‘Have any of your relations died lately?’
‘Not that I know of. And none of them have any money, anyway.
‘Some old school crony from Cheltenham? Some girl who scored a goal at hockey because you passed to her at just the right moment.’
‘But what would she be doing, dying? She would be in her early twenties.’
‘I see what you mean. Yes, it’s mysterious.’
‘My aunt thinks it’s a trap.’
‘What kind of trap?’
‘White slavers. They lure me into their den, pretending to be lawyers, and chloroform me and ship me off to South America.’
‘Why you particularly?’
‘I suppose they’ve got to chloroform somebody.’
‘Yes, there’s that, of course. And they just happened to hit on you.’
‘My aunt thinks they keep a list.’
‘Would you say it seemed likely?’
‘Nothing my aunt thinks ever seems likely.’
‘Where did these lawyers write from? Don’t you feel that a lot depends on that? I mean, if it was from Joe the Lascar’s underground cellar in Limehouse, that doesn’t look so good.’
‘No, the address is all right. Bedford Row. And the firm sounds respectable. Scrope, Ashby and Pemberton. The one who signed the letter was Willoughby Scrope.’
‘Well, I’ll be… damned I suppose is the word I’m groping for.’
‘And why, Mr Bones, will you be damned?’
‘Because Willoughby Scrope’s my uncle.’
‘Really? And you think he’s all right?’
‘A splendid fellow.’
‘Doesn’t chloroform girls?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Wouldn’t drug them, either. If he offers you a drink, have no hesitation in downing it.’
‘Well, that’s fine. You’ve eased my mind.’
These conversational exchanges, though set down in that way for the sake of convenience, had actually not been continuous. Jerry had abandoned his original idea of making the sort of lunch that would have appealed to the Roman emperor Vitellius, but he had summoned waiters and taken nourishment. Barribault’s do not like it if you just go there and sit. He had now finished a modest meal and was lighting a cigarette, having seen to it that his companion was supplied with one.
‘Lucky my aunt isn’t here,’ she said, puffing.
‘She doesn’t approve of smoking?’
‘She thinks it gives you dyspepsia, sleeplessness, headache, weak eyes, asthma, bronchitis, rheumatism, lumbago and sciatica and brings you out in red spots.’
‘I would like to meet your aunt. Interesting woman.
‘She wouldn’t like to meet you. You’re an artist.’
‘Ah yes, all those Russian princesses. She strikes me as a bit on the austere side. Why do you go back to her?’
‘I must. And that reminds me. That dinner of ours.’
‘I’m counting the minutes.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to count a few more, because I’m postponing it.’
‘Oh hell, if I may use the expression. Why?’
‘I’d forgotten it was her birthday on Friday. Shall we make it Saturday?’
‘I suppose so, if we must, but I still say Oh, hell.’
‘Barribault’s about eight?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Then it’s on. And I’m off. If I don’t see your uncle at once, I shall miss the only good train in the afternoon. Is this Bedford Row near here?’
‘Not very.
Then you had better put me into a taximeter cab.’
The cab rolled off. Jerry walked back to his flat. He had to. Barribault’s had drawn heavily of his assets, and mere charm of manner is never accepted by taxi drivers as a substitute for cash.
But he would have walked even if he had been in funds, for he wanted to study this problem of his from every angle, and he always thought better when in motion.
It was a problem that needed all the thought he could give it. The recent encounter had deepened his conviction that there was only one girl in the world he could possibly marry, and as of even date he could see no way of avoiding marrying another. An impasse, if ever there was one. King Solomon and Brigham Young would have taken it in their stride, but he could see no solution.
Reaching home, he sat down and continued to ponder. He recalled a musical comedy in which the comedian, reminded by the soubrette that they were engaged to be married, had said, ‘I forgot to tell you about that, it’s off’, and he was thinking wistfully that they managed these things better in musical comedy, when the telephone rang and over the wire came floating the lovely voice of the Dame of the British Empire who, he greatly feared, was about to become his mother-in-law. It surprised him a good deal, for she was not in the habit of chatting with him over the telephone. Indeed, she had always given him the impression that it revolted her to talk to him at all.
