The Case of the Four Friends Page 9

  ‘I made the usual sympathetic sounds and said the obvious things – such troubles usually cleared away, it was ludicrous to think of Charles having done anything wrong; Toby was young, and a quarrel, if one had occurred, would certainly not last; and finally that Charles was sure to benefit from his holiday, and come back in his old form.

  ‘I did not convince her at all. So much was clear to me, but she did fasten on to the holiday.

  ‘ “Yes, I’m more glad than I can say that he’s going again this year on what I call the Boys’ Party – you know he always has that New Year’s party, though it’s not the usual four this time. I was half afraid that he would cancel it when John Cripley had this illness, and it’s always done him so much good. But didn’t you say just now that you were going to the Magnifico – where they’re going – for your own holiday?”

  ‘I nodded assent.

  ‘ “Then, Doctor, you must help me. Everyone trusts you, and I’m sure Charles will tell you what has changed him in this dreadful way. Please, please, talk to him, and talk to Toby, too, and find out what this horrible trouble is. They must face it if it’s a business affair, and if it’s personal, surely they can help one another?”

  ‘Everyone likes to be flattered, and the task did not seem to me, then, to be one of any great difficulty.

  ‘ “Of course I’ll help, Mary,” I said. “You may be quite sure that I’ll soon find out if your fears have any foundation, and if they have, why, I can’t think that we shall not be able to find a plan to solve them. Don’t worry. I promise to do my best, and honestly I don’t think that you need be really anxious about the outcome.”

  ‘So we left it, though I privately told myself that the first thing that I should say to Charles, if he was willing to talk to me, was that he made a big mistake if he tried to conceal anything from his wife. As to the trouble, I felt convinced that it was much less serious than Mary imagined, and I think that I made a sort of preliminary guess that Toby had been a bit more reckless than he should have been, and that the partners had had some sort of disagreement over financial matters. In sum, I did not take the whole affair too seriously, and I flattered myself that I was both tactful and experienced enough to carry out my mission successfully. So, you see, I was “in the picture”, as you would put it, though only in the background, before the case of the four friends actually became a case. If that had not been so I could hardly have treated it as a case for “pre-construction” and still less for “pre-detection”. So there is your answer, Gresham. You can now understand how I came to be mixed up in it all. From now on, gentlemen, Ernst Brendel is an actor in the story as well as the narrator. Oh dear, how difficult this is going to be! I shall have to talk about myself as though I was someone else. I shall have to say “Brendel remarked” or “Brendel looked suspiciously at the last speaker”. I’ll try to remember, but I expect that I shall forget, so remember that from henceforward in my story “Brendel” means “I”, and “I” means “Brendel”. Now you understand how I fitted in, and why I was, so to speak, one of the actors in the drama.’

  Chapter Six

  The Hotel Magnifico certainly deserved its name. The original building had been an eighteenth-century mansion, but this had been swallowed up, or absorbed, as a consequence of the building operations of an Edwardian owner, in whose mind the conception of grandeur was mysteriously but inextricably confused with that of size and opulence. This millionaire, for such he was, had little pretence to good taste and none to knowledge, but he had at least the saving grace of understanding comfort and convenience and was an early believer in the doctrine of ‘one man, one bath’. Nor did he consider that he was properly or even decently housed in accordance with his wealth and station until he had added a billiard-room, a ballroom, and a swimming-bath to his other amenities. When, therefore, the financial crash came which ended his meteoric career, the Magnifico (though that was not then its name) was well-suited to start its career as a luxury hotel (though that was not what such hotels were called at the turn of the century). This was the beginning of the history of the Hotel Magnifico, and it must be admitted that it began with many natural advantages. Its situation was superb, and it was within a short two miles both of the sea and of a famous golf-course; it had some really fine rooms, and it had been planned on generous, even magnificent, lines. In the First War it had become a hospital and had suffered only superficial damage; between the two wars, again a hotel, it had enjoyed something of a reputation as a very large and tolerably comfortable country hotel, but it had not differed in style or type from a dozen others scattered over England. Then came the Second War and a new chapter in the life-history of the Magnifico. It was requisitioned for military purposes, and served at one time as divisional headquarters, at another as the country house of a government department. It was knocked about and battered and adapted and readapted, and finally left as a vast and not very beautiful semi-ruin, waiting with a kind of monstrous patience to be either demolished or restored. So might a wounded whale float helplessly on a calm sea, awaiting the next stroke of fate without power to influence its own destiny.

