Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 158
“Go on, George!” cried Marion’s voice. “Do what you said you were going to do. I don’t care one little damn now. Tear the beggar asunder.”
Topper caught a momentary flash of himself flying in all directions, of his various members decorating the Riviera. He closed his eyes on this, too. He found it difficult to decide whether Marion was more to be feared in one of her shockingly playful moods or when she was blindly ferocious. She played both to perfection.
“Let’s all quiet down now,” came the surprisingly amicable voice of George Kerby. “Let’s pull ourselves compactly together and pray for food. We don’t want to have any trouble here in Topper’s own home.”
“Speak for yourself,” snapped Marion. “I want some trouble here. I want a lot of trouble.”
“Here comes something much better,” Mrs. Hart’s voice cried out excitedly. “Clap eyes on that, Colonel. What a delicious looking tray! My mouth fairly slavers.”
This time, upon the appearance of Félice bearing a fresh and more abundant supply of food, Mr. Topper made a better showing. He had made up his mind not to be caught napping again. If he had to fight like an animal for his food, he was fully prepared to do his best. He would claw and snatch to the last crumb. And that was almost literally what he had to do to salvage the modest scrap of breakfast he did. His guests were prepared to go even farther than himself in their eagerness to provide their apparently famished but unseen bodies with nourishment.
Félice, who loved a good frolic of almost any nature as well if not better than the next, was startled in spite of herself. She could not understand how Mr. Topper could be in so many places at once. The affrighted girl was rocked as if in the grip of a gale. Once or twice an indignant protest escaped her lips as if undue liberties were being taken with things other than Mr. Topper’s breakfast.
Even when he returned to his chair with the spoils of conquest, Mr. Topper was not at all sure of his success. He distinctly heard someone breathing interestedly over his shoulder. It gave him an eerie sensation — the awareness of hidden eyes peering consideringly into the contents of his plate.
“That’s a nice little bit,” said the absorbed voice of Marion Kerby. “I think I’ll take that one just to prove I’ve forgiven you.”
Whereupon one of Topper’s choicest pieces of bacon slid from his plate and halved itself in the air. Its ultimate disappearance was followed by a distinct click, as of teeth.
“How unnecessary,” thought Mr. Topper.
It is surprising he did not think more about this weird breakfast and the strange things that had come to pass at it. The truth of the matter was that Mr. Topper had not been given much opportunity to do any thinking at all. He had been far too deeply involved himself. Astounding events occur with such a disarming air of naturalness that it makes one feel as if one had especially ordered them. One scarcely realizes their true nature until after they are over.
His friends had been changed but not improved. It was merely that the scope and effectiveness of their antisocial activities had been increased. One of these activities, although scarcely antisocial, was now in progress. An uninitiated observer would have gained the impression that Félice had been suddenly endowed with miraculous powers which she was using rather flightily. To the consternation of Mr. Topper she had elevated her fine French body about three feet above and parallel with the floor. There she remained for a moment alluringly poised on the wings of the fair Riviera morning.
“Leave her alone, Colonel,” Mrs. Hart admonished. “If you don’t put her down I’ll walk out on you.”
But the Colonel, having gorged himself, was now playful. Slowly but gracefully Félice was lowered to the matting, and her skirt, her inviolate jupe, was snatched from her waist. Félice, beside herself, was now only in step-ins and stockings. She looked greatly improved that way. The jupe, unoccupied, fluttered mysteriously in the air, then flopped down by the figure of its erstwhile tenant. Bereft of her skirt Félice was also bereft of her reason. That fine fortitude that had stood her in such good stead on other similar occasions forsook her now. To be unable to put up even a formal resistance seriously upset her ethics. Then again, when capitulating to a visible assailant one had something to go on, whereas with this one God alone knew what he looked like or what he was trying to prove. Whoever he was he seemed to have no definitely conceived purpose other than general low behavior. Félice tossed her fortitude into the discard along with her jupe. She began to scream in the most shockingly convincing manner. In the midst of this frightful noise she turned quite white and, so far as Mr. Topper could tell, died. The distracted man sprang from his chair and knelt down beside the stricken maid.
