Free A Wreath for Rivera by Ngaio Marsh Page B

Somethin’ to the effect that I happened to show you a thing I’d written, you know, and you were taken with it and that I’ve decided that my
métier
lies in this direction and all that. What?”
    “Quite.”
    “I come out and we play it once through and then we swing it, and then there’s the shootin’, and then, by God, I go into my solo. Yes.”
    Lord Pastern took up his drumsticks, held them poised for a moment and appeared to go into a brief trance. “I’m still not so sure the other routine wasn’t the best after all,” he said.
    “Listen! Listen!” Breezy began in a panic.
    Lord Pastern said absently: “Now, you keep your hair on. I’m thinkin’.” He appeared to think for some moments and then — ejaculating “Sombrero!” — darted out of the room.
    Breezy Bellairs wiped his face with his handkerchief, sank on to the piano stool and held his head in his hands.
    After a considerable interval the ballroom doors were opened and Rivera came in. Bellairs eyed him. “How’s tricks, Carlos?” he asked dolefully.
    “Not good.” Rivera, stroking his moustache with his forefinger, walked stiffly to the piano. “I have quarrelled with Félicité.”
    “You asked for it, didn’t you? Your little line with Miss Wayne…”
    “It is well to show women that they are not irreplaceable. They become anxious and, in a little while, they are docile.”
    “Has it worked out that way?”
    “Not yet, perhaps. I am angry with her.” He made a florid and violent gesture. “With them all! I have been treated like a dog, I, Carlos de…”
    “Listen,” said Breezy, “I can’t face a temperament from you, old boy. I’m nearly crazy with worry myself. I just can’t face it. God, I wish I’d never taken the old fool on! God, I’m in a mess! Give me a cigarette, Carlos.”
    “I am sorry. I have none.”
    “I asked you to get me cigarettes,” said Breezy and his voice rose shrilly.
    “It was not convenient. You smoke too much.”
    “Go to hell.”
    “Everywhere,” Rivera shouted, “I am treated with impertinence. Everywhere I am insulted.” He advanced upon Bellairs, his head thrust forward. “I am sick of it all,” he said. “I have humbled myself too much. I am a man of quick decisions. No longer shall I cheapen myself by playing in a common dance band…”
    “Here, here, here!”
    “I give you, now, my notice.”
    “You’re under contract. Listen, old man…”
    “I spit on your contract. No longer shall I be your little errand boy. ‘Get me some cigarettes.’ Bah!”
    “Carlos!”
    “I shall return to my own country.”
    “Listen, old boy… I… I’ll raise your screw…” His voice faltered.
    Rivera looked at him and smiled. “Indeed? By how much? It would be by perhaps five pounds?”
    “Have a heart, Carlos.”
    “Or if, for instance, you would care to advance me five hundred…”
    “You’re crazy! Carlos, for Pete’s sake… Honestly, I haven’t got it.”
    “Then,” said Rivera magnificently, “you may look for another to bring you your cigarettes. For me it is… finish.”
    Breezy wailed loudly: “And where will I be? What about me?”
    Rivera smiled and moved away. With an elaborate display of nonchalance, he surveyed himself in a wall-glass, fingering his tie. “You will be in a position of great discomfort, my friend,” he said. “You will be unable to replace me. I am quite irreplaceable.” He examined his moustache closely in the glass and caught sight of Breezy’s reflection. “Don’t look like that,” he said, “you are extremely ugly when you look like that. Quite revolting.”
    “It’s a breach of contract. I can…” Breezy wetted his lips. “There’s the law,” he mumbled. “I suppose…”
    Rivera turned and faced him.
    “The law?” he said. “I am obliged to you. Of course one can call upon the law, can one not? That is a wise step for a band leader to take, no doubt. I find the suggestion amusing. I shall enjoy repeating it to