‘Gerald? Oh, good afternoon, Gerald. I hope I am not interrupting your work?’
‘No, I never work on Wednesday.’
‘How I envy you. I am resting at the moment, but as a rule the Wednesday matinée is the curse of my life. Did you ever hear the story of the actress who was walking past the fish shop and saw all those fishy eyes staring at her? “That reminds me,” she said, “I have a Wednesday matinée.” But I didn’t ring you up to tell you funny stories. My mission is a serious one. I have just been seeing Vera off to Brussels and she gave me a most unpleasant task to perform.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘I’m afraid you will be even sorrier when you hear what it is,’ said Dame Flora, cooing like a turtle dove in springtime.
2
Dame Flora was a woman of her word. She had promised her ewe lamb that she would get her betrothed on the telephone and make it clear to him that his idea that wedding bells were going to ring out was a mistaken one, and this she proceeded to do. It was a masterly performance, for which she would have been justified in charging him the price of an orchestra stall.
‘I know you will understand, Gerald,’ she concluded. ‘And Vera wants me to tell you that she will always look on you as a dear, dear friend. Goodbye, Gerald, goodbye, goodbye.’
The receiver shook in Jerry’s hand as he replaced it. In the course of her remarks Dame Flora had stressed the fact that the ewe lamb considered him weak, and weak was what he was feeling, if weak is not too weak a word. Boneless is more the one a stylist like Gustave Flaubert would have chosen, though being French he would have used whatever the French is for boneless — étourdit perhaps, or something like that.
It was, of course, the bonelessness of relief, yet there again one needs a stronger word. One does not speak of the condemned man on the scaffold who sees a messenger galloping up on a foaming horse with a reprieve in his hand as feeling relieved. Perhaps the best way out of the difficulty is to say that Jerry’s emotions at this high spot in his life were very much those of Crispin Scrope as he watched his brother Willoughby write a cheque for two hundred and three pounds six shillings and fourpence.
For an age he sat stunned, his mind a mere welter of incoherence, conscious only of a reverent awe for the guardian angel who had somehow — he could not imagine how —engineered this astounding coup. Then there crept in the realization that it is not enough merely to contemplate a good thing; to get the best results one must push it along. Free now to woo the girl he loved, he must lose no time in starting to do so. They would be dining together next Saturday, but it would be madness to hang about twiddling his thumbs till then. At times like this every minute counts. Who knew that long before Saturday some dashing young spark at Bournemouth might not have snapped her up? He had never been in Bournemouth, but he presumed they had dashing young sparks there. He must go instantly to Bournemouth and make his presence felt.
And his first move must be to find out her name, a thing he had once again carelessly omitted to do. A wooer who attempts to woo without having this vital fact a
t his fingers’ ends can never hope to make a real success of his courtship.
Fortunately it was simple. She had gone off to see his Uncle Bill and learn of something to her advantage, so all he had to do was pick up the telephone…
‘Uncle Bill? This is Jerry.’
Willoughby’s reception of the information lacked cordiality. He was on the point of leaving for his short golfing holiday, and he had not given himself too much time for his train.
‘It would be,’ he said churlishly. ‘You would come ringing up when I’ve about five minutes to get to the station.’
‘Are you off somewhere?’
‘Sandwich. Golfing.’
‘Well, I won’t keep you a minute. It’s a girl. I’m giving her dinner on Saturday.’
‘Doesn’t your Vera object?’
‘No, that’s all right. Vera’s broken the engagement.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it. She’s no good to man or beast.’
‘And this other girl’s wonderful.’
‘Then what’s your problem?’
‘I don’t know her name.’
