‘How long does a permanent take?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never had one. But I see what’s in your mind. You’re wondering if she’ll be back by now. Probably, I should think.’
‘Then I’ll be moving along. And thanks for all you’ve done, Jerry.’
‘A pleasure, old man, a pleasure. Not that I’ve done much. But, as I often say, it’s the Boy Scout spirit that counts. Oh, one last word, Have you given any thought to what happens when you and she meet?’
‘We talk things over, I suppose.’
‘Talk things over be blowed. Don’t waste time chatting. Get immediate action. Skip the red tape. Grab her, fold her in a close embrace and hug her till her ribs squeak. I have tried this policy on several occasions, and I have always found it to give the best results.’
2
London looked very beautiful to Joe as he drove to Fountain Court. Mr Trout had described it as a veritable fairyland, and he had been, Joe thought, pretty accurate. The streets were full of delightful-looking people with whom he was sure he would have got on splendidly if he had only had time to stop and fraternise. The dogs, too, taking the air on leashes. He would have liked, had speed not been so important, to have got out and passed the time of day with all of them and with the cats as well, if there had been any. He was, in a word, feeling in mid-season form and getting more so every minute.
As he drove, he mused on Mr Trout, and thought what a capital fellow he was. If that was the sort of man California produced, one could understand it being known as the Jewel State of the Union. A purist might shake his head at the old gentleman’s practice of introducing foreign substances into people’s drinks, but that was a negligible flaw in an otherwise saintly character, and how superbly he made amends when he considered the time had come for making them. Remorse gripped Joe as he thought how churlishly he had denied Mr Trout the pleasure of telling him all about his childhood, boyhood and college days and singing him the Bachelors Anonymous theme song.
It was Mr Trout who opened the door of 3A Fountain Court to him. One might have supposed that, having said his say, he would have left the premises, but Mr Trout was one of those men who do not leave premises. They stay on, waiting to see what is going to happen next.
They conversed in the hall.
‘You’ve told her?’ said Joe urgently.
Mr Trout said he had, and might have added that Joe could have guessed as much from his beaming countenance.
Pausing only to say ‘At-a-boy’, Joe asked how she had taken it.
‘She wept.’
‘Wept?’
‘Tears of joy. She was overjoyed, Pickering. It was obvious that a great weight had been lifted from her mind and that the sun had—’
‘Come smiling through?’
‘The very phrase I was about to employ. It made me feel very happy, Pickering, to think that I had been instrumental in joining two sundered hearts together. Strange how one’s views can change, as it were in a flash. It seems only yesterday, in fact it was only yesterday, that I thought the great thing with sundered hearts was to keep them sundered.’
‘So you think everything’s all right?’
‘Everything is perfect. True, she is engaged to be married to somebody else, but she is extremely fond of you. It showed clearly in her manner.’
The effect of these words on Joe was somewhat similar to that which would have been produced by a blow on the bridge of the nose by a wet fish. His jaw fell. His eyes bulged. He tottered and might have fallen had he not clutched at the umbrella stand.
‘Engaged to someone else?’ he quavered.
‘Yes. Owing, I gathered, to a regrettable misunderstanding. You asked her to lunch, and she was prevented by circumstances over which she had no control from putting in an appearance. When subsequently you asked her to dinner and in your turn did not put in an appearance, she assumed that you had done it to punish her, and being a girl of spirit she resented it. So when this man asked her to marry him, she accepted him by way of evening the score.
The whole affair has in it something of the inevitability of Greek tragedy.’
‘And it wouldn’t have happened,’ said Joe bitterly, removing a hand from the umbrella stand and waving it, ‘if you didn’t go about the place giving people Mickey Finns.’
A faint blush mantled Mr Trout’s cheek.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose that is in a measure true. But you must remember that I thought I was acting in your best interests. And fortunately no harm has been done.’
‘No harm?’
