I wasn’t cast for a moralist. What I said, very uncomfortably, was: “Well. …”
“All this messing about,” Napier scowled at the letter. Then he looked at me, darkly, helplessly.
“Get let in for things,” he said.
“Difficult,” I said. “I know. …”
“God, isn’t it! Difficult. … What? I mean, when you want to be … well, when you want to live clean. We promised, oh God, yes! not to write, never to meet. … Must live clean, you see. What? There isn’t, when you come to think of it, any other way to live. …”
“Guy says that. …”
“Guy? Yes, but … need guts like Guy’s, don’t you? What? Look here,” he suddenly waved the letter at me, “will you go out and keep Venice company for a moment? I mean, see what she’s doing? And I’ll see the doctor fellow and make him let me see Iris for a moment. Promise wiped out by approach of death. … What? I mean, lonely for her here. … Told me, last time I saw her that she was lonely. Hurts, loneliness. What? And then I find her in this hole. …”
He thrust the letter into his gaping coat-pocket. I could see it there, that pencilled scrawl. Letters, letters, letters like radium-bombs, left lying about for years, then bursting. What fools men were, keeping letters … travelling about with them, sticking them into their coat-pockets. Suppose Venice saw that letter … just a few lines of it. Whether Iris lived or died … suppose Venice saw just a few lines of that letter. For Venice. …
“Napier,” I said.
He stared at me, extraordinarily handsome at that moment, and I remember thinking just then of what is always said, that women are not very attracted by good-looking men. But what is always said must be wrong.
“I say,” he said, “got a cigarette? What?”
“Napier,” I said, “give me that letter. …”
“Or,” I said, “have two matches to your cigarette. …”
A tiny smile fluttered round the thin quivering lips. “There’s no end to it,” he whispered, “is there? Once you begin. The nasty precautions. …”
He struck a match, and the flame lit the ruin in his dark, fevered eyes. “You can’t,” he said, “have anything cleaner than love. You can’t. This love, anyway. Clean … clean as the Virgin Mary. And then … you’re dogged by dirt. You think fine things, fine sacrifices … and you’re dirty as all Sodom and Gomorrah. All this nastiness round a thing, all this messing about. …”
It was as the letter burnt in his hand and fluttered, just like a hurt crow, to the floor, while he watched it with intent seriousness, that I heard a step by the door in the other room. To see Conrad Masters alone, I hurried towards it. There he was, tired, worried-looking, his sharp features sticking like a great bird’s out of that rough brown coat.
“Bad,” he muttered. “Can’t do more. She’s conscious, too. And doesn’t give a damn. Not a damn. I told her you were here, and she said ‘Nice’ to that, but didn’t seem to think you were worth living for. Need a miracle now. … ‘Nice!’ ”
“But, good God,” I said, “we’ve got a miracle here! He’s a bit mad, but miracle is his second name. …”
“And what’s his first?” Masters snapped.
“Harpenden. …”
“First name, Christian name,” said Masters wearily. “Napier, by any chance?”
“You’re right,” said Masters. A decidedly undecided man? Why, he radiated resolution: and a lean sort of mirth. “Never know your luck,” he said. “Not in this world. …” I just managed to catch him by the coat as he plunged towards the other room, in which one could make out the tail of Napier’s coat. “Masters,” I whispered, “I went and told him it was ptomaine poisoning. …”
“Good,” said Masters. Those gentle worried eyes with the faintly amused look. “That’s all right,” he smiled. “Young ass.”
There sat Napier, a lost man. …
“Come along,” Masters jabbed at him. “Come along, man! Waive introduction. Life and death. …”
Napier jumped up. Masters looked almost fresh and boyish beside him. A captain of men, that was Conrad Masters.
“I say,” Napier said. …
“Look here,” said Masters, “I’m taking you in to cheer her up. Might make all the difference. Just might. …”
Napier tried to smile. Oh, he tried.
“But, doctor,” he said. “Is she … going?”
“She wants to go, that’s the trouble. Anyone would think,” snapped that captain of men, “that I was committing a felony in trying to keep her alive. By the way she looks at me. You’ve got to cheer her up, Mr. eh. …”
“Captain Harpenden,” I said.
“You’ve got to make her care whether she lives or dies. That’s your business, Captain Harpenden. I’ll give you five minutes to do it in. …” Napier looked from him to me. He scowled immensely.
“I’ll go out to Venice,” I said, but I don’t suppose that Napier, passing me, heard a word. Conrad Masters stayed a second. Gone was the captain of men. He looked terribly worried. …
“I say, want to play bridge?”
“Bridge!” I said. “Bridge? Bridge!”
He looked terribly worried. …
“Well, my wife wants—Oh, wait till I’m back! I’ll drop you anyway.” And he was off, his brown coat flouncing peevishly. Through the open door I could see Napier, his coat open, everything about him open, standing in what looked like a wide courtyard. …
“Mais quelle belle silhouette!” chattered the old nun. “Le vrai type brun anglais. Mais c’est naturel qu’il soit fou avec ces yeux là. …”
Napier and Conrad Masters walked across the courtyard towards a tall red-looking building. Its door was pointed like a church door, and windows here and there were alight. Through one of them a nun was looking at me. On the sill outside the largest window of all, which was not alight, stood a pineapple and some grapes on a plate.
V
After that chill, stuffy lodge the night was like a kiss. The dark shapes of Masters’s Renault and Napier’s taxi faced each other, their dimmed lamps lighting only the darkness. The chauffeur of the Renault looked to be asleep at the wheel. I hoped Venice was asleep,
