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Further melodious hoots, this time of laughter, greeted the far from brilliant sally. Alleyn was playfully chided.
They were checked by the entry at the far end of the room of another steward-like personage, who a
The man bowed slightly and returned to the doors.
The guests were already in motion and the scene now resembled the close of the first act of an Edwardian comedy, voices pitched rather high, movements studied, the sense, even, of some approach to a climax which would develop in the next act.
It developed, however, there and then. The bass, Mr. Era Johnstone, said in his enormous voice: “Do I see the evening paper? It will have the results of the Spring Cup, won’t it?”
“I should imagine so,” said Mr. Reece. “Why?”
“We had a sweep on Top Note. It seemed a clear indication,” and he boomed up the room. “Everybody! The Cup!”
The procession halted. They all chattered in great excitement but were, as actors say, “topped” by the Sommita, demanding to see the paper there and then. Alleyn saw the secretary, who looked agitated, trying to reach the servant, but the Sommita had already seized the newspaper and flapped it open.
The scene that followed bore for three or four seconds a farfetched resemblance to an abortive ruck in Rugby football. The guests, still talking eagerly, surged round the prima do
Across the front page of the paper a ba
“Sommita says NO FALSIES.”
And underneath:
“Signed statement: by famous prima do
Boxed in a heavy outline, at the center of the page, were about nine lines of typescript and beneath them the enormous signature,
“Isabella Sommita.”
iii
Di
Her professional associates were less discomforted, the Alleyns afterward agreed, than a lay audience would have been and indeed seemed more or less to take her passion in their stride, occasionally contributing inflammatory remarks while Signor Rodolfo, who was on her left, made wide ineffable gestures and, when he managed to get hold of it, kissed her hand. Alleyn was on her right. He was frequently appealed to and came in for one or two excruciating prods in the ribs as she drove home her points. He was conscious that Troy had her eyes on him and, when he got the chance, made a lightning grimace of terror at her. He saw she was on the threshold of giggles.
Troy was on Mr. Reece’s right. He seemed to think that in the midst of this din he was under an obligation to make conversation and remarked upon the lack of journalistic probity in Australia. The offending newspaper, it seemed, was an Australian weekly with a wide circulation in New Zealand.
When the port had been put before him and his dear one had passed for the time being into a baleful silence, he suggested tonelessly that the ladies perhaps wished to withdraw.
The Sommita made no immediate response, and a tricky hiatus occurred during which she glowered at the table. Troy thought, Oh, to hell with all this, and stood up. Hilda Dancy followed with alacrity and so after a moment’s hesitation did wide-eyed Sylvia Parry. The men got to their feet.
The Sommita rose, assumed the posture of a Cassandra about to give tongue, appeared to change her mind, and said she was going to bed.
About twenty minutes later Alleyn found himself closeted in a room that looked like the setting for a science-fiction film but was Mr. Reece’s study. With him were Mr. Reece himself, Mr. Ben Ruby, Rupert Bartholomew, and the straw-colored secretary, whose name turned out to be Hanley.
The infamous sheet of newsprint was laid out on a table around which the men had gathered. They read the typewritten letter reproduced in the central box.
To The Editor
The Watchman
Sir: I wish, through your column, to repudiate utterly an outrageous calumny which is circulating in this country. I wish to state, categorically, that I have no need of, and therefore have never resorted to, cosmetic surgery or to artificial embellishment of any kind whatsoever. I am, and I present myself to my public, as God made me. Thank you.
Isabella Sommita.
(Picture on page 30)
“And you tell me,” Alleyn said, “that the whole thing is a forgery?”
“You bet it’s a forgery,” said Ben Ruby. “Would she ever help herself to a plateful of poisonous publicity! My God, this is going to make her the big laugh of a lifetime over in Aussie. And it’ll spread overseas, you better believe it.”
“Have there in fact been any rumors, any gossip of this sort?”
“Not that we have knowledge of,” said Mr. Reece. “And if it had been at all widespread, we certainly would have heard. Wouldn’t we, Ben?”
“Well, face it, old boy, anyone that’s seen her would know it was silly. I meantersay, look at her cleavage? Speaks for itself.” Mr. Ruby turned to Alleyn. “You’ve seen. You couldn’t miss it. She’s got the best twin set you’re likely to meet in a lifetime. Beautiful! Here! Take a look at this picture.”
He turned to page 30 and flattened it out. The “picture” was a photograph of the Sommita in profile with her head thrown back, her hands behind her resting on a table and taking the weight. She was in character as Carmen, and an artificial rose was clenched between her teeth. She was powerfully décolletée and although at first glance there seemed to be no doubt of the authenticity of the poitrine, on closer examination there were certain curious little marks in that region suggestive of surgical scars. The legend beneath read, “Seeing’s believing!”
“She never liked that picture,” Mr. Ruby said moodily. “Never. But the press did, so we kept it in the handouts. Here!” he exclaimed, jamming a forefinger at it. “Here take a look at this, will you? This has been interfered with. This has been touched up. This has been tinkered with. Those scars are phony.”
Alleyn examined it. “I think you’re right,” he said and turned back to the front page.
“Mr. Hanley,” he said, “do you think that typewriter could have been one belonging to anybody in Madame Sommita’s immediate circle? Can you tell that?”
“Oh? Oh!” said the secretary and stooped over the paper.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “it wasn’t typed on my machine.” He laughed uncomfortably. “I can promise you that much,” he said. “I wouldn’t know about hers. How about it, Rupert?”