He turned to shout into the ear of the Capitano, who had been surveying the room with open disgust. The Fascist’s eyes came around to me, a still point amongst the whirl, then dropped to the silk-stockinged ankles visible behind my trousered legs. The Capitano gave a triumphant smile, and gestured commands to his underlings.
The two younger Blackshirts he sent to the left, to block the exit into the gardens. The two older ones went around the right side of the crowded floor, to a place where the dancing spilled onto the forecourt to the beach. And the remaining one—the man without champagne on his tongue—the Captain set down at the doors to the hotel.
I edged closer to the silk stockings, then glanced behind me to check that all my players were on their marks. Towards the garden, the two young Fascists had already attracted admirers, male and female. On the beach side, a sort of can-can line of mixed sexes was distracting the two older ones. All four men were looking a touch confused as it occurred to them that not all the attractive women pressing up against them were quite what they seemed.
Holmes loomed into view then, working his way across the crowded floor, his arms wrapped around a load of equipment to protect it from high-kicking heels and outflung elbows.
When I turned to face the entrance again, the Capitano and the Marquess were bearing down on me, elbowing away would-be admirers—literally, in one case, causing a pile-up of legs and shrieks across a table.
I blocked the Marquess by thrusting a bottle of champagne into his hands—and so ingrained were the habits of an English aristocrat that he took it. “Lord Selwick!” I shouted. “I never thought to see you in a place like this. I didn’t even know you were in Venice! I love your costume, so realistic! Is this a friend of yours? How d’you do? Mary Russell!” Having freed a hand, I thrust it out at the man I’d seen terrifying the asylum guard on San Clemente—and such were the habits of a native Venetian that he accepted it.
But the Marquess would be distracted no longer. He thrust the bottle at a nearby set of willing hands and wrenched me aside, stepping forward in my place so as to stare down at the person I’d been hiding.
The slim figure was all golden: gold shoes, sparkly stockings, short gold dress, golden bracelets around one wrist. As the dark trousered legs pushed past me, the sitter noticed them. The feathered bandeau dipped, pausing with gaze averted. The golden shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath, and then the entire figure began to turn in the chair, and rise to face the accusing Marquess. Only at the last moment did the downward-facing head come up, the feathers thrown back as the golden arms shot out to embrace the startled Englishman. The Marquess stared into the pop eyes for a small eternity (one…two…three…) and then Cole Porter turned to his enthralled audience with an exaggeratedly coy grin, all but fluttering his eyelashes. At that precise instant, a photographer’s magnesium flash briefly washed all colour from the scene. The Marquess struggled to pull free, but I was right there, getting in his way, and Porter’s arm had him in a death grip. The small musician used his free hand to yank off the bandeau and wig he wore, gave a glance at the Capitano as if to check that he was in a position to witness this—then rose up on his toes to plant a kiss directly on the mouth of the Marquess of Selwick. A second flare, accompanied by a roar of laughter.
The third flash came when Porter, arms still locked, turned to meet his wife’s eyes across the table, his face given over to a grin composed of pleasure and jest and the hard, cold triumph of revenge.
The Marquess finally managed to throw off the embracing arms and stagger away. A fourth camera flared, the crowd cheered, the Capitano looked appalled—and the band played on.
* * *
—
Late the following morning, Holmes returned with prints of the photographs. Within minutes of the previous night’s fracas, all four photographers had had cameras ripped from their hands and smashed to the floor by the Capitano’s Blackshirts; however, since all four of those cameras were the cheap replacements Holmes had carried in, no real harm was done—to our plan or to their livelihood.
When the Blackshirts had retreated, it was a moment’s work to retrieve the devices from beneath their concealing tablecloths. Four rolls of film were retrieved, four cameras returned to their owners, four photographers paid off and told that they should go home, now.
Each of their pictures was crisp and clear and perfectly timed. The first appeared to show the Marquess of Selwick in the embrace of a woman in a shiny dress—albeit a woman with rather hairy arms. The second, however, was clearly the Marquess kissing a man. In the third, Cole Porter’s ecstatic face and tousled hair revealed just the right amount of the Marquess: enough to identify him, but not to show his expression—although that on Cole Porter’s homely features was interesting. Something personal there, more profound than mere exultation at a successful prank.
The fourth, taken by the photographer closest to the door, showed laughing onlookers and the Marquess pushing back in disgust—but that one could be discarded, along with the ambiguous first one.
Yes: the second and third photographs, put side by side, would be quite enough for our purposes.
I hoped not too many people suffered from the after-effects of the previous night. Things had, in the Hon Terry’s phrase, got a bit out of hand after the Blackshirts’ brutal destruction of cameras sent a ripple of protest through the inebriated crowd—many of them Americans who’d shouted for a photo to send to the folks back home. The dissent was good-natured at first, but when the Capitano’s men smashed the third camera, revolt became more open.
Then the Milizia made the mistake of shutting down the band. As the wrangling continued, the romantic appeal of black costumes began to turn, along with the mood of the room.
No one saw where the first flying orange-slice came from, but in an instant, bits of alcohol-soaked fruit and booze-sodden olives filled the air, soon joined by bar-snacks of devilled eggs and rolled salami. At the slap of the first thrown oyster against his forehead, the Capitano turned and fled, with the Marquess on his heels. Having only five men—and having enough sense not to draw his weapon on the Excelsior’s guests—he retreated to call for reinforcements. By the time those arrived, the party had broken up.
In the confusion, Holmes and I rescued the precious cameras and slipped their rolls of un-wound film into the dark pouch of his beaded handbag.
Yes: his—for I see I have neglected to mention the details of my Monday conversation with Miss Elsa Maxwell.
I’d been told how the lady liked to hold themed parties—scavenger hunts, come-as-you-are balls. It was also common knowledge that she depended on the kindness of others when it came to paying the bills. So when I offered to under-write the bar tab for a party with a specific theme, she was all in favour. The theme? Come as Your Opposite.
Girls were to dress as boys, and boys as girls—but to further stir the pot, women who preferred trousers were instructed to find themselves a feminine dress, while boys whose preferences were…of a lavender tint, were invited to come as he-men.
Holmes, believe it or not, had walked into Chez Vous wearing a pair of my neon-toned beach pyjamas.
I wore his evening suit with its cuffs turned up.
Linda Porter also wore an evening suit, although it had been tailored for her sleek figure, and there was no mistaking her for a man.
And Cole Porter? He was dressed in Vivian’s golden costume.
The Marquess had seen his sister wearing it, outside Ca’ Rezzonico on Saturday night. Because it had a loose fit, and because Porter was not much taller than Vivian, we had only to scour the city for a blond wig and a pair of gold shoes.
Vivian herself kept well clear of the Lido—because over the past few days, the Milizia Nazionale had received a dozen letters and a score of tips from gondoliers and shop-keepers: a small, blonde Englishwoman was sure to be at the Excelsior cabaret on Wednesday night.