The Girl in Blue

  His visit to the home of Dame Flora Faye and her daughter Vera had been the most triumphant success. He had expected to pop in and pop out again in a matter of minutes, and they had kept him there for nearly two hours, and it had been delightful, perfectly delightful.

  He had found Dame Flora charming. Too often artists of her eminence are inclined to be cold and distant towards those as alien to their rarefied atmosphere as corporation lawyers, but she, on being informed that that was his walk in life, could not have been more cordial. She had shown the greatest interest in his prosaic profession. He could well understand why for so many theatrical seasons worshipping audiences had been falling at her feet and why a gracious sovereign, feeling that there is nothing like a dame, had made her one.

  As for her daughter Vera, she had been a revelation to him. His first act on reaching his destination was to sit down and write a poem directly inspired by her.

  Barney came in as he was finishing it, and he greeted her in the precise and formal manner in which he always greeted her.

  ‘Ah, Bernadette.’

  ‘Hi, Homer.’

  ‘Did you have a pleasant afternoon?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Hither and thither, seeing the sights. I did a little shopping.’

  Homer started violently, dislodging the fountain pen which had been assisting him to put his soul on paper. ‘You didn’t—?’

  She smiled the indulgent smile she usually reserved for the foolish babblings of doctors who told her she smoked too much.

  ‘No, no, all cash transactions. You were quite wrong about that business at Guildenstern’s. I keep telling you it was purely experimental. For some reason I found myself thinking of Aunt Betsy, and I said to myself If she could pinch things from under the noses of department store detectives, I ought to be able to do it, too, so I gave it a try. It was a mistake, of course, I can see that now. It might have been better not to have made the experiment. But how was I to know that these fellows have eyes at the back of their heads?’

  The explanation she offered was the same which Homer had put before Duane Stottlemeyer at the start of their interview, but he had not believed it then and he did not believe it now. He was convinced that his sister, like the Aunt Betsy she had mentioned, had some defect in her mental and spiritual make-up which caused anything that was not nailed down to have an irresistible attraction for her. His gratitude to Duane for that admirable suggestion of his increased daily, and he hoped his next song of protest would find a sympathetic editor and one with more of the Santa Claus spirit, when it came to payment, than most of the editors of his experience. Thanks to Duane, Bernadette would be safely at Mellingham Hall tomorrow, far away from the insidious temptations of department stores.

  Barney, having made clear her motives for trying to get things on the cheap at Guildenstern’s, changed the subject. It was not one that interested her greatly.

  ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I met Bill Scrope’s brother Crispin this morning, the one who owns Mellingham Hall.’

  ‘Indeed? Where did you meet him?’

  ‘At Bill’s office. I’d looked in to give him a miniature I’d picked up for a few shillings at a hock shop, knowing that he collected the darned things, and the first thing he did was show me one he’d just bought for some colossal sum. By Gainsborough, I think he said it was, one of the guys up top, anyway. So naturally I didn’t mention my five-shilling exhibit. It would have been like entering a mongrel at the Westminster Kennel Show.’

  ‘And how did you get on with Mr Crispin Scrope?’

  ‘Swell. We’re practically kissing cousins.’

  ‘Good. Good. Then you are sure to be happy at Mellingham Hall,’ said Homer, relieved.

  His relief lasted till the dinner hour, when it became replaced by a growing uneasiness. This was caused by his sister Bernadette’s outspoken enthusiasm for the Gainsborough miniature of which she had spoken.

  Exhibited at the table by Willoughby with a collector’s pardonable pride, it drew from her a stream of what are called marked tributes. Gainsborough, if he had heard them, would have felt that though he had always known he was good, he had never supposed he was as good as all that. She called it cute. She thought the little girl too ducky for words, though needing a square meal or two to fatten her up. She reached for it to examine it more closely, and it seemed to Homer that there was a glitter in her eyes which he did not like at all. Just so, he told himself, they must have glittered as she went her way through Guildenstern’s department store, and admirable though the dinner was that Willoughby’s cook had served up, it is not too much to say that it turned to ashes in Homer’s mouth. He sat crumbling bread and fearing the shape of things to come.

