The Man in the Wooden Hat Read Free

that he’d have to get down to his papers. “No—I’ll fish them out for myself. You look after your hat. What do you keep in it? Opium?”
    Ross ignored him.
    Hot towels were brought, the pink tape round the sets of papers undone, the transcripts spread and Ross slept.
    How he snores, thought Filth. I remember that on the old Dunoon . And he got to work with his fountain pen and a block of folio, and was soon deaf, blind and oblivious to all else. The sky that enwrapped them now blackened the windows. Below, invisible mountain ranges were speckled with pinpricks of lights like the stars all around and above them. Before long, seats were being converted into beds—not Filth’s; he worked on—and blankets and warm socks were distributed. Night already.
    “Brandy, sir? Nightcap?”
    “Why not,” said Filth, pulling the papers together, taking off his cashmere pullover and putting on a Marks & Spencer’s. A steward came to ease off his shoes.
    I have seldom felt so happy, he thought, sipping the brandy, closing his eyes, awaiting sleep. I wonder if I should tell the Albatross why? No. Better wait till after Delhi.
    But then: Why not? I owe him so much. Best person, just about, I’ve ever met. Most loyal. My salvation. I’ve had other salvations but this one looks like lasting.
    He watched the strange sleeping face of the dwarf, and Ross opened his eyes.
    “Coleridge?”
    Albert Ross looked startled.
    “Coleridge, I have something to tell you.”
    At once the playing cards were flying. Ross began to shuffle and deal them.
    “Will you put those bloody things away?”
    “Do I understand,” said Ross, setting them carefully down, “that there is to be some sort of revelation?”
    “Yes.”
    “Much better find the Lady,” said Ross, beginning to deal again.
    “I have found the lady, Coleridge. I have found her.”
    There was silence; only the purr of the plane.
     
    The silence lasted until Delhi and all through the stopover, the pacing in the marble first-class lounge, the buying of trinkets in the shops—Ross bought a case of blue butterflies—the resettling into Air India. Along swam the smiling painted girls in their cheongsams. The final take-off for Hong Kong.
     
    “So,” said Ross. “You are about to be married. It is a revelation all right, but immaterial to your profession. Wait until you’ve done it as often as I have.”
    Filth looked uneasy. “You never told me any of that, Albert.”
    “I consider that they are my private affairs. Who is she?”
    “She’ll be in Hong Kong when we get there. Waiting. Today.”
    “She’s Chinese?”
    “No. No, a Scottish woman. But born in Tiensin. I met her—well, I’ve been meeting her off and on for a year or so. Whenever we come out East. The first case you got for me. In Singapore.”
    “So that I’m to blame?”
    “Yes. Of course. I’m very glad to say. You will, I hope, be best man at my wedding. Without that hat.”
    “Her name?”
    “She’s called Elisabeth Macintosh. Betty. She’s a good sort. Very attractive.”
    “A good sort !” The cards again were flying. “A good sort ?” He was wagging his weird Johnsonian head from side to side.
    “She hasn’t actually accepted me yet,” said Filth. “I’ve only just asked her. In a letter from Chambers sent to her hotel and marked ‘To await arrival.’ She’s just passing through with a friend. They’ve been in Australia—or somewhere. She has had some sort of work—I’m not sure. Rather hush-hush. She’s a natural traveller but not at all well off. She’s at the Old Colony Hotel.”
    “Never heard of it.” Without apparent volition the cards rose like liquid into a circle, and subsided.
    “Look, Albert, on the whole perhaps not mention it yet. I think she may accept me. Seems quite fond of me. She hasn’t actually said—”
    “I’m glad that she seems fond of you. It is the usual thing.”
    “And I’m really very fond of her. What’s the matter?”
    “You