Part 24 (1/2)

”Hah! Who with? Who's left? You?”

”I can make it worth your while. I know who b.u.g.g.e.red up your stars, Mrs Archer.”

”Eh?”

”Atwood said you were very old, and very strong. Are you stronger than Lord Podmore?”

”That boy? Hmm. Perhaps.” She motioned for her son to put Arthur down.

”Yes or no, Mrs Archer?”

”Don't hurry an old woman. I'm thinking.”

The Savoy Hotel, which had opened only a few years previously, was currently among the most fas.h.i.+onable and exclusive establishments in London, boasting electric lighting, American elevators, the finest chefs that could be poached from Paris, and so on, and so on. Arthur's clothes were in such a shocking state that he would be lucky to be permitted to beg outside the gates.

He entered the courtyard by the carriage entrance, off Savoy Hill, slipping between two large black carriages and then following in the footsteps of a busy-looking footman, adopting the footman's purposeful stride: long-legged, youthful, a very particular combination of awkwardness and self-important swagger. Atwood had once told Arthur that walking in a man's shoes was half-way to being him. We are nothing but the sum of our motions, Atwood said. Atwood ill.u.s.trated that theory by copying Arthur's gait as they walked side by side along the Embankment, then dropping suddenly to his knees, causing Arthur to stumble and knock his head on a lamppost.

n.o.body looked twice at him as he crossed the courtyard. He might as well have been the young footman's shadow. Busy servants crossed his path as if he weren't there. Young lovers idling by the fountain glanced at him, untroubled, as if he didn't in the slightest blemish the beauty of the courtyard-which was all soft evening shadows, white brick, fragrant flowers, glinting pearls and turquoises. There were a thousand eyes on the balconies above and n.o.body cried out, Who the devil is that?

A magician is at home everywhere, Atwood used to say. A magician is at home among kings and princes; a magician is at home on Mars. That was easy for His Lords.h.i.+p to say.

At the last moment, just as the footman was about to go inside, Arthur couldn't resist an experiment. He reached up and scratched his head.

The footman stopped in the doorway. He s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot. He dropped one of the bags, took off his hat, and scratched crossly at his hair.

The footman stepped into an elevator and disappeared. Arthur strode directly through the ante-room, past fireplaces and two huge potted palms, into the restaurant, then across the big dining room to a table not far from the south-western quarter of the room, where Lord Podmore sat with George and two men Arthur didn't know. According to George, one of them would be an American stockbroker by the name of Frisch, the other a publisher by the name of Snaith.

They had not yet begun to eat.

”Podmore!” Arthur said. ”What a pleasure to see you here. And George, and Mr Snaith and Mr Frisch.”

A waiter in a white ap.r.o.n moved smoothly into view. Arthur commanded him to bring a chair, so that he could join his friends at their table.

”Arthur?” George said. He had a confused half-smile.

Podmore had been in the middle of an anecdote, or a joke, leaning back expansively with one hand on his enormous belly. Now he watched Arthur with curiosity, and perhaps just a sliver of wariness.

”I'm terribly sorry,” George said. ”This is Arthur Shaw. He's a friend of mine, and I'm afraid he's had a terrible run of bad luck lately-his fiancee is-ah ... Arthur, now is not the time.”

The waiter hovered uncertainly. He looked from Arthur to George to Podmore, who remained silent and still.

Arthur indicated to the waiter where he wanted the chair to be placed, across the table from Podmore. The waiter dithered. Arthur looked at him patiently. A magician is nothing more than a man who expects his orders to be obeyed, as Atwood was fond of saying.

At last Podmore nodded very slightly. The waiter breathed a sigh of relief and rushed off to find a chair.

Arthur considered that a draw.

Podmore nodded to Arthur. ”h.e.l.lo, Mr Shaw.”

”h.e.l.lo, Your Lords.h.i.+p.”

Poor George looked confused, and very uncomfortable.

”Arthur! You know His Lords.h.i.+p?”

”I might ask you the same question,” Podmore said. ”But everyone seems to know everyone these days. Yes: Arthur Shaw and I have met. A bright young man. I was so terribly sorry to hear about Josephine.”

”Your Lords.h.i.+p is too kind.”

”You have mud on your shoes,” Podmore observed.

”I had business out in the country,” Arthur said.

George tried frantically to meet Arthur's eye.

Arthur had a good view of the restaurant, and in particular the entrance and the lobby beyond it. At his back-it gave him a certain confidence-was a pillar, broad at its base and surrounded by a little pyramid of shelves laden with fine china and bottles of dozens of kinds of liquor. Above the shelves shone a row of electrical lights. The pillar, every other pillar in the great room, and every wall, was panelled with ornately carved mahogany. Heavy carved beams part.i.tioned the ceiling into squares of gold and red. In the distance, a tremendous painting dominated the scene, depicting Captain Cook encountering unfriendly natives under a stormy tropical sky. It was a Monday evening and the restaurant was perhaps not quite at the height of glamour that it was said to reach on Sundays, but it was still very busy: at the tables around them were dowager dames in pearls and rubies, and famous actors, and magnates of steel and s.h.i.+pping, and no doubt a smattering of Balkan princes or globe-trotting American heiresses.

Podmore reached for his wine-gla.s.s. Arthur noticed with satisfaction that he was favouring his left hand-his right appeared to have been hurt.

The man on Arthur's right-a stocky middle-aged gentleman with a thick moustache and rather rough-hewn features-opened his mouth and proved to be the American, Frisch. ”If you don't mind my asking, Your Lords.h.i.+p, what's all this about?”

”I expect young Mr Shaw wants to talk about his unfortunate fiancee's condition-when last we met I indicated I might be able to help her. I thought I might recommend him to my good friend Doctor Thorold, but there's been some unfortunate news from that quarter too-had you heard, Mr Shaw?”

Arthur extended a hand to the American. ”h.e.l.lo, Mr Frisch. I'm Arthur Shaw. I hear you're an American. Are you from Boston?”

”New York.”

”I say. How exciting.”

”It sure is, isn't it?”

Frisch seemed to sense conflict brewing, and found it amusing. The other man, who had to be Snaith, was keeping his mouth shut, presumably because he didn't understand the situation and was anxious to not somehow offend Podmore.

”Arthur,” George said. ”I don't know what-”

”George, I think it would be a very good idea if you left now.”

”No,” Podmore said. ”Stay.”

”George,” Arthur said. ”You've always been very kind to me, and I'm very grateful, and I'm very sorry. I hope you'll trust me when I say that it's very important that you leave at once. You too, Mr Frisch. Snaith.”

”This is very silly,” Podmore said. ”You are causing a very silly scene, Arthur. We were talking business. George, sit down.”

The waiter brought a gla.s.s, and attempted to pour Arthur wine, but Podmore glanced at him, raised an imperious eyebrow, and the poor fellow stumbled and spilled wine all over Arthur's coat.

”Quite all right,” Arthur a.s.sured him. ”Quite all right.” He shrugged off the coat and gave it to the waiter to take away, and faced Podmore in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves.