I don't even know your Christian name.
Gerard.
It's like mine — Gerald! Ah, well. Bye-bye, Gerard.
Goodbye. Thanks for the drink.
Come again!
The front door closed noisily. Sorme crossed the room immediately and opened the other door. The smell of Mitsouko was suddenly stronger. He switched on a light.
Four wall-lights came on, filling the room with a blue glow.
It was smaller than the other room. The walls were almost completely hidden by velvet curtains that stretched from floor to ceiling. The hangings were black; they contrasted with the carpet and divan, which were wine-red. He said aloud: Christ! Shades of Edgar Poe! He suddenly felt grateful to Vannet for leaving him alone; it relieved him of any necessity to comment on the room. He sat on the divan-bed, and stared around.
The room repelled and attracted him. He looked up at the ceiling, which had been painted night-blue. He stood up to stare more closely at the pictures that were spaced along the walls between the hangings. Two were Gauguins; they looked like originals or skilful copies. On either side of these were spaced four obscene drawings, signed and titled in a Chinese or Japanese script; these seemed to have been sketched with a fine brush dipped in Indian ink. One showed a naked giant of a man, with a proportionately large member, landing from a raft on a beach; across the beach hordes of laughing women rush to meet him. Its companion-picture showed the same man leaving the island, shrunken and withered, while the women tear their hair and wail. The other two drawings showed the same giant performing feats of strength: in one case, shattering a copper vessel with the immense member; in the other, holding off hordes of armed bandits by using it as a club.
He observed that all four drawings bore in the bottom left-hand corner the minute letters: OG.
He slid aside the plain-glass doors of the bookcase. The bottom shelf was devoted to an edition of the Marquis de Sade. He took down a volume of Les 120 Journees de Sodome, and observed that the title page bore no publisher's imprint. The other shelves contained volumes in French and German, uniformly bound in blue leather with silver lettering, and copies of limited editions of Petronius, Apuleius and Sappho, all lavishly illustrated. Finally, the top shelf contained several works on medicine and psychology, with volumes of Bloch, Stekel, Krafft-Ebing and
