The Umbrella Man and Other Stories (26 page)

“There is one thing more,” I said. “It is essential that you should be disguised. Pantaloon, or the doorman, for example, must not be able to identify you afterwards. You must wear a false moustache.”

“What about you?”

“Not necessary. I’ll be sitting in the car. They won’t see me.”

We went to a children’s toy shop and we bought for George a magnificent black moustache, a thing with long pointed ends, waxed and stiff and shining, and when he held it up against his face he looked exactly like the Kaiser of Germany. The man in the shop also sold us a tube of glue and he showed us how the moustache should be attached to the upper lip. “Going to have fun with the kids?” he asked, and George said, “Absolutely.”

All was now ready, but there was a long time to wait. We had three dollars left between us and with this we bought a sandwich each and went to a movie. Then, at eleven o’clock that evening, we collected our car and in it we began to cruise slowly through the streets of New York waiting for the time to pass.

“You’d better put on your moustache so as you get used to it.”

We pulled up under a street lamp and I squeezed some glue on to George’s upper lip and fixed on the huge black hairy thing with its pointed ends. Then we drove on. It was cold in the car and outside it was beginning to snow again. I could see a few small snowflakes falling through the beams of the car lights. George kept saying, “How hard shall I hit him?” and I kept answering, “Hit him as hard as you can, and on the nose. It must be on the nose because that is a part of the contract. Everything must be done right. Our clients may be watching.”

At two in the morning we drove slowly past the entrance to the Penguin Club in order to survey the situation. “I will park there,” I said, “just past the entrance in that patch of dark. But I will leave the door open for you.”

We drove on. Then George said, “What does he look like? How do I know it’s him?”

“Don’t worry,” I answered. “I’ve thought of that,” and I took from my pocket a piece of paper and handed it to him. “You take this and fold it up small and give it to the doorman and tell him to see it gets to Pantaloon quickly. Act as though you are scared to death and in an awful hurry. It’s a hundred to one that Pantaloon will come out. No columnist could resist that message.”

On the paper I had written:
“I am a worker in Soviet Consulate. Come to the door very quickly please I have something to tell but come quickly as I am in danger. I cannot come in to you.”

“You see,” I said, “your moustache will make you look like a Russian. All Russians have big moustaches.”

George took the paper and folded it up very small and held it in his fingers. It was nearly half past two in the morning now and we began to drive towards the Penguin Club.

“You all set?” I said.

“Yes.”

“We’re going in now. Here we come. I’ll park just past the entrance . . . here. Hit him hard,” I said, and George opened the door and got out of the car. I closed the door behind him but I leant over and kept my hand on the handle so I could open it again quick, and I let down the window so I could watch. I kept the engine ticking over.

I saw George walk swiftly up to the doorman who stood under the red and white canopy which stretched out over the sidewalk. I saw the doorman turn and look down at George and I didn’t like the way he did it. He was a tall proud man dressed in a magenta-coloured uniform with gold buttons and gold shoulders and a broad white stripe down each magenta trouser leg. Also he wore
white gloves and he stood there looking proudly down at George, frowning, pressing his lips together hard. He was looking at George’s moustache and I thought Oh my God we have overdone it. We have over-disguised him. He’s going to know it’s false and he’s going to take one of the long pointed ends in his fingers and he’ll give it a tweak and it’ll come off. But he didn’t. He was distracted by George’s acting, for George was acting well. I could see him hopping about, clasping and unclasping his hands, swaying his body and shaking his head, and I could hear him saying, “Plees plees plees you must hurry. It is life and teth. Plees plees take it kvick to Mr. Pantaloon.” His Russian accent was not like any accent I had heard before, but all the same there was a quality of real despair in his voice.

Finally, gravely, proudly, the doorman said, “Give me the note.” George gave it to him and said, “Tank you, tank you, but say it is urgent,” and the doorman disappeared inside. In a few moments he returned and said, “It’s being delivered now.” George paced nervously up and down. I waited, watching the door. Three or four minutes elapsed. George wrung his hands and said, “Vere is he? Vere is he? Plees to go and see if he is not coming!”