‘I am convinced that you have only to fold her in a close embrace and she will forget all about this other man to whom she has rashly become affianced. Those tears of joy told the story. Fold her in a close embrace, and all will be well.’
Joe was impressed. Had this advice come solely from Mr Trout, he might have ignored it, reasoning that a veteran member of Bachelors Anonymous could scarcely be accepted as a fount of wisdom where feminine psychology was concerned. But Jerry Nichols had said the same thing, and Jerry was a man who knew. Any theory promulgated by him must have been tested a dozen times and proved correct.
The strong-arm methods favoured by both counsellors might, of course, be resented, for he had no official knowledge that his love was returned. Nevertheless, he was resolved to put his fate to the touch to win or lose it all, as recommended by the poet Montrose. The phrase ‘Nothing venture, nothing have’ occurred to him. At the worst, if she drew herself to her full height and said ‘Sir!’ he would have kissed her and would have that memory to cheer him up in the long lonely winter evenings. Even if given time for only two or three kisses, he would be that much ahead of the game.
‘Is she in there?’ he said, indicating the door of the sitting-room.
‘No,’ said Mr Trout. ‘When I had told my story, she went off in a cab.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘To see you, of course. Little knowing that you were on your way to see her. Quite an amusing little mix-up,’ said Mr Trout.
And as he spoke a key clicked in the door.
3
A key clicking in a door is one of London’s smaller sounds, not to be compared for volume to the thousand others which enliven life in that city, but the click of this one could not have arrested Joe’s attention more immediately if it had been the explosion of a bomb. He quivered in every limb, and when the door opened and Sally entered he was about to leap forward and fold her in a close embrace, when she leaped forward and folded him in one, at the same time saying ‘Oh, Joe, Joe, Joe!’ It was plain that she, like Jerry, believed in skipping red tape and proceeding at once to the direct action which speaks so much louder than words.
‘Oh, Joe!’ said Sally.
‘Oh, Sally!’ said Joe.
‘I’ve been feeling awful,’ said Sally.
‘Me, too,’ said Joe. ‘I wish I had a quid for every time I’ve thought of sticking my head in the gas oven.’
‘Oh, Joe!’ said Sally.
‘Oh, Sally!’ said Joe.
A man of more delicacy than Mr Trout would have withdrawn softly at this point, feeling that the tender scene was one that did not demand the presence of an audience, but Mr Trout’s slowness at leaving premises was equalled by his reluctance to withdraw from tender scenes. He stood there drinking in this one with a benevolent smile.
It was a smile which conveyed only benevolence, but there was in his eyes anxiety and concern, for he was feeling that everything was not so simple as the two principals appeared to think. And when he heard Joe speaking enthusiastically of visits to registry offices and Sally falling in eagerly with the suggestion, he called attention to himself with one of those dry coughs in which lawyers specialise.
‘Are we not forgetting something?’ he said.
Joe started violently. He had had no notion that Mr Trout was among those present. He had supposed that on seeing Sally he would have realised that his company was not desired. But, as has been sho
wn, it would have come as a surprise to him to learn that his company was ever not desired. He was as difficult to dislodge as a family spectre.
‘Good Lord!’ said Joe. ‘Are you still here?’
‘Still here,’ Mr Trout assured him. ‘And when you speak of immediate visits to registry offices with Miss Fitch, I think it is only fitting to remind you that she is engaged to be married to someone else.’
He had anticipated that the point he was raising would have a damping effect, and he was right. It did have a damping effect. Joe blinked and released Sally, and Sally collapsed on the umbrella stand.
‘Who is this fellow you’re engaged to?’ Joe demanded.
‘Jaklyn Warner,’ said Sally, and Joe had to rebuke her.
‘No, this is serious, darling,’ he said. ‘Don’t cloud the issue by being funny. Who are you really engaged to?’
‘Jaklyn Warner.’
‘But you can’t be. You’ve never met him.’