‘Didn’t you ask her?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘We got talking of other things and I sort of overlooked it.
A sigh came over the wire.
‘I’ve been afraid something like this would happen ever since you were dropped on your head as a baby. Goodbye, Jerry.’
‘No, no, wait, Uncle Bill, don’t hang up. You know this girl. She came to see you this afternoon about a letter you wrote her. You told her that if she got in touch with you, she would learn of something to her advantage.’
A snort at the other end of the wire told Jerry that he had at last succeeded in enchaining his uncle’s interest.
‘Good Lord! Was that the one? I remember now she said something about having met you. Her name’s Hunnicut. Jane Hunnicut. She’s an air hostess.’
‘I know.’
‘But I don’t suppose she’ll be one much longer. She’s come unto money.
‘I thought she might.’
‘From some old man of the name of Donahue she appears to have met in the course of her air-hostessing. He died the other day. I haven’t all the particulars, but I’ve been on the phone with the New York lawyers, and they tell me he had no near relations, so no chance of the will being contested. The whole pile comes to Jane, and good luck to her. She struck me as a very nice girl, who thoroughly deserves to hit the jackpot. She’ll get between one and two million dollars. Goodbye, curse you, I must rush, or I’ll miss that blasted train.’
3
Thus spoke Willoughby, and with no further delay he bounded off with his suitcase and his golf clubs.
He left an affectionate nephew staring before him with unseeing eyes, his general aspect that of one who, like Lot’s wife, has been unexpectedly turned into a pillar of salt.
Jerry was frankly appalled. To Jane Hunnicut, he presumed, these pennies from heaven, if that was where old Mr Donahue had gone, had brought happiness and rejoicing, for even in this era of depressed currencies between one and two million dollars is always well worth having, but he saw in her sudden access to the higher income tax brackets the crashing of all his hopes and dreams.
Everyone’s squeamishness starts somewhere, and his sprang into life at the thought of becoming that familiar figure of farce, the impecunious suitor who is trying to marry the heiress. For no matter how sincere the love of such a man may be, if he shows a disposition to woo a millionairess, the world sniggers: and anyone who has had a world sniggering at him will testify that the experience is a most disagreeable one.
We pencil Jerry in, then, as a soul in torment and turn to Mabel the receptionist.
CHAPTER SEVEN
For the greater part of the day Mabel sat at her desk thinking of absolutely nothing, coming out of her coma only when some caller arrived and it was necessary to ask his name; but towards the end of the afternoon it was as if new life had been breathed into the inert frame. Her thoughts had turned to tea. Today this moment had coincided with Willoughby’s dash through the waiting-room and disappearance into the world beyond. As his flying coat tails vanished and all was still again a strong yearning filled her for the evening cuppa.
Usually she sent Percy the office boy out for it, but with her employer absent it seemed an excellent opportunity to refresh herself for once from a china cup instead of one of those cardboard things. She welcomed, too, the chance of doing a little window shopping.
Percy, when not running errands, spent his tine in a small cubbyhole down the corridor reading the comics. He-could be summoned by a bell, and she went into Willoughby’s office to press the requisite button.
‘I’m going out, young Perce,’ she said when he appeared. ‘I shan’t be long. Park yourself at my desk and take any telephone calls. Tell anyone who wants Mr Scrope that he’s gone off for a short holiday and would they care to leave a message. And be careful when you answer the phone to say “Office of Scrope, Ashby and Pemberton” and not “Yus?”. I’ve had to speak to you about that before.’
She was gone some twenty minutes. Returning all tuned up and ready for another spell of sitting and thinking of nothing, she was pleased to see Percy at his post. Full of tea, buns and the milk of human kindness, she might have patted him on the head, had it not been for the peculiarly repellent brand of hair oil which he affected.
‘Any calls?’ she asked, and Percy replied that there had been only one.
‘For Mr Scrope?’
‘Yus.’
‘I hope you didn’t say “Yus”. Who was it?’
