Tour de Force by Christianna Brand Read Free Book Online

darkness rolled back and the footlights flooded the stage in bright Mediterranean sunshine – the play would begin.
    The pronunciation, hi hybrid-Spanish-Italian, of the name of the hotel, phased even the Experienced Travellers who would have died rather than call the island anything but San Hoowarne. Mr Cecil and Louvaine called it frankly Bello-mare and had succeeded in convincing one or two of the more credulous that it referred to the lavish cuisine of the hotel and meant The Stomach of a Horse. Certainly the meals were gargantuan. Replete with tortilla and pizza, on the afternoon after their arrival, Cockie resisted all attempts to get him to join an expedition to see over the ducal palace on the hill and retired for the siesta. It had been amusing, he reflected as he stripped to his vest and underpants and lay down on the white-curtained four-poster bed in his close-shuttered room, to observe the skirmishings of those who, for less innocent reasons than an assignation with Carstairs, also wished to cry off. The outing had been arranged by the hotel and Fernando had been only too thankful to let his party go off without him for once, with the other guests. Miss Trapp, obviously prescient of this intention, started a positive epidemic of headaches. Helen Rodd, defensively clearing the way for her husband and his latest light of love, was the first to be infected; Leo and Louvaine, drifting in separately to announce the same affliction, discovered too late that she had been before them and that they were now all three condemned to spend the afternoon together after all. Vanda Lane, overhearing Leo’s stumbling speech, succumbed immediately and only Mr Cecil, delighted at the possibility of mischief arising from this narrowing down of the party, struck out for himself and declared that ideas for Hoowarnese-inspired designs were simmering on the hob, duckies, and he must get out Little Red Attashy case and dash them down forthwith. They drifted to their rooms. Out in the blistering sunshine, the explorers moved off reluctantly upon their jaunt, the hotel staff retired to their remote and unbeautiful quarters to doze away the precious off-duty hours, and soon there was no sound or movement but the hissing breath of the sea cooling the hot white sand. Inspector Carstairs slid off the gentle protuberance of Cockie’s full tummy and lay with rumpled pages on the floor, and the peace of the long Spanish afternoon siesta fell softly upon the Bellomare Hotel.
    It was an hour or more before Cockrill awoke. It was pleasantly cool in the bare little cell-like room, but the sunshine was streaming through the slats of the shutters and he jumped up quite gaily and splashed about under the shower in his tiny bathroom and put on a light jacket and the hat which he had dashingly purchased in Rapallo some days ago. Contrary to custom, he had bought it not two sizes too large, but considerably too small and it sat on his splendid head like a paper boat, breasting the fine spray of his greying hair. He patted his pockets to be sure of a stock of tobacco and paper for his cigarettes, tucked Carstairs under his arms, and went out on to the balcony whose rail was draped already with the bathing impedimenta of the hotel guests. Directly below were the main reception rooms, their great doors standing ever open upon the lovely terrace, roofed in with bougainvillea; two curving flights of steps led down to the terrace from the balcony, and from the terrace a central flight of shallow steps ran on down and across a lower terrace, and so to the beach. To his left as he looked seawards, a hump of rock jutted out like a great nose at the level of the lower terrace, dividing the beach from a little beach beyond; along its sharp ridge, a narrow path had been worn by the bathers running out to a diving-board which had been built into it, twenty feet above sea level, at its tip. At the terrace end of the ridge, a row of little bathing cabins had