The Lighthearted Quest Page 2

  Edina laughed, relieved. How sensible and nice Mrs. Hathaway was.

  “I wonder if she would go,” she went on. “Shall we put it all up to her on the telephone, or try to get her to come up? It’s rather a long business to explain.”

  “We’ll see how she reacts,” said Mrs. Hathaway. “It would be better if she came, I think, if she can get away at once. Another reason why she would be a good person to go,” she pursued, “is that she’s a very fair linguist; her French is excellent, and she speaks quite tolerable Spanish too.”

  “Oh, well then, do let’s get her to come up,” said Edina, “to brace up Olimpia. She cooks quite differently after Ronan’s been talking to her, though I believe he only knows about twenty-eight words.”

  “He must have been talking to her this morning,” said Mrs. Hathaway. “That lovely lunch.”

  Julia, when telephoned to, made no difficulties at all about coming up. Mrs. Hathaway, who by common consent did the talking, merely said that they were all in trouble about Colin, who couldn’t be got hold of just now; they thought Julia might be able to help, perhaps, and was there any chance of her coming up to talk it over? “To be much good,” said Mrs. Hathaway, with her customary clarity, “it ought to be soon.”

  “Oh, yes, I’ll come at once. If I take a sleeper tomorrow night—no, that means two days. I’ll fly to Renfrew tomorrow, the first flight I can get, and wire for a car to bring me on; that will save a day. Unless I ring up, if I can’t get a seat, I’ll see you about tea-time tomorrow. It will be lovely to be at Glentoran again. How’s Aunt Ellen?”

  “As easy at that,” said Mrs. Hathaway, having retailed these plans to the other two.

  “Well, it must be nice to be able to splash money about like that,” said Edina.

  “Yes—and sensible, too. Julia is rather good about knowing what to spend on,” said Mrs. Hathaway. She turned to Edina with a small smile. “Bottle up your prejudice till she comes—you are far too sensible yourself to let my approval of Julia put you against her,” she said—and Edina, who had been doing exactly that, did cause her vague hostility to subside.

  “I still don’t see how Julia is to find him, Mary,” said Mrs. Monro.

  “One finds very little without looking for it, Ellen,” replied Mrs. Hathaway. “Do you mind if I go to bed? I feel rather like it, after the journey.”

  Julia Probyn arrived next day, not at tea-time, but as they were sitting down to lunch—a scrunch of car wheels on the gravel outside the dining-room windows announced the advent of a huge Chrysler, driven by a smart chauffeur.

  “I’ll go, Forbes,” said Edina to the old butler, who was bumbling round with dishes with his usual maddening slowness; “lay another place”—and she went out. A moment later she returned, ushering in her young relation.

  “Dear Aunt Ellen, I do apologise for being so early,” said Julia, kissing her aunt affectionately. “I rang up the air-line last night and got a cancellation for the first flight, such luck—so I told them to tell Renfrew to have a car ready, and here I am.” She turned to kiss Mrs. Hathaway with even more warmth. “How blessed to see you. And Aunt Ellen, can my driver-man have some lunch?”

  “Of course.” said Edina, answering for her parent. “Just come and mutter some of your Spanish to our cook, and she’ll be your slave.”

  “Really, Edina—” Mrs. Munro began in protest; but her daughter ruthlessly led the guest out across the hall and through the red baize door to the back regions. Julia, smothering mirth, spoke solemnly in elegant Castilian to Olimpia, whose haughty features relaxed at the familiar accents in which she was asked to provide food for the chauffeur—bowing, smiling, she expressed her desire to do everything she could.

  “Le agradeço mucho su amabildad” said Julia, eyeing her sternly, and returned to the dining-room, telling her driver on the way to wait in the hall till Forbes should summon him to his meal. “Don’t smoke,” she added casually, earning Edina’s silent approbation.