‘I’ve known him for years.’
‘Then you must realise the utter impossibility of marrying him.’
‘Who is this Mr Warner?’ asked Mr Trout. ‘Eh? Oh, I was not aware. Who is this Sir Jaklyn Warner?‘
It was a question which Joe felt fully competent to answer.
‘He is London’s leading louse, a worm, a chiseller, a rat, a sponger, never done a stroke of work in his life, supports himself by borrowing money, which of course he never pays back.’
Mr Trout nodded sagely.
‘I know the type. Young men like that abound in Hollywood. They live on cocktails and appetisers at parties to which they have not been invited. They roam the streets of Beverly Hills till they hear music and see a string of coloured lanterns, and then they go in and eat sausages on little sticks. I am surprised, Miss Fitch, that you should have plighted your troth to one of these.’
‘I was engaged to him once before. When I lived in Worcestershire.’
‘Well, that’s no reason why you should make a habit of it,’ said Joe severely. He was much moved. ‘You must get in touch with him immediately and break the engagement.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘He would be certain to cry, and I couldn’t bear it.’
‘A dilemma,’ said Mr Trout. ‘Definitely a dilemma. ‘
‘But I see a way round it,’ said Joe. ‘Has he a telephone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it’s perfectly simple. You just ring him up and say “Is that you, Jaklyn? I’m phoning to say it’s all off. I’m marrying Joe Pickering.”’
Mr Trout frowned, clicked his tongue and tut-tutted.
‘I could not endorse that procedure.’
‘Why not?’
‘The party of the second part would bring an action for breach of promise.’
‘Men don’t bring actions for breach of promise.’
‘Men of Sir Jaklyn Warner’s stamp do.’
‘That’s true. I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘They have no shame. And we do not want Miss Fitch to run the risk of being mulcted in substantial damages.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
‘That I go and see this man. The situation is beyond the scope of a layman. It needs a practised lawyer.’
‘I call that a splendid idea,’ said Sally, and Joe, though his personal tastes ran more in the direction of knocking Jaklyn down and jumping on him with hobnailed boots, had to admit that it was reasonable.
‘I have handled many similar cases in Hollywood. My clients have often complimented me on my gifts of persuasion. But we must of course not lose sight of the fact that in the matter under advisement we shall be facing difficulties. I cannot guarantee success. I gather from the luxuriousness of this flat that you are wealthy, Miss Fitch. When I was in the living-room I noticed a Corot over the mantelpiece which must be worth a considerable sum. This Warner will not resign his claims willingly. One can only do one’s best. But I will go and see him.’
‘Now?’
‘At once.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No. I must be alone.’
‘Then I’ll wait in the street,’ said Joe.
‘I see no objection to that,’ said Mr Trout.
‘Tell me,’ said Joe as they started their journey. ‘How do you propose to conduct these negotiations?’
‘Just as I have invariably conducted negotiations of this nature,’ said Mr Trout. ‘From what you tell me of this Warner he appears to be no different from the impecunious young men of Hollywood with their diet of dry Martinis and sausages on little sticks. I have always found them amenable to a money offer and I have no doubt Sir Jaklyn Warner will be the same.’
‘You mean to buy him off? ‘
‘Precisely.’
‘H’m.’
‘You have doubts?’
‘I was only thinking it’s going to cost a bit.’
‘Money well spent.’
‘Yes, of course. No argument about that. The catch is that I haven’t any money. But if you’ll chalk it up on the slate, I’ll repay you later. I shall have some coming in soon.’
The visibility in the cab was not good, but Mr Trout’s benevolent smile did much to light it up.
‘My dear boy,’ he said. ‘You surely do not suppose that I am going to charge you a fee or ask to be reimbursed for any expenses I may be put to on this case. I would not dream of it. As the colloquial expression has it, this is on the house. A small compensation for getting your affairs into, I must admit, a certain disorder. No true Californian would think of sending in a bill for services rendered to two young lovers in what practically amounts to Springtime.’
