*
No news from Philadelphia at the moment of going to pres except a rather unpleasant episode in the life of Robert Gilpin a gatekeeper at the local Zoo. Seems he was standing at his post when a young man approached him carrying a red-bellied turtle.
"Ah," said Mr. Gilpin. "A red-bellied turtle, eh? Just what we happen to be short of. Come in and let me have it."
The young man came in and let him have it on the base of the skull. Then, stepping over his prostrate body, he took hundred dollars from the gatehouse cash register and with drew. Asked by reporters how it felt to be beaned with a red bellied turtle, Mr. Gilpin replied that it was about the same as being beaned with any other kind of turtle. Nothing much in ii either way, he said.
*
The wise guys who understand national finance have been telling us that we are in for a bad time unless something is done to curb the Administration's 'reckless spending programme', giving the impression that they think our money is being unwisely handled by the men up top. I am sure very few of us will agree with this. One of the reasons why our faces light up when the time comes to hand over four-fifths of our last year's income to the government is that we know that the lolly will be employed to some good end.
Only the other day the government started a project for studying the diving reflex and volume receptors of seals, which is a thing I can hardly wait to find out about, and now they are touching me for a bit more because they want to take a census of fish. Four hundred skin-divers are diving daily into the Atlantic and Pacific oceans in order to 'determine the distribution of the fish that inhabit American waters', and that sort of thing comes high. You know what skin-divers are like. They want theirs. By the time I have paid this bunch their salaries, it is very doubtful if I shall be able to afford the one meat meal a week to which I had been looking forward.
But I can quite see how it would jeopardise America's safety not to count these fish, so I shall make do quite happily on biscuits and cheese, and of course there is always the chance that a kindly skin-diver, grateful for my patronage, will slip me a halibut or something on the side.
*
Talking of dogs—not that we were, but suppose we had been—there is a Television writer in these parts who never wants to hear the word mentioned again. They told him the other day to do a story featuring a cocker spaniel which was on the pay roll, and he wrote one of those charming little domestic comedies which, after the usual complications and misunderstandings, ended with the family going out to dinner at a restaurant accompanied by the dog.
So far, so good. But he had not reckoned with the thoroughness with which TV organisations go into these things. The assistant director said to the director "Do you think it's all right to have a cocker spaniel dining at a restaurant?". The director did not feel equal to deciding an important point like that, and put it up to the producer. The producer, not liking to commit himself, passed the buck to the executive producer, who handed it on to the advertising agency, who after a good deal of thought felt that the only safe course was to apply directly to the sponsor. The sponsor was on a yacht cruise, but after three days they managed to locate him.
"Is it okay," they asked, "for a cocker spaniel to go out to dinner with the family?"
"Sure," said the sponsor. "Why not?"
So everybody was happy except the writer, who got properly ticked off for costing the management four day's shooting. "In future," they told him, "lay off the controversial stuff."
*
A funny thing happened to Garry Moore, the television comedian, on his way to the studio the other night. His face being so familiar to the viewing public, he is always being stopped in the street and asked for his autograph, and as he is a kindly man who believes in keeping in with the fans, he never fails to oblige. On this occasion he was coming along Sixth Avenue to attend a late night rehearsal, when, as he passed the mouth of a dark alley, a man emerged and said something in a low voice.
"Why, certainly, certainly," said Mr. Moore heartily. "Only too pleased," and he took an old envelope from his pocket, scribbled his name on it and went his way. It was a few minutes later that he suddenly realized that what the member of his public had whispered in his ear was "This is a stick-up."
7. George and Alfred
The little group of serious thinkers in the bar parlour of the Angler's Rest were talking about twins. A Gin and Tonic had brought the subject up, a cousin of his having recently acquired a couple, and the discussion had not proceeded far when it was seen that Mr. Mulliner, the Sage of the bar parlour, was smiling as if amused by some memory, "I was thinking of my brother's sons George and Alfred," he explained. "They were twins."
