Spinsters in Jeopardy

Chapter II Operation Truebody

i

At first their eyes were sun-dazzled so that they could scarcely see their way. Dr. Baradi paused to guide them. Alleyn, encumbered with Ricky and groping up a number of wide, shallow and irregular steps, was aware of Baradi’s hand piloting Troy by the elbow. The blotches of non-existent light that danced across their vision faded and they saw that they were in a sort of hewn passage-way between walls that were incorporated in rock, separated by outcrops of stone and pierced by stairways, windows and occasional doors. At intervals they went through double archways supporting buildings that straddled the passage and darkened it. They passed an open doorway and saw into a cave-like room where an old woman sat among shelves filled with small gaily painted figures. As Troy passed, the woman smiled at her and gestured invitingly, holding up a little clay goat.

Dr Baradi was telling them about the Chèvre d’Argent.

“It is a fortress built originally by the Saracens. One might almost say it was sculpted out of the mountain, isn’t it? The Normans stormed it on several occasions. There are legends of atrocities and so on. The fortress is, in effect, a village since the many caves beneath and around it have been shaped into dwellings and house a number of peasants, some dependent on the château and some, like the woman you have noticed, upon their own industry. The château itself is most interesting, indeed unique. But not inconvenient. Mr. Oberon has, with perfect tact, introduced the amenities. We are civilized, as you shall see.”

They arrived at a double gate of wrought iron let into the wall on their left. An iron bell hung beside it. A butler appeared beyond the doors and opened them. They passed through a courtyard into a wide hall with deep-set windows through which a cool ineffectual light was admitted.

Without at first taking any details of this shadowed interior, Troy received an impression of that particular kind of suavity that is associated with costliness. The rug under her feet, the texture and colour of the curtains, the shape of cabinets and chairs and, above all, a smell which she thought must arise from the burning sweet-scented oils, all united to give this immediate reaction. “Mr. Oberon,” she thought, “must be immensely rich.” Almost at the same time she saw above the great fireplace a famous Brueghel which, she remembered, had been sold privately some years ago. It was called: “Consultation of Sorceresses.” An open door showed a stone stairway built inside the thickness of the wall.

“The stairs,” Dr. Baradi said, “are a little difficult. Therefore we have prepared rooms on this floor.”

He pulled back a leather curtain. The men carried Miss Truebody into a heavily carpeted stone passage hung at intervals with rugs and lit with electric lights fitted into ancient hanging lamps, witnesses, Troy supposed, of Mr. Oberon’s tact in modernization. She heard Miss Truebody raise her piping cry of distress.

Dr. Baradi said: “Perhaps you would be so kind as to assist her into bed?”

Troy hurried after the stretcher and followed it into a small bedroom charmingly furnished and provided, she noticed, with an adjoining bathroom. The two bearers waited with an obliging air for further instructions. As Baradi had not accompanied them, Troy supposed that she herself was for the moment in command. She got Miss Truebody off the stretcher and onto the bed. The bearers hovered solicitously. She thanked them in her school-girl French and managed to get them out of the room, but not before they had persuaded her into the passage, opened a further door, and exhibited with evident pride a bare freshly scrubbed room with a bare freshly scrubbed table near its window. A woman rose from her knees as the door opened, a scrubbing brush in her hand and a pail beside her. The room reeked of disinfectant. The indoor servant said something about it being “convenable,” and the gardener said something about somebody, she thought himself, being “bienfatigué, infiniment fatigue.” It dawned upon her that they wanted a tip. Poor Troy scuffled in her bag, produced a 500 franc note and gave it to the indoor servant, indicating that they were to share it. They thanked her and, effulgent with smiles, went back to get the luggage. She hurried to Miss Truebody and found her crying feverishly.

