The Sun Goes Down Page 9

She was not deterred. “And there is the matter of…overnight guests.”

  “Yes?”

  “I believe this…person stayed in your room.”

  “Yes. Sergeant Major Conrad slept here.” I offered no explanation.

  “That is really not allowed.”

  “Says who?”

  She looked slightly flummoxed. “You understand, Dr. Mitchell, that we can’t give a bed to every Tom, Dick and Harry.”

  I raised my voice, so that everyone in the dining room could hear. “Mrs. Dear, if I’d thought for one moment that this was the sort of hotel where I have to apply to the landlady for permission to entertain friends and colleagues, I would never have made a reservation. I’m sure there are plenty of other places on the island that know how to treat their guests properly.”

  “I didn’t mean…”

  “But of course you’re very new to the hotel business, aren’t you? Perhaps you’ll learn. If, that is, anyone comes back.”

  For a second she looked at me with undisguised hatred, and then the smiles were back. “Forgive me, Dr. Mitchell. Mitch.”

  I said nothing. Bill, leaning against the wall, laughed quietly to himself, lighting a cigarette.

  “I’m afraid I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I had no right to…” She stared down at her hands; the nail polish, usually immaculate, was chipped and in need of repair.

  “I’ll be back this evening, Mrs. Dear. If you’d like to make up my bill, I’ll check out in the morning.”

  “Oh, I don’t think…”

  Claire Sutherland, who could no more resist drama than she could resist a handsome man, swished into the lobby to join us. “You’re not going anywhere, Mitch.” She put a hand on my arm. “What is this nonsense about overnight guests? I had a man in my room last night as well. In fact, he’s still there. Would you like to evict me as well?”

  “Claire, please…”

  “This kind of thing would never have happened with the Andersons. They understood that their guests had a right to privacy and respect, and that their job was to serve them, not to try to run them. If you go on like this, my girl, you won’t have anyone left to boss around.” She turned quickly, her kimono billowing around her, and delivered her exit line in a splendidly carrying voice. “Including your husband.”

  Tilly Dear pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and retreated to the office.

  “C’mon, Mitch,” said Bill, puffing away, “let’s get out of this madhouse.”

  “One moment.”

  I followed Claire into the dining room, where she was ready to receive my thanks. The Jessops, and the handful of other guests, were deeply engrossed in their breakfast, determined not to become part of a scene.

  “Thank you,” I said, kissing the proffered hand. “That was kind of you.”

  “My dear,” she bellowed, “think nothing of it! I’m simply grieved by the fact that such things should ever be heard at the dear old Continental. I mean, the comings and goings at this old place—you never knew who you’d see at breakfast. That was part of the fun. All sorts! Soldiers, sailors, even clergymen. I well remember a handsome young priest, sitting just where you were now—he couldn’t take his eyes off me! He was like a film star, really, quite a Valentino. And some of the women—I mean really, the dowdiest little things, bluestockings from England who come out here and my God! Suddenly they’re not so prim. One of them, a skinny thing, all teeth and glasses like a governess—the men she had up and down those stairs! Hats off to her, I say. We should all be free! Free and in love!”

  And right on cue, her companion materialized at the doorway. “Massimo darling!” She waved, blew a kiss. “Here we are!” I was quite forgotten, and returned to Bill’s side to leave the hotel.

  “Fucking hell,” said Bill, flicking his cigarette butt into the courtyard, “what’s her fucking problem? Stuck-up bitch. Shouldn’t be running a hotel.”

  “Don’t worry about her, Bill. She’s got problems of her own.” Money was short, I knew, and there were those blackmail letters…

  “And who the fuck complained about the noise?”

  “The people downstairs, I suspect. Very prim and proper.”

  “Those stiffs at breakfast? Jesus. I wish we’d made more noise.”

  “The son’s cute, though.”

  “Yeah? Didn’t notice. You’re enough for now.”

  My ass was still agreeably sore, and I wondered how and where we’d manage to do it again. Bill Conrad was a great fuck and, best of all, he made no complications. Do what you want, enjoy it, do it again, no discussion, no analysis. Just what I needed. And when I left the islands, a fond farewell.

