The Judas Tree Read Free Page B

tender images. Frida von Altishofer was not young, in bed she would not prove so succulent as he might wish, and as a man in whom the intensive demands of his late wife had induced a prostatic hypertrophy, he now had needs that should, if only for reasons of health, be satisfied. Nevertheless, Frida was a strong and vital woman with deep though conceded feelings, who might be capable of unsuspected passion. Such, he knew from his medical training, was often the case with women who had passed the menopause. Certainly, in all other respects she would make the most admirable aristocratic wife.
    But now they were in the town and sweeping round the public garden with its high central fountain. Arturo drew up, was out in a flash to remove his uniform cap and open the car door. They mounted the steps towards the Kunsthaus.
    â€˜Some of my friends in the diplomatic corps may have come up from Bern for this affair. If it wouldn’t bore you, you might care to meet them.’
    He was deeply pleased. Although not a snob – good heavens, no! – he liked meeting ‘ the right people’.
    â€˜You are charming, Frida,’ he murmured, with a sudden quick intimate glance.

Chapter Three
    The party had been in progress for some time: the long hall was filled with noise and crushed human forms. Most of the notables of the canton were there, with many worthy burghers of Melsburg and those of the Festival artistes who had performed during the final week. These, alas, were mainly of the old brigade since, unlike the larger resorts of Montreux and Lucerne, Melsburg was not rich, and between sentiment and lack of funds, the committee fell back year after year upon familiar names and faces. Through the haze of cigarette smoke Moray made out the aged and decrepit figure of Flackmeister, who could barely totter to the podium, held together by his tight dress coat, green with the sweat of years beneath the arm holes. And over there stood Tuberose, the ’ cellist, thin, tall as a beanpole, and, through long clasping of his instrument, very gone about the knees. He was talking to the superbly bosomed English contralto, Amy Rivers Fox-Finden. Well, it made no odds, Moray reflected, gaily edging his way into the crush with his companion, the applause at the concerts was always rapturous and prolonged, reminding him, much as he loved his neighbours, of row upon row of happy sheep flapping their front legs together.
    They were served with a beverage of no known species, tepid, and swimming with fragments of melting ice. She did not drink hers, merely met his eye in a humorous communicative side glance which plainly said, ‘How wise you were, and how glad I am of your delicious tea’ – almost, indeed, ‘and of you!’ Then, with a gentle pressure of the elbow, she steered him across the room, introduced him first to the German, then to the Austrian minister. He did not fail to observe the affectionate respect with which each greeted her, nor her poise in turning away their compliments. As they moved off Moray was hailed exuberantly across the press by a sporty British type, all amiable plastic dentures and alcoholic eyeballs, dressed in a double-breasted, brass-buttoned blue blazer, baggy fawn trousers and scuffed suede shoes.
    â€˜So nice to see you, dear boy,’ Archie Stench boomed, waving a glass of actual whisky. ‘ Can’t move now. Keep the flag flying. I’ll be giving you a ring.’
    His face clouding slightly, Moray gave a discouraging answering wave. He did not care for Stench, correspondent of the London Daily Echo , who also ‘on the side’ did a weekly social column for the local Tageblatt – airy little items, often with a sting in the tail. Several times Moray had been stung.
    Fortunately they were near the far end of the big room where, by the wide bay window, a group of their own particular friends had gathered. Here were demure Madame Ludin of the Europa Hof and