"Identical?" asked a Scotch on the Rocks.
"In every respect.
"Always getting mistaken for each other, I suppose?"
"They would have been, no doubt, if they had moved in the same circles, but their walks in life kept them widely separated. Alfred was a professional conjuror and spent most of his time in London, while George some years previously had gone to seek his fortune in Hollywood, where after various vicissitudes he had become a writer of additional dialogue on the staff of Jacob Schnellenhamer of the Colossal-Exquisite corporation.
The lot of a writer of additional dialogue in a Hollywood [studio is not an exalted one—he ranks, I believe, just above a script girl and just below the man who works the wind machine—but any pity I might have felt for George for being one of the dregs was mitigated by the fact that I knew his position was only temporary, for on his thirtieth birthday, which would be occurring very shortly, he would be coming into possession of a large fortune left to him in trust by his godmother.
It was on Mr. Schnellenhamer's yacht that I met George again after an interval of several years. I had become friendly with Mr. Schnellenhamer on one of his previous visits to England, and when I ran into him one day in Piccadilly he told me he was just off to Monte Carlo to discuss some business matters with Sam Glutz of the Perfecto-Wonderful, who was wintering there, and asked me if I would care to come along. I accepted the invitation gratefully, and the first person I saw when I came on board was George.
I found him in excellent spirits, and I was not surprised, for he said he had reached the age of thirty a few days ago and would be collecting his legacy directly we arrived in Monaco.
"Your trustee is meeting you there?"
"He lives there. An old boy of the name of Bassinger."
"Well, I certainly congratulate you, George. Have you made any plans?"
"Plenty. And the first is to stop being a Yes man."
"I thought you were a writer of additional dialogue."
"It's the same thing. I've been saying Yes to Schnellenhamer for three years, but no longer. A radical change of policy there's going to be. In the privacy of my chamber I've been practising saying No for days. No, Mr. Schnellenhamer!" said George. "No, no, no! You're wrong, Mr. Schnellenhamer. You're quite mistaken, Mr. Schnellenhamer. You're talking through your hat, Mr. Schnellenhamer. Would it be going too far if I told him he ought to have his head examined?"
"A little, I think."
"Perhaps you're right."
"You don't want to hurt his feelings."
"I don't think he has any. Still, I see what you mean."
We arrived in Monte Carlo after a pleasant voyage, and as soon as we had anchored in Monaco harbour I went ashore to see the sights and buy the papers, and I was thinking of returning to the yacht, when I saw George coming along, seeming to be in a hurry. I hailed him, and to my astonishment he turned out to be not George but Alfred, the last person I would have expected-to find in Monte Carlo. I had always supposed that conjurors never left London except to appear at children's parties in the provinces.
He was delighted to see me. We had always been very close to one another. Many a time as a boy he had borrowed my top hat in order to take rabbits out of it, for even then he was acquiring the rudiments of his art and the skill which had enabled him t
o bill himself as The Great Alfredo. There was genuine affection in his manner as he now produced a hardboiled egg from my breast pocket.
"But how in the world do you come to be here, Alfred?" I asked.
His explanation was simple.
"I'm appearing at the Casino. I have a couple of spots in the revue there, and I don't mind telling you that I'm rolling the customers in the aisles nightly," he said, and I recalled that he had always interspersed his feats with humorous dialogue. "How do you happen to be in Monte Carlo? Not on a gambling caper, I trust?"
"I am a guest on Mr. Schnellenhamer's yacht."
He started at the mention of the name.
"Schnellenhamer? The movie man? The one who's doing the great Bible epic Solomon And The Queen Of Sheba?"
"Yes. We are anchored in the harbour."
"Well, well," said Alfred. His air was pensive. My words had apparently started a train of thought. Then he looked at his watch and uttered an exclamation. "Good Lord," he said, "I must rush, or I'll be late for rehearsal."