  Julia was tall, and built on full if graceful lines; her large smooth oval face usually held very little expression; this mattered less because of her perfect, faintly tawny complexion, as lightly flushed with colour as a nearly-ripe apricot, the exquisite level line of her mouth, and above all her immense grey-blue eyes, which somehow seemed to promise all sorts of delightful expressions, though entirely without her volition. (Her friends called them doves’ eyes, her enemies likened them to the eyes of cows.) Her hair was a sort of tawny blonde, a most peculiar shade; she wore it drawn back plainly from her shapely forehead, to hang, a deplorable length, half-way down her shoulders, where it ended in flowing curls, like liquid treacle. To complete this exotic appearance she was beautifully dressed, and had long perfect legs. During lunch Edina studied her, fascinated. She usually spoke very slowly, without actually drawling, and her deep voice was as devoid of expression as her face. Except that her fairness had this curious tawny quality she was, Edina thought, the arch-type of the dumb blonde.

  The other exception to the type was the fact that she was nothing like as dumb as she looked; this emerged during the discussion of her mission, which took place after lunch, when Mrs. Monro had again been despatched to rest by her daughter. Mrs. Hathaway and Edina had no need to stress the urgency of Colin’s return, since Mrs. Monro had dealt with that aspect with wearisome thoroughness during lunch, and indeed until she retired; they concentrated on telling the little they knew—about the boat or yacht, the friends, the orange or banana-selling, and the ports at which he was known to have touched during the past three years. Julia listened, largely in silence—at last she said—

  “In fact you really haven’t a clue as to where he may be now?”

  “No, not the faintest.”

  “Detection!” said Julia, delighted, a gleam of interest at last showing in her face. “Pure detection! What a frolic! Yes, of course I’ll go; I’d love to escape this hellish winter. And Colin used to be such a darling—I’d adore to find him. I expect I shall.”

  “How shall you begin?” enquired Mrs. Hathaway.

  “Could we look at a map?” said Julia. “I’m rather vague about where all these places are, and how to get to them.”

  Edina brought an atlas, in which Julia underlined various ports with a rose-tipped finger—“Casablanca, Tangier with Gib. almost opposite,” she murmured; “Ceuta, yes, and Malaga up round the corner—and then Oran and Algiers and all those places, I see.”

  “We never heard of his going to Oran or Algiers,” said Edina; “it was more Malaga and Gib. and Cadiz, and Tangier and Casablanca—down that end.”

  Julia lit a cigarette, slowly as she did everything, and blew out smoke.

  “I shall begin with Africa, I think,” she pronounced.

  “Why?”

  “Well, Morocco and Algiers are news just now, with all these assassinations and bomb-throwings and skirmishes and things, and I shall have to get the papers lined up in order to get an extra currency allocation.” Edina nodded approvingly—they had not yet raised this point with Julia; obviously there had been no need to.

  “Ebb and Flow and The Onlooker can’t run to special correspondents out there, but they would be sure to love articles and call them ‘from our correspondent in Morocco’ without paying a farthing extra,” she pursued, a slow smile making her beautiful mouth even more beguiling. “So they would give me the right chits to push across the counter to those elderly virgins in the Bank of England.”

  Edina laughed.

  “I can do Spain later,” Julia pursued, “if I draw a blank on the coasts of High Barbary.”

  “How shall you go?—fly?” Mrs. Hathaway enquired. She was delighted, secretly, that Julia was showing up so well.

  “Oh, no, I think not. Some boat—if I’m going to look for a boat, I’d rather start on a boat, to get the feel of the thing, if you follow me. I’ll ring up some of the lines later—if you’ll let me?” she said to Edina, who registered suddenly how agreeable these pretty manners were;
she knew that Julia would pay for her calls, but the question was graceful. “Of course,” she said.

  Julia got up and went over again to the atlas, and gazed at it.

  “The Lynches are in Casablanca,” she said. “They might know something. He’s in some bank, and banks know a lot.”

  “I shouldn’t have thought Colin used a bank much, except to wheedle the manager into letting him overdraw,” said Edina.

  “Where’s his account now? Still in Cambridge, or up here, or where?” Julia asked. “Is it still open?”

  “Goodness, we never thought of that. I’ve no idea. It used to be in Duntroon, with a pay-in and pay-out account in some bank at Cambridge, like I had at Oxford.”

  “Well, let’s ring up Duntroon now, and see if it’s still there.”