It was a moment before emotion would allow Joe to speak, so moved was he by the nobility of these sentiments. When he did speak, it was to pay a marked tribute to California, which, he said, judging from its inhabitants, must be quite a place. Unless, of course, Mr Trout was unique.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Are there any more at home like you?’
‘There are a few,’ said Mr Trout, ‘and better boys you never knew.’
He winced a little as he spoke. He was thinking of Fred Basset and Johnny Runcible and G. J. Flannery, and wondering if his defection from Bachelors Anonymous would mean the break-up of a friendship of twenty years.
Chapter Thirteen
Things were not going too well with Jaklyn Warner. In addition to being married, to which he greatly objected, he had a nasty hangover and he owed a bookmaker fifty pounds. This was the debt he had had in mind when he told his future bride that he owed twenty. He had lacked the nerve to reveal the full amount to her.
The bookmaker, moreover, was not one of those kindly bookmakers with hearts of gold who can sympathise with a fiscally embarrassed young man and allow his account to remain unsettled indefinitely. Informed by Jaklyn that there might be a long delay before payment could be made, he had drawn in his breath sharply and looked grave.
‘Oh, I do hope there won’t be, Sir J.,’ he said. ‘I know it’s silly to be superstitious, but I can’t help remembering that every single client of mine that’s done me down over money has had an accident happen to him. Time after time I’ve seen it occur. Time after time after time. It’s like some kind of fate. Only the other day there was a fellow with a ginger moustache called Witherspoon. Owed me fifty for Plumpton and pleaded the Gaming Act. Less than a week later, would you believe this, he was found unconscious in the street—must have got into some unpleasantness of some kind—and had to have six stitches. No, seven. I was forgetting the one over his left eye.’
This conversation had taken place at the house of the creditor, and Jaklyn had left his presence feeling like a nervous young member of Captain Kidd’s pirate crew who has just been handed the black spot. Arriving at his Chelsea residence, he found Mr Trout knocking on the door and beginning to get tired of achieving no result.
‘Sir Jaklyn Warner?’ said Mr Trout.
Nor
mally if a caller had asked this question Jaklyn would have replied in the negative, for he believed in taking no chances, but Mr Trout’s aspect was so obviously that of one connected with the Law that he decided to risk it. He had prosperous relatives all over England, and one of them might quite easily have handed in his dinner pail, leaving him a bit of the right stuff, and this lawyer was here to tell him so.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Trout. Of the legal firm of Trout, Wapshott and Edelstein of Hollywood, California, in the United States of America.’
Jaklyn’s hopes took a sharp rise. He remembered that his Uncle Eustace had left hurriedly for America at the time when he had been wanted by the police to assist them in their inquiries in the matter of a big long-firm swindle. He had always been fond of his nephew, and what more likely than that he should have fetched up in Hollywood, made a packet, perished of a surfeit of brandy smashes, and left that packet to that nephew. It was with a beating heart that Jaklyn put latch-key to door.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Come right in.’
Following him over the threshold, Mr Trout was encouraged to observe the evidences of impecuniosity that met his eyes. A man with an abode as shabby as this, he felt, would surely be what he had called amenable to a money offer, and though he was prepared, if necessary, to spend cash lavishly on behalf of young lovers in what was practically Springtime, he hoped it would not be necessary. He had always been a man who liked to keep expenses down.
Taking a seat, he wasted no time on preambles.
‘You are affianced,’ he said, ‘to my client, Miss Sarah Fitch.’
Another man in Jaklyn’s position would no doubt have explained that owing to his having been the victim of what amounted to a shot-gun wedding, marriage to Sally was no longer in the sphere of practical politics, but his native prudence restrained him. The sixth sense which had stood him in good stead from boyhood told him that this lawyer bloke’s visit was somehow connected with money and that it would be rash to confide in him too freely.