  But fate is not always malevolent. The Magnifico was bought by a small ring of financiers, and it was bought as a speculation; but the outcome was not that which might have been expected. For in the event the future of the Magnifico was determined by the fact that one of the ring was a certain Oswald Gerard, and that he was not only a shrewd businessman but also a man of vision. Oswald Gerard was his name, but no one had ever called him by it, for one who bore that surname could not escape the sobriquet of the ‘Brigadier’. Through no fault of his own Gerard had not reached the front line in the First War, and indeed he had never heard a shot fired with intent to kill, but the Brigadier he was, and the Brigadier he remained. He had inherited a small fortune from his father, and he had made it into a large one, for he was one of those fortunate persons who can always make money and with whom financial operations always prosper. Both before and after the Second War he was a very wealthy man, and he was engaged in a great many lucrative undertakings. When first he joined the group of men who bought the Magnifico, he regarded the purchase as just another iron in the fire, but he was from the beginning alive to the possibilities of the situation. ‘We have here’, he said to his partners, ‘a goldmine, but we must work it properly and be prepared to wait for our profits. It seems to me that the effects of a long war must inevitably be that more and more people will make use of hotels and public buildings because they cannot keep up their own establishments. Who will ever again be able to run a big house or to pay the staff necessary to run it? Who will be able to entertain in their own houses, much less give balls and dinners and so forth, as in earlier days? Every indication points to the conclusion that more and more social festivities will be held in hotels and not in private houses, and that those who seek comfort and absence of worry and who can afford to pay for these things will tend more and more to stay – and for longer and longer – in comfortable hotels. And, moreover, it is the most important and the most wealthy people who will need luxurious hotels the most. Very well, then – our policy is clear. We have plenty of capital, and we can afford to wait for a return on it. Let us make this the best hotel in England, and let us, if need be, lose thousands or even tens of thousands of pounds over the next few years. I’ll stake my business reputation that in five or six years’ time we shall recover all our losses and be making a handsome profit – but only if we spend freely now, and only if we really make this hotel the very best of its kind. The very rich man of every nation will utterly refuse to pay even as much as he ought for any second best, but, believe me, if you can convince him that you have the very best in the world, he will pay any sum, however fantastic, to secure it. Convince a newly made millionaire that you have the best picture, or the largest diamond, or the most luxurious hotel in the world to offer him, and he’ll pay you the earth.’ That was 1945.

  The argument of the Brigadier prevailed and the new life of
the Magnifico began. It was to be, beyond all question, the best hotel in Britain. Money, energy, and – as its critics alleged – private interest combined to make the project successful, and in a few years the seemingly impossible became almost by magic the accomplished fact. At the time when rival establishments were unable to obtain a licence to add a bathroom or build a playroom, the directors of the Magnifico seemed able in some mysterious way to obtain all that they required. Gradually, too, new attractions were introduced. A prize herd supplied the guests with their milk and cream; tennis and golf professionals at princely salaries instructed the more vigorous visitors in their own games and for exorbitant fees; the hotel orchestra rivalled those of some considerable cities; a chef, lured by the promise of gain from one of the great Parisian restaurants of the past, held sway in the kitchens; the cellar was stocked by careful buying with the most famous wines that money could procure. What the directors spent on the hotel in the first few years was no one’s business but their own; what they drew from it thereafter was still their own business, but was of considerable and gratifying interest to their heirs-at-law.

  It was a favourite saying of the Brigadier’s that a great hotel could not stand on a narrow basis, and what he meant by this cryptic saying soon became apparent. You cannot, he argued, have a really successful hotel if your clientele consists only of pleasure-lovers, of those who come for golf or dancing or dining or the like. From the beginning, therefore, he spread his net as widely as possible. Those in big business were encouraged, and, still more, important foreigners and overseas visitors. A parliamentary delegation from a European country was adroitly captured, and those in charge of government hospitality began to become aware that distinguished visitors who had spent as much time as was good for them in London could with advantage learn something of England and of English life at its best by staying at the Magnifico. It was, probably, the happiest day of the Brigadier’s life when an American Senator who had ended his visit to Europe with a week at the Magnifico, and who had faced the massed ranks of newspaper-men when he landed at New York, paid a startling compliment to the hotel. ‘And what, Senator, impressed you most in Britain?’ The words ‘the London policeman’ trembled on his lips, but some obscure inkling that others had said that before restrained him. ‘Oh,’ he replied, ‘the Hotel Magnifico’; and then, as this utterance seemed to be favourably received, he added, ‘I consider it the best hotel in England; it is a National Institution.’ How the Brigadier cherished that phrase! From thenceforward the Magnifico was a National Institution, and few guests went away ignorant of this definition.

  It was not only the Magnifico which changed and grew – the Brigadier changed also. At the beginning of his connexion with the hotel he had, like all the rest of his partners, regarded it simply as an investment, but gradually it filled his mind to the exclusion of all else, and one by one his other interests were discarded. The grouse moor of which he had been part owner was sold, his yacht suffered the same fate, even the racing stables in which he had held a predominating share were disposed of. To his intimates the Brigadier sometimes explained, with a naïve wonder, the metamorphosis which had taken place in his own life. It was, he said, with portentous gravity, a conversion not unlike that of St Paul on the road to Damascus. ‘Quite suddenly I realized that money-making gave no ultimate satisfaction, and that other things were more important than money. I was only surprised that I had not realized this simple truth before. What gives real satisfaction? Only creation – it is the creative artist who enjoys the rare moments of happiness. I know that I had not it in me to paint a great picture or to write a great book, but I could be a creative artist none the less. I would build up and perfect the best hotel in Britain, if not in the world, and that would be my memorial. From that moment, I assure you, the history of the Magnifico and the history of myself have been one and the same. Buildings, like men, can have their history and their development, their character and their purpose. Some day someone will write the history of the Magnifico, and I shall be content to be remembered as its creator.’ More and more, then, the Brigadier lived in the Magnifico, and more and more he devoted his life to it.