‘Sounded like Bile. He was drunk.’
‘What!’
‘You heard. He was as stewed as a prune.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because of what he said. I wasn’t on to him at first. He was all right when he asked for the boss, didn’t hiccup or anything. I said the boss had hopped it and would he care to leave a message. Then guess what.’
‘What?’
‘He said “Yus, tell him I put Minnie Shaw in the middle drawer of the desk”.’
‘Percy, you’re making this up.’
‘Honest to God I’m not. That’s what he said. I wrote it down.’
‘Minnie Shaw?’
‘Yus.’
‘Put her in the middle drawer of the desk?’
‘Yus.’
‘How do you put a girl in the middle drawer of a desk? There wouldn’t be room.’
There would if you chopped her up first. But I could see it was just the drunken babble of someone who had been mopping it up all day like a vacuum cleaner, so I dismissed the thing from my mind.’
‘Well, it certainly takes all sorts to make a world, doesn’t it,’ said Mabel disapprovingly. ‘Imagine anyone getting into such a state. I’m not going to bother Mr Scrope with nonsense like that when he comes back; it wouldn’t mean a thing to him. Just forget it, Perce.’
And Percy agreed that that was the only thing to do.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In English villages as small as Mellingham-in-the-Vale, which was so small that the post office sold sweets and balls of worsted and there was only one oasis, the Goose and Gander, where you could get a drink, the man who matters is always the owner of the big house. It is he who, even if he is a Crispin Scrope, is supposed to have a head wiser than the ordinary; it is to him that the residents bring their problems and grievances.
As Constable Ernest Simms, the local police force, was about to do on the day following Crispin’s return from London.’ He trudged up the drive of Mellingham Hall, an impressive figure well calculated to strike terror into the hearts of evildoers, and was admitted by Crispin’s butler, at whom he cast a stony look, returned with one even stonier.’ They were not on good terms.’
‘Hullo, ugly,’ said the butler. ‘And what might you be wanting?’
‘Not any of your impertinence,’ was the frigid reply. ‘I wis
h to see Mr Scrope.”
‘Does he wish to see you,’ said the butler, ‘that’s the question.’ All right, go on up and spoil his day. He’s in the library.”
The library was on the second floor, a large sombre room brooded over by hundreds of grim calf-bound books assembled in the days when the reading public went in for volumes of collected sermons and had not yet acquired a taste for anything with spies and a couple of good murders in it.’ It had always oppressed Crispin, but it had this one great advantage, that it was never invaded by paying guests. Once there, a man could meditate without fear of interruption.’
A recent financial venture from which he was hoping that large profits would result had provided Crispin since his return with much food for meditation. Inflamed by Barney’s enthusiasm for its prospects and telling himself that if you do not speculate you cannot accumulate, he had placed one hundred pounds of his brother Bill’s two hundred and three pounds six shillings and fourpence on the nose of the horse Brotherly Love in the coming two-thirty race at Newmarket.
He had told Barney that he did not bet nowadays, but this could scarcely be described as a bet, so certain was the outcome.’ Consider the facts. Not only had Willoughby just given a notable example of brotherly love, but the animal was owned by a man he had been at school with and was to be ridden by a jockey whose first name was Bill. What red-blooded punter could have been expected to ignore a combination of omens so obviously proceeding from heaven?
And the seal was set on his confidence when Constable Simms entered, for the surname of the jockey whose parents had christened him Bill was Copper.’ Really, it seemed to Crispin, it was hardly worthwhile going through the formality of running the race. It would be simpler if his turf accountants just mailed him their cheque right away.
‘Come in, Simms, come in,’ he cried sunnily. ‘You want to see me about something?’
The officer gave no outward indication of sharing his exuberance. His aspect was grave. He looked, as always, as if he had been carved from some durable form of wood by someone who was taking a correspondence course in sculpture and had just reached his third lesson.’