  I put my arm around his shoulders in the locally approved manner, and we walked down to the harbor. A motor launch was moored alongside the fishing boats that put up beside Vella’s bar. The bar itself was closed, the boards up.

  Conrad stowed his kitbag and fiddled with the controls. “You married, Mitch?”

  “Me? No. You?”

  “Yeah. Officially speaking.”

  “What happened?”

  “Haven’t seen her for fifteen years. Got married when we were both seventeen. Got her in trouble, didn’t I?”

  “Shotgun wedding?”

  “Might as well have been. We did it proper, in a church, white dress and all that, and we tried to make a go of it. But with her mum and my mum sticking their noses in, well…” He shrugged.

  “And the child?”

  “Little girl. Margaret. She’s the only thing I miss.”

  Margaret. Where had I seen or heard that name recently?

  “She’s sixteen now. Nearly the age I was when I had her. Poor kid. Hope she hasn’t turned out like the other women in the family.”

  Of course! Margaret, and a date, the letters and numbers tattooed on his right deltoid, the ink blurred now by time.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be. I was a rotten dad. Never at home, always in trouble. They’re better off without me. At least from here I can send money home.”

  “Do you ever see your daughter?”

  “God, no. They’ve brought her up to forget me. Best for all of us, probably. Anyway, I’m free to do what I like, aren’t I? Got a good career out here. Good money, interesting work, plenty of responsibility, and sometimes I make a friend like you.”

  “Sure.”

  He looked me in the eye. “I hope we can…”

  “Hey!” A voice from the other side of the harbor. “Hey! Mitch!” Martin Dear came pelting down the promenade, feet slapping hard on the stones. “Wait!”

  My first thought was that he’d come to apologize for his wife’s behavior. Bill muttered “Jesus” under his breath, and started the engine.

  “Are you going over to Valetta?” Martin shouted above the roar.

  “Yes.”

  “Any chance of a lift?”

  “Tell him to take the fucking ferry,” said Bill under his breath. “This is for army business only.”

  “Come on,” I said. “We might learn something interesting.”

  “About what? His bitch of a wife?”

  “Something weird is going on in that hotel,” I said, and by now Martin was well within earshot. “Come aboard!”

  “Thanks.” He stepped onto the boat, a little unsteady on his feet. Could have been the motion of the water, could have been the fact that he was still semi-drunk from whatever binge he’d been on the night before. His hair was unbrushed, his chin unshaven, and his clothes looked slept in. “I’ve got to go to the bank.” He patted his jacket pocket. “If I wait for the ferry I’ll be in trouble with the manager.” He pulled a face. “You know what they’re like. Bloody pen pushers.”

  Bill unhitched the painter and reversed the boat into the harbor. He was silent, his mouth set in a grim line. He obviously didn’t like Martin Dear—or didn’t want his company. Perhaps he wanted me to himself.

  “And what about
you, Mitch?” asked Martin as we moved off to deeper water. “What takes you to the city?”

  “I’m being brought in as a consultant. A nerve case.”

  “That sounds interesting. You’re obviously an important man in your field.”

  Well, the letter in my pocket said I was, so I might as well go along with the deception. “Dr. Southern was kind enough to ask for a second opinion. He thought it might be worthwhile.”

  “The work that you mental doctors do is so fascinating,” said Martin, fixing me with his blue eyes. They were a little bloodshot this morning. “I have great respect for the mind. Probably because I’m as thick as two short planks.”

  “It’s really just a case of asking the right questions. In this particular instance, the patient is suffering trauma after the death of a comrade.”

  “Oh dear. What’s trauma?”

  “Shock, I suppose you’d call it.”

  “Oh, like the poor chaps after the war. We saw them at home.” He shook his head. “I suppose this fellow saw one of his pals killed in action, did he?”

  “Nothing like that. It was suicide,” I said, and immediately realized, from Bill’s stern look, that I had said too much. This was confidential business, and there I was blabbing like a school kid.

