Photo Finish

Mr. Reece, standing with authority on his own hearthrug, had not attempted to stem the tide of his dear one’s wrath nor was it possible to guess at his reaction to it. Rupert sat with his head in his hands, raising it momentarily to present a stricken face.

“I’m so sorry,” Alleyn said; “I’ve blundered in with what is clearly an inappropriate message.”

“Don’t go,” said Mr. Reece. “A message? For me?”

“For Bartholomew. From your secretary.”

“Yes? He had better hear it.”

Alleyn delivered it. Rupert was wanted to set the lights.

Mr. Reece asked coldly, “Will you do this? Or is it going too far to expect it?”

Rupert got to his feet. “Well,” he asked Alleyn, “what do you think, now? Do you say I should refuse?”

Alleyn said: “I’m not sure. It’s a case of divided loyalties, isn’t it?”

“I would have thought,” said Mr. Reece, “that any question of loyalty was entirely on one side. To whom is he loyal if he betrays his patrons?”

“Oh,” Alleyn said, “to his art.”

“According to him, he has no ‘art.’ ”

“I’m not sure,” Alleyn said slowly, “whether, in making his decision, it really matters. It’s a question of aesthetic integrity.”

Rupert was on his feet and walking toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Reece said sharply.

“To set the lights. I’ve decided,” said Rupert loudly. “I can’t stick this out any longer. I’m sorry I’ve given so much trouble. I’ll see it through.”

ii

When Alleyn went up to their room in search of Troy, he found her still suffering from jet lag, fast asleep on their enormous bed. At a loose end, and worried about Rupert Bartholomew’s sudden capitulation, Alleyn returned downstairs. He could hear voices in the drawing room and concert chamber. Outside the house, a stronger wind had got up.

Midway down the hall, opposite the dining room, there was a door which Mr. Reece had indicated as opening into the library. Alleyn thought he would find himself something to read and went in.

It might have been created by a meticulous scene painter for an Edwardian drama. Uniform editions rose in irremovable tiers from floor to ceiling, the result, Alleyn supposed, of some mass-ordering process: classics, biographies, and travel. There was a section devoted to contemporary novels, each a virgin in its unmolested jacket. There was an assembly of “quality” productions that would have broken the backs of elephantine coffee tables, and there were orderly stacks of the most popular weeklies.

He wandered along the ranks at a loss for a good read and high up in an ill-lit corner came upon a book that actually bore signs of usage. It was unjacketed and the spine was rubbed. He drew it out and opened it at the title page.

Il Mistero da Bianca Rossi, by Pietro Lamparelli. Alleyn didn’t read Italian with the complete fluency that alone gives easy pleasure but the title was an intriguing surprise. He allowed the half-title page to flip over and there on the flyleaf in sharp irregular characters was the owner’s name, M. V. Rossi.

He settled down to read it.

An hour later he went upstairs and found Troy awake and refreshed.

The opera, a one-acter which lasted only an hour, was to begin at eight o’clock. It would be prefaced by light snacks with drinks and followed by a grand di

“Do you suppose,” Troy wondered, as they dressed, “that a reconciliation has taken place?”

“I’ve no idea. She may go for a magnificent acceptance of his surrender or she may not be able to do herself out of the passionate rapture bit. My bet would be that she’s too professional to allow herself to be upset before a performance.”

“I wish he hadn’t given in.”

“He’s made the harder choice, darling.”

“I suppose so. But if she does take him back — it’s not a pretty thought.”

“I don’t think he’ll go. I think he’ll pack his bags and go back to teaching the piano and playing with his small Sydney group and doing a little typing on the side.”

“Signor Lattienzo did say there were two or three signs of promise in the opera.”

“Did he? If he’s right, the more shame on that termagant for what she’s done to the boy.”

They were silent for a little while after this and then Troy said: “Is there a window open? It’s turned chilly, hasn’t it?”

“I’ll look.”

The curtains had been closed for the night. Alleyn parted them, and discovered an open window. It was still light outside. The wind had got up strongly now; there was a great pother of hurrying clouds in the sky and a wide vague sound abroad in the evening.

“It’s brewing up out there,” Alleyn said. “The Lake’s quite rough.” He shut the window.

“Not much fun for the guests going home,” said Troy and then: “I’ll be glad, won’t you, when this party’s over?”

“Devoutly glad.”

“Watching that wretched boy’s ordeal, it’ll be like sitting out an auto-da-fé,” she said.

“Would you like to have a migraine? I’d make it sound convincing.”

“No. He’d guess. So, oh Lord, would she.”

“I’m afraid you’re right. Should we go down, now, darling, to our champagne and snacks?”

“I expect so. Rory, your peculiar mission seems to have got mislaid, doesn’t it? I’d almost forgotten about it. Do you, by any chance, suppose Mr. Reece to be a ‘Godfather’ with an infamous Sicilian ‘Family’ background?”

“He’s a cold enough fish to be anything but—” Alleyn hesitated for a moment. “No,” he said. “So far, there’s been nothing to report. I shall continue to accept his hospitality and will no doubt return empty-handed to my blasted boss. I’ve little stomach for the job, and that’s a fact. If it wasn’t for you, my particular dish, and your work in hand, I’d have even less. Come on.”

Notwithstanding the absence of Rupert and all the performers, the drawing room was crowded. About thirty guests had arrived by devious means and were being introduced to each other by Mr. Reece and his secretary. There were top people from the Arts Council, various conductors and a selection of indigenous critics, notably a prestigious authority from the New Zealand Listener. Conspicuous among the distinguished guests from abroad was a large rubicund man with drooping eyelids and a dictatorial nose: Sir David Baumgartner, the celebrated critic and musicologist. He was in close conversation with Signor Lattienzo, who, seeing the Alleyns, gave them one of his exuberant bows, obviously told Sir David who they were, and propelled him toward them.

Sir David told Troy that it really was a great honor and a delightful surprise to meet her and asked if it could be true that she was going to paint the Great Lady. He chaffed Alleyn along predictable lines, saying that they would all have to keep their noses clean, wouldn’t they? He spoke gravely of the discomforts of his journey. It had come upon him, to put it bluntly, at a most inconvenient time and if it had been anybody else— here he gave them a roguish glance — he wouldn’t have dreamed of — he need say no more. The implication clearly was that The Alien Corn had better be good.

Lobster sandwiches, pâté, and miniature concoctions of the kind known to Mr. Justice Shallow as “pretty little tiny kickshaws” were handed round and champagne galore. Sir David sipped, raised his eyebrows and was quickly ready for a refill. So were all the new arrivals. Conversation grew noisy.

“Softening-up process,” Alleyn muttered.

And indeed by ten minutes to eight all signs of travel fatigue had evaporated and when Marco, who had been much in evidence, tinkled up and down on a little xylophone, he was obliged to do so for some time like a ship’s steward walking down corridors with a summons to di

Ben Ruby and Mr. Reece began a tactful herding toward the concert chamber.

The doors were open. The audience assembled itself.