The Light of the Day - Eric Ambler [7]
Just before eleven o’clock we left, and I drove him to the Club.
The Club is practically a copy of the Lido night club in Paris, only smaller. I introduced him to John, who owns the place, and tried to leave him there for a while. He was still absolutely sober, and I thought that if he were by himself he would drink more; but it was no good. I had to go in and sit and drink with him. He was as possessive as a woman. I was puzzled. If I had been a fresh-looking young man instead of, well, frankly, a potbellied journalist, I would have understood it—not approved, of course, but understood. But he was at least ten or fifteen years younger than me.
They have candles on the tables at the Club and you can see faces. When the floor show came on, I watched him watch it. He looked at the girls, Nicki among them, as if they were flies on the other side of a window. I asked him how he liked the third from the left—that was Nicki.
“Legs too short,” he said. “I like them with longer legs. Is that the one you had in mind?”
“In mind? I don’t understand, sir.” I was beginning to dislike him intensely.
He eyed me. “Shove it,” he said unpleasantly.
We were drinking Greek brandy. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another. I could see the muscles in his jaw twitching as if with anger. Evidently something I had said, or which he thought I had said, had annoyed him. It was on the tip of my tongue to mention that Nicki was my wife, but I didn’t. I remembered, just in time, that I had only told him about Annette, and about her being killed by a bomb.
He drank the brandy down quickly and told me to get the bill.
“You don’t like it here, sir?”
“What more is there to see? Do they start stripping later?”
I smiled. It is the only possible response to that sort of boorishness. In any case, I had no objection to speeding up my program for the evening.
“There is another place,” I said.
“Like this?”
“The entertainment, sir, is a little more individual and private.” I picked the words carefully.
“You mean a cat house?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that, sir.”
He smirked. “I’ll bet you wouldn’t. How about ‘maison de rendezvous’? Does that cover it?”
“Madame Irma’s is very discreet and everything is in the best of taste, sir.”
He shook with amusement. “Know something, Arthur?” he said. “If you shaved a bit closer and had yourself a good haircut, you could hire out as a butler any time.”
From his expression I could not tell whether he was being deliberately insulting or making a clumsy joke. It seemed advisable to assume the latter.
“Is that what Americans call ‘ribbing,’ sir?” I asked politely.
This seemed to amuse him even more. He chuckled fatuously. “Okay, Arthur,” he said at last, “okay. We’ll play it your way. Let’s go to see your Madame Irma.”
I didn’t like the “your Madame Irma” way of putting it, but I pretended not to notice.
Irma has a very nice house standing in its own grounds just off the road out to Kephisia. She never has more than six girls at any one time and changes them every few months. Her prices are high, of course, but everything is very well arranged. Clients enter and leave by different doors to avoid embarrassing encounters. The only persons the client sees are Irma herself, Kira, the manageress who takes care of the financial side, and, naturally, the lady of his choice.
Harper seemed to be impressed. I say “seemed” because he was very polite to Irma when I introduced them, and complimented her on the decorations. Irma is not unattractive herself and likes presentable-looking clients. As I had expected, there was no nonsense about my joining him at that table. As soon as Irma offered him a drink, he glanced at me and made a gesture of dismissal.
“See you later,” he said.
I was sure then that everything was all right. I went in to Kira’s room to collect my commission and tell her how much money he had on him. It was after midnight then. I said that I had had no dinner and would go and get some. She told me that they were not