Chapter Thirty-One
It goes without saying that Pluck had a plan.
Late that night, he made his way to the rooms of Signora Bergamaschi, the artist, and her companion, Rosella, the model; on the way, he happened to pass the coronel, who, oddly, in reply to the inspector’s warm greeting, cowered against the wall and held up a small knife. The distinguished old Spaniard fled, as best he could on his one good leg, making, Pluck felt, a rather comical scene, limping along at speed, cursing in his incomprehensible tongue and waving his blade like a madman.
When Pluck arrived at the ladies’ door, he knocked, and, receiving no immediate reply, knocked continuously for some four or five minutes (maybe even six), before the door opened and Genevra, clad in a man’s night-robe, stood before him, mouth glazed with a curious liquid, and looked him up and down as one might a pile of vomit.
“Good evening, Herr Bergamaschi.”
“Good evening, Inspector.”
“I hope I have not interrupted you. Were you occupied with anything when I knocked?”
Genevra slurped up the syrupy fluid which had been dripping down her lip. “Nothing much.”
“I wonder if I might have a word with your sister Rosella.”
“Mademoiselle Rosella is not my sister, and I’m afraid she’s indisposed.”
“Ah! Not ill, I hope?”
“No. But tired.”
“Tired?”
“Yes. You do know the word, I take it?”
“Which word?”
“‘Tired’.”
“The word ‘tired’? What about it? I’m afraid I do not understand you.”
“That’s because you must be tired, Inspector. It is, after all, rather late.”
“Why, whatever do you mean?”
“I mean that it must be well past your bedtime. You’ll want your rest, so as to more capably terrorise the occupants of the hotel in the morning, won’t you?”
“If by ‘terrorise’ you mean ‘conduct a professional and impartial investigation into a heinous crime’, then, yes. But it is exactly to that end that I pay you and your sister this visit, I’ll have you know, Herr Bergamaschi.”
“You may call me ‘Signora’, if you like, Inspector.”
“Forgive me—I did not know you were Spanish.”
“I am Italian, sir.”
“Ah! Eye-Goo’s countrywoman, then!”
“Coronel Feosalma is Spanish, sir.”
Pluck gripped his head and looked like he was ready to swoon.
“Are you all right?” asked Genevra, although in her heart of hearts, I feel I can tell you authoritatively, she really did not care.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. . .just give me a moment. . .” Pluck leant against the doorframe to recover himself. He chuckled. “Would you agree, Herr Bergamaschi, that the job of inspector must have been much easier before Babel—when we all lived as one nation, with one. . .er. . .”—here he looked away—“tongue?”
Genevra nodded, and lit a cigarette. “Perhaps. Though I feel for the professional translator, who would have had a hard time finding work.”
“Yes, ha-ha. Yes.” He waved away her offer of a cigarette. “I wonder if there was call for investigators like myself in what I construe to have been a more peaceful age.”
She shrugged. “Cain. Abel.”
“Ah, yes. I wonder if my professional ancestor, whoever he might have been, managed to solve that case.”
“He might have required divine intervention.”
“Quite. Now, my dear Herr Bergamaschi, if we may return from the age of the ancients for a moment, I’m afraid that I really must insist that you wake your sister from her slumber. I have most urgent investigatory business, and I need her help.”
“If you mean Rosella, I hardly think she’s qualified—”
“Tut-tut—the only qualification is a passion for justice, for which I’m sure I can take your assurance your sister possesses.”
Genevra sighed out a clump of smoke and moved aside so the inspector could enter. “Rosa!” she called. “We have company.”
Pluck found Rosella in the sitting room, draped flaccidly across an ottoman, leaden-lidded, floating in a drowsy haze as in an opium den, one bare leg trailing out from her robe. Pluck stopped where he was and stared at this leg, insensible to Genevra’s increasingly exasperated remarks. Finally, Genevra walked over and threw a shawl over the leg; Pluck, shaken back to consciousness, looked bewilderedly about him.
“Where am I?!” he inquired, with incipient fury.
“You are in our rooms,” Genevra sighed.
“Who—who brought me here?”