  This was done, by Edina. Mr. Maclntyre, the agent, protesting that it was against the regulations, nevertheless vouchsafed the information—“just for you privately, Miss Monro, since I know ye all so well”—that Mr. Colin had closed his account some nine months ago; the balance had been transferred to the Banque Regié Turque in Casablanca.

  “There you are!” said Julia triumphantly. “Where a man’s bank-account is, there shall his body be also, at least occasionally. We’re getting warmer.”

  “Can there really be a branch of the Banque Regié Turque in Casablanca?” Mrs. Hathaway asked. “It seems most extraordinary. I thought that was purely a Turkish thing.”

  “Well, Mr. Maclntyre would never pay sixpence into a non-existent bank,” said Edina—“There must be. Look!” she exclaimed suddenly—“Nine months ago. But that’s just when he stopped writing!”

  “Who, Colin?” Julia asked.

  “Yes—at least we’ve never heard since then. He didn’t write all that often before, but there’s never been such a long gap as this.”

  “Well, this may be where Paddy Lynch will come in,” said Julia—“one banker will sometimes talk to another banker. I’d certainly better look in at Casablanca. But Edina, why don’t you write to him there, care of the Banque Regié Turque? It seems the firmest address you’ve had.”

  “Well, we could,” said Edina dubiously—“but he never answers. If you’re going out I should hardly have thought it worth while.”

  “Oh, very well. In that case, Edina, I think I’ll start getting onto the shipping lines: some of them must have offices in Glasgow.”

  “It’s frightfully expensive before the cheap time begins,” said Edina.

  “Ah, and they’re shut when it does. No, on we go; I’ll try to remember to put the charges to expense account,” said Julia, with another of those slow pleasing grins. “I’ll have them all A. D. & C.”

  The shipping lines were not very fruitful. Most of the big liners no longer call at Gibraltar when outward bound for Australia or the Far East, and the few that do were booked out till mid-March with sun-seeking Britons. Julie established this fact in a way that amused Edina and Mrs. Hathaway. The bookings were mostly made in London, the shipping clerks told her; they couldn’t really say in Glasgow—with languid firmness Julia told them to ring up London, and call her back “collect”. “Oh, reverse the charge, if you don’t know what ‘collect’ means,” she intoned slowly. “This is urgent—I’m the Press. Do please get on with it.” They got on with it, and reported these negative results. Julia, scribbling pounds shillings and pence on the telephone pad, said—“Well, that’s useless.”

  “Why not try a cargo-boat?” said Mrs. Hathaway. “I believe they go to all sorts of small places, and if you want to get the ‘feel’, as you say, of a banana-boat, or whatever Colin’s is, that should be just the thing.”

  “A good idea,” Julia agreed.

  “Do you get sea-sick?” Edina put in. “Cargo-boats can be pretty small—I had some chums who went to Greece on one, and it was tiny.”

  “No—never sea-sick. Yes, a cargo-boat is undoubtedly the thing, but I expect I could fix that more easily in London. In fact, Edina, I think I’d better flash off again tomorrow and get onto it; poor Aunt Ellen, she’s in a dismal frenzy herself, and I’m sure driving you frantic—quite apart from your firm howling for you. Do you mind if I ring up Renfrew for a passage? Oh, what a pity—it is so nice up here. I do love Glentoran.”

  Chapter 2

  “Well, this is the London Docks, lady,” said the taxi-man to Julia a week later, pulling up at a huge gateway beyond which black-looking buildings loomed through a grey downpour of rain. “Know which shed you want?”

  “Number Nine,” said Julia, consulting a paper which the shipping company had given her.

  “Ought to be a policeman,” said the taxi-driver.

  “Hoot,” said Julia.

  When the driver hooted a policeman appeared from a sort of sentry-box by the gates, and asked what Julia wanted.

  “The Vidago.”

  “May I see your ticket, please?” He inspected it, and looked curiously at Julia through the cab window; then directed the driver.

  “Go along as far as you can, straight, and then turn right. You’ll see her lying.” The taxi passed through the big gates, and proceeded slowly over cobbles gleaming in the rain; the buildings formed a sort of canyon, its floor nearly as wet as a river-bed; short broad spaces led off it on one side, piled with crates and wine-barrels; more wine-barrels cluttered the canyon-floor itself—Julia had never seen so many wine-barrels in her life. At length they reached a transverse road; the taxi turned right, and in a few seconds came to the water, where nearly a hundred yards away a ship lay moored alongside the berth.