  He rose from the table at the conclusion of the meal empty as far as proteins and carbohydrates were concerned, but full of a stem resolve. He did not like what he had to do, but he knew that it was his obvious duty to do it. Briskly though his flesh crawled at the prospect, Willoughby must be warned.

  The opportunity of warning him came when Barney had gone to bed and he and his host were having a last drink in the study, which in this bachelor establishment was the hub and centre of things. Willoughby, preparing to retire, had risen and placed the miniature on the mantelpiece, giving Homer the opening he needed.

  ‘You aren’t going to leave it there?’ he said, and Willoughby said: ‘Where else?’

  ‘I would have thought you would have locked it up, a valuable object like that.’

  The suggestion amused Willoughby.

  ‘Think somebody’s going to pinch it?’

  ‘I should be apprehensive if it were mine.

  ‘There are burglar alarms on all the windows.’

  ‘But is that enough?’ said Homer, shrinking like a salted snail at the thought of having to reveal the skeleton in the family cupboard, but feeling that if the revelation must be made, this was the moment for a conscientious man to make it. ‘Has it ever occurred to you, Scrope, to wonder why I have been so anxious to find some remote spot for my sister to go to? You can imagine how distressing it is for me to say this, but it is my duty to tell you that it is not safe to leave her within reach of anything valuable.’

  He had expected his statement to be badly received, and he had not erred. Willoughby stiffened formidably. The suspicion that this was a joke of some kind he had dismissed without hesitation. Corporation lawyers do not drink too much at dinner and indulge in tasteless humour afterwards. It was plain that his guest meant what he had said, and there was frostiness in the gaze he directed at him.

  ‘Are you suggesting that your sister is a thief?’

  ‘I am afraid that it is more than a suggestion. Just before we sailed she was arrested for shoplifting at one of the large department stores, and there was no question of anything in the nature of a mistake; her pockets were full of costume jewellery. Fortunately the manager of the store was a man I had known at college, and he consented not to prefer charges. But he made it a condition that Bernadette leave America at once, and a friend of mine advised me to place her as a paying guest in an English country house, where she would be out of the reach of temptation.’

  The minute or so this longish speech had taken to deliver had given Willoughby time to recover from his shock and marshal his thoughts. He was able now to put his finger on the flaw in Homer’s reasoning.

  ‘I can see how unpleasant it must have been for you,’ he said, his genial self again and the coldness gone from his voice, ‘but I don’t feel that you need be disturbed. She must have done it as a joke, to see if she could get away with it.’

  ‘I thought that at first, but I have changed my mind.’

  ‘Then she probably felt that it was no worse than smuggling stuff through the Customs. In any case, you can’t tell me that a woman like Barney, whatever she might do in a department store, would abuse a friend’s hospitality by sneaking things from his house while she was a guest there. I wo
uld trust her if I had the crown jewels here.’

  Then you won’t lock it up?’

  ‘Of course I won’t. I should feel I was insulting her.’

  ‘She wouldn’t know.’

  ‘I should know, and I shouldn’t be able to look myself in the face when I shaved. I’d have to grow a beard. Let’s drop the subject and go to bed. I have to be at the office early tomorrow. I’m going off for a short holiday, and there are all sorts of things to clean up before I leave.’

  Homer went to bed, but not to sleep. He had slid between the sheets a few minutes before midnight. At one a.m. he was still restless and wakeful. Nor had conditions improved by two. At two-fifteen his mind was made up. He rose, put on a dressing-gown, crept down to the study, took the miniature from the mantelpiece, deposited it in the middle drawer of the desk, closed the drawer and went back to his bed. Tomorrow afternoon, if he could not manage it earlier, he would telephone Willoughby and put him abreast.