Remembering what she could of hospital routine, Troy washed the patient, found a clean nightdress (Miss Truebody wore white locknit nightdresses, sprigged with posies), and got her into bed. It was difficult to make out how much she understood of her situation. Troy wondered if it was the injection of morphine or her condition or her normal habit of mind or all three, that made her so confused and vague. When she settled in bed she began to talk with hectic fluency about herself. It was difficult to understand her as she had frantically waved away the offer of her false teeth. Her father, it seemed, had been a doctor, a widower, living in the Bermudas. She was his only child and had spent her life with him until, a year ago, he had died, leaving her, as she put it, quite comfortably though not well off. She had decided that she could just afford a trip to England and the continent. Her father, she muttered distractedly, had “not kept up,” had “lost touch.” There had been an unhappy break in the past, she believed, and their relations were never mentioned. Of course there were friends in the Bermudas but not, it appeared, very many or very intimate friends. She rambled on for a little while, continually losing the thread of her narrative and frowning incomprehensibly at nothing. The pupils of her eyes were contracted and her vision seemed to be confused. Presently her voice died away and she dozed uneasily.

Troy stole out and returned to the hall. Alleyn, Ricky and Saradi had gone, but the butler was waiting for her and showed her up the steep flight of stairs in the wall. It seemed to turn about a tower and they passed two landings with doors leading off them. Finally the man opened a larger and heavier door and Troy was out in the glare of full morning on a canopied roofgarden hung, as it seemed, in blue space where sky and sea met in a wide crescent. Not till she advanced some way towards the balustrade did Cap St. Gilles appear, a sliver of earth pointing south.

Alleyn and Baradi rose from a breakfast-table near the balustrade. Ricky lay, fast asleep, in a suspended seat under a gay canopy. The smell of freshly ground coffee and of brioches and croissants reminded Troy that she was hungry.

They sat at the table. It was long, spread with a white cloth and set for a number of places. Troy was foolishly reminded of the Mad Hatter’s Tea-party. She looked over the parapet and saw the railroad about eighty feet below her and perhaps a hundred feet from the base of the Chèvre d’Argent. The walls, buttressed and pierced with windows, fell away beneath her in a sickening perspective. Troy had a hatred of heights and drew back quickly. “Last night,” she thought, “I looked into one of those windows.”

Dr. Baradi was assiduous in his attentions and plied her with coffee. He gazed upon her remorselessly and she sensed Alleyn’s annoyance rising with her own embarrassment. For a moment she felt weakly inclined to giggle.

Alleyn said: “See here, darling, Dr. Baradi thinks that Miss Truebody is extremely ill, dangerously so. He thinks we should let her people know at once.”

“She has no people. She’s only got acquaintances in the Bermudas; I asked. There seems to be nobody at all.”

Baradi said: “In that case…” and moved his head from side to side. He turned to Troy and parodied helplessness with his hands. “So in that direction, we can do nothing.”

“The next thing,” Alleyn said, speaking directly to his wife, “is the business of giving an anaesthetic. We could telephone to a hospital in St. Christophe and try to get someone, but there’s this medical jamboree and in any case it’ll mean a delay of some hours. Or Dr. Baradi can try to get his own anaesthetist to fly from Paris to the nearest airport. More delay and considerable expense. The other way is for me to have a shot at it. Should we take the risk?”

“What,” Troy asked, making herself look at him, “do you think, Dr. Baradi?”

He sat near and a little behind her on the balustrade. His thighs bulged in their sharkskin trousers. “I think it will be less risky if your husband, who is not unfamiliar with the procedure, gives the anaesthetic. Her condition is not good.”

His voice flowed over her shoulder. It was really extraordinary she thought, how he could invest information about peritonitis and ruptured abscesses with such a gross suggestion of flattery. He might have been paying her the most objectionable compliments imaginable.

“Very well,” Alleyn said, “that’s decided, then. But you’ll need other help, won’t you?”

“If possible, two persons. And here we encounter a difficulty.” He moved round behind Troy but spoke to Alleyn. His manner was now authoritative. “I doubt,” he said, “if there is anyone in the house-party who could assist me. It is not every layman who enjoys a visit to an operating theatre. Surgery is not everybody’s cup of tea.” The colloquialism came oddly from him. “I have spoken to our host, of course. He is not yet stirring. He offers every possible assistance and all the amenities of the château with the reservation that he himself shall not be asked to perform an active part. He is,” said Baradi — putting on his sun-glasses —“allergic to blood.”

“Indeed,” said Alleyn politely.