“What’s the matter with you?” the doorman said. Now he was looking at George’s moustache again.

“It is life and teth! Mr. Pantaloon can help! He must come!”

“Why don’t you shut up,” the doorman said, but he opened the door again and he poked his head inside and I heard him saying something to someone.

To George he said, “They say he’s coming now.”

A moment later the door opened and Pantaloon himself, small and dapper, stepped out. He paused by the door, looking quickly from side to side like an inquisitive ferret. The doorman touched his cap and pointed at George. I heard Pantaloon say, “Yes, what did you want?”

George said, “Plees, dis vay a leetle so as novone can hear,” and he led Pantaloon along the pavement, away from the doorman and towards the car.

“Come on, now,” Pantaloon said. “What is it you want?”

Suddenly George shouted “Look!” and he pointed up the street. Pantaloon turned his head and as he did so George swung his right arm and he hit Pantaloon plumb on the point of the nose. I saw George leaning forward on the punch, all his weight behind it, and the whole of Pantaloon appeared somehow to lift slightly off the ground and to float backwards for two or three feet until the façade of the Penguin Club stopped him. All this happened very quickly, and then George was in the car beside me and we were off and I could hear the doorman blowing a whistle behind us.

“We’ve done it!” George gasped. He was excited and out of breath. “I hit him good! Did you see how good I hit him!”

It was snowing hard now and I drove fast and made many sudden turnings and I knew no one would catch us in this snowstorm.

“Son of a bitch almost went through the wall I hit him so hard.”

“Well done, George,” I said. “Nice work, George.”

“And did you see him lift? Did you see him lift right up off the ground?”

“Womberg will be pleased,” I said.

“And Gollogly, and the Hines woman.”

“They’ll all be pleased,” I said. “Watch the money coming in.”

“There’s a car behind us!” George shouted. “It’s following us! It’s right on our tail! Drive like mad!”

“Impossible,” I said. “They couldn’t have picked us up already. It’s just another car going somewhere.” I turned sharply to the right.

“He’s still with us,” George said. “Keep turning. We’ll lose him soon.”

“How the hell can we lose a police car in a nineteen-thirty-four Chev,” I said. “I’m going to stop.”

“Keep going!” George shouted. “You’re doing fine.”

“I’m going to stop,” I said. “It’ll only make them mad if we go on.”

George protested fiercely but I knew it was no good and I pulled in to the side of the road. The other car swerved out and went past us and skidded to a standstill in front of us.

“Quick,” George said. “Let’s beat it.” He had the door open and he was ready to run.

“Don’t be a fool,” I said. “Stay where you are. You can’t get away now.”

A voice from outside said, “All right boys, what’s the hurry?”

“No hurry,” I answered. “We’re just going home.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yes, we’re just on our way home now.”

The man poked his head in through the window on my side, and he looked at me, then at George, then at me again.

“It’s a nasty night,” George said. “We’re just trying to reach home before the streets get all snowed up.”

“Well,” the man said, “you can take it easy. I just thought I’d like to give you this right away.” He dropped a wad of banknotes on to my lap. “I’m Gollogly,” he added, “Wilbur H. Gollogly,” and he stood out there in the snow grinning at us, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands to keep them warm. “I got your wire and I watched the whole thing from across the street. You did a fine job. I’m paying you boys double. It was worth it. Funniest thing I ever seen. Good-bye boys. Watch your steps. They’ll be after you now. Get out of town if I were you. Good-bye.” And before we could say anything, he was gone.

When finally we got back to our room I started packing at once.

“You crazy?” George said. “We’ve only got to wait a few hours and we receive five hundred dollars each from Womberg and the Hines woman. Then we’ll have two thousand altogether and we can go anywhere we want.”