And before I could tell him that his brother George was also on Mr. Schnellenhamer's yacht he had bounded off.
Mr. Schnellenhamer was on the deck when I reached the yacht, concluding a conversation with a young man whom I presumed to be a reporter, come to interview him. The young man left, and Mr. Schnellenhamer jerked a thumb at his retreating back.
"Listen," he said. "Do you know what that fellow's been telling me? You remember I was coming here to meet Sam Glutz? Well, it seems that somebody mugged Sam last night."
"You don't say! "
"Yessir, laid him out cold. Are those the papers you've got there? Lemme look. It's probably on the front page."
Lie was perfectly correct, Even George would have had to say 'Yes, Mr. Schnellenhamer.' The story was there under big headlines. On the previous night, it appeared, Mr. Glutz had been returning from the Casino to his hotel, when some person unknown had waylaid him and left him lying in the street in a considerably battered condition. He had been found by a passerby and taken to the hospital to be stitched together.
"And not a hope of catching the fellow," said Mr. Schnellenhamer.
I pointed out that the paper said that the police had a clue, and he snorted contemptuously.
"Police!"
"At your service," said a voice, and turning I saw what I thought for a moment was General De Gaulle. Then I realized that he was some inches shorter than the General and had a yard or so less nose. But not even General De Gaulle could have looked sterner and more intimidating. "Sergeant Brichoux of the Monaco police force," he said. "I have come to see a Mr. Mulliner, who I understand is a member of your entourage."
This surprised me. I was also surprised that he should be speaking English so fluently, but the explanation soon occurred to me. A sergeant of police in a place like Monte Carlo, constantly having to question international spies, heavily veiled adventuresses and the like, would soon pick it up.
"I am Mr. Mulliner," I said.
"Mr. George Mulliner?"
"Oh, George? No, he is my nephew. You want to see him?"
"I do."
"Why?" asked Mr. Schnellenhamer.
"In connection with last night's assault on Mr. Glutz. The police have reason to believe that he can assist them in their enquiries."
"How?"
"They would like him to explain how his wallet came to be lying on the spot where Mr. Glutz was attacked. One feels, does one not, that the fact is significant. Can I see him, if you please?" said Sergeant Brichoux, and a sailor was despatched to find George. He returned with the information that he did not appear to be on board.
"Probably gone for a stroll ashore," said Mr. Schnellenhamer.
"Then with your permission," said the sergeant, looking more sinister than ever, "I will await his return."
"And I'll go and look for him," I said.
It was imperative, I felt, that George be intercepted and warned of what was waiting for him on the yacht. It was, of course, absurd to suppose that he had been associated in any way with last night's outrage, but if his wallet had been discovered on the scene of the crime, it was obvious that he would have a good deal of explaining to do. As I saw it, he was in the position the hero is always getting into in novels of suspense—forced by circumstances, though innocent, into the role of Suspect Number One and having a thoroughly sticky time till everything comes right in the last chapter.
It was on a bench near the harbour that I found him. He was sitting with his head between his hands, probably feeling that if he let go of it it would come in half, for when I spoke his name and he looked up, it was plain to see that he was in the grip of a severe hangover. I am told by those who know that there are six varieties of hangover—the Broken Compass, the Sewing Machine, the Comet, the Atomic, the Cement Mixer and the Gremlin Boogie, and his aspect suggested that he had got them all.
I was not really surprised. He had told me after dinner on the previous night that he was just off to call on his trustee and collect his inheritance, and it was natural to suppose that after doing so he would celebrate. But when I asked him if this was so. he uttered one of those hollow rasping laughs that are so unpleasant.
"Celebrate!" he said. "No, I wasn't celebrating. Shall I tell you what happened last night? I want to Bassinger's hotel and gave my name and asked if he was in, and they told me tie had checked out a week or two ago and had left a letter for me. I took the letter. I opened it. I read it. And having read it...Have you ever been slapped in the eye with a wet fish?"