“The rest of our household — we are seven—” Dr. Baradi explained playfully to Troy, “is not yet awake. Mr. Oberon gave a party here last night. Some friends with a yacht in port. We were immeasurably gay and kept going till five o’clock. Mr. Oberon has a genius for parties and a passion for charades. They were quite wonderful, our charades.” Troy was about to give a little ejaculation, which she immediately checked. He beamed at her. “I was cast for one of King Solomon’s concubines. And we had the Queen of Sheba, you know. She stabbed Solomon’s favourite wife. It was all a little strenuous. I don’t think any of my friends will be in good enough form to help us. Indeed, I doubt if any of them, even at the top of his or her form, would care to offer for the role. I don’t know if you have met any of them. Grizel Locke, perhaps? The Honourable Grizel Locke?”

The Alleyns said they did not know Miss Locke.

“What about the servants?” Alleyn suggested. Troy was all too easily envisaging Dr. Baradi as one of King Solomon’s concubines.

“One of the men is a possibility. He is my personal attendant and valet and is not quite unfamiliar with surgical routine. He will not lose his head. Any of the others would almost certainly be worse than useless. So we need one other, you see.”

A silence fell upon them, broken at last by Troy.

“I know,” she said, “what Dr. Baradi is going to suggest.” Alleyn looked fixedly at her and raised his left eyebrow.

“It’s quite out of the question. You well know that you’re punctually sick at the sight of blood, my darling.”

Troy, who was nothing of the sort, said: “In that case I’ve no suggestions. Unless you’d like to appeal to cousin Garbel.”

There was a moment of silence.

“To whom?” said Baradi softly.

“I’m afraid I was being facetious,” Troy mumbled.

Alleyn said: “What about our driver? He seems a hardy, intelligent sort of chap. What would he have to do?”

“Fetch and carry,” Dr. Baradi said. He was looking thoughtfully at Troy. “Count sponges. Hand instruments. Clean up. Possibly, in an emergency, play a minor role as unqualified assistant.”

“I’ll speak to him. If he seems at all possible I’ll bring him in to see you. Would you like to stroll back to the car with me, darling?”

“Please don’t disturb yourselves,” Dr. Baradi begged them. “One of the servants will fetch your man.”

Troy knew that her husband was in two minds about this suggestion and also about leaving her to cope with Dr. Baradi. She said: “You go, Rory, will you? I’m longing for my sunglasses and they’re locked away in my dressing-case.”

She gave him her keys and a ferocious smile. “I think, perhaps, I’ll have a look at Miss Truebody,” she added.

He grimaced at her and walked out quickly.

Troy went to Ricky. She touched his forehead and found it moist. His sleep was profound and when she opened the front of his shirt he did not stir. She stayed, lightly swinging the seat, and watched him, and she thought with tenderness that he was her defense in a stupid situation which fatigue and a confusion of spirit, brought about by many untoward events, had perhaps created in her imagination. It was ridiculous, she thought, to feel anything but amused by her embarrassment. She knew that Baradi watched her and she turned and faced him.

“If there is anything I can do before I go,” she said and kept her voice down because of Ricky, “I hope you’ll tell me.”

It was a mistake to speak softly. He at once moved towards her and, with an assumption of intimacy, lowered his own voice. “But how helpful!” he said. “So we shall have you with us for a little longer? That is good: though it should not be to perform these unlovely tasks.”

“I hope I’m equal to them.” She moved away from Ricky and raised her voice. “What are they?”

“She must be prepared for the operation.”

He told her what should be done and explained that she would find everything she needed for her purpose in Miss Truebody’s bathroom. In giving these specifically clinical instructions, he reverted to his professional manner, but with an air of amusement that she found distasteful. When he had finished she said: “Then I’ll get her fixed now, shall I?”

“Yes,” he agreed, more to himself than to her. “Yes, certainly, we shouldn’t delay too long.” And seeing a look of preoccupation and responsibility on his face, she left him, disliking him less in that one moment than at any time since they had met. As she went down the stone stairway she thought: “Thank heaven, at least, for the Queen of Sheba.”

ii

Alleyn found their driver in his vest and trousers on the running-board of the car. A medallion of St. Christopher dangled from a steel chain above the mat of hair on his chest. He was exchanging improper jokes with a young woman and two small boys, who, when he rose to salute his employer, drifted away without embarrassment. He gave Alleyn a look that implied a common understanding of women, and opened the car door.