“You came under your own steam—you claimed you required Rosella’s services for the solution of the murder, as I understood you.”
Pluck scoffed, “Your sister?! Why would I need her to—oh! Yes, yes, I remember now! Yes.” He turned to Rosella. “Mademoiselle Bergamaschi, I’ll come right out with it: Will you help me catch a murderer?”
“You may just call her ‘Rosella’,” Genevra interrupted.
“Ah! Yes, yes, I would be delighted to savour the delicate sensation of that exquisite name rolling off of my tongue!” Again, at the word tongue, he felt a little flustered and cleared his throat. “‘Rosella’, yes!”
Rosella suddenly seemed to notice his existence. “Why, Inspector. What are you doing in my room?”
“Rosella, I’ll come right out with it: Will you help me catch a murderer?”
“Isn’t that your job, Inspector?”
“Well, yes, quite.”
“And isn’t it my job to pose for Genevra’s art?”
“I suppose so. If you say that it is.”
“Then—if I am going to catch a murderer, can I count on you to pose for Genevra?”
Genevra laughed. “That won’t be necessary.”
Pluck looked from one to the other, a little intrigued. “Would I. . .”
“Yes?” asked Rosella.
“I mean, would I have to. . .would I be able to. . .”
“What is it?”
“Must I keep on my undergarments? That is—over my indecencies?”
“Please do,” Genevra hastened to put in, “and, in fact, all your clothes.”
“Ah.” Pluck could not conceal his disappointment. “I’d assumed. . .”
“In fact, the less of you that is shown, the better.”
“Ah.”
“And the darker the room, the better for the tonal qualities of the piece.”
“I see.”
“Would you like me to paint you now?”
“All right. . .”
“I’ll get my brushes and be right with you. Just step into that closet there—”
“The closet?”
“I’m going for a close-cropped composition, to signify the pressure an inspector of the police must feel, when all and sundry are against him.”
“Ah! I understand you perfectly, sir.”
“Yes. Just toddle off in there—”
“And, and. . .”
“What is it?”
“My. . .fee?”
“Oh! Well, we’ll make it an even trade for Rosella catching the murderer, shall we?”
“Oh, yes, that sounds fine!”
“Excellent. Now step in here.”
Pluck stepped into the closet, and let Genevra shut the door after him.
After a good three hours, during which the two ladies giggled, read, and slept, Pluck exited the dark closet.
“Herr Bergamaschi?”
That lady roused. “Uh. . .yes, yes, Inspector. I’ve finished the painting.”
“You have?” His eyes lit up.
“It’s simply magnificent,” Rosella yawned.
“It is? May I see it?”
Genevra got up, found a canvas she’d slapped black paint all over, as a prelude to painting a night scene, and showed it to him. Pluck leant in closely, squinting.
“You might not be able to see much, but that’s symbolic of the human condition,” Genevra lectured him.
“Ah!”
“The bleakness of man’s soul,” Rosella added, “as distinct to the bright, superficial fluffiness of woman’s.”
“Ah. I couldn’t agree more.”
“Well, it’s very late in the night now, Inspector,” Genevra pointed out. “I’ll see you to the door.”
“But Herr Bergamaschi! Your sister promised she would assist me with my stratagem!”
“Ah, yes. What stratagem was that, exactly?”
“I need her to seduce Glen Stoupes, the Canadian blackguard, and in the process of lovemaking entice a confession of murder from his lips.”
“I’m afraid that’s rather impossible, Inspector,” yawned Rosella.
“It is? Why is that?”
Rosella looked to Genevra, who answered for her: “Um. . .because Rosella and Glen are brother and sister, of course.”
Pluck was, for lack of a better term, flabbergasted. “Brother and sister!”
“It’s true,” Rosella nodded, warring with her lips which insisted on trembling into a smile. “Big brother Glen! How I’ve missed him.”
“But that means. . !” The ladies could practically hear the cogs whirring within Pluck’s brain.
“That’s right,” Genevra finished the thought for him: “The three of us are siblings.”
Pluck slapped his forehead, with, it soon became apparent, a little too much vigour, and fell backwards, after which he rolled about on the floor, holding his brow, in pain.