  “Ah, yes. Terrible business,” said Martin, his eyes watering. I assumed it was from the fresh sea breeze blowing in our faces, rather than pity for the dead. “Well, I hope you get it all sorted out. As you say, just a matter of asking the right questions.”

  Martin looked at me in a quizzical way; I still had half an idea that he was interested in a little extramarital action. I changed the subject, conscious of Bill’s furious silence. “Wow! Look at that view!” Sea and sky, basically, but any subject would do. “You don’t get this in London, I can tell you.” And from that point we passed on to platitudes about how different life in the city is from life on a small Mediterranean island. This sustained us for the rest of the journey.

  We made it to Valetta without further incident. Martin Dear slipped away with barely a thank-you—preoccupied, I suppose, by his forthcoming interview with the bank manager, which could only be painful. Bill was quiet as he tied up.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  “I suppose I won’t see you again now, will I?” He looked mighty crestfallen.

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because now I’m just a soldier again, and you’re the big important doctor, and once you’ve had your holiday you’ll be going back to London.”

  “Come on. We can still have fun.”

  “How? You going to sneak into the barracks?”

  “You can get a pass, can’t you?”

  “I just had one.”

  “We’ll figure something out.”

  “Yeah. All right.” He shook my hand. “Thanks for last night, anyway.”

  There were other military personnel around, and I could see that Bill was turning back into his workaday self. The passionate lover of last night was fading away like the early-morning sea mist.

  “Dr. Mitchell?” I was addressed by a smart young officer, fresh from home; his uniform was pristine, pressed.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll take you to Major Telford’s office. Follow me, sir.”

  I turned to say goodbye to Bill, but he was already slouching off in the other direction.

  VI

  A BUSY PORT HAS OBVIOUS ATTRACTIONS FOR A MAN LIKE ME, and if it’s a garrison town so much the better. Dockers, stevedores, sailors both merchant and military, soldiers of all ranks and ages, local men hanging around the Grand Harbour looking for work or trouble; if I hadn’t just spent the night fucking, I’d have been like a kid in a candy store. The climate was good, housing was cheap, and from what I could gather it wouldn’t be too difficult for me to get a job. Perhaps if I cleared up Ned Porter’s death to the satisfaction of all parties, I might have a foot in the door. As for companionship— well, there would be no shortage of that. There were good-looking men everywhere. Locals, like Joseph Vella. Soldiers and sailors suffering from a shortage of women. And for something more long term—Bill Conrad? Was it too soon to be building castles in the air? Forgive me. The sun was shining, the sky was blue and I was experiencing the euphoria that only a good night can give you.

  After the complexities of my life in London, a future in Valetta seemed attractive indeed. For the first time in months I felt optimistic.

  My appointment was at Major Telford’s office, a few streets back from the Grand Harbour in one of the imposing government buildings that dominate that part of town. Frank Southern was waiting for me in the lobby, pacing nervously up and down, his face pale.

  “Mitch! Thank God you’re here.”

  “I’m not late, am I?” The appointment was for 9:30; it was barely quarter past.

  “They nearly cancelled twice already. They’ve decided that Alf Lutterall should just be sent home as a mental case. It’s all I can do to keep them in the building. Come on.”

  We ran up the stairs. “Who’s they?”

  “The old man himself, Major Telford, and an officer in Lutter-all’s regiment, Captain Haymon. He’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t mention anything queer. He’s rather sensitive on that subject.”

  “You mean he hates us?”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, yes.”

  “I know the type. Don’t worry, Frank. I can behave.”

  We reached the landing, and Frank gave a sharp rap on the door.

  “Enter.”

  The interior was gloomy, all dark wood and leather-bound books, the windows small enough to keep out nearly all the brilliant sunshine. Major Telford—large, bald, tired looking—sat behind a desk signing papers. The man I assumed was the dreaded Captain Haymon strode up and down the worn maroon carpet, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Southern,” he said. “This your man?”

