we invited him through a third person.’
‘As you did me?’ said the Count, smiling.
‘Yes, yes, but the circumstances were different. We came on him by accident and gave him a lift.’
‘A lift?’ queried the Count. ‘You were in a hotel, perhaps?’
‘No,’ said Philip, laughing awkwardly. ‘We gave him a lift—a ride—in the gondola. How did you come?’ he added, thankful at last to have changed the subject.
‘I was given a lift, too,’ said the Count. ‘In a gondola?’
‘Yes, in a gondola.’
‘What an odd coincidence,’ said Philip.
‘So, you see,’ said the Count, ‘your friend and I will have a good deal in common.’
There was a pause. Philip felt a growing uneasiness which he couldn’t define or account for. He wished Dickie would come back: he would be able to divert the conversation into pleasanter channels. He heard the Count’s voice saying:
‘I’m glad you told me about your friend. I always like to know something about a person before I make his acquaintance.’
Philip felt he must make an end of all this. ‘Oh, but I don’t think you will make his acquaintance,’ he cried. ‘You see, I don’t think he exists. It’s all a silly joke.’
‘A joke?’ asked the Count.
‘Yes, a practical joke. Don’t you in Italy have a game on the first of April making people believe or do silly things ? April Fools, we call them.’
‘Yes, we have that custom,’ said the Count, gravely, ‘only we call them pesci d’Aprile—April Fish.’
‘Ah,’ said Philip, ‘that’s because you are a nation of fishermen. An April fish is a kind of fish you don’t expect—something you pull out of the water and——’
‘What’s that?’ said the Count. ‘I heard a voice.’
Philip listened.
‘Perhaps it’s your other guest.’
‘It can’t be him. It can’t be!’
The sound was repeated: it was only just audible, but it was Philip’s name. But why did Dickie call so softly?
‘Will you excuse me?’ said Philip. ‘I think I’m wanted.’
The Count inclined his head.
‘But it’s the most amazing thing,’ Dickie was saying, ‘I think I must have got it all wrong. But here they are and perhaps you will be able to convince them. I think they’re mad myself—I told them so.’
He led Philip into the hall of the hotel. The concierge was there and two vigili. They were talking in whispers.
‘Ma è scritto sul fazzoletto,’ one of them was saying.
‘What’s that?’ asked Dickie.
‘He says it’s written on his handkerchief said Philip.
‘Besides, we both know him,’ chimed in the other policeman.
‘What is this all about?’ cried Philip. ‘Know whom?’
‘Il Conte Giacomelli,’ chanted the vigili in chorus.
‘Well, do you want him?’ asked Philip.
‘We did want him three days ago,’ said one of the men. ‘But now it’s too late.’
‘Too late? But he’s . . .’ Philip stopped suddenly and looked across at Dickie.
‘I tell them so,’ shouted the concierge, who seemed in no way disposed to save Count Giacomelli from the hands of justice. ‘Many times, many times, I say: “The Count is in the garden with the English gentlemen.” But they do not believe me.’
‘But it’s true!’ cried Philip. ‘I’ve only just left him. What do the vigili say?’
‘They say that he is dead,’ said the concierge. ‘They say he is dead and his body is in your boat.’
There was a moment of silence. The vigili, like men exhausted by argument, stood apart, moody and indifferent. At last one of them spoke.
‘It is true, signori. Si è suicidato. His affairs went badly. He was a great swindler—and knew he would be arrested and condemned. Cosi si è salvato.’
‘He may be a swindler,’ said Philip, ‘but I’m certain he’s alive. Come into the garden and see.’
Shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders, the vigili followed him out of the hotel. In a small group they trooped across the stony waste towards the tree. There was no one there.
‘You see, signori’ said one of the vigili, with an air of subdued triumph, ‘it’s as we said.’
‘Well, he must have gone away,’ said Philip, obstinately. ‘He was sitting on this chair—so. . . .’ But his effort to give point to his contention failed. The chair gave way under him and he sprawled rather ludicrously and painfully on the stony floor. When he had picked himself up one of the policemen took the chair, ran his hand over it, and remarked:
‘It’s damp.’
‘Is it?’ said Philip expressionlessly.
‘I don’t think anyone could have sat on this chair,’ pursued the policeman.
He is telling me I am a liar, thought Philip, and blushed. But the other vigile, anxious to spare his feelings, said:
‘Perhaps it was an impostor whom you saw—a confidence man. There are many such, even in Italy. He hoped to get money out of the signori.’ He looked round for confirmation; the concierge nodded.
‘Yes,’ said Philip, wearily. ‘No doubt that explains it. Will you want us again?’ he asked the vigili. ‘Have you a card, Dickie?’
The vigili, having collected the information they required, saluted and walked off.
Dickie turned to the concierge.
‘Where’s that young whippersnapper who took a message for us?’
‘Whippersnapper?’ repeated the concierge.
‘Well, page-boy?’
‘Oh, the piccolo? He’s gone off duty, sir, for the night.’
‘Good thing for him,’ said Dickie. ‘Hullo, who’s this? My poor nerves won’t stand any more of this Maskelyne and Devant business.’
It was the maître d’hôtel, bowing obsequiously.
‘Will there be three gentlemen, or four, for dinner?’ he asked.
Philip and Dickie exchanged glances and Dickie lit a cigarette.
‘Only two gentlemen,’ he said.
THE TRAVELLING GRAVE
Hugh Curtis was in two minds about accepting Dick Munt’s invitation to spend Sunday at Lowlands. He knew little of Munt, who was supposed to be rich and eccentric and, like many people of that kind, a collector. Hugh dimly remembered having asked his friend Valentine Ostrop what it was that Munt collected, but he could not recall Valentine’s answer. Hugh Curtis was a vague man with an unretentive mind, and the mere thought of a collection, with its many separate challenges to the memory, fatigued him. What he required of a week-end party was to be left alone as much as possible, and to spend the remainder of his time in the society of agreeable women. Searching his mind, though with distaste, for he hated to disturb it, he remembered Ostrop telling him that parties at Lowlands were generally composed entirely of men, and rarely exceeded four in number. Valentine didn’t know who the fourth was to be, but he begged Hugh to come.
‘You will enjoy Munt,’ he said. ‘He really doesn’t pose at all. It’s his nature to be like that.’
‘Like what?’ his friend had inquired.
‘Oh, original and—and strange, if you like,’ answered Valentine. ‘He’s one of the exceptions—he’s much odder than he seems, whereas most people are more ordinary than they seem.’
Hugh Curtis agreed. ‘But I like ordinary people,’ he added. ‘So how shall I get on with Munt?’