"Yes, I am," he said. "Now tell me what's going on."
"Well, my 'dense' husband, as you call him, has just been named Acting Consul General of the United States. That makes me equal to Mrs. Whittle, so you can start by showing me some respect."
"Acting Consul? What happened to Lake?"
"Oh-Dan. Well, I think he's on his way out of the country, to Frankfurt or someplace, some hospital, I guess. Poor Dan. Anyway, it's really exciting for us. Happened just a couple hours ago. We were down at the Manchesters' when suddenly the Ambassador's limousine pulled up. He took us up to this fantastic house where we met Mr. Perry and the Crown Prince!"
"But why? What happened?"
"Gee, I don't know exactly. Seems Dan resigned over some fracas or other, so the Ambassador's put Foster in charge. We're really excited. They're going to change all the locks on the Consulate doors, and as soon as the Lakes' stuff is moved out we get to live in the residence too."
Their conversation was broken off then by a mob of people who'd heard the news and had come around to congratulate the Knowles' on their precipitous rise to power. Rick and Anne Calloway, from Voice of America, were dutifully kissing ass, and Peter Barclay was already busy organizing a congratulatory lunch. So incredible, thought Robin, these rapid changes due to fate. The last time he'd seen the Knowles', Jackie was Dan Lake's mistress. Now her husband had Lake's job, and she couldn't wait to take possession of his house.
He spent the next hour shuttling back and forth between the rooms, watching the party turn rowdy. He saw Herve sneak off with Pumpkin Pie and congratulated himself again for that. He had a little conversation with Kranker, then watched Fufu try to put the make on Florence Beaumont and Baldeschi work on the hopelessly cool Tessa Hawkins. Heidi Steigmuller was still wearing her De Gaulle mask. It was amusing to watch her talking to General Bresson, no doubt about military "maneuvers and affairs." Percy Bainbridge in his Mary Poppins costume was chatting away with Jack Whyte. Perhaps, Robin speculated, he was retaining Jack to build a prototype of his "three-cornered kiss."
Between the elevation of the Knowles' and the collapse of the Kelly coup, Robin felt he had enough material for a column. What he needed now were some details about the Perry party, things he could use to put it down. He was in the process of extracting information from Vanessa Bolton, who was happily telling him all about the little boats in Perry's tub, when Kranker rushed over out of breath and grasped Robin by the arm.
"Come quick," he said. "It's finally happening. Wax and Barclay are having it out."
Robin grabbed hold of Vanessa, dragged her with him as he followed Kranker to another room. When they arrived they found a quiet little crowd in a circle around Barclay and Wax, who were standing apart facing each other like gunslingers in a Western town.
Wax was still in his costume, holding his "beanstalk" like a staff. Barclay, legs apart, arms folded confidently across his chest, wore a somewhat frayed and dated smoking jacket and clutched a silver-headed cane.
"What's going on?" someone whispered.
"Shush," said Robin, craning forward so as not to miss a precious word.
"Just the sort of comment we'd expect," he heard Barclay say, "from the son of a chimney sweep."
"Ha!" said Wax. "Everyone in Tangier knows about you, how you tried to force Camilla Weltonwhist to buy that worthless property below your house so you could plant trees on it and pretty up your view."
"That's a damn lie," said Barclay, beginning, Robin thought, to look unnerved. "But then we all know your history, that you're nothing but a liar and a thief."
"You're right. I've never pretended to be anything else. The trouble with you, Mother Barclay, is that you don't know what you are. But I do. I see right through you. For all your fancy lineage you're just like an Arab boy who spreads his ass for half a crown."
It was a terrible insult, terribly unfair, Robin thought, and Barclay didn't take it well. Ho grew red in the face, and the veins in his forehead began to throb. Suddenly he pursed his lips and let fly with a glob of spit. It landed on the carpet, a little short of Wax.
"Oh, you are angry, dear," said Wax, regarding Barclay with utter scorn. He raised his "beanstalk" and started toward him, would have bashed him on the head with it, Robin thought, if Barclay hadn't managed to deflect it with his cane.
Immediately their friends dragged them apart, and into separate rooms. There were huddles then, cliques and factions formed, while the whole party turned into a debate about which one had bested the other and what had started the argument off. Robin, uninterested in either of these things, was busy writing their dialogue down. He'd have to ask his editor for double his usual amount of space. He had enough now for a delicious column.
Hamid was relieved. He'd done his duty well, protected the princes and princesses who were finally all safely bedded down. He was relaxing with his men in the kitchen of "Castlemaine," dining on leftover food which Henderson Perry had graciously offered, when Aziz Jaouhari suddenly burst in.
"Something terrible, Hamid," he said. "There's been a murder at Villa Chapultepec."
Hamid jumped up from the table, and together they ran out to his jeep. As they drove down the Mountain toward the Beaumonts' house, he shot questions at Aziz.
"The victim?"
"All I have is that it's a European. The body's been disfigured. Supposedly it's a mess."
"Who reported it?"
"The resident caretaker down there. He heard some noises, then saw someone running across the grounds. He couldn't make out who it was, but decided to check the villa. He found the body in the salon."
"How could this happen, Aziz? We've had patrols on the Mountain all night."
Aziz shrugged. "There're no lights on the road. If someone knows the estates up here, he can cross the walls at will."
When they arrived at Chapultepec a truckload of police were already there. Hamid nodded to the cringing caretaker and walked straight through the house. It was a gruesome sight he found, the walls of the salon covered with blood, the nude body of a young European male lying on the marble floor. He'd been castrated, his stomach, chest, and face punctured numerous times. There was a trail of bloody footprints leading out through the glass French doors.
Aziz raised his hand to cover his mouth. "Do you know who he is, Hamid?"
The Last Column
"Really, you look terrible," said Hamid. "Worse than I've ever seen you."
It was eleven o'clock in the morning, two days after the murder of Herve Beaumont. They were sitting in Haifa Cafe, Robin with his back to the Straits of Gibraltar, Hamid facing the coast of Spain, cut off from sight by haze. A pregnant cat under the little iron table licked softly at Hamid's moccasins. Ramadan was due to end in one more day; then the new moon would come, and the feast of Aid es Seghir.
"Actually," said Hamid, still appalled by Robin's bloodshot eyes and the drained pallor of his face, "he was passive when we caught him. He made no attempt to struggle, and within five minutes he confessed. He took us to the place where he'd hidden the knife, under a rock in a cliff on the way to Cap Spartel. He was going to hide out in the mountains and then try to slip over the frontier. Inigo came around last night and asked to visit him in his cell. I refused, with mixed feelings I admit. There's something likable about the boy, though of course he's dangerous and mad."
Robin nodded. "I knew he was both those things. Inigo called him 'schizophrenic.' Last year he nearly cut off my balls. "
"You're still blaming yourself-"
"Of course, Hamid. I introduced them, encouraged Herve. Told him it would be good for him, would clear up his confusion and straighten out his head."