You Can Call It A Day

1: Narcisse Noir VALLON came out of his bedroom; closed the door; stood for a moment in the corridor. The scent hit his nostrils— Narcisse Noir. Vallon, who had a nose for perfume, wondered when he had last smelt Narcisse Noir. He thought it might have been in Paris. He wasn't certain. He walked slowly down the curving staircase into the hotel lounge; stood at the bottom looking about him, watching the people. He wore a dark blue, double-breasted suit that had been cut by a good tailor, a cream shirt, a blue tie. He was just under six feet and thin. His face was long, triangular shaped; his eyes sombre, deepset but with a sardonic light lurking in them. He was dark and his well-kept hair was inclined to wave. He weighed a hundred and seventy pounds and kept his weight well forward on the balls of his feet like a boxer. He looked tired. Everything about Vallon was quiet. He moved lazily; talked in a quiet voice with a peculiarly attractive timbre to it. He preferred to remain unnoticed but never succeeded in this. In spite of himself an odd and engaging personality came out of him and affected most people with whom he came in contact. Especially women. Women found him fascinating because he never tried to be like that. He had spent a considerable portion of his life trying to avoid them. With little success. On the other side of the lounge in the corner was the bar. Vallon looked at his strap-watch. It was nine o'clock. Most of the people in the hotel had finished dinner. The lounge was beginning to fill up. He went over to the bar; sat on one of the high stools. He ordered a double Bacardi and when it was served sat looking at it. He realised he didn't want it. Life, he thought, was rather like a Bacardi cocktail. If you wanted one you wanted it like hell; if you didn't want it it was either too weak or too strong. They'd put too much of this or that in it or left it out. But you still drank it. He thought that drinking Bacardi was rather like making love to women. Or wasn't it? He thought he didn't know. He decided he couldn't care less. He wondered why he had come to this place. Then he remembered three weeks ago somebody had told him that Paignton was an amusing place; that Devonshire was the best county in England. So he'd come. Now that he was here so what? Devon was a fine county all right. The earth was red and the grass greener than any place he'd seen it. If you got bored with Paignton you could always go to Torquay, and if you got bored with Torquay you could always go back to Paignton. You could be certain of one thing— you'd find a bar in each place. And when all is said and done a bar is a place which helps a man to remember the things he wants to remember and to forget the things he wants to forget. He drank the Bacardi and wondered whether he was trying to remember something or forget it. He decided he wouldn't know that either; that he didn't care anyway. He smelt Narcisse Noir again— just a subtle whiff, but it was there. He finished the drink, closed his eyes and wondered what she'd look like. He opened them and found he was wrong. She had what it takes in a very big way, Vallon decided. She was wearing a navy blue suit with a skirt fitting so well that it looked as if it had been pasted on her. Under her coat was a blouse that came out of France— a fine hand-made georgette in a faint lemon colour with hand-sewn tucks. Her shoes were hand-made and the seams of her stockings were dead straight up the back of the calf. Vallon thought that she would be about thirty-five. Judging by the rings on her fingers she had money. He ordered another Bacardi. The bar-tender raised an eyebrow. He had served Vallon with at least twelve cocktails during the course of the evening. He thought Vallon certainly knew how to drink. He said cheerfully: "You like Bacardi, sir?" Vallon looked at him seriously. "No, I don't like anything." He looked at the woman sideways. She was sticking a cocktail pick in a bottle of maraschino cherries. He watched her put it into her mouth. Her mouth was raspberry-coloured and she had full, promising lips. Vallon thought that she was cute. He thought she was the cutest woman he'd seen since he'd been in that part of the world. He drank some Bacardi. She said: "It's a lovely evening, isn't it?" He didn't know whether she was talking to him or the barman. "If you meant that for me," he said, "I'm not interested in the weather. It doesn't make any difference to me whether the sun's shining, if it's raining or Christmas day." She smiled. When she smiled she looked very attractive. She said: "You're either very unhappy or very happy." "Believe it or not," said Vallon, "I'm not either. I just don't care about the weather. Do you mind?" He smiled at her. "No... " She looked a trifle bewildered; then she smiled again. "I think you're a unique person. You express yourself very... succinctly... I think that's the word." Vallon said: "I think it's a very nice word." He ordered a large Bacardi. "I have a good idea," he went on. She raised her eyebrows. He said: "You're sitting too far away from me. You're at least four stools away. If I move towards you you might think it impertinent. So you come here." She said: "There isn't any question about your originality." "They tell me my mother said that too." She asked: "What did your father say?" He shook his head. "They never told me, but I believe he wasn't very pleased." She got off her stool. When she moved he saw her legs. He thought they were very good legs. She said: "Well, here I am. If you consider it would be impertinent to move towards me, perhaps you think it forward of me to come to you." "No one who looks like you has to worry about being forward. Have you ever drunk Bacardi?" She nodded. He said: "Drink one with me." Whilst the bar-tender was serving the drinks, he said: "I smelt you upstairs in the corridor when I came out of my room. You'd just passed. I've got a nose for scent. It's Narcisse Noir, isn't it?" "I'm beginning to be a little scared of you, Mr.