“Are you all right, Inspector?” asked Genevra, before giggling silently with a look to her companion.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine—why wouldn’t I be?!” He gripped the side of an unoccupied settee to assist his rise, but, rising, tipped it towards him till it fell over on top of him. Now sprawled beneath it, he struggled to shift it off him, but could not.
“Um, ah, would one of the Bergamaschis, or Stoupeseses, kindly assist me? I’m afraid I’m rather stuck.”
“Oh, has the settee taken a dislike to you, Inspector?” asked Genevra as the two ladies slowly rose, taking their time to assist. “It does that sometimes.”
“Does it? Does it really?” Pluck asked, from the floor.
“Oh yes,” Rosella elaborated, taking the other side of the upturned piece, “it’s quite like a dog, in that sense: he either takes to you or he doesn’t.”
The ladies freed Pluck. He bowed and apologised for disturbing them, left in a hurry, and went straight to Bartoff’s room.
The big man answered the door, in his nightclothes, dog in hand. “Inspector?”
“Pardon me for bothering you so early, my good man, but I need your help. I think we might just crack this whole thing this evening.”
“Crack what?”
“The case, naturally. May I come in?”
They sat on a sofa, and Pluck began: “I’ll come right out with it: Will you help me catch a murderer?”
Bartoff yawned, and rubbed his eyes. “You know I will, Inspector.”
“Excellent! I knew I could count on you. Now, all you have to do—I’ll be doing most of the work; internally, you understand, deductively, calculations and all that—but you, externally, by which I mean with the use of your body—”
“I’m sorry, Inspector, but it’s quite late in the evening, and I fear I’m not understanding—”
“I need you to seduce Glen Stoupes, and in the process of lovemaking entice a confession of murder from his lips.”
“I’m. . .not sure I understand you.”
Pluck sighed. He’d predicted this might cause trouble. “Look: you needn’t complete the. . .transaction, so to speak. Although, for purposes of theatrical authenticity, it would be more satisfying if you did.”
“You want me. . .to. . .”
“Well, not in your current guise, of course! Ha! You silly man!”
“Ha! Ha ha!” Bartoff wasn’t sure what they were laughing about.
“Yes, ha, yes. No, you’d have to dress as a woman, of course. Now, as regards the logistics of the thing—”
“What! I—I am sorry, Inspector—you know I would do most anything for you—”
“Yes, yes, that’s precisely what I’m relying upon.”
“And how committed I am to seeing the investigation through—”
“And how indebted you are to me for that business with the telegram and your family.”
“Of course, that too. But to ask me to—”
“You would make a lovely woman, Bartoff! If you could just see yourself!”
The large man heaved a huge sigh. “I’m afraid I must refuse.”
“But, my friend—I wouldn’t ask you if I weren’t certain it’s the only way.”
Bartoff started moving about the place, tidying up, turning certain baubles he’d brought with him on holiday—an ashtray bearing a Slavonic inscription, an ambiguous wooden structure amateurishly glued together, a small crystal hippopotamus—to face all in the same direction, all lined up.
“Why not make use of Miss Trojczakowski?” he finally asked.
“Well, it’s unfortunate that we cannot, but Mister Stoupes already knows Miss Trojczakowski—a little, I fear, too well. And besides, she’s proven herself, to her continuing disgrace, too well-disposed towards the scoundrel to ever entertain the possibility that he might not be all he seems, let alone to conspire with us to bring him to justice.”
“Well—she could dress as a man, could she not? That way, he would not recognise, nor suspect, her.”
“I fear that Miss Trojczakowski is of too dainty a disposition. By that I mean that she, like many, confuses our gossamer-strong erotic traditions, and prejudices, with the legal laws of the land. By which I mean that I anticipate she would find it somehow unworthy, immoral, beneath her station to, for example, constrict her vaginal muscles around Mister Stoupes’s erotic member until such time as an eruption is inevitable, then tenderly dismount and complete the stimulation with her oral orifice, finally consuming the rogue’s procreative milk down her throat—however much she clearly, beneath the surface of her waking thought, desires it.”
