“What the hell are you talking about?” I said.
“It would mean disguising me as a man.”
“Easy,” I said. “No problem.”
“A beautiful young man.”
“Will you give him the Beetle?”
“A double dose,” she said.
“Isn’t that a bit risky? Don’t forget what it did to old Woresley.”
“That’s just how I want him,” she said. “I want him out of his mind.”
“Would you please tell me exactly what you propose to do?” I asked her.
“Don’t ask so many questions, Oswald. Just leave that side of it to me. I regard Monsieur Proust as fair game. He’s in the joker class and I shall treat him as a joker.”
“Actually he’s not,” I said. “He’s another genius. But take the hatpin by all means. The royal hatpin. The one that’s been two inches into the King of Spain’s bum.”
“I’d feel happier with a carving-knife,” she said.
We spent the next few days dressing Yasmin up as a boy. We told the couturier and the wigmaker and the shoe people that we were rigging her up for a very grand fancy-dress party, and they rallied round with enthusiasm. It is amazing what a good wig can do to a face. From the moment the wig was on and the make-up was off, Yasmin became a male. We chose slightly effeminate pale grey trousers, a blue shirt, a silk stock tie, a flowered silk waistcoat, and a fawn jacket. The shoes were brogues, white and brown. The hat was a soft felt trilby the colour of snuff, with a large brim. We took the curves out of her noble bosom by strapping it with a wide crepe bandage. I taught her to speak in a soft whispering voice to disguise the pitch, and I rehearsed her diligently in what she was to say, first to Céleste when the door was opened, and then to Monsieur Proust when she was shown into his presence.
Within a week, we were ready to go. Yasmin had still not told me how she intended to save herself from being inverted in true Proustian fashion and I did not press her any further about this. I was happy enough that she had agreed to take the man on.
We decided that she should arrive at his house at seven p.m. By then our victim would have been up and about for a good three hours. In her bedroom at the Ritz, I helped Yasmin to dress. The wig was a beauty. It gave her a head of hair that was golden-bronze in colour, slightly curly, and a bit on the long side. The grey trousers, the flowered waistcoat, and the fawn jacket turned her into an effeminate but ravishingly beautiful young man.
“No bugger could resist buggering you,” I said.
She smiled but made no comment.
“Hang on,” I said. “There’s something missing. Your trousers look distinctly empty. It’s a dead giveaway.” There was a bowl of fruit on the sideboard, a present from the hotel management. I selected a small banana. Yasmin lowered her trousers and we strapped the banana to the inside of her upper thigh with sticking plaster. When she pulled up her trousers again, the effect was electric–a telltale and tantalizing bulge in exactly the right place.
“He’ll see it,” I said. “It’ll drive him dotty.”
19
WE WENT DOWNSTAIRS and got into the motor car. I drove to the rue Laurent-Pichet and stopped the car about twenty yards short of number eight, on the other side of the street. We examined the house. It was a large stone building with a black front door. “Off you go,” I said. “And good luck. He’s on the second floor.”
Yasmin got out of the car. “This banana’s a bit uncomfortable,” she said.
“Now you know what it’s like to be a man,” I said.
She turned away and strode toward the house with her hands in her trouser pockets. I saw her try the door. It was unlocked, presumably because the place was divided into separate apartments. She went in.
I settled down in the motor car to await the outcome. I, the general, had done all I could to prepare for the battle. The rest was up to Yasmin, the soldier. She was well armed. She carried a double dose (we had finally decided) of Blister Beetle and a long hatpin whose sharp end still -bore the crusted traces of Spanish royal blood which Yasmiri had refused to wipe off.