The Umbrella Man and Other Stories Read online

  Mike Schofield was an amiable, middle-aged man. But he was a stockbroker. To be precise, he was a jobber in the stock market, and like a number of his kind, he seemed to be somewhat embarrassed, almost ashamed to find that he had made so much money with so slight a talent. In his heart he knew that he was not really much more than a bookmaker—an unctuous, infinitely respectable, secretly unscrupulous bookmaker—and he knew that his friends knew it, too. So he was seeking now to become a man of culture, to cultivate a literary and aesthetic taste, to collect paintings, music, books, and all the rest of it. His little sermon about Rhine wine and Moselle was a part of this thing, this culture that he sought.

  “A charming little wine, don’t you think?” he said. He was still watching Richard Pratt. I could see him give a rapid furtive glance down the table each time he dropped his head to take a mouthful of whitebait. I could almost feel him waiting for the moment when Pratt would take his first sip, and look up from his glass with a smile of pleasure, of astonishment, perhaps even of wonder, and then there would be a discussion and Mike would tell him about the village of Geierslay.

  But Richard Pratt did not taste his wine. He was completely engrossed in conversation with Mike’s eighteen-year-old daughter, Louise. He was half turned towards her, smiling at her, telling her, so far as I could gather, some story about a chef in a Paris restaurant. As he spoke, he leaned closer and closer to her, seeming in his eagerness almost to impinge upon her, and the poor girl leaned as far as she could away from him nodding politely, rather desperately, and looking not at his face but at the topmost button of his dinner jacket.

  We finished our fish, and the maid came round removing the plates. When she came to Pratt, she saw that he had not yet touched his food, so she hesitated, and Pratt noticed her. He waved her away, broke off his conversation, and quickly began to eat, popping the little crisp brown fish quickly into his mouth with rapid jabbing movements of his fork. Then, when he had finished, he reached for his glass, and in two short swallows he tipped the wine down his throat and turned immediately to resume his conversation with Louise Schofield.

  Mike saw it all. I was conscious of him sitting there, very still, containing himself, looking at his guest. His round jovial face seemed to loosen slightly and to sag, but he contained himself and was still and said nothing.

  Soon the maid came forward with the second course. This was a large roast beef. She placed it on the table in front of Mike who stood up and carved it, cutting the slices very thin, laying them gently on the plates for the maid to take around. When he had served everyone, including himself, he put down the carving knife and leaned forward with both hands on the edge of the table.

  “Now,” he said, speaking to all of us but looking at Richard Pratt. “Now for the claret. I must go and fetch the claret, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “You go and fetch it, Mike?” I said. “Where is it?”

  “In my study, with the cork out—breathing.”

  “Why the study?”

  “Acquiring room temperature, of course. It’s been there twenty-four hours.”

  “But why the study?”

  “It’s the best place in the house. Richard helped me choose it last time he was here.”

  At the sound of his name, Pratt looked round.

  “That’s right, isn’t it?” Mike said.

  “Yes,” Pratt answered, nodding gravely. “That’s right.”

  “On top of the green filing cabinet in my study,” Mike said.

  “That’s the place we chose. A good draught-free spot in a room with an even temperature. Excuse me now, will you, while I fetch it.”

  The thought of another wine to play with had restored his humour, and he hurried out of the door, to return a minute later more slowly, walking softly, holding in both hands a wine basket in which a dark bottle lay. The label was out of sight, facing downwards. “Now!” he cried as he came towards the table. “What about this one, Richard? You’ll never name this one!”

  Richard Pratt turned slowly and looked up at Mike, then his eyes travelled down to the bottle nestling in its small wicker basket, and he raised his eyebrows; a slight supercilious arching of the brows, and with it a pushing outward of the wet lower lip, suddenly imperious and ugly.

  “You’ll never get it,” Mike said. “Not in a hundred years.”

  “A claret?” Richard Pratt asked, condescending.

  “Of course.”

  “I assume, then, that it’s from one of the smaller vineyards?”

  “Maybe it is, Richard. And then again, maybe it isn’t.”

  “But it’s a good year? One of the great years?”

  “Yes, I guarantee that.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be too difficult,” Richard Pratt said, drawling his words, looking exceedingly bored. Except that, to me, there was something strange about his drawling and his boredom: between the eyes a shadow of something evil, and in his bearing an intentness that gave me a faint sense of uneasiness as I watched him.

  “This one is really rather difficult,” Mike said. “I won’t force you to bet on this one.”

  “Indeed. And why not?” Again the slow arching of the brows, the cool, intent look.

  “Because it’s difficult.”

  “That’s not very complimentary to me, you know.”

  “My dear man,” Mike said, “I’ll bet you with pleasure, if that’s what you wish.”

  “It shouldn’t be too hard to name it.”

  “You mean you want to bet?”

  “I’m perfectly willing to bet,” Richard Pratt said.

  “All right, then, we’ll have the usual. A case of the wine itself.”

  “You don’t think I’ll be able to name it, do you?”

  “As a matter of fact, and with all due respect, I don’t,” Mike said. He was making some effort to remain polite, but Pratt was not bothering overmuch to conceal his contempt for the whole proceeding. And yet, curiously, his next question seemed to betray a certain interest.

  “You like to increase the bet?”

  “No, Richard. A case is plenty.”

  “Would you like to bet fifty cases?”

  “That would be silly.”

  Mike stood very still behind his chair at the head of the table, carefully holding the bottle in its ridiculous wicker basket. There was a trace of whiteness around his nostrils now, and his mouth was shut very tight.

  Pratt was lolling back in his chair, looking up at him, the eyebrows raised, the eyes half closed, a little smile touching the corners of his lips. And again I saw, or thought I saw, something distinctly disturbing about the man’s face, that shadow of intentness between the eyes, and in the eyes themselves, right in their centres where it was black, a small slow spark of shrewdness, hiding.

  “So you don’t want to increase the bet?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, old man, I don’t give a damn,” Mike said. “I’ll bet you anything you like.”

  The three women and I sat quietly, watching the two men. Mike’s wife was becoming annoyed; her mouth had gone sour and I felt that at any moment she was going to interrupt. Our roast beef lay before us on our plates, slowly steaming.

  “So you’ll bet me anything I like?”

  “That’s what I told you. I’ll bet you anything you damn well please, if you want to make an issue out of it.”

  “Even ten thousand pounds?”

  “Certainly I will, if that’s the way you want it.” Mike was more confident now. He knew quite well that he could call any sum Pratt cared to mention.

  “So you say I can name the bet?” Pratt asked again.

  “That’s what I said.”

  There was a pause while Pratt looked slowly around the table, first at me, then at the three women, each in turn. He appeared to be reminding us that we were witness to the offer.

  “Mike!” Mrs. Schofield said. “Mike, why don’t we stop this nonsense and eat our food. It’s getting cold.”

  “But it isn’t nonsen