Alleyn said: “We’re not going yet. What is your name?”

“Raoul, Monsieur. Raoul Milano.”

“You’ve been a soldier, perhaps?”

“Yes, Monsieur. I am thirty-three and therefore I have seen some service.”

“So your stomach is not easily outraged, then; by a show of blood, for instance? By a formidable wound, shall we say?”

“I was a medical orderly, Monsieur. My stomach also is an old campaigner.”

“Excellent! I have a job for you, Raoul. It is to assist Dr. Baradi, the gentleman you have already seen. He is about to remove Mademoiselle’s appendix and since we cannot find a second doctor, we must provide unqualified assistants. If you will help us there may be a little reward and certainly there will be much grace in performing this service. What do you say?”

Raoul looked down at his blunt hands and then up at Alleyn: “I say yes, M’sieur. As you suggest, it is an act of grace and in any case one may as well do something.”

“Good. Come along, then.” Alleyn had found Troy’s sunglasses. He and Raoul turned towards the passage, Raoul slinging his coat across his shoulders with the grace of a ballet dancer.

“So you live down in Roqueville?” Alleyn asked.

“In Roqueville, M’sieur. My parents have a little café, not at all smart, but the food is good and I also hire myself out in my car, as you see.”

“You’ve been up to the château before, of course?”

“Certainly. For little expeditions and also to drive guests and sometimes tourists. As a rule Mr. Oberon sends a car for his guests.” He waved a hand at a row of garage-doors, incongruously set in a rocky face at the back of the platform. “His cars are magnificent.”

Alleyn said: “The Commissaire at the Préfecture sent you to meet us, I think?”

“That is so, M’sieur.”

“Did he give you my name?”

“Yes, M’sieur l’Inspector-en-Chef. It is Ahrr-lin. But he said that M’sieur l’Inspecteur would prefer, perhaps, that I did not use his rank.”

“I would greatly prefer it, Raoul.”

“It is already forgotten, M’sieur.”

“Again, good.”

They passed the cave-like room, where the woman sat among her figurines. Raoul hailed her in a cheerful manner and she returned his greeting. “You must bring your gentleman in to see my statues,” she shouted. He called back over his shoulder “All in good time, Marie,” and added, “She is an artist, that one. Her saints are pretty and of assistance in one’s devotions; but then she overcharges ridiculously, which is not so amusing.”

He sang a stylish little cadence and tilted up his head. They were walking beneath a part of the Château de la Chèvre d’Argent that straddled the passage-way. “It goes everywhere, this house,” he remarked. “One would need a map to find one’s way from the kitchen to the best bedroom. Anything might happen.”

When they reached the entrance he stood aside and took off his chauffeur’s cap. They found Dr. Baradi in the hall. Alleyn told him that Raoul had been a medical orderly and Baradi at once described the duties he would be expected to perform. His manner was cold and uncompromising. Raoul gave him his full attention. He stood easily, his thumbs crooked in his belt. He retained at once his courtesy, his natural grace of posture, and his air of independence.

“Well,” Baradi said sharply when he had finished: “Are you capable of this work?”

“I believe so, M’sieur le Docteur.”

“If you prove to be satisfactory, you will be given 500 francs. That is extremely generous payment for unskilled work.”

“As to payment, M’sieur le Docteur,” Raoul said, “I am already employed by this gentleman and consider myself entirely at his disposal. It is at his request that I engage myself in this task.”

Baradi raised his eyebrows and looked at Alleyn. “Evidently an original,” he said in English. “He seems tolerably intelligent but one never knows. Let us hope that he is at least not too stupid. My man will give him suitable clothes and see that he is clean.”

He went to the fireplace and pulled a tapestry bell-rope. “Mrs. Allen,” he said, “is most kindly preparing our patient. There is a room at your disposal and I venture to lend you one of my gowns. It will, I’m afraid, be terribly voluminous but perhaps some adjustment can be made. We are involved in compromise, isn’t it?”

