He returned a moment later and put a strip of plaster on it. ‘There,’ he said, patting my shoulder. ‘It’s only a surface cut and a bit of bruising. Sorry it didn’t come off, that break for freedom of yours. It was a good try.’
‘It was rather a futile effort,’ I apologised.
‘Unnecessary, shall we say.’ He grinned cheerfully. ‘Still, you weren’t to know that.’
‘You mean, you knew the gold wouldn’t be in those boxes?’ I asked.
‘Shall we say I had a shrewd suspicion.’ He lit a cigarette and as he watched the flame of the match die out, he said, ‘The man we need to watch now is our friend Keramikos. He is a much more subtle character than Mayne. And he thinks that we know where the gold is.’
‘And — do we?’ I asked.
He smiled then. ‘The less you know about it the better,’ he replied good-humouredly. ‘Come down and have a drink. We’re going to get plastered tonight. And see that you get as drunk as I do.’
It was a macabre sort of evening. Engles was at his wittiest, telling anecdote after anecdote of film stars he had known, directors he had got the better of, cocktail parties that had ended in rows. He worked like a street vendor to spread a veneer of cheerfulness over his audience. At first the audience was myself only. But then he brought Joe out of his Western and smoothed his ruffled feathers. And when Keramikos joined us, there was only Mayne left outside the little group by the bar.
That was what Engles had been playing for. Mayne went over to the piano and bull-dozed his way through a sonorous piece of Bach. It was a vicious piece of playing. The old piano cried aloud his mood of frustration and impotent anger.
And Engles talked through it until he had us all roaring with laughter. It was a forced gaiety in that it was produced intentionally by wit and cognac. But the laughter was real. And that was what eventually got Mayne. It took away his authority. It undermined his confidence. He wasn’t sure of himself now that he had failed to find the gold. With a gun in his hand and everybody doing what they were told, he could still have bolstered up his self-esteem. But to be ignored! To see the rest of us in such apparently hilarious spirits. It was too much for him. He suddenly crashed his hands on to the keys and stood up. ‘Stop laughing!’ he shouted.
‘Ignore him,’ Engles whispered. And he went on talking. We began to laugh again.
‘Stop it, do you hear?’
Engles turned. He was swaying slightly. ‘S-shtop what, sir?’ he asked blandly.
‘Go and sit down by the fire and stop that noise,’ Mayne ordered.
‘What noise? Do you hear a noise, Neil?’ He turned in a dignified manner to Mayne. ‘No noise here, old man. Must be the piano.’
I glanced at Mayne this time. He was white with anger. But he hesitated. He didn’t know what line to take. ‘Engles!’ he said. ‘Go and sit down.’
‘Oh, go to hell!’ was all the reply he got.
His hand went to the pocket where his gun was. But he stopped. He stood there for a moment, looking at us and biting his lip. Then he sat down at the piano again.
Shortly after this Anna came in with the dinner things. Engles looked at the three of us. ‘Don’t want any food, do we? I don’t mind, eat if you want to. But I’m all for keeping straight on drinking. Or suppose we have it on the bar? Then those who want it can pick at it.’ And he gave instructions to Anna to put the food on the bar.
That was the last straw. Mayne either had to get Anna to bring him his food separately or to come over and join us at the bar. He chose the latter course. And shortly after that, he drew Engles on one side. Keramikos was then called over to join them. The consultation lasted only a few minutes. Then the three of them shook hands. I heard Engles say, ‘I think you’re being very sensible, Mayne.’
Mayne went behind the bar then and began to produce a special mixture of his own for us to try. As he stooped to get a bottle, Engles leaned towards me. ‘No shooting. Three-way split.’ And his eyelid flickered with amusement.
‘What about Carla?’ I whispered.
‘No provision made,’ he replied.
Mayne straightened up and began to mix the drinks, using an empty bottle as a shaker. His ease of manner had partly returned. To see him standing there, smiling and talking and busying himself about our drinks, you would have thought him a charming host — possibly a wealthy playboy, perhaps an actor, maybe even an artist, but never a ruthless, coldblooded killer.
