‘Yes.’
‘I saw it three times. Kind of cute I thought it.’
A gush of affection for this discerning man swept through Joe. The mild liking he had been feeling for him almost from the outset of these exchanges became intensified. Anybody who attributed kind of cuteness to Cousin Angela was a kindred soul.
‘Oh, did you?’ he said, beaming.
‘With a little fixing it might make a good picture. I don’t say great, I don’t even say colossal, I just say good. It flopped, yes, but the practised eye like mine can see possibilities in the worst stage flop. We must talk about it later. Meanwhile I’ll tell you why you did me such a signal service.’
‘Oh, do,’ said Joe.
Mr Llewellyn mused awhile.
‘The essential thing for you to get into your nut,’ he said, having clarified his thoughts, ‘is that I am a man whom women find it impossible to resist.’
Joe said, tactfully, that he was not surprised to hear it. He had, he said, surmised as much the moment they met. Something in Mr Llewellyn’s eyes he thought it was.
‘There’s something dominant about you. Like Napoleon.’
‘Was he dominant?’
‘Oh, very dominant.’
‘That’s how it’s always been with me. The only exception was a school marm I knew when I was a young man in Wales. She refused to marry me until I had got a thorough grounding, as she called it, in English literature. Shakespeare, you know, and all those.’
‘School teachers tend to bring shop into their love lives.’
‘Yes, the wise man avoids them. But apart from her my batting average has been pretty darned good. Do you know how many times I have been married?’
‘I couldn’t tell you.’
‘Five.’
‘I’d call that good going.’
‘Remarkable going. I have this unfortunate tendency to propose to them. There always comes a moment when I can’t think of anything to say to keep the conversation from conking out, so I ask them to marry me.’
‘Which of course they are eager to do.’
‘Naturally.’
‘I see your difficulty.’
‘The problem is how to stop me proposing.’
‘That’s what you might call the nub.’
‘And that’s where you come in.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will. When I left Hollywood this time, my lawyer came to see me off. He had seen me through all my five divorces, and he was worried to think that at any moment he might be called on to see me through a sixth. He told me something I hadn’t known before, which was that he belonged to a little group calling themselves Bachelors Anonymous and run on the same lines as Alcoholics Anonymous. If you follow me.’
‘Yes, I follow you. When a member of Alcoholics Anonymous feels the impulse to have a drink, he collects the other members and they talk him out of it.’
‘Exactly. And when a member of Bachelors Anonymous feels the impulse to propose to a woman, he collects the other members and they talk him out of that.’
‘Ingenious.’
‘Very ingenious. But where I’m concerned there’s a catch.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. What is it?’
‘I’m in England, and there’s no branch of Bachelors Anonymous in England. So what my friend advised me to do was to go to a lawyers’ firm he recommended and get them to supply me with a sensible level-headed individual who would take the place of Bachelors Anonymous’s fellow members. Do you still follow me?’
‘Like a bloodhound. You show signs of being about to ask someone to marry you, and this sensible level-headed individual tells you not to be a silly ass.’
‘Precisely. No doubt he would put it even stronger and keep on putting it till he saw that he had convinced me and that the peril was past.’
‘He would be able to tell that he had convinced you when he noticed that the dominant look had faded from your eyes.’
‘So he would. I might have known that you were the man I wanted by the promptitude with which you acted that night at the theatre. You heard the stage-doorkeeper say I was waiting for Miss Dalrymple, and with your swift intuition you guessed that it was my intention to take her to supper. You knew how dangerous that would be, so you threw me out. It was raining, and you took it for granted that I would fall into a puddle. I did. I was soaked to the skin. Merely pausing to send Miss Dalrymple a telegram saying I had been called away on business, I went home to bed.’
‘You were well out of it.’
‘I was, and entirely owing to you. You’re a one-man Bachelors Anonymous. You knew Miss Dalrymple, and it appalled you to think that I might be going to marry her.’
‘No one marries Miss Dalrymple except over my dead body.’
