The music crashed to a stop. The conductor swung round and flashed his artificial smile over the floor. The players relaxed, permitting themselves a brief smile. The kaleidoscope of color in the middle of the floor coalesced men flowed into new patterns as the dancers disengaged and minced back to their tables. A waiter was hovering for orders. Masterson crooked his finger.
“What will you have?”
He sounded as ungracious as a miser forced into standing his round. She asked for a gin and tonic and when it came accepted it without thanks or apparent gratification. He settled for a double whisky. It was to be the first of many. Spreading the flame-colored skirt around her chair, she began to survey the hall with that look of disagreeable intensity which he was beginning to know so well. He might not have been there. Careful, he thought, don’t get impatient She wants to keep you here. Let her.
“Tell me about your son,” he said quietly, careful to keep his voice even and unemphatic.
“Not now. Some other evening. There’s no hurry.” He nearly shouted aloud with exasperation. Did she really think that he planned to see her again? Did she expect him to dance with her for ever on the half promise of a tidbit of information? He pictured them, capering grotesquely through the years, involuntary participants in a surrealist charade. He put down his glass.
“There won’t be another time. Not unless you can help me. The Superintendent isn’t keen on spending public money when there’s nothing to be learned. I have to justify every minute of my time.”
He instilled into his voice the right degrees of resentment and self-righteousness. She looked at him for the first time since they had sat down.
“There might be something to be learned. I never said there wasn’t What about the drinks?”
“The drinks?” He was momentarily nonplussed. “Who pays for the drinks?”
“Well, normally they are on expenses. But when it’s a question of entertaining friends, like tonight for example, naturally I pay myself.”
He lied easily. It was one of the talents which he thought helped most in his job.
She nodded as if satisfied. But she didn’t speak. He was wondering whether to try again when the band crashed into a cha-cha. Without a word she rose and turned towards him. They took the floor again.
The cha-cha was succeeded by a mamba, the mamba by a waltz, the waltz by a slow fox-trot And still he had learned nothing. Then there was a change in the evening’s program. The lights suddenly dimmed and a sleek man, glistening from head to toe as if he had bathed in hair oil, appeared in front of the microphone and adjusted it for his height He was accompanied by a languid blonde, her hair elaborately dressed in a style already five years out of date. The spotlight played upon them. She dangled a chiffon scarf negligently from her right hand and surveyed the emptying dance floor with a proprietorial air. There was an anticipatory hush. The man consulted a list in his hand.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment we have all been waiting for. The exhibition dances. Our medalists for the year will demonstrate for.our delight the dances which won them their awards. We begin with our silver medallist, Mrs. Dettinger, dancing”-he consulted the list-“dancing the tango.”
He swept a chubby hand around the floor. The band crashed into a discordant fanfare. Mrs. Dettinger rose, dragging Masterson with her. Her claw was like a vice round his wrist The spotlight swung round and settled on them. There was a little burst of applause. The sleek man continued:
“Mrs. Dettinger is dancing with-could we have the name of your new partner Mrs. Dettinger?” Masterson called out loudly:
“Mr. Edward Heath.”
The sleek man paused, then decided to take it at its face value. Forcing enthusiasm into his voice, he proclaimed:
“Mrs. Dettinger, silver medallist dancing the tango with Mr. Edward Health.”
The cymbals clashed, there was a further spatter of applause. Masterson led his partner on to the floor with exaggerated courtesy. He was aware that he was slightly drunk and was glad of it He was going to enjoy himself.
He clasped his hand to the small of her back and assumed an expression of lecherous expectancy. It won an immediate giggle from the nearest table. She frowned and he watched fascinated while an unbecoming crimson flowed over her face and neck. He realized with delight that she was intensely nervous, that this pathetic charade actually mattered to her. It was for this moment that she had dressed so carefully, painted her raddled face. The Delaroux Medal Ball. The demonstration tango. And then her partner had failed her. Lost courage probably, the poor sap. But fate had provided her with a personable and competent substitute. It must have seemed like a miracle. It was for this moment that he had been enticed to the Athenaeum Hall, kept dancing here hour after tedious hour. The knowledge was exhilarating. By God, he had her now. This was to be her big moment. He would see that she didn’t forget it in a hurry.
The slow rhythm began. He noted with irritation that it was the same old tune for this dance that they had played most of the evening. He hummed the words in her ear. She whispered:
“We’re supposed to be dancing the Dalaroux tango.”
“We’re dancing the Charles Masterson tango, sweetheart”
Clasping her tightly he marched her belligerently across the floor in a strutting parody of the dance, swung her viciously around so that her laquered hair nearly brushed the floor and he heard her bones cracking, and held her in the pose while he bestowed a smile of surprised gratification on the party at the nearest table. The giggle was louder now, more prolonged. As he jerked her upright and waited for the next beat she hissed:
“What do you want to know?”
“He recognized someone, didn’t he? Your son. When be was in the John Carpendar Hospital. He saw someone he knew?”
“Will you behave yourself and dance properly?”
“Perhaps.”
They were moving again in an orthodox tango. He could feel her relaxing a little in his arms, but he still kept a firm hold on her.
“It was one of the Sisters. He’d seen her before.”
“Which Sister?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t tell me.”
“What did he tell you?”
“After the dance.”
“Tell me now if you don’t want to end on the floor. Where had he seen her before?”
“In Germany. She was in the dock. It was a war trial. She got off but everybody knew she was guilty.”
“Where in Germany?”
He mouthed the words through lips stretched into the fatuous smile of a professional dancing partner.
“Felsenheim. It was a place called Felsenheim.”
“Say it again. Say that name again!”
“Felsenheim.”
The name meant nothing to him but he knew he would remember it. With luck he would get the details later but the salient facts must be torn from her now while he had her in his power. It might not be true, of course. None of it might be true. And if true it might not be relevant. But this was the information he had been sent to get He felt a surge of confidence and good humor. He was even in danger of enjoying the dance. He decided that it was time for something spectacular and led her into a complicated routine beginning with a progressive link and ending with a close promenade that took them diagonally across the hall. It was faultlessly executed and the applause was loud and sustained. He asked: “What was her name?”
“Irmgard Groble. She was only a young girl then, of course. Martin said that was why she got off. He never had any doubt she was guilty.” “Are you sure he didn’t tell you which Sister it was?” “No. He was very ill. He told me about the trial when he came home from Europe, so I already knew about it. But he was unconscious most of the time in hospital. And when he wasn’t he was mostly delirious.”