  “Dr. Edward Mitchell, sir. Fellow of the Royal College of…”

  “I don’t need all that. You may go. Mitchell. Sit.” He pointed to a wooden chair, the sort of thing I imagine prisoners are tied to for torture purposes. When I didn’t obey immediately, he simply raised his voice to a bark. “Sit!”

  “I would remind you, sir, that I am a civilian.”

  Major Telford looked up from his papers. “Oh for God’s sake, Haymon, stop acting the bloody martinet. Dr. Mitchell, I apologize.” He stood. “I am Major Telford.” We shook hands. “This is Captain Haymon, who is extremely anxious to get this business cleared up.”

  “Cleared up?” said Haymon, through clenched teeth. “It is cleared up. The man would be on a boat home by now if Southern hadn’t stuck his nose in.”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Southern has reason to believe that his patient requires specialist treatment,” I said. Men like Haymon don’t frighten me. If anything, they simply encourage me.

  “Nonsense,” said Haymon. “I had enough of that in the War. These people simply can’t cope with discipline. He should be sent home and…”

  “Sit down and shut up, Haymon,” said the Major. “Now, doctor, er…” He rummaged on his desk.

  “Mitchell, sir. As Lieutenant Colonel Southern may have explained, I am a psychiatrist.”

  “Whatever that may be,” said Haymon, brooding sulkily in his chair.

  “A doctor of the mind. From the Greek psyche, meaning soul, and iatros, meaning doctor.”

  “I know what it means, man. Now say your piece and let’s…”

  The Major held up his hand, and Haymon was silent. “Dr. Mitchell. Please.”

  “I understand that the patient is suffering from a form of neur-aesthenia.”

  “Hysteria, more like.”

  “We do not use that word, Captain Haymon. I believe that Private Lutterall exhibits symptoms of depression and persecution complex.”

  “Quite so,” said Telford.

  “In other words,�
�� added Haymon, “he’s as mad as a hatter.”

  “In cases such as these,” I said, warming to my theme, “there is always an underlying cause. Patients do not develop these symptoms out of nowhere. With careful analysis, I am sure I can bring him back to full health.”

  Haymon was about to open his big mouth again, but I didn’t give him the chance.

  “Untreated, he is likely to commit suicide. Then, of course, there would be a full inquest, and the reasons behind Lutterall’s state of mind and consequent death would be examined in forensic detail.”

  “Of course, there’s no need for that,” said Telford.

  “Oh, but there would be. My professional ethics would make that absolutely necessary.”

  “Lutterall is simply a weak, morbid little man,” said Haymon.

  “In that case, I will have no hesitation in recommending a discharge on grounds of ill health. But I must insist on making that diagnosis myself.”

  “I don’t think you are in a position to insist on anything, Dr. Mitchell. This is a military jurisdiction.”

  “Quite so, Captain. I will, however, leave no stone unturned in getting to the bottom of whatever ails this man. Because it begins to sound very much as if you are trying to hide something.”

  My words fell into a cold, fearful silence. Had I overplayed my hand? Would I be booted out of Telford’s office, off the island, sent home as a threat to imperial security?

  I noticed a glance between the two officers. Telford nodded, and said “Of course, Dr. Mitchell, our facilities are entirely at your disposal. We simply want the man to get better. See what you can do.”

  Haymon remained silent, lips tight, jaws clenched.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I am sure that I will find nothing more sinister than a man who is finding it very hard to accept the loss of a friend. That type is often overly sensitive, prone to exaggerated emotions.” It would do no harm to let them think that I shared their obnoxious, antiquated views. “That is why suicide is so common in such cases. I completely understand the predicament you are in, gentlemen. We do not want a scandal. But you must let me ensure that the patient is treated appropriately. I’ve done extensive work with shellshock patients back in England,” I lied, hoping they wouldn’t bother to check, “and I can assure you that the top brass takes a dim view of any attempt to sweep these problems under the carpet. If, as you say, Private Lutterall is simply a weak, morbid personality, we will say no more. But the opinion of my colleague Dr. Southern suggests otherwise. I don’t think he is prone to exaggeration or fantasy, do you?”