‘A very proper sentiment. Pickering, you’re hired, and you will take up your duties immediately. You will move in here, of course. We will talk salary later, but I can tell you that it will be substantial. But for you I should now be an engaged man, and I’ve only just got rid of Grayce. Grayce,’ said Mr Llewellyn, becoming reminiscent, ‘was probably my all-time low in the way of wives, though many would say that it was a near thing between her and Bernadine Friganza. When I married her, she was known as the Empress of Stormy Emotion, and believe me the title was well-earned. In a single picture, Passion in Paris, she used up three directors, two assistant directors and a script girl, and her stormy emotion spilled over into the home.’
‘She sounds rather like Vera Dalrymple.’
‘And you saved me. How can I ever thank you, Pickering? What does Shakespeare say about a friend in need?’
‘Probably something good.’
‘I ought to know. When I was under the spell of that school marm, I absorbed Shakespeare till my eyes bubbled, though not knowing what the hell he was talking about half the time. Odd way of expressing himself he had. Take that bit where … My God! ‘said Mr Llewellyn, breaking off.
‘Now what?’
‘I’ve just remembered that in that telegram I asked Vera Dalrymple to lunch today at Barribault’s grill room.’
A sharp spasm of agony passed through Joe, causing him to feel as if some unseen animal had bitten him in a tender spot. The words ‘Barribault’s grill room ‘could not be spoken in his presence without taking their toll.
‘But it’s all right,’ said Mr Llewellyn, unexpectedly brightening. ‘This makes a neat end to the whole unfortunate episode. A woman will overlook a man standing her up once, but not two days running. She’ll be as mad as a wet hen and will write me off as a wash-out. What Shakespeare would call a consummation devoutly to be wished. Very satisfactory. Most satisfactory.’
His complacency offended Joe. He addressed himself to the task of wiping that silly smile off his face.
‘How long have you known Miss Dalrymple?’ he inquired.
‘A couple of weeks. Why?’
‘Because you seem to have got an erroneous grasp of her personality. You appear to think she will accept your abrupt disappearance from her life as just one of those things, perhaps dropping a silent tear but taking no further steps. Have you considered the possibility of her calling on you and setting about you with her umbrella? She may not be my dream girl, but she is a fine upstanding woman, fully capable of beating the tar out of you before you could say “Hullo there, good afternoon, lovely day, is it not.” It is a point to which I think you should give some attention.’
If he had expected to freeze Mr Llewellyn’s blood and make his eyes like stars start from their spheres, as the motion picture magnate’s school marm would have put it, he was disappointed. Mr Llewellyn remained calm, even smug.
‘Naturally,’ he said, ‘I had not overlooked that possibility. But when you come to know me better, Pickering, you will realise that I have all the qualities of a great general. I look ahead, I form my plans. I develop my strategy. See that door?’
Joe saw the door.
‘If Miss Dalrymple happens to
drop in, I shall nip through it, leaving you to deal with her. And let me say, Pickering, that I place her in your hands with the utmost confidence that you will be able to wipe her off my visiting list. Ah,’ said Mr Llewellyn as the door bell rang, ‘this may or may not be the broad we have in mind, but a good general never takes chances, so, for the moment, goodbye.’
And he disappeared through the door like a diving duck, while Joe proceeded to follow his instructions with something of the emotions of a young lion-tamer about to enter the lion’s cage and nervously conscious that he has only got as far as lesson three of the correspondence course which has been teaching him lion-taming. His relations with Miss Dalrymple had never been cordial, and there was every reason to suppose that he would find her now in an even less amiable mood than usual.
He need have had no tremors. It was not Vera Dalrymple who stood on the mat, but Sally Fitch. Sally was as conscientious in her way as Daphne Dolby was in hers. She had promised her editress to interview Ivor Llewellyn today, and the mere fact that she had been left twenty-five thousand pounds was not going to deter her.