"Oddly enough, no."
"I was once when I got into an argument with an angler down at Santa Monica, and the sensation now was very similar. For this letter, this billet doux from that offspring of unmarried parents P. P. Bassinger, informed me that he had been gambling for years with the trust money and was deeply sorry to say that there was now no trust. It had gone. So, he added, had he. By the time I read this, he said, he would be in one of those broadminded South American countries where they don't believe in extradition. He apologised profusely, but places the blame on some man he had met in a bar who had given him an infallible system for winning at the tables. And why my godmother gave the trusteeship to someone living in Monte Carlo within easy walking distance of the Casino we shall never know. Just asking for it is the way it looks to me."
My heart bled for him. By no stretch of optimism could I regard this as his lucky day. All this and Sergeant Brichoux, too. There was a quaver in my voice as I spoke.
"My poor boy! "
"Poor is right."
"It must have been a terrible shock."
"It was."
"What did you do?"
"What would you have done? I went out and got pie-eyed. And here's a funny thing. I had the most extraordinary nightmare. Do you ever have nightmares?"
"Sometimes."
"Bad ones?"
"Occasionally."
"I'll bet they aren't as bad as the one I had. I dreamed that I had done a murder. And that dream is still lingering with me. I keep seeing myself engaged in a terrific brawl with someone and laying him out. It's a most unpleasant sensation. Why are you looking at me like a sheep with something on its mind?"
I had to tell him.
"It wasn't a nightmare, George."
He seemed annoyed.
"Don't be an ass. Do you think I don't know a nightmare when I see one?"
"I repeat, it was no nightmare."
He looked at me incredulously, his jaw beginning to droop like a badly set soufflé.
"You don't mean it actually happened?"
"I fear so. The papers have featured it."
"I really slugged somebody?"
"Not just somebody. The president of a motion picture corporation, which makes your offence virtually lese majeste."
"Then how very fortunate," said George, looking on the bright side after a moment of intense thought, "that nobody can possibly know it was me. That certainly takes a weight off my mind
. You're still goggling at me like a careworn sheep. Why is that?"
"I was thinking what a pity it was that you should have dropped your wallet—containing your name and address—on the spot of the crime."
"Did I do that?"
"You did."
"Hell's bells!"
"Hell's bells is correct. There's a sergeant of police on board the yacht now, waiting for your return. He has reason to believe that you can assist him in his enquiries."
"Death and despair!"
"You may well say so. There is only one thing to be done. You must escape while there is yet time. Get over the frontier into Italy."
"But my passport's on the yacht."
"I could bring it to you."
"You'd never find it."
"Then I don't know what to suggest. Of course, you might---"
"That's no good."
"Or you could"
"That's no good, either. No," said George, "this is the end, I'm a rat in a trap. I'm for it. Well-meaning, not to be blamed, the victim of the sort of accident that might have happened to anyone when lit up as I was lit, but nevertheless for it. That's Life. You come to Monte Carlo to collect a large fortune, all pepped up with the thought that at last you're going to be able to say No to old Schnellenhamer, and what do you get? No fortune, a headache, and to top it all off the guillotine or whatever they have in these parts. That's Life, I repeat. Just a bowl of cherries. You can't win."
Twin! I uttered a cry, electrified.
"I have it, George! "
"Well?"
"You want to get on the yacht."
"Well?"
"To secure your passport."
"Well?"
"Then go there."
He gave me a reproachful look.
"If," he said, "you think this is the sort of stuff to spring on a man with a morning head who is extremely worried because the bloodhounds of the law are sniffing on his trail and he's liable to be guillotined at any moment, I am afraid I cannot agree with you. On your own showing that yacht is congested with sergeants of police, polishing the handcuffs and waiting eagerly for my return. I'd look pretty silly sauntering in and saying 'Well, boys, here I am'. Or don't you think so?"