"So would I. It's a puzzle. If he had molested her while she was a
captive, you could understand. But he never came near her."
"Busted his nerve, that's what."
"I have my doubts about that. A man who will go that far isn't subject to
any derangement of his nerves. Want me to bring up the checkers?"
"Sure. I've got two rubbers hanging over you."
The artist took the path that led around the villa and thence down by many
steps to the village by the waterside, to the cream-tinted cluster of
shops and enormous hotels.
The Italian was more fortunate. He was staying at the villa. He rose and
sauntered over to Harrigan, who was always a source of interest to him.
Study the man as he might, there always remained a profound mystery to his
keen Italian mind. Every now and then nature--to prove that while she
provided laws for humanity she obeyed none herself--nature produced the
prodigy. Ancestry was nothing; habits, intelligence, physical appearance
counted for naught. Harrigan was a fine specimen of the physical man, yes;
but to be the father of a woman who was as beautiful as the legendary
goddesses and who possessed a voice incomparable in the living history of
music, here logic, the cold and accurate intruder, found an unlockable
door. He liked the ex-prizefighter, so kindly and wholesome; but he also
pitied him. Harrigan reminded him of a seal he had once seen in an
aquarium tank: out of his element, but merry-eyed and swimming round and
round as if determined to please everybody.
"It will be a fine night," said the Italian, pausing at Harrigan's bench.
"Every night is fine here, Barone," replied Harrigan. "Why, they had me up
in Marienbad a few weeks ago, and I'm not over it yet. It's no place for a
sick man; only a well man could come out of it alive."
The Barone laughed. Harrigan had told this tale half a dozen times, but
each time the Barone felt called on to laugh. The man was her father.
"Do you know, Mr. Harrigan, Miss Harrigan is not herself? She is--what do
you call?--bitter. She laughs, but--ah, I do not know!--it sounds not
real."
"Well, she isn't over that rumpus in Paris yet."
"Rumpus?"
"The abduction."
"Ah, yes! Rumpus is another word for abduction? Yes, yes, I see."
"No, no! Rumpus is just a mix-up, a row, anything that makes a noise,
calls in the police. You can make a rumpus on the piano, over a game of
cards, anything."
The Barone spread his hands. "I comprehend," hurriedly. He comprehended
nothing, but he was too proud to admit it.
"So Nora is not herself; a case of nerves. And to think that you called
there at the apartment the very day!"