Chapter Eight
In the course of the last round of the amateur middleweight boxing final Joe, hard pressed in a corner by an opponent who created the illusion of being all arms like an octopus, had thrown out a right hand purely at random and with little expectation of accomplishing anything constructive and, connecting with his adversary’s chin, it had knocked the latter cold.
This had delighted Joe and his supporters, though —showing once again that one cannot please everybody—it had not brought the sunshine into the life of the opponent. For a long time it had been Joe’s high spot, but it was now reduced to second place. His emotions on beholding Sally, though somewhat similar, were much more powerful.
Not unnaturally, as has been shown, he had reached the conclusion that her failure to keep their luncheon appointment had been due to the fact that she had already had all the Joseph Pickering she required, but one look at her as she stood there told him how mistaken such a theory was. Her lips were parted, her eyes shining, her whole aspect that of a girl who has found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. If she was not glad to see him, he told himself that he did not know a girl who was glad to see a man when he met one.
‘Can you ever forgive me?’ she said.
He could answer that.
‘Don’t give it a thought,’ he replied.
‘I can explain, but I’m not sure the explanation doesn’t make it worse.’
‘No need to explain. I know what must have happened. You were on your way to Barribault’s when you saw a little golden-haired girl in the process of being run over by a lorry. You rushed to the rescue and saved the child but got knocked over and have only just got away from the hospital. Am I right?’
‘Not quite. I fell asleep.’
‘You … What did you say you did?’
‘I was tired after a bad night last night and like an idiot I sat down in a very comfortable chair and when I woke up it was two o’clock. I do hope you didn’t wait long.’
‘About an hour.’
‘Oh, how perfectly awful!’
‘Quite all right. An hour soon passes.
‘I feel like bowing my head in the dust.’
‘No, really. I was quite happy. But if remorse is gnawing you, you can make amends.’
‘How?, Tell me how.’
‘By dining with me tonight.’
‘I’d love to.’
‘Same place.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘About half-past seven?’
‘Fine. And it’s wonderful of you not to be frothing with fury.’
‘Not at all. I quite understand. Got to get your sleep. It knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, as Mr Llewellyn’s school marm would say.’
The allusion to the school marm was naturally lost on Sally, but she reacted powerfully to the mention of Mr Llewellyn’s name.
‘Mr Llewellyn! That reminds me. Now perhaps you will solve the mystery that’s turning my hair grey. How on earth do you come to be at Mr Llewellyn’s place?’
‘Quite simple. I’m working for him.’
‘What as?’
‘General right-hand man.’
‘But that’s terrific. Then you’ve given up the solicitor job you didn’t like?’
‘As of today.’
‘Well, that really is good news.’
‘Yes, I’m pretty pleased about it.’
‘What sort of a man is he?’
‘Very amiable. Why? Have you come to interview him?’
‘Yes, and I’ve heard he’s a terror.’
‘Nothing of the kind. He’s a bit apt to throw porridge at people when the spirit moves him, but apart from that he’s all sweetness and light. But here he comes now. You’ll be able to judge for yourself.’
A moment before, the door which marked the line of Mr Llewellyn’s retreat had opened just enough to allow him to put his ear to the crack and hear the voice of the visitor whose arrival had sent him into hiding. Satisfied that it was not that of Miss Vera Dalrymple, he now threw off all concealment and emerged.
‘Oh there you are. Come on in,’ said Joe hospitably. ‘This is Miss Fitch, who wants to interview you.’
‘I made an appointment,’ said Sally.
‘Sure, I remember. Let’s get down to it. Pop off, Pickering.’
Joe was glad to do so. If he was to take up residence at 8 Enniston Gardens, it would be necessary to go back to his flat and pack a suitcase. His typewriter and the rest of his belongings could come on later.
‘Don’t forget tonight,’ he said to Sally.
‘I won’t.’
Joe went out, his heart singing within him. When he returned, Sally had left and Mr Llewellyn was smoking a cigar with the unmistakable air of a man who has just been speaking at length on the subject of The Motion Picture—Whither?