He was in this compromising position when Mrs. Topper appeared. The man glanced up at his wife and, finding no comfort there, glanced back at what seemed to him interminable leagues of step-ins and silk stockings. He was stunned by the amount of sheer leg that this woman had. The silence in the room was fraught with accusations. He was unable to let it continue.
“I just got here,” he observed rather inanely.
“So did I,” said Mrs. Topper. “It seems in the nick of time.”
“What do you mean?” Topper demanded indignantly.
“Need we go into that?” asked Mrs. Topper, delicately arching her eyebrows.
“It’s not that,” explained Topper in a hopeless voice.
“Then if it isn’t that,” observed his wife, “you must have taken up murder, which is, if anything, a trifle worse. What is her skirt doing where it is instead of where it should be?”
“It flopped there,” said Mr. Topper.
“A pretty picture,” commented Mrs. Topper, considering the skirt. “It just happened to flop there. For all you cared, I fancy, it might just as well have been hanging from the chandelier. And, by the way, if you are interested in whether or not she is regaining consciousness I would suggest that you shift your eyes to her face instead.”
This was a little too much for Topper, but there was still more to come. When he attempted to rise Félice, opening her eyes suddenly, flung her strong arms round his neck, and with a Gallic twist to the half-Nelson, tossed him easily onto his back. For a few moments Mr. Topper, stunned, lay down by his maid and stared up at the ceiling, upon which were many Riviera flies and a fine showing of mosquitoes recuperating from their night’s revelry.
As if fearing another and more brutal attack, Mr. Topper sacrificed his dignity and rolled rapidly across the room. Then slowly he rose to his feet. Somewhere in the room a woman’s voice was giggling, and it was not Mrs. Topper’s. That good lady was watching the performance of her husband with detachment.
“Well, I must say,” she admitted, “you move with surprising rapidity for a man of your age and bulk.”
“What do you mean, my age and bulk?” he flung at her. “I’m as good a man as any along the Riviera, and I’ll prove it quickly enough if you pull any more of those wisecracks.”
“You almost did,” was all Mrs. Topper said, but it was quite enough.
Topper, whose wits were still numb from the various shocks of the morning, could think of no reply to this. However, he could think of something to do. He gave the jupe of Félice an unreasonable kick and marched from the room.
“I shall expect an explanation,” his wife called after him.
He laughed sardonically and collected his hat and stick.
“It would drive you mad,” he said.
With a set face he departed in the direction of the village.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Self-tipping Hat
“AND AS FOR the rest of you,” Topper shouted furiously but inadequately across the length of his garden, “I hope you choke.”
“On what?” a voice at his shoulder promptly asked. “Man cannot choke on air alone.”
“I wish to God you could, Kerby,” Topper told the voice with the defiant inelegance of a baited man. He turned away.
Mrs. Topper, not understanding the reason for her husband’s fervent hope, and thinking he was flinging insults at the servants, decided that the man had lost what little was left of his wits. Not so Monsieur Louis, who was still hot at it, encouraging his garden. Once more the redoubtable head popped up. With the deadly accuracy of an eagle’s claw, a nervous hand seized Topper.
“Arrest you!” cried the Frenchman.
“For what?” demanded Topper, who by this time was surprised by no turn of fate.
“I near the end, mon ami,” breathed Monsieur Louis.
At the moment Topper was not in the least sorry. The sooner Monsieur Louis came to a complete and definite end the better. However, he remained gentil.
“Not, I trust, before you have had your play,” he remarked.
At the mention of play Monsieur Louis brightened shamelessly.
“But yes, Monsieur Toppaire,” he replied. “First I arrive at a finish, is it not? Then I begin to play.”
