Topper Takes a Trip

Thorne Smith

Description

This delightfully quirky ghost story is a follow-up to Thorne Smith's most popular novel, Topper. The stories recount a supernatural love triangle of sorts. Staid banker Cosmo Topper's life has settled into a somewhat boring rut when he happens to cross paths with a pair of ghosts who welcome him into their spooky social milieu. This novel follows Topper and his otherworldly chums on a vacation to the French Riviera.

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 février 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776529612
• Langue: English

Extrait

TOPPER TAKES A TRIP
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THORNE SMITH
 
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Topper Takes a Trip First published in 1932 Epub ISBN 978-1-77652-961-2 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77652-962-9 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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I - Morning Thoughts on a German Model II - Mr Topper Shakes Hands III - Monsieur Grandon's Vesuvius IV - Animated Discourse with a Foot V - One Thing Leads to Another VI - Unseen and Uninvited Guests VII - A Self-Tipping Hat VIII - Casual Conversation at the English Bar IX - 'All God's Chillun Got Shoes' X - La Plage Tranquille XI - Interlude on the Rocks XII - The Eccentric Behaviour of Scollops XIII - A Lady's Leg Betrays XIV - At the Hôtel Splendide XV - Six Well Fixed Races XVI - The Ascension of Colonel Scott XVII - From Tree to Tree XVIII - The Disappearing Suicide XIX - Looking at a Lot of Fish XX - Sanctuary XXI - The Broken Window XXII - The Law Takes its Casual Course XXIII - An Invitation to Be Murdered XXIV - Night Thoughts on a Vanished Mistress
I - Morning Thoughts on a German Model
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There was Topper, and there was the Mediterranean. A magnificentspectacle, that—Topper and the Mediterranean. Kindred spirits wellmet, contemplating each other across an alluring girdle of sand.
Not a large man, Topper—Cosmo Topper. Nor yet a smallman. Certainly not a small. A comfortable man, rather. Slightly plump,if anything, and clad in a pair of blue silk pyjamas. And there wasthe Mediterranean just as it had been there for a considerable lengthof time—much longer than Mr Topper, for one thing. A vast expanseof cool ocean as blue and virginal seeming as the garments adorningthe figure then inspecting it from the balcon of a discouraginglypale stucco villa set in a garden fairly bristling with grass of arepellent toughness—grass so hostilely tough that only a rhinoceroscould sit on it with any showing of dignity and aplomb. Unfortunately,as rhinoceroses are rarely if ever encountered in these drab dayssitting on Riviera grass in Riviera gardens, this observation must ofnecessity remain merely one of those vast mental pictures upon whichto dwell during the interminable reaches of a family reunion.
On this early morning, one which appeared about as willing to give asto receive of the good things of life, Mr Topper had the Mediterraneanvery much to himself. In fact, he was quite alone with all that greatquantity of water.
There was the man. And there was the ocean. Unique and distinct. Onemight even choose between them, if suddenly faced with such adisagreeable necessity. However, so splendidly did they go together,so well matched or mated were the two, that most persons ofdiscrimination would have hesitated to separate them. They would havepreferred to sidestep the issue and to retain both Topper and theMediterranean intact. But, of course, there are some who might havewanted the ocean more than the man, or vice versa. Who can say?
We are fortunate in being able to have them both at their best, Topperon his balcon , and the Mediterranean in its bed.
Across the Mediterranean Mr Topper cast an early morning look, and theMediterranean graciously offered its full-bosomed amplitude to hisinspection. And although it has been previously observed that bothwere of a virginal blueness, it should not be forgotten that eitherone of them was capable of pulling some powerfully rough stuff whenthe opportunity offered.
Topper, it is to be learned with some relief, was virginal morethrough circumstance than choice. This does not imply that his was alow and lecherous nature. Nor does it necessarily follow that he wasepicurean in such matters. But he did like things nice that way. Mostmen do, when and if possible.
Topper had been a banker by profession. He still was a husband—anoriginal error of judgement unrectified by time. Habit is a dreadfulthing. Once he had commuted without realizing the error of hisways. Most men commute through necessity. Topper had done soritualistically. In Glendale, U.S.A., the Toppers had been sociallysolid. All that had changed, but not through Mrs Topper.