So we spent the next day waiting in our room and reading the papers, one of which had a whole column on the front page headed, “Brutal Assault on Famous Columnist.” But sure enough the late afternoon post brought us two letters and there was five hundred dollars in each.

And right now, at this moment, we are sitting in a Pullman car, drinking Scotch whisky and heading south for a place where there is always sunshine and where the horses are running every day. We are immensely wealthy and George keeps saying that if we put the whole of our two thousand dollars on a horse at ten to one we shall
make another twenty thousand and we will be able to retire. “We will have a house at Palm Beach,” he says, “and we will entertain upon a lavish scale. Beautiful socialites will loll around the edge of our swimming pool sipping cool drinks, and after a while we will perhaps put another large sum of money upon another horse and we shall become wealthier still. Possibly we will become tired of Palm Beach and then we will move around in a leisurely manner among the playgrounds of the rich. Monte Carlo and places like that. Like the Ali Khan and the Duke of Windsor. We will become prominent members of the international set and film stars will smile at us and head waiters will bow to us and perhaps, in time to come, perhaps we might even get ourselves mentioned in Lionel Pantaloon’s column.”

“That would be something,” I said.

“Wouldn’t it just,” he answered happily. “Wouldn’t that just be something.”

There were six of us to dinner that night at Mike Schofield’s house in London: Mike and his wife and daughter, and my wife and I, and a man called Richard Pratt.

Richard Pratt was a famous gourmet. He was president of a small society known as the Epicures, and each month he circulated privately to its members a pamphlet on food and wines. He organized dinners where sumptuous dishes and rare wines were served. He refused to smoke for fear of harming his palate, and when discussing a wine, he had a curious, rather droll habit of referring to it as though it were a living being. “A prudent wine,” he would say, “rather diffident and evasive, but quite prudent.” Or, “A good-humoured wine, benevolent and cheerful—slightly obscene, perhaps, but none the less good-humoured.”

I had been to dinner at Mike’s twice before when Richard Pratt was there, and on each occasion Mike and his wife had gone out of their way to produce a special meal for the famous gourmet. And this one, clearly, was to be no exception. The moment we entered the dining room, I could see that the table was laid for a feast. The
tall candles, the yellow roses, the quantity of shining silver, the three wineglasses to each person, and above all, the faint scent of roasting meat from the kitchen brought the first warm oozings of saliva to my mouth.

As we sat down, I remembered that on both Richard Pratt’s previous visits Mike had played a little betting game with him over the claret, challenging him to name its breed and its vintage. Pratt had replied that that should not be too difficult provided it was one of the great years. Mike had then bet him a case of the wine in question that he could not do it. Pratt had accepted, and had won both times. Tonight I felt sure that the little game would be played over again, for Mike was quite willing to lose the bet in order to prove that his wine was good enough to be recognized, and Pratt, for his part, seemed to take a grave, restrained pleasure in displaying his knowledge.

The meal began with a plate of whitebait, fried very crisp in butter, and to go with it there was a Moselle. Mike got up and poured the wine himself, and when he sat down again. I could see that he was watching Richard Pratt. He had set the bottle in front of me so that I could read the label. It said, “Geierslay Ohligsberg, 1945.” He leaned over and whispered to me that Geierslay was a tiny village in the Moselle, almost unknown outside Germany. He said that this wine we were drinking was something unusual, that the output of the vineyard was so small that it was almost impossible for a stranger to get any of it. He had visited Geierslay personally the previous summer in order to obtain the few bottles that they had finally allowed him to have.

“I doubt whether anyone else in the country has any of it at the moment,” he said. I saw him glance again at Richard Pratt. “Great thing about Moselle,” he continued, raising his voice, “it’s the perfect wine to serve before a claret. A lot of people serve Rhine wine instead, but that’s because they don’t know any better. A Rhine wine will kill a delicate claret, you know that? It’s barbaric to serve a Rhine before a claret. But a Moselle—ah!—a Moselle is exactly right.”