  He was asleep by two-forty-seven.

  CHAPTER SIX

  1

  Jerry, too, had passed a disturbed night. Quite a few of the hours that should have been reserved for slumber had been taken over by meditation.

  The problem he was hoping to solve was one which keeps cropping up in the Advice To The Lovelorn columns. What he was anxious to figure out was What should a young man do who, betrothed to Girl A, unexpectedly finds himself in love with Girl B, the latter plainly the mate intended for him from the beginning of time by the authorities who arrange these things.

  Had he been in America, he could have consulted Dear Abby or Doctor Joyce Brothers. In London he could think of no-one on whose acumen he could place a similar reliance. There was Aunt Phyllis on the weekly paper for which he did a good deal of work, but Aunt Phyllis was a fat man in his fifties with a passion for lager beer and a ribald outlook on life, and he shrank from confiding in him.

  Sitting down after breakfast and lighting the after-breakfast pipe, he set himself to review the situation.

  It was beyond a doubt not the most agreeable of situations to be in, but in one respect he could see that he had something to be thankful for. He had promised Vera that at that Savoy lunch he would take up once again with his uncle Bill the matter of his money, this time being very firm and resolute, and but for the addition of Barney to the guest list he would presumably have done so. And had he done so, there was no question what would have happened. Uncle Bill had been in the sort of effervescent high spirits which make a man leap at the opportunity of doing anything to oblige anybody. Asked for the money, he would have had his cheque book and fountain pen out of his pocket with the swiftness of a conjurer de-rabbiting a top hat, and the last obstacle to union with Vera, only daughter of the late Charles Upshaw and his wife Dame Flora Faye, would have been removed. The squeak had been so narrow that, warm though the morning was, a chill passed through Jerry from top hair to bedroom slippers as he thought of it.

  But his guardian angel had seen to it that Barney should be. there, and he was suitably grateful to him. He wished he could find him and slap him on the back and tell him how deeply he appreciated his work. Not a hope, of course. Guardian angels keep themselves to themselves and are hard to get hold of when you want them.

  Well, he reflected as he lit his second pipe, so far so good, but he was a dear-thinking young man and he did not try to disguise it from himself that he was still separated from the happy ending by a wide margin. His guardian angel had certainly given satisfaction to date, but there remained much for him to do, and there must be no folding of the hands, no sitting back and taking it easy, no slackening of the will to win on his part. He must continue on his toes as sedulously as ever until that unfortunate betrothal was a thing of the past. For from whatever angle you looked at the set-up and however much you refused to face facts, there was no getting away from it that he was still engaged to Vera Upshaw and unless prompt steps were taken through the proper channels would ere long be walking up the aisle with her in a morning coat and spongebag trousers, which, she would probably hiss in his ear in that critical way of hers, needed pressing.

  He had been giving the peril that encompassed him the tensest thought for a considerable time, when a glance at the morning paper which lay on the table beside him reminded him that today was Wednesday and, arising from that, that life is stern and life is earnest. Reluctantly, for he would have preferred to brood indefinitely, he rose, shaved, took a shower bath and put on shirt, tie, flannel suit and shoes. This done, he went out, carrying his portfolio.

  Wednesday is the day when cartoonists pack up their week’s cartoons and take them round the magazines for the inspection of art editors. A dozen or so nervous cartoonists would assemble outside the art editor’s door and be called in one by one by a bodiless head which came poking out at intervals, as a rule smoking an evil-smelling cigar. The atmosphere created was much the same as that which prevails in a dentist’s waiting-room.

  Generally, on Wednesdays Jerry had to sit in several waiting-rooms before making a sale, for art editors, like Queen Victoria, are not easily amused, but today it was as if Fate, sympathizing with the difficulties which were casting a shadow over his love life, had very decently decided to do something to cheer him up. Feeling that there he would at least get a friendly reception, he had started his quest at the offices of the weekly paper which took so much of his work, the one for which Aunt Phyllis conducted the Advice To The Lovelorn column, and the benevolent occupant of the editorial chair made history by accepting not one whimsical cartoon but the entire contents of his portfolio, seeming disappointed that these were all he had to offer.

