Three-Cornered Halo Read Online Free PDF Page A

to keep down. He was at the moment rehearsing a new fashion in the impromptu mannerisms for which he is, and justly, famous: soon all London would be talking Restorationese and adding (so good for publicity!) ‘as Mr Cecil would say.’ “Oh, la!” cried Mr Cecil, therefore, stepping lively and at ease among the hotel guests, “One is vastly more wise not to book.” Just turn up unannounced, he insisted, and they thought one must be a Vip, and two poor members of some wretched Grouppa were doubled up, to give one the best room. “But then, of course,” he would add, at the same time delicately poking fun at his hosts and advertising his own identity, “one is their ‘Meethter Thetheelah’—the Juanese Hipline, you know: ‘Creethtophe et Thee.’” Short of distributing hand-outs, it cannot be said that Mr Cecil ever misses a chance of promoting Christophe et Cie.
    Miss Cockrill strolled down next morning to the quay, in search of the Gerente de Politio, charged with messages from her brother, the Inspector. She found him there, sure enough. In his flat, black-mackintoshy circular hat, cracked across the back and turned up flat against the crown, protected from the strong sunshine by his flowing, calf-length cloak of midnight blue, he was padding up and down on dirty bare feet, superintending the unloading of a cargo of contraband. He greeted her with exuberance, enquiring most animatedly after his dear friend and brother policeman from Scotalanda Yarrrda; but his brow was black and his eyes wore an anxious frown, and he suddenly asked abruptly: “Senorita Cockereel—in Inghil-terra, it is not the habit to take snuff?”
    Cousin Hat had, as in duty bound, aided Winsome in her researches into the Juanese tongue during the year of their absence from the island, which had been largely spent in work upon the Diaries; but her familiarity with the language did not rise to such heights as these. The Gerente raised a large, dirty thumb, poked imaginary powder up his nostril, and vigorously sneezed. “Oh—snuff,” said Miss Cockrill. “Well—on the whole—no.”
    â€œNobody takes snuff?”
    â€œOnly artists and people. A grubby habit,” said Cousin Hat.
    Only artists. And in San Juan, said the Gerente, not even artists. The tabacca, yes. The tabacca da fiuto—no. And yet … He drew her aside and away from the toiling throng, dived into a pocket and, discarding several packages of habit-forming drugs and a small box of dubious diamonds, showed something that lay like a frost-flower in his great, dirty palm. “Senorita—look at this!”
    It was a box, a tiny box of crystal and gold, with a design on its lid of a marguerite, set in pearls. Attached to it was a label, saying quite simply: SMUGLED. It was engraved ‘Mad in San Juan.’
    Miss Cockrill recognised it immediately. “That’s Tomaso di Goya’s work.”
    â€œTomaso!” said the Gerente gloomily.
    â€œHe had some in his shop last year, only they were larger, they were cigarette-cases. He was selling them like hot cakes; I bought one myself, for a present.”
    â€œCigarette-cases. But this,” said the Gerente, “is not a cigarette-case?”
    â€œWell, no,” said Miss Cockrill. She held the pretty thing in her own small, square hand. “Ah, yes, now I see—a snuff-box?”
    â€œA snuff-box.! This is what Tomaso now says: ‘We can call it a snuff-box.’ But nobody on the island of San Juan takes snuff: and in Inghilterra, in America, in all the countries of the touristi, Senorita—they do not take snuff.”
    â€œSo how are you to sell the snuff-box?” prompted Miss Cockrill.
    â€œHow are we to sell five thousand snuff-boxes, Senorita?—five thousand, ten thousand, for all we know—we have not yet finished unloading the boxes.” And he snatched the pretty thing