“You’re just like some friends of mine,” commented Topper. “They arrived at a finish and then they began to play. They’ve been doing it ever since, at the expense of others. Monsieur Louis, I do not like these friends. No.”
Monsieur Louis was at a loss concerning the true inwardness of Mr. Topper’s remarks. He never had an opportunity to find out, for at that moment Mr. Topper appeared to spin round on his heels. From somewhere close at hand a woman’s voice addressed him heatedly.
“You know that free-for-all Félice, don’t you?” demanded the voice.
“I didn’t know she was that,” Topper got out.
“Never mind,” the voice went on. “If you even so much as look cross-eyed at that jade I’ll chase you clean out into the middle of that damn Mediterranean and then sink you. So help me God!”
“You, M’sieu, and Félice?” inquired the little Frenchman in a low voice, quivering with emotion. “She is good, that one — voluptueuse.”
“What do you know about it?” Topper demanded ill-temperedly, but did not stay to be told.
As he hastened down the road Monsieur Louis’s bright eyes were darting from bush to bush in quest of one who could be none other than Madame Toppaire herself. So Félice was up to her old tricks, was she? It was of a convenience for the wealthy American visitor. He might prolong his stay to spend many good American dollars in their little French village. It was of a rightness. All the world would be well pleased save Madame Toppaire. She alone would not be elated. It was that Félice lacked discretion. That would come with the years. The little Frenchman thoughtfully shrugged his shoulders, then hurled himself at his garden, a complete picture of Félice at her best dwelling in his eyes.
In the meantime Topper was stepping diligently over yards and yards of drying fishing nets extending across his path. Innumerable dogs, attracted by memories of what the nets had once contained, did not speed his progress. To avoid a net and a dog at the same time required both quick decision and prompt action. Once he almost fell upon his fish-assailed nose. He had been pushed by an unseen companion whom he cursed passionately under his breath.
The fact was, Mr. Topper was a very much haunted man. If anything, he was overhaunted. His steps were dogged by low-plane spirits. He realized this more and more as he took his way towards the center of the village, skirting sidewalk cafés already performing their convivial functions, and crossing streets wherein motor cars hooted French maledictions at every moving object, and the deeper tones of a passing machine gave notice of the American invasion.
When he turned into the main thoroughfare of the town in which were situated the bureau de poste and some of the more important shops and cafés that would never have been in existence had Columbus remained at home, the fact that he was not unaccompanied was most unpleasantly borne in on him. He was being given aid in a rather singular manner. His hat was tipping itself of its own accord, but with marked courtesy, at various passers-by. Perfect strangers, desirous of taking no chances, were returning his involuntary salutations with puzzled, back-thinking expressions in their eyes.
Mr. Topper began to feel exceedingly foolish, especially when he realized that people were turning and staring wonderingly after his dignified, well tailored back. This inclusive greeting meant little to the Frenchmen he met, for a Frenchman is by nature an enthusiast at the game and will flip a snappy béret upon the slightest provocation. A friendly smile will turn him temporarily into a hand-wringing symbol of welcome. Not so with others. Many persons not unreasonably object to being saluted by an individual unknown to them. This is especially true of certain gentlemen when accompanied by certain ladies. And because they realize that their escorts will become angry enough for two, women have trained themselves rigidly not to be offended when pleasantly accosted by strangers of the opposite sex. So well have they succeeded that it is yet to be recorded that a woman has been anything other than secretly pleased upon the reception of such friendly overtures.
Accordingly, Mr. Topper, in the course of his walk, was the recipient of numerous hostile as well as covertly appreciative glances.
