The Golden Horns. John Burke

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СКАЧАТЬ he knew what it must be like. Her face haunted him: when the curtain went up again, it came between him and the ballet dancers.

      At the end of the performance the party waited for him in the foyer.

      Lights sparkled and winked across Kongens Nytorv, and, on the top of the theatre four censers burned brightly up into the night. There was a hubbub of voices—a clash and confusion of languages. Ballet critics gesticulated with long, white hands, and slim, proud women caught the arms of broad-shouldered men and walked across to where candles glowed beneath a restaurant awning.

      Henning Holtesen said: “And now you must join us in—”

      “Please, no,” said Martin abruptly. “It is most kind of you, but I have promised to meet one or two colleagues to discuss the performance.”

      He saw Birgitte moving closer, trying to catch his attention.

      “I quite understand,” said Holtesen. He held out his hand.

      They shook hands, and Martin said; “Tak for aften.”

      “Velbekommen.”

      Birgitte’s hand closed tightly on his. Her eyes were aflame with a light as angry as the smoky flames above the theatre.

      Then Eiler, with his mouth set hard. And Inge….

      He looked into the depths of those incredible blue eves, and, for a moment thought he detected the trace of a wondering smile there. Then it was gone.

      He walked away without looking back, and did not speak to Birgitte again. Once, a week later, they nodded to one another at a reception, which Martin was attending, but that was all.

      She had, he noticed, fastened her claws on another man—a young impressionable Englishman.

      Mark knew the youngster slightly.

      He was Sean Clifford, a member of the Cockaigne Ensemble, a group of London musicians who were giving n series of recitals here during the Festival.

      They were specialists in old, unfamiliar music, which they played on the original instruments. Sometimes, the results were interesting; sometimes the noise was indescribable. But there was a rage for this sort of archaic reconstruction, and the ensemble was flourishing.

      It seemed unlikely that Birgitte was interested in the eccentric works of minor composers whose names had been almost forgotten. But young Clifford, with his shy, brown eyes and his boyishly greedy mouth, presumably had an appeal of his own to her.

      Martin was not sure whether to be glad or sorry for the young man. He knew the passion of which Birgitte was capable, and the exultation she could arouse in a man’s heart.

      But he knew also what her contempt and bitterness could be like.

      He hoped Sean Clifford would come out of it alive!

      At any rate, it was a relief. Whatever plans Birgitte might have had regarding himself, she had abandoned them now. Her time was occupied with this new, presentable young man.

      Martin did not imagine she would try to enlist Clifford’s aid, in any smuggling venture: he was the wrong kind for that sort of thing. He was merely the plaything for an idle hour.

      Just as I used to be, he thought grimly: just as I would have been again if she’d had her way.

      The days passed swiftly.

      His world was filled with music. He listened to music, talked about music, and wrote about music—wrote articles, sent cables, and made notes for future use.

      There were receptions, meetings, cocktail parties, late suppers that went on for hours until there were the intimations of dawn beyond the copper spires of the city….

      And then, at last, the Festival was ended and he was on his way home.

      * * * *

      The Cockaigne Ensemble was on the boat with Martin. Sean Clifford nodded to him as they cast off, and in the bar during the course of the evening he edged over and spoke.

      “Wonderful place, Copenhagen.” His face was strangely restless—almost apprehensive, thought Martin doubtfully.

      “Wonderful,” he dutifully agreed.

      “I’m surprised your editor didn’t send you by air. You rich critics….”

      Clifford was brashly aggressive. He seemed as though he could not stop talking.

      Or as though he wanted to appear at his ease, and had to stick close to someone—not one of his fellow musicians, but someone who would calm him down somehow.

      Martin said: “I don’t like travelling by air.”

      “I’m all in favour of it myself,” Clifford chattered on. “Bobbing up and down on the sea for hours, after that long train journey—and then another train journey at the other end... Liverpool Street of all depressing places…instead of taking a couple of hours for the whole trip.”

      Martin remembered the plane sinking lower over Jutland. He felt the rush of wind, the drop into silence, and the tug of the parachute opening. Danish soil rushed up to meet him…

      He said: “I like to forget about aeroplanes. I had enough of them during the war.”

      “For myself,”—there was no stopping Clifford—“I’d have been on the plane this morning if it weren’t for all the luggage we have to carry. All our instruments, you know.” He laughed unsteadily. “Lot of old scrap-iron.”

      “Well,” Martin shrugged, “if you will play such eccentric old things, you’ve only yourselves to blame.”

      He was glad to get away from young Clifford—glad when they reached Liverpool Street the following day, and glad as the taxi whirled him away from the station.

      He let himself into his flat and pushed his two heavy cases into a corner of the small entrance hall. First things first: a drink and a cigarette, and a sprawl in his favourite chair.

      He was just lowering himself gratefully into its cushioned depths when the doorbell buzzed softly.

      Martin sighed. For a moment he considered ignoring it; but a doorbell, like a telephone bell, was a challenge he could never brush aside. He went to the door and opened it.

      There was nobody there. Ahead of him was the stairwell, to his right the lift doors.

      He emerged from the flat to glance along towards the lifts...and was slashed savagely across the back of the head by something hard—something that drove a surge of pain into his head, exploded a blaze of light before his eyes, and then thrust him down into a reeling, tumultuous darkness.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Berkley Square was flooded with sunlight. The bodywork of cars parked against the kerb were hot to the touch, and office windows around the square stood gaspingly open.

      Martin Slade glanced up at the first floor windows of the building he was approaching, as though hoping they might reveal something СКАЧАТЬ