  “That’ll be her,” said the driver.

  Julia stared at the boat with the curiosity which everyone feels about a ship they are to travel on. She was prepared for it to be small, for she knew the Vidago to be only thirteen hundred tons, but she was startled by its extreme dirtiness. All the paintwork that should have been white was smeared with black grime, or stained and mottled with rust; it looked very unappetising.

  The driver got out, turning up his collar, and began to unstrap her suitcases.

  “Oh, leave those,” said Julia. “I don’t want them put down in this mess.” The quayside was quite as filthy as the ship, and wetter. “I’ll go and find a steward or someone—wait, please.” And she walked off towards the boat along the strip of cement between the water and the open-fronted shed from which goods were embarked, a big resonant place as dirty as everything else, full of crates of goods and, she noted, tractors—innumerable tractors. Her progress was presently blocked by a crane, from whose control cabin, forty feet above her head, a monkey-faced man in blue jeans peered out at her curiously; to circumvent this obstacle she took to the shed, where four or five men were languidly mounting crates on outsize luggage-barrows; re-emerging onto the quay she found herself at the Vidago’s gangway. This was almost surrealist, she thought; it consisted of a sort of ladder of black slimy wooden steps, with dirty ropes for hand-rails, mounting to the deck of the Vidago at an angle of some thirty-five degrees. Julia surveyed it with distaste, and instead of attempting the disagreeable ascent, stood still and shouted.

  A porthole close above her was pushed open, and a huge red face poked through it. “Who d’ye want?” it enquired.

  “Someone to bring my luggage aboard,” said Julia.

  “Och, I don’t know that there’s anyone here—they’re mostly ashore,” said the red face.

  “But we’re sailing at four. I’m the passenger,” said Julia.

  “We’re only sailing tomorrow, no the nicht,” the face pronounced; it then withdrew, closing the porthole.

  “Oh, God!” said Julia, crossly and loudly. She stood for a moment, undecided what to do next. To spend the next twenty-four hours in these surroundings was a dismal prospect; on the other hand her taxi was going to cost a fortune, with all that luggage—it seemed absurd to pay it twice over. (Mrs. Hathaway was quite right about Julia’s sensible views as to what it was worth spending money on.) She determined to get most of her stuff
on board at once, somehow, and walked back towards the taxi; passing as before through the cargo-shed she looked round for a barrow, found one, and wheeled it out along the quay—as she passed below the crane she was once more hailed from above, this time by the monkey-faced man in the cabin atop of it.

  “Want help with your baggage, Miss?”

  “Yes, please,” Julia called up; on reaching the taxi she and the driver began to pile her suitcases onto the barrow. They had just finished this task and she was paying off the cab when two individuals came up simultaneously—one the crane-driver, the other a tall man with a curly brown beard, in a very shabby nautical uniform and a peaked cap.

  “Can I help?” the newcomer asked.

  “Oh, I think this kind person is going to take my stuff aboard the Vidago for me—there seems to be no one else to do it,” said Julia coldly. She was feeling extremely cross.

  “I’m the mate of the Vidago,” said the bearded man. “I’ll send the boy along—this chap can’t go aboard. But we’re not sailing till tomorrow, you know.”

  “I know nothing of the sort,” said Julia, more coldly still. “Your passenger manager or whatever he calls himself told me yesterday at six o’clock to be here at three sharp, to sail at four, and I have no contrary instructions.”

  “Ah yes, but there’s been a hold-up,” said the bearded man. “Very sorry.” He spoke with a very cultivated accent, which contrasted sharply with his shabby appearance.

  “I’m sorry too, but I can’t help that,” said Julia—“I and my luggage are coming aboard now, according to schedule. Carry on—take it to the gangway,” she said to the crane-driver.

  A grin appeared in the depths of the mate’s beard.

  “Oh, very well,” he said.

  “If your ‘boy’ can drag this up your ladder and put it in my cabin, he had better,” said Julia, walking off after the crane-driver and the barrow; the mate, his grin expanding in his beard, followed.