The fact is that rather late in the day Cosmo Topper had beensubjected to the ultra-violent rays of a series of amorous anddisreputable adventures as incredible as they had beenentertaining. These adventures had left his pulse still beating inperfect harmony with the more enjoyable if less laudablepreoccupations of life. They had not so much changed his character asventilated it, given it a chance to breathe good, honest, vulgar, airvitalized by the fumes of grog. As a result, he had succeeded inwashing his hands of work, but figuratively women still clung tothem. There were times when those hands of Topper's fairly itchedafter women, which is the natural state of all healthy andenterprising masculine hands.
Even now, in the innocent face of this clean Riviera morning, the manwas actually speculating as to the exact degree of nudity the Germanmodel would achieve on the beach a few hours hence. Yesterday, to hisalmost visible agitation, this lady of wolfish lines had reached whathe had every reason to believe to be the absolute limit of anatomicalcandour. In spite of this awe-inspiring display, something told Topperthat this German model, in her relentless quest of a coat of tan,still held a few more cubic inches in reserve which she wouldwillingly sacrifice to the sun. Until she did this there was no peaceof mind for any inquiring spirit on the beach. And when this greatlyto be desired end had been attained, Topper both hoped and proposed tobe stationed critically in the front ranks of a vast, admiring, andcosmopolitan multitude. He owed himself that much. Not that he lustedafter the woman, but too long and too patiently had he attended inclinical expectancy to be, at the end, deprived of this point ofvantage.
Once she had definitely and conclusively arrived at the climax of herrevelations, Topper felt that he would be quite willing to call it agame. He had no desire to pursue his investigations further. Allsuspense would be at an end. The German model could go her way, whilehe would go his as if the incident had never occurred. Her crisplyburned body would remain in his memory merely as a remarkablephenomenon, something to wonder about, like a landslide, subway rush,or Democratic Convention.
However, until that time Mr Topper's interests were very muchinvolved. True enough, so gradually had the German model progressed onher way to nudity that much of the shock had evaporated before freshterritory was opened up for inspection, but by the same token, thevery deliberateness of the method employed lent to the business anatmosphere of terrific suspense. What the morrow would bring forth,or, rather, off, was the anxious speculation in scores of masculineminds. Women also wondered. Topper suspected several depravedfrequenters of the Casino actually of betting on the results of themodel's daily progress. For example, the fifth rib against thediaphragm, heavy odds against a complete torso.
Being bored abroad is one of America's favourite customs. And notwithout reason.
Mr Topper held stoutly to the belief that within the short space ofseveral weeks this German model had done more to establish friendlyrelations—to create a sort of entente intime, in fact—betweenher country and the Allied Powers than had been achieved by all thediplomatic gestures and disarmament conferences that had supplied thepublic with dull reading since the Armistice.
'And not a bad idea,' he mused, yawning. 'In fact, a splendididea. Instead of holding a series of silly disarmament conferences atwhich everyone gets all hot and bothered and cables home to hurry upwith more guns—instead of this, why not institute a set ofdisrobing conferences? Why not make a clean breast of itinternationally? Let us strip ourselves of our all and face each otherman to woman instead of man to man. No more beating about the bush ordangerous secret diplomacy. No more old men telling lies to other oldmen. At innumerable private conferences the idea has worked out notonly successfully but entertainingly. Why not try it out on a largeinternational scale?'
He considered his Mediterranean now as if in a trance. Topper wasseeing in his mind's eye the American ambassador to England clad onlyin a pipe, looking at the German delegate trying to face the world inglasses. He saw a famous old French bargain hunter smilingly surveyingthe scene protected only by a blue béret—trèsgentil. And a gentleman from Italy clad only in a neat but shrunkenblack shirt—what a sight! Mahatma Gandhi taking everything quitenaturally, together with a few grains of rice. Then there would be theladies, supplied probably by an international theatrical committee:Miss America, Mlle France, Señorita Madrid, et al. Altogether ajolly party. A conference that would accomplish some results, atleast, no matter what those results might be. Agreeable events wouldbe sure to occur.
The Mediterranean invites the idle mind to do some very curiousthinking, and Mr Topper, it seems, had accepted the invitation. Andall the while these and other equally unbecoming thoughts werecorroding the mind of this erstwhile banker, within the pale villa hiswife was sleeping most unpicturesquely yet most thoroughly. In spiteof the many sterling qualities of this really admirable lady, onecould forgive without too great a struggle her husband for preferringto think of the German model.
There was