A brief silence followed this remark, during which she gazed round the, as yet, undenuded room, her eyes coming to rest on the lovely pastel of Madame Melo and her child.
“Do you remember the afternoon you showed me the Vuillard? It seems only yesterday, yet so much has happened in that short time. Promise me to keep your paintings on the walls until the last possible moment. You often told me you could not live without them, and certainly that you would never sell them.” Althought seemed to strike her. She hesitated, glanced away, then towards him, finally exclaimed impulsively: “Must you really sell your home? Couldn’t you keep it, well, as a kind of rest house which you could fall back on in case of need? Dear friend, I worry about you, and the last thing I wish is that you should get one of those tropical diseases that have broken up poor Willie. And what a catalogue he recited, malaria, sleeping sickness, leprosy and the rest; the poor man looks ill enough to have half of them himself. . . . But as I was saying, if you should contract something serious, at least you would, have a safe place in proper climate to recover and recuperate.”
He looked at her, at first frowning, as in doubt, then, thoughtfully. The idea had never occurred to him and, at first sight, it appeared to have considerable merit. Why should he sell out in a blind rush; he had not the slightest financial need. Besides, if he took time, with mounting property values he would undoubtedly secure a far better price. But no, no, that would be merely temporising, playing around with half-measures, a dangerous procedure at all times. He was going for good, and would not return. He shook his head decisively.
“No. I prefer to make a clean, sharp cut.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right. Always you see things so clearly, never thinking of yourself. I did wrong to make such a weak proposal, but it is because I think only of you. God knows I shall never for one moment have peace once you are out there.”
“But why, Frida? It’s not so dreadful at the Mission.”
“Oh, my friend, because you are brave and strong, don’t pretend in order to make this easier for me. You understand, better than I, the dangers that will surround you. Last night, for thinking of that poor Swedish family whose heads were hacked off, I could not sleep. If such a cruel death occurs for a man after many years of service, what might not occur to you, a newcomer.”
He glanced at her irritably, with a touch of asperity.
“For goodness’ sake, Frida, don’t exaggerate.”
“Exaggerate, because I tell you of the thoughts of one small bad night. If that were all I feared for you, I should be happy. But besides the fevers, are there not beasts of the jungle, scorching sun and torrential rains, and, worst of all, this trouble in the Congo. Mr Stench says it is beginning and must spread. And you are so near. But why am I so foolish to talk of what you already fully understand?” She stood up abruptly. “Work work, that’s what we must do, in order not to think for a moment of the future. There are some books on the high shelves of the library that I cannot reach. When I have put away the tea trolley you must hand them down to me. After that, it is time for me to rush back to Seeburg.”
He moved slowly into the library, frowning, vaguely displeased, not with her, for no one could have his interests more at heart, but rather with the manner of her presentation of the obvious. As if he did not realise what he was getting into. Absurd. The books to which she referred were mainly special full folio editions of the Paragon art series, but although his eye was cast towards them they left no conscious imprint on his retina. Finally, however, with a slight start, he came to himself, decided against fetching the step-ladder from the basement and instead brought forward the long needlepoint stool that had its place before the fireplace. Mounting, he reached up and, one at a time, began to transfer the heavy, richly clasped and padded volumes to a lower and more accessible shelf. He had almost finished when she appeared and stood watching him.
Only three books now remained at the end of the top shelf. Hurrying, he stretched up and sideways, took hold of all three. But in the effort of lifting he lost his balance and, still clutching the books above his head, was obliged to make a quick backward step off the stool that brought him safely though jarringly to the floor.
“Well done,” she complimented him. “You saved yourself most cleverly.”
“Yes . . .” he spoke through compressed lips, “but I rather think I’ve wrenched my back.”
“You did come down sharply. You must sit down and rest.”
He seated himself cautiously on the end of the stool and, with his hand pressed against the affected part, watched while she wrapped up the Paragon edition.
“Now, you are better?” she inquired, when she had finished.
“Not altogether. But it’s nothing, it’ll pass.”
“If not, you must see to it. For tonight take aspirin and get Arturo to rub you. Have you some antidolor liniment?”
“I think there’s some in the medicine cabinet.”
She continued to study him sympathetically, head on one side.
“I wish I did not have to leave you, but there. . . . Now do not forget, antidolor and aspirin, after your bath. No, don’t get up. I will let myself out. And for tomorrow, shall we say ten o’clock?”
He nodded agreement, with as little movement as possible, and, when she had gone, remained seated for several further minutes, prodding his back with a speculative finger. Then, as everything seemed intact, he got up and began, though awkwardly, to move about. The inventory was complete, he must now arrange a meeting with his lawyer. He went to the telephone, dialled Stieger’s number. It was the girl, his secretary, who answered, with that sing-song cadence which the local Swiss imparted to their school-taught English.
“I am sorree, Mr Moree, Herr Stieger is in Munich.”
“When will he be back?”
“Saturday morneeng. But if eet is important I will telephone heem.”
He reflected quickly.
“Saturday will be all right. Make an appointment for eleven a.m.”
“Very well, Mr Moree. I will myself inform Herr Stieger.”
He swung away from the phone, an injudicious movement that made him wince. Annoying that Stieger was away; he wanted everything done quickly; yes, at once. His earlier mood of vigorous confidence, a state verging on exaltation, had lapsed, he felt a longing for Kathy: the touch of her lips, her sweet glance of encouragement. For one who had always enjoyed his own society it was strange how he now disliked being alone. If only Madame von Altishofer had not been obliged to dash away—what a help she was, in his present emergency. The idea of a solitary dinner did not appeal to him, moreover he felt he owed it to himself to turn in early. He rang for Arturo, told him to prepare a tray and take it up to the study, explained the necessity of massage later on, then, passing between the piles of wrapped books, he tuned in the radio to the evening broadcast of the B.B.C. Lately he had been so preoccupied with his own affairs he had not listened to the news. But he was too late, immediately a voice said:
“That is the end of the news.”
With an exclamation he switched off and went upstairs, reminding himself to take his vitamin tablets.
Chapter Sixteen
Punctually at ten o’clock next morning the door bell rang and Arturo, with an expression more enigmatic than usual, showed Madame von Altishofer to the drawing-room where Moray, seated on the sofa before the open Dutch cabinet, was pensively contemplating his collection of Chinese porcelain.
When he had greeted her and asked to be excused from rising he waved an expressive hand.
“The futile tyranny of possessions. All this will have to be packed. When I bought it with such joy, and every piece is authentic K’hang Hsi, little did I think it would be such a nuisance in the end.”