“I dare say you’re right.”
“Whereas you—an open-minded sort of fellow, a man of the world, not one to kneel before the majority’s sexual tyrannies, would have no qualms with such an endeavour—substituting the rectal muscles for the vaginal, of course.”
“Well. . .let us see if we cannot discover some less disquieting, less revolutionary, approach.”
Bartoff began pacing, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back—assuming the traditional pacing posture, in other words—until he stopped, reasonably suddenly, and turned to his friend, exclaiming: “I’ve got it!”
“Yes?” Pluck, for an instant, allowed himself a smidgeon of hope.
“Why not assume the habiliments of a lady yourself?”
Pluck coughed. “Oh, no, not I—”
“Of course! You would make a fine female, sir! A fine spectacle of the gentler sex!”
“Do you really think so?”
“I do indeed! I would certainly court you, for one.”
Pluck blushed, and looked down. He pointed the toes of his shoes towards each other, then out, then back in, with a coy smile. “. . .I’ll tell you, friend Bartoff, that I had the same notion myself. Of assuming the role of the seductress, I mean. And I held a sort of dress rehearsal, with myself, this evening, with a sheet round my torso, a towel on my head for hair, and a razored chest—I’ve got the scars to prove it—supplemented with two modest-sized keepsake boxes from my room—cuboid, not spherical, I grant you, but it was all I had to hand—and when finally I viewed myself in my bedroom mirror, I felt, I can tell you, an existential revulsion, and vomited over my fake bosom. I had to have the cleaning lady, the bitter-looking one, come clean me up. No, my friend, I’ve considered every possible candidate in the hotel, and you, friend, true, true friend, are the only one who will do.”
“I admit my profoundest admiration for you, Inspector, and my unshakeable commitment to this investigation, but I must maintain that there are some. . .deeds. . .which honour simply will not allow me to commit.”
Pluck sighed condescendingly and began walking about the room, lecturing his confused friend, stopping every now and again to nudge the baubles out of line. “Mister Bartoff, do you know what a dichotomy is? I’ll define it for you—I’ll wait for you to find some paper and an implement with which to write. Are you ready? A dichotomy is a false division of a rich, complex multiplicity into a piddling, reductive bichrome. When applied to human gender, it is the diminishment of a vast spectrum into a single, frayed, clichéd band, which had once been looped, but whose two ragged, opposing ends no longer recognise oneself in the other; put more visually, it is the shearing of either the breasts, leaving the penis, or the penis, leaving breasts—whereas if Mother Nature had had her druthers, we would all of us have both. And who can live a life without the most narrow, precise definitions tagging them from head to toe, I ask with palpable irony? Think, my friend, of the great actors of Shakespeare’s age—of Condell! Of Alexander Cooke! Were they ashamed to assume the mannerisms, histrionics and dress of the female? Were Persian eunuchs ashamed to admit their masters’ members up their backsides? There is every reason, friend, in a close reading of the Holy Writ, to interpret that Eve was really one facet of Adam’s manifold personality; that is, Adam dressed up, of an evening, in a petticoat and conversed with himself, these monologues later being allocated to two interlocutors by priggish Biblical editors.”
Bartoff, having no idea what his friend was on about, seized on something concrete: “I had not heard that they had access to such modern modes of dress as petticoats in Eden, Inspector.”
“Well, that’s a very good question, friend, and I can only say that from my study of the Zohar—”
“The what, Inspector?”
“The Zohar—an ancient compendium of Jewish mysticism, of course—and from it, I am convinced that Eden did in fact have its own tailoring department, along with a maid service and public baths.”
Bartoff, listening avidly—sitting on a chair, stroking Sam, who meanwhile dreamt of simpler, more relevant, more tangible things—felt his mind expand, almost to the bursting point.
“I. . .Inspector. . ?”
“Yes? What is it? All questions are valid, my good man, all questions are valid.”
“It’s just. . .I wonder, then, if there was no Eve. . .”
“Yes?”
“How did Adam, on his own, propagate a people?”
“All right—excellent question. Do you know what masturbation is?”