— — ?" "My name's Vallon. I'm glad you're scared." She raised her eyebrows. "You haven't told me your first name." "My name's John, but most people call me Johnny. I've never discovered why." She asked: "Why did you say you were glad I was scared?" "When a woman says she's scared," said Vallon, "she means she might at some time be interested. Let's do something." She asked: "What?" He pointed with his finger through the open windows of the lounge, across the gardens, to the fair on the sea-front. The three-quarters of a mile of lawn between the road and the esplanade was filled with wagons, coconut shies, roundabouts, and most of the inhabitants of Paignton. The darkness was beginning to fall and the thousand and one lights, from coloured electric bulbs to humble acetylene gas lamps, twinkled in the half light. The scene was attractive, alive but, for some reason, imbued with an odd feeling of unreality. "I don't believe it's true. Why don't we go out there and see whether the fair really exists, Mrs.— ?" She said: "My name's Gale." "I'm glad to meet you, Mrs. Gale," said Vallon. "I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Vallon. Shall I buy you a drink?" "Yes, thank you very much. I like being bought drinks." She ordered one double Bacardi. He noticed she'd scarcely touched her own drink. He drank it. He got off the stool. "I'll repay your hospitality with a couple of coconut shies," he said. "By the way, what's your Christian name?" "A rather peculiar name— Querida. Do you like it?" "I think it's wonderful. You'll always be Mrs. Gale to me." He grinned at her. They walked across the lounge, down the steps, through the gardens. She thought he was the most attractive man she had ever met. IT WAS ELEVEN o'clock when they came out of the South African mystery man's tent after watching that swarthy gentleman eat fire. People milled about them; throwing rings at four for sixpence over gorgeous looking objects which were seldom won; trying to get balls into holes to win a gold watch; riding on the cart-wheel; doing all those things which people do at fairs and imagine they like doing. She said: "I think this is rather an adventure. I like it. Do you?" "I've been to a lot of fairs in America, in France, all over the place," said Vallon. "I came out of a fair once in Avignon, and they were trying to push a large elephant into a very small truck. It took five men to get it in. I asked one of them if he didn't think it was too small for the elephant. He said no; the other elephant was already inside." Vallon looked at her. His eyes were sardonic, yet somehow smiling. "I think that's awfully funny, don't you?" She said: "Supposing I don't?" "What do I care?" asked Vallon. He took out his cigarette case; offered her a cigarette. She shook her head. He was lighting his own cigarette when he saw Hipper. Hipper was standing at an illuminated table trying to throw rings over watches set out on the mirrored surface. He was obviously a little drunk. Vallon said: "You wouldn't be tired by any chance, would you?" "No... " She smiled at him faintly. "Are you trying to get rid of me, Mr. Vallon?" He said: "I'm not trying to, I'm going to. You see, I've just remembered something. Go back to the bar in the hotel and wait for me. I promise you I won't be long." She asked seriously: "Do you mean that?" He nodded. "Every word of it." She said: "Well, thank you for a very pleasant evening." Vallon asked: "Shall I see you in the bar?" She smiled. "Who knows? Perhaps... That depends on how long you are." She went away. He watched her walking through the crowd. He thought she walked very well. When he looked round Hipper was gone. Vallon began to walk about the fair-ground looking for him. He thought it was like looking for a needle in a haystack; qualified it by the thought that if you looked long enough for a needle in a haystack you found it. He found I-sipper after thirty minutes' search. Hipper was throwing wooden balls at coconuts. Vallon came up behind him. He said: "Enjoying yourself, Hipper?" Hipper dropped the wooden ball on the ground. It made a peculiar thudding noise. He turned round and looked at Vallon. He said: "This isn't so good, is it?" "It might be," said Vallon. "It just needs a little explanation. Let you and me go and have a drink." Hipper started to talk. "Listen... " Vallon said: "Shut up. We'll talk in the bar when we find one." They went to a bar in an hotel along the esplanade. Vallon ordered two whiskies and sodas. He said: "All right. Now let's have it. And make it good." Flipper drank some of the whisky. He was a short, fat man. His face was bloated with drink. He had nice eyes but his mouth was pursed up like a woman's. He was inclined to boldness and there was a greasy ring on the inside of the soft hat which he had placed on the stool beside him. He said: "You've always had it in for me, haven't you, Mr. Vallon? But I'm human. What the hell!" Vallon yawned. "Who told you you were human? Well, let's have the story, Hipper. What are you doing here?" "Look, have a heart," said Hipper. "I got the job done in Somerset. I got everything— the report and everything. It's all right. Every bit of evidence the firm wants will be there. So I thought I'd have a night here and go back to-morrow." "On the agency's expense account, hey?" Vallon queried. Hipper said: "No." Vallon grinned. "I tell you it's not on the firm's expense account," said Hipper. "I put the report and the expense sheet in the post before I left Somerset."