A man wearing the dress of an Egyptian house-servant came in. Baradi spoke to him in his own language, and then to Raoul in French: “Go with Mahomet and prepare yourself in accordance with his instructions. He speaks French.” Raoul acknowledged this direction with something between a bow and a nod. He said to Alleyn: “Monsieur will perhaps excuse me?” and followed the servant, looking about the room with interest as he left it.

Baradi said: “Italian blood there, I think. One comes across these hybrids along the coast. May I show you to my room?”

It was in the same passage as Miss Truebody’s, but a little further along it. In Alleyn the trick of quick observation was a professional habit. He saw not only the general sumptuousness of the room but the details also: the Chinese wallpaper, a Wu Tao-tzu scroll, a Ming vase.

“This,” Dr. Baradi needlessly explained, “is known as the Chinese room but, as you will observe, Mr. Oberon does not hesitate to introduce modulation. The bureau is by Vernis-Martin.”

“A modulation, as you say, but an enchanting one. The cabinet there is a bolder departure. It looks like a Mussonier.”

“One of his pupils, I understand. You have a discerning eye. Mr. Oberon will be delighted.”

A gown was laid out on the bed. Baradi took it up. “Will you try this? There is an unoccupied room next door with access to a bathroom. You have time for a bath and will, no doubt, be glad to take one. Since morphine has been given there is no immediate urgency, but I should prefer all the same to operate as soon as possible. When you are ready, my own preparations will be complete and we can discuss final arrangements.”

Alleyn said: “Dr. Baradi, we haven’t said anything about your fee for the operation: indeed, it is neither my business nor my wife’s, but I do feel some concern about it. I imagine Miss Truebody will at least be able…”

Baradi held up his hand. “Let us not discuss it,” he said. “Let us assume that it is of no great moment.”

“If you prefer to do so.” Alleyn hesitated and then added: “This is an extraordinary situation. You will, I’m sure, realize that we are reluctant to take such a grave responsibility. Miss Truebody is a complete stranger to us. You yourself must feel it would be much more satisfactory if there was a relation or friend from whom we could get some kind of authority. Especially as her illness is so serious.”

“I agree. However, she would undoubtedly die if the operation was not performed and, in my opinion, would be in the gravest danger if it was unduly postponed. As it is, I’m afraid there is a risk, a great risk, that she will not recover. We can,” Baradi added, with what Alleyn felt was a genuine, if controlled, anxiety, “only do our best and hope that all may be well.”

And on this note Alleyn turned to go. As he was in the doorway Baradi, with a complete change of manner, said: “Your enchanting wife is with her. Third door on the left. Quite enchanting. Delicious, if you will permit me.”

Alleyn looked at him and found what he saw offensive.

“Under these unfortunate circumstances,” he said politely, “I can’t do anything else.”

Evidently Dr. Baradi chose to regard this observation as a pleasantry. He laughed richly. “Delicious!” he repeated, but whether in reference to Alleyn’s comment or as a reiterated observation upon Troy it was impossible to determine. Alleyn, who had every reason and no inclination for keeping his temper, walked into the next room.

iii

Troy had carried out her instructions and Miss Truebody had slipped again into sleep. The sound of her breathing cut the silence into irregular intervals. Her eyes were not quite closed. Segments of the eyeballs appeared under the pathetic insufficiency of her lashes. Troy was at once unwilling to leave her and anxious to return to Ricky. She heard Alleyn and Dr. Baradi in the passage. Their voices were broken off by a door slam and again there was only Miss Truebody’s breathing. Troy waited, hoping that Alleyn knew where she was and would come to her. After what seemed an interminable interval there was a tap at the door. She opened it and he was there in a white gown looking tall, elegant and angry. Troy shut the door behind her and they whispered together in the passage.

“Rum go,” he said, “isn’t it?”

“Not ’alf. When do you begin?”

“Soon. He’s trying to make himself aseptic. A losing battle, I should think.”

“Frightful, isn’t he?”

“The bottom. I’m sorry, darling, you have to suffer his atrocious gallantries.”

“Well, I daresay they’re just elaborate Oriental courtesy, or something.”

“Elaborate bloody impertinence.”

“Never mind, Rory. I’ll skip out of his way.”