‘Nice girl,’ he said.
He had broached a subject on which his young right-hand man felt himself entitled to speak with authority.
‘Yes,’ said Joe, giving the monosyllable a ringing emphasis which must have made his employer feel he was back with the boys at Llewellyn City. ‘You speak sooth, I.L., if I may call you I.L. She is the most wonderful girl in the world. Did you notice her eyes? Terrific. Did you observe her mouth? Sensational. Did you get her voice? Like silver bells tinkling across a meadow in the moonlight. And as sweet and kind and lovable as she is beautiful. I’m giving her dinner tonight.’
‘Is that so?’ said Mr Llewellyn, starting.
‘And I shall instruct her to pay no attention to the prices in the right-hand column, colossal though they are at Barribault’s, for this, I.L., is an Occasion. Meanwhile I will be unpacking what I’ve brought for my simple needs. My bulkier belongings will be coming later. Where’s my room? Capital,’ said Joe, having been informed on this point. ‘Did you happen to catch that little dimple in her left cheek? Earth has not anything to show more fair, as the poet Wordsworth said. You probably remember the passage from your school marm days.’
He left Mr Llewellyn looking as if he were taking a screen test and the director had told him to register uneasiness. He had conceived a warm affection for Joe, and it was impossible for one so imbued with the principles of Bachelors Anonymous as himself not to feel concern at this talk of dimples and silver bells tinkling in the moonlight.
It was precisely talk of this nature which would have made Ephraim Trout purse his lips and his colleagues on Bachelors Anonymous purse theirs. Fervently he wished that Mr Trout were here to advise him what steps to take in order to save Joseph Pickering from the peril that confronted him, and at this moment the telephone rang. He went to it, fortified by the reflection that if this were Vera Dalrymple calling to inquire what the hell, he could always hang up.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Hello there, I.L.,’ said a well-remembered voice. The voice of Ephraim Trout.
2
Mr Llewellyn quivered from bald head to shoe sole. Direct answer to prayer frequently affects people in this manner.
‘Eph,’ he cried. ‘Is that you?’
‘Who else?’ said Mr Trout.
‘Where are you?’
‘Here in London at the Dorchester. I was called over unexpectedly on business, and of course I got in touch with you right away. I naturally wanted to know how you were making out. Did you go to Nichols, Erridge and Trubshaw as I advised?,’
‘Sure I did, the first moment I got here,’ said Mr Llewellyn, feeling it unnecessary to complicate things by mentioning his passade with Miss Vera Dalrymple. ‘I saw young Nichols, the junior partner.’
‘And he provided a bodyguard?’
‘That’s just what I want to talk to you about.’
‘We must fix up a date.’
‘Fix up a date nothing. Do it now.’
‘I was going with a friend to that exhibition of first editions at Sotheby’s.’
‘Damn your friends and blast first editions and curse Sotheby’s,’ said Mr Llewellyn, who, when moved, always expressed himself forcibly. ‘If you aren’t here in twenty minutes, I’ll take all my business away from you and give it to Jones, Jukes, Jenkinson and Jerningham.’
The threat was one Mr Trout could not ignore. Mr Llewellyn’s business was extremely valuable to him, and Jones, aided and abetted by Jukes, Jenkinson and Jerningham, had been trying to get it away from him for years.
‘I’ll be there, I.L.,’ he said, and in less than the specified time he was in a chair at 8 Enniston Gardens, and Mr Llewellyn was saying ‘Listen’, preparatory to cleansing his stuffed bosom of the perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart, as Shakespeare and the Welsh school marm would have phrased it, though Shakespeare ought to have known better than to put ‘stuff’ and ‘stuffed’ in the same sentence like that.
‘Listen,’ said Mr Llewellyn. ‘I have a problem.’
‘You aren’t engaged to be married?’ said Mr Trout in sudden alarm.
‘Of course I’m not.’
Mr Trout could have criticised the use of the words ‘Of course’, but he refrained.