There was something going on in this sunbeam-trellised hotel, this haven of calm and peaceful repose, that earned it a hushed reverence from outsiders. Mention of the hotel's name was enough to create a gap in the conversation, as if a talisman had been evoked. That evening, Malcolm spotted Mr Satardoo in the supper lounge and seized the opportunity to speak with him.
'Ah, Mr Bridget, I trust you do not find the nocturnal ozone too piquant?' he asked, referring, Malcolm assumed, to the fresh wind emanating from the open French windows that led on to the cliffs.
'Not at all, Mr Satardoo.' He seated himself opposite the plump Indian under-manager, who made a little rising gesture to acknowledge his guest. 'I've been meaning to ask you something.'
'Please feel most free to do so.' Mr Satardoo's corsets creaked like sea timbers as he leaned forward in his seat.
'Has no-one ever offered to write a history of this marvellous hotel?'
'The board of directors would, I feel, be less than willing to draw unnecessary attention to our little haven.'
'But many of your rooms are empty. Some good publicity would fill them.'
'Goodness, this hotel was not built simply to turn a profit,' said Mr Satardoo, shocked. 'It was constructed with the purpose of providing an oasis of tranquillity in a world that I fear is tipping into insanity.'
'I appreciate that, but perhaps a discreet brochure, with some tasteful photographs…'
'General Sullivan has indeed spoken of commissioning such a prospectus in the past,' sighed the under-manager, 'but the problem has always lain with authorial suitability.'
'You mean you haven't been able to find someone who could write such a thing to your satisfaction?'
'In a nutshell.'
'Then you need look no further,' said Malcolm. 'I'm your man.'.
Mr Satardoo stared at him for a moment, then emitted an eager squeak. Clearly he saw an opportunity to ingratiate himself with his superior. 'I'll attempt to initiate the introduction of such a proposal into my next conversation with the general,' he informed the biographer with unconcealed delight, 'I am most certain of success.'
He was as good as his word. In the space of an interview that lasted for exactly ten minutes, no more or less, General Sullivan approved Malcolm's appointment on the project, agreed a handsome fee, and instructed Mr Satardoo to provide him with all the information he might require for such a task, with one proviso; that he would not be allowed to interview any of the guests who were staying in the forty-seven special suites, for their privacy was sacrosanct. This seemed reasonable, and Malcolm embarked upon the project with enthusiasm. Truth to tell, although he was enjoying his stay at the Imperial Rex immensely, inactivity made him fractious and caused his mind to dwell on certain morbid preoccupations. He missed his wife, who had divorced him almost a year ago, and had grown increasingly dissatisfied with the world around him, a world that provided poor recompense for his occupation and even less spiritual comfort.
The morning after the general had given his consent to the commission, Malcolm rose early and took breakfast outside on the broad white curve of the first-floor balcony, high above the shimmering green sea. Running his hand lightly over his thinning chestnut hair, he rose as the sedate ladies of the Archduke picked a path between the tables and took their places with the regular guests. Theirs was a gesture of respect to the hotel; the Archduke could have allowed his concubines to remain in the suite with him while he broke fast, but, choosing not to draw attention to their status, sent them instead to observe normal mealtimes in the correct fashion. Malcolm smiled at the stern bodices and severe skirts that gave no hint of the fleshly passions laced within. Mr Satardoo had no need to be alarmed; the Archduke was clearly a gentleman given to the employment of tact and delicacy. He was one more part of a rich dramatic tapestry being daily woven throughout the hotel, both on its public stages and behind the scenes. It seemed a shame that part of the tapestry would remain permanently hidden from the biographer's view.
Malcolm drew up a list of practical questions about the hotel. He was less concerned with facts and figures, which were easily obtained, and more anxious to convey the unique ambience of a stay at the Rex. As the sapphire rawness of the morning tempered itself into a golden windswept summer's day, very possibly the last of the year, he strolled through each of the hotel's public spaces, watching and listening, filling his calfskin notebook with neat square writing.
But the suites which lined the top two floors of the hotel remained forbidden territory, and their exclusion nagged at him. Even the lifts would not go there without a special key. Something was being deliberately hidden from his gaze, and he wanted to know why. What on earth could a hotel such as this have to hide?
Malcolm was a man whose curiosity sometimes extended beyond common sense, and now his former tabloid skills represented themselves. Once he had ascertained the whereabouts of the silver lift keys, it was a simple matter to slip behind Mr Mack's counter and borrow one. That afternoon he had it copied in the town and returned to its hook before nightfall.
By itself, though, such a key was useless without further access to one of the suites, and this could only be gained by breaking the general's rule about fraternising with their occupants. That evening, Malcolm sat down to formulate a plan.
His main problem was finding a point of contact. The suite-guests did not mix with the other residents, and even sunbathed on a separate peninsula of rock away from the hotel's exclusive pebbled beach. The rubescence on the cheeks of the Archduke's concubines suggested that they took a little sun, and as this seemed a good enough place to start, Malcolm set about observing their movements.
He soon saw that there were two sides to Marisia and Therese (as they addressed each other in conversation). They gave courteous smiles as they rose from their morning table, nodding to the waiters and the other guests, but when they felt themselves to be unobserved, their mansuetude faded and expressions of the utmost dolour fell upon them. Indeed, they looked so sad that Malcolm felt ashamed to be spying on them. But his curiosity drove him on.
As the weather began to disappoint, the ladies took to sitting inside the glass-walled sun terrace until luncheon, writing in their commonplace books or demurely reading until the gong sounded. Within the space of a few days Malcolm was a familiar figure to them, always doffing his cap as they passed. Finally he was bold enough to sit beside them one morning as they shielded their eyes from the sun to watch several tiny white yachts cresting the waves.
'The Archduke hopes to sail tomorrow if the fine weather holds,' Marisia told him.
'But it is due to change,' warned Therese. 'Mr Satardoo tells me that the barometer is dropping.'
It was all the information he needed to know. Malcolm continued to work on his history of the hotel that afternoon, and prayed that the pressure would remain high enough for the Archduke to take out a boat.
He awoke next morning to a glorious sunny day. Rising early, he sat in the lobby reading the newspapers until he observed the Archduke and his men leaving. They were dressed in blue and white striped sweaters and flapping cream trousers, unmistakable yachting gear. Malcolm carefully folded away his copy of the Times and made his way to the sun lounge.
'I don't like that man,' Mr Mack confided to Flora, one of the third-floor chambermaids. 'There's something altogether too furry about him, the wispy hair and beard, the woolly jumper and corduroy trousers. He's sly. Forever creeping about behind people's backs, padding around in those horrible brown suede shoes, it's not natural.'