“I shouldn’t have brought you to this damn place.”

“Fiddle! In any case he’s going to be too busy.”

“Is she asleep?”

“Sort of. I don’t like to leave her, but suppose Ricky should wake?”

“Go up to him. I’ll stay with her. Baradi’s going to give her an injection before I get going with the ether. And, Troy—”

“Yes?”

“It’s important these people don’t get a line on who I am.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t told you anything about them, but I think I’ll have to come moderately clean when there’s a chance. It’s a rum setup. I’ll get you out of it as soon as possible.”

“I’m not worrying now we know about the charades. Funny! You said there might be an explanation, but we never thought of charades, did we?”

“No,” Allcyn said, “we didn’t, did we?” and suddenly kissed her. “Now, I suppose I’ll have to wash again,” he added.

Raoul came down the passage with Baradi’s servant. They were carrying the improvised stretcher and were dressed in white overalls.

Raoul said: “Madame!” to Troy, and to Alleyn, “It appears, Monsieur, that M. le Docteur orders Mademoiselle to be taken to the operating room. Is that convenient for Monsieur?”

“Of course. We are under Dr. Baradi’s orders.”

“Authority,” Raoul observed, “comes to roost on strange perches, Monsieur.”

“That,” Alleyn said, “will do.”

Raoul grinned and opened the door. They took the stretcher in and laid it on the floor by the bed. When they lifted her down to it, Miss Truebody opened her eyes and said distinctly: “But I would prefer to stay in bed.” Raoul deftly tucked blankets under her. She began to wail dismally.

Troy said: “It’s all right, dear. You’ll be all right,” and thought: “But I never call people dear!”

They carried Miss Truebody into the room across the passage and put her on the table by the window. Troy went with them, holding her hand. The window coverings had been removed and a hard glare beat down on the table. The room still reeked of disinfectant. There was a second table on which a number of objects were now laid out. Troy, after one glance, did not look at them again. She held Miss Truebody’s hand and stood between her and the instrument table. A door in the wall facing her opened and Baradi appeared against a background of bathroom. He wore his gown and a white cap. Their austerity of design emphasized the opulence of his nose and eyes and teeth. He had a hypodermic syringe in his left hand.

“So, after all, you are to assist me?” he murmured to Troy. But it was obvious that he didn’t entertain any such notion.

Still holding the flaccid hand, she said: “I thought perhaps I should stay with her until…”

“But of course! Please remain a little longer.” He began to give instructions to Alleyn and the two men. He spoke in French presumably, Troy thought, to spare Miss Truebody’s feelings. “I am left-handed,” he said. “If I should ask for anything to be handed to me you will please remember that. Now, Mr. Allen, we will show you your equipment, isn’t it? Milano!” Raoul brought a china dish from the instrument table. It had a bottle and a hand towel on it. Alleyn looked at it and nodded. “Parfaitement,” he said.

Baradi took Miss Truebody’s other hand and pushed up the long sleeve of her nightgown. She stared at him and her mouth worked soundlessly.

Troy saw the needle slide in. The hand she held flickered momentarily and relaxed.

“It is fortunate,” Baradi said as he withdrew the needle, “that this little Dr. Claudel had Pentothal. A happy coincidence.”

He raised Miss Truebody’s eyelid. The pupil was out of sight. “Admirable,” he said. “Now, Mr. Allen, we will, in a moment or two, induce a more profound anaesthesia which you will continue. I shall scrub up and in a few minutes more we begin operations.” He smiled at Troy, who was already on the way to the door. “One of our party will join you presently on the roof-garden. Miss Locke; the Honourable Grizel Locke. I believe she has a vogue in England. Quite mad, but utterly charming.”

Troy’s last impression of the room, a vivid one, was of Baradi, enormous in his white gown and cap, of Alleyn standing near the table and smiling at her, of Raoul and the Egyptian servant waiting near the instruments, and of Miss Truebody’s wide-open mouth and of the sound of her breathing. Then the door shut off the picture as abruptly as the tunnel had shut off her earlier glimpse into a room in the Chèvre d’Argent.

“Only that time—” Troy told herself, as she made her way back to the roof-garden —“it was only a charade.”