It was a macabre sort of evening. Engles was at his wittiest, telling anecdote after anecdote of film stars he had known, directors he had got the better of, cocktail parties that had ended in rows. He worked like a street vendor to spread a veneer of cheerfulness over his audience. At first the audience was myself only. But then he brought Joe out of his Western and smoothed his ruffled feathers. And when Keramikos joined us, there was only Mayne left outside the little group by the bar.
That was what Engles had been playing for. Mayne went over to the piano and bull-dozed his way through a sonorous piece of Bach. It was a vicious piece of playing. The old piano cried aloud his mood of frustration and impotent anger.
And Engles talked through it until he had us all roaring with laughter. It was a forced gaiety in that it was produced intentionally by wit and cognac. But the laughter was real. And that was what eventually got Mayne. It took away his authority. It undermined his confidence. He wasn't sure of himself now that he had failed to find the gold. With a gun in his hand and everybody doing what they were told, he could still have bolstered up his self-esteem. But to be ignored! To see the rest of us in such apparently hilarious spirits. It was too much for him. He suddenly crashed his hands on to the keys and stood up. 'Stop laughing!' he shouted.
'Ignore him,' Engles whispered. And he went on talking. We began to laugh again.
'Stop it, do you hear?'
Engles turned. He was swaying slightly. 'S-shtop what, sir?' he asked blandly.
'Go and sit down by the fire and stop that noise,' Mayne ordered.
'What noise? Do you hear a noise, Neil?' He turned in a dignified manner to Mayne. 'No noise here, old man. Must be the piano.'
I glanced at Mayne this time. He was white with anger. But he hesitated. He didn't know what line to take. 'Engles!' he said. 'Go and sit down.'
'Oh, go to hell!' was all the reply he got.