  It was a unique happening, and its effect on him was to induce in him emotions similar to those which had so stirred his Uncle Willoughby when The Girl in Blue had come into his possession. It seemed to him, as it had seemed to Willoughby, that a triumph like this must be celebrated by a lunch that would go down in legend and song. It remained only to select the appropriate restaurant, and after some thought he decided on the grill-room at Barribault’s world-famous hostelry. Anything less luxurious would be an anti-climax.

  As he entered that stamping ground of Texas millionaires and Indian Maharajahs, one thing alone prevented his feeling of what the French call bien être being perfect. It was the fact that he was alone. All around him were rich men and fair women digging in and getting theirs in couples, but he had no-one to help him celebrate. How merrily, he felt, he would sail into the bill of fare if the girl he loved were there.

  At this moment he saw that she was. She was drinking coffee at a table near the door.

  He halted, transfixed. A Texas millionaire, who was following him into the grill-room, rammed him in the small of the back, but he scarcely noticed him. He was staring as Homer Pyle had stared when first encountering Vera Upshaw, with this difference that Homer had had no doubt from the start that what he was goggling at was a corporeal entity, while he was under the impression that he was seeing something in the nature of a mirage or figment of the imagination, possibly an astral body that had somehow managed to get transported from Bournemouth to the west end of London. Then she looked up, smiled an enchanting smile and waved a cordial coffee spoon.

  ‘Well!’ she said, as he bounded forward, tripping over a Maharajah. ‘G. G. F. West, if I mistake not.’

  Jerry collapsed on to the banquette beside her. Somebody in the vicinity seemed to be playing the trap drums, but investigation told him that it was only his heart beating.

  This,’ he said, ‘is amazing. I thought you were in Bournemouth.’

  ‘I am in Bournemouth, or I shall be there again ere yonder sun has set. I came up for the day on business.’

  ‘Oh, you aren’t here permanently?’ he said, disappointed.

  ‘No, just passing through.’

  That’s too bad. Well, let’s have lunch.’

  ‘I’ve had lunch.’

  ‘Have another.’

  ‘No, thanks. But don’t let
me stop you.

  ‘It would take a good deal to stop me.’ said Jerry. ‘If you must know it, I came in here to gorge. And to check the “Greedy pig” which I see trembling on your lips, I must explain that my mid-day meal today was to be a celebration. I don’t know how much you know about peddling cartoons?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Well, on Wednesday you make the round of the magazines with your little portfolio, and if you’re lucky, you sell a single cartoon after four or five unsuccessful shots, art editors as a class being incapable of recognizing a good thing when they see one.’

  ‘Like the base Indian one used to hear about at school who threw the pearl away richer than all his tribe. Why base?’

  ‘He sang bass!’

  ‘Of course. Well, press on. You were saying that you’re lucky if you sell a single cartoon after four or five unsuccessful shots.’

  ‘Six or seven sometimes.’

  ‘But today?’

  ‘Precisely. But today I sold my whole output at the very first place I went to.’

  ‘Why, that’s wonderful!’

  ‘It’s stupendous.’

  ‘I don’t wonder you felt you had to celebrate. I only hope I’ll have the same sort of luck.’

  ‘In what way?’

  This business of mine I’ve come up from Bournemouth about. What would you say it meant when a lawyer writes to you saying that if you call on him, you will learn of something to your advantage?’

  ‘It ought to mean money.

  ‘I trust it does, because on the strength of those kind words I did myself well at lunch. I felt I could afford it.’

  Then you’ve had that sort of letter?’

  ‘It came this morning.’

  ‘It ought to mean that someone’s left you a legacy.’

  ‘It ought, oughtn’t it. But I can’t think who.’