  It was generally thought that he had made a great fortune, for whilst the Magnifico could claim with some justification to be the finest hotel in the country, it was beyond all question the most expensive, but the belief was founded on error. In fact, he had paid in a great deal more than he had drawn out. One by one he had bought out his former partners, and every year he had used any profit which he might have made to add some new feature to his hotel. Some men lavish all their devotion on a wife, or a mistress, or an only child; the Brigadier’s whole heart – and his banking account – were given to the Magnifico.

  Ernst Brendel had never stayed at the Magnifico before and, for all his varied experience, he could not help being impressed by the comfort and luxury which surrounded him, even though he reflected a little ruefully that he could not possibly have afforded to be a guest if his visit had not been paid for by others and not himself. Could it really be true, he wondered, that the wealthy class in England was almost extinct if two or three hundred persons could afford a month or even a week’s holiday in such luxury? His first two days were fully occupied with the legal business which had brought him to the Magnifico, and it was not until the morning of the last day of the old year that he reminded himself that Charles Sandham and his party would be arriving that afternoon or evening. With his usual attention to detail, he made his preparations. Clearly if he was to discover what was Charles Sandham’s trouble and then fulfil his promise to Mary Sandham, he must spend as much time as possible with the party of the four friends, for in a hotel so large as the Magnifico he might easily see little or nothing of them during their visit unless he took steps to attach himself to them early. Opportunity for confidences would surely come later. It would be best, he thought, to get into touch with them as soon as possible, and he therefore sat down and composed a letter to Charles Sandham to be handed to him on his arrival. In so doing he was dimly aware that he was breaking one of the cherished traditions of the hotel, for it was the established belief of the Brigadier that none of his clients ought to be subjected to the fatigue of writing with his own hand. A telephone call to the office from any room, public or private, would bring a stenographer at once, and the letter would be typed – faultlessly, of course – in the shortest possibly space of time. ‘But naturally,’ as the Brigadier was fond of saying, ‘we provide a private secretary for any guest who needs one; you cannot have the best hotel unless you are prepared to satisfy all the wants of your clientele.’ It was a favourite story of the Magnifico that on one occasion seven guests had plotted together and each rung for a secretary during the same hour, and that the seventh call had been answered by the Brigadier himself in a false moustache. It was even said that his shorthand and typing had shown no falling-off from the high standard which was demanded of Magnifico secretaries. No doubt the story was ben trovato, but it certainly did the reputation of the hotel no harm, and it did illustrate the lengths to which the Brigadier would go in pursuit of his ideal. ‘We shall always satisfy your demands; we shall never fail to meet any need, however sudden or unexpected.’ Brendel, however, was a new-comer and preferred to use the old-fashioned pen, though he had noted with approval that the blotting-paper in every pad was changed each morning, although no one had made any use whatever of the previous day’s supply. Once more he remarked to himself that the Magnifico was a good hotel – and a very expensive one.

  His note to Sandham, when written, was quite short; but he thought that it would achieve its object.

  ‘My dear Sandham,’ he wrote, ‘I am delighted to hear that you and Toby Barrick are arriving here today, and I hope that you will come and have a drink with me before dinner. I’m anxious to hear how you left Mary, for I thought her not quite so well as usual when I saw her last week. I shall be in the Moroccan Bar from 6 onwards, and shall hope to see you both then. Yours very sin
cerely, Ernst Brendel.’

  Over the last sentence Brendel had hesitated. Every hotel has a bar, and some have two; the Magnifico could not, there fore, have less than three. The Magnifico Bar was the largest and attracted the most custom, the so-called Golf Bar seemed, according to Brendel’s observations, to be the natural home of those who drank more heavily; the Moroccan Bar was less frequented, yet appeared to attract the most fastidious visitors and to be better adapted to conversation. Brendel had not discovered why this name had been attached to the third bar; but the truth was that one of the original members of the syndicate had built up his fortune in the International Zone of Tangier, and was therefore sentimentally attached to Morocco, even though his dealings in currency were not a natural subject for sentimental recollections. Yes, thought Brendel, the Moroccan Bar was, on the whole, the most suitable rendezvous. Having finished this note, he considered for some time whether he should also invite Bannister. On balance, he thought he would. It was unlikely that he could do more with Sandham that evening than have a few friendly words, and if Bannister came as well, Brendel would, so to speak, stake out a claim to be included in the party later on in the week. One or other of the four friends was sure to invite him to join them for a drink if he had invited them on his first evening. He therefore wrote a second note to Bannister. ‘My dear Bannister, I hear that you are joining Charles Sandham’s party here today, and that you are driving down from London with your nephew. Charles, I hope, is taking a drink with me before dinner. Do join us – both of you – if happily you arrive in time. We shall be in the Moroccan Bar.’ Brendel smiled. ‘Happily – haply? I don’t know, your English is so difficult. Anyhow, I wrote “happily”, and happily, so far as my private plans were concerned, it all worked out.’