One Southern gentleman had the bad taste to ask him who the hell he was taking his hat off to, and when Mr. Topper in his irritation answered, “I hope you don’t suspect me of taking it off to what you have in tow,” this same Southern gentleman made a chivalrous Southern pass at Mr. Topper’s eye. But the blow never landed. Mr. Topper’s companions might have been ill-advisedly helpful, but they had no intention of permitting others to take any liberties with his person. That was sacred to them. Mr. Topper had the satisfaction of seeing the Southern gentleman double up with a gasp of sharp anguish while his hands solicitously clutched at his Southern stomach. Synchronously with this involuntary but nevertheless grotesque action the assaulted gentleman’s hat — a panama, especially purchased for the trip — was whisked from his head and tossed negligently to the street which had been traversed by horses as well as automobiles. This second misfortune, following so swiftly on the heels of the first, brought the Southern gentleman erect as if touched by a magic wand. That hat, that panama, meant much to him.
Now, it is an obvious conclusion that a man trying to decide whether to hit another man in the eye and then to rescue a new but slightly soiled panama from the street or to rescue the panama first and then come back and hit the other man, in the eye is thwarted in both ambitions. While Mr. Topper slipped through his fingers, the Southern gentleman, standing in deep abstraction, watched with morbid eyes the completion of his hat’s ruin as an automobile — an antiquated car at that — jounced blithely over it.
“Don’t worry, Toppy, old scout,” said George Kerby’s voice in his ear. “We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
“Thanks a lot,” muttered Topper. “Your hearts, wherever they are, I’m sure are in the right place, but don’t call me Toppy, and for the love of God keep your hands from my hat. The situation is most embarrassing.”
Topper spoke through stiff lips. He feared that people would think he had taken up talking to himself in addition to his other eccentricities.
“Don’t mind about your hat,” whispered Marion. “We’ll take care of that. We’ll make it seem automatic. Only, of course, we don’t know your friends from Adam. We’ll just tip the damn thing at everyone, and that will make you popular.”
“It will make me notorious,” stiff-lipped Topper. “Why do you always insist on being so all-fired helpful?”
“We like you, Topper,” came the Colonel’s voice. “You’re a real pal. And we feel for you because you’re alone in a foreign land. From now on we’re going to see that you get the best of the breaks.”
“Even if we have to break your neck,” added George.
Topper groaned. There was no escape. He continued down the street. This time he altered his tactics. Whenever he felt his hat preparing to leave his head he would reach up quickly in an endeavor either to hold it on or, at least, to give the appearance of tipping it himself. But his companions were too quick for him. When Topper’s right hand shot up the hat would dart to the left. When he attempted to clutch it with his left hand the agitated object would cleverly dodge to the right. As a result of this, Topper gave the appearance of a man who for no apparent reason was diligently juggling his hat. Realizing the futility of his efforts he abandoned them and allowed the hat to have its way. There was nothing else to do about it.
“Be ready,” he heard Marion whisper excitedly. “Here comes an important-looking person. Make this tip a good one.”
As the important person passed by, Mr. Topper’s hat flew off with a particularly graceful swoop, and the important person, in his anxiety to be equally courteous, nearly stabbed himself in the groin with his stiffly starched French beard. Greatly unnerved by this encounter, Mr. Topper paused in the cooling shade cast by the Byzantine mass of Notre Dame de la Victoire to catch a quiet breath and to consider ways and means. This sort of thing could not go on. He had lost his reputation already. He feared now that he might lose his liberty as well. But even here, in the shade of the great cathedral, his hat continued to bob up and down with industrious rapidity.
While this bobbing was in progress Mr. Topper noticed a tall, gloomy-looking individual watching him intently. The man had actually stopped and was standing with his gaze riveted on Mr. Topper’s head. Every time the hat sprang to life the gentleman started visibly, then drew a little nearer, as if under a spell. Topper felt strongly inclined to take to his heels, but it was already too late. The gloomy man approached and addressed himself to Mr. Topper.
“I trust you will pardon me,” he said, “but for the life of me I can’t figure out how you do it.”
“It’s quite simple,” replied Topper for lack of anything better to say.
“I dare say,” responded the man. “The best things usually are. Would you mind doing it again?”
