‘Won’t speak to you?’ he said.
‘No. Get in. We’re going home.’
‘You go,’ said Mr Trout. ‘I like the look of this place. I think I’ll stroll around a while and go back by train.’
2
In stating that he liked the looks of Valley Fields Mr Trout had spoken nothing but the truth. He liked its tree-studded roads, its neat lawns and above all the flowers that bordered those lawns. It is estimated that more seeds are planted annually, more patent fertilisers bought and more greenfly rendered eligible for the obituary column in Valley Fields than in any other London suburb, and the floral display there in the summer months is always remarkable.
But when he gave him to understand that he merely proposed to stroll around, taking in the many charms of this sylvan spot, he deceived Joe Pickering. It was his intention, when he found himself alone, to proceed to The Laurels and ask to see Sally. The members of Bachelors Anonymous always liked to know that a case could be filed away as closed, and he wished to ascertain whether her avoidance of Joe was due to a temporary tiff which could be adjusted by a couple of kisses and the gift on the part of the latter of a box of chocolates or whether she had cast him off for ever. He was, moreover, actuated by simple inquisitiveness. As nosey a Parker as ever walked down Hollywood Boulevard, he wanted to see what the girl who had made such a deep impression on Joe looked like.
The moment the cab was out of sight, accordingly, he trotted to the front door and rang the bell.
It has been well said that the hour can always be relied on to produce the man. It now produced the woman. Miss Priestley appeared, fresh from her triumph over Joe, and stood eyeing him with the cold intentness with which Jack Dempsey used to eye opponents across the ring. This was her first opportunity of seeing Mr Trout steadily and seeing him whole, but already she had decided that she did not feel drawn to him.
Mr Trout, unaware that suavity was going to get him nowhere, was at his suavest. Smiling a courtly smile which went through Miss Priestley like a dagger, he said:
‘Good afternoon, madam.’
To this Miss Priestley made no reply.
‘Could I speak to the young lady who arrived here just now?’
He could not have asked a more unfortunate question. For a moment, until he spoke, the châtelaine of The Laurels had supposed him to be another of the pests from one of those consumer research organisations which were always sending representatives to ask her what soap powder she used and what she spent on her weekly budget, but this brazen query revealed him as something far worse—a libertine to wit and, because older, worse than the first one.
‘No you couldn’t,’ she said crisply. ‘And you ought to be ashamed of yourself. At your age. Old enough to be her father.’
Mr Trout’s courtly smile vanished as if it had been rubbed off by a squeegee.
‘You wrong me, madam,’ he hastened to say. ‘I merely wish to—’
‘Well, you aren’t going to.’
‘But, madam—’
‘Get thou behind me, Satan.’
Many men would have felt at this point that the talks had reached a deadlock and that it would be impossible to find a formula agreeable to both parties, but Mr Trout was made of sterner stuff. His years of experience had taught him that all men— and this of course included women—have their price. A pound note, he estimated, would be Miss Priestley’s. He felt for his wallet, produced one and pressed it into her hand.
‘Perhaps this will induce you to lend a kindlier ear to my request,’ he said archly, in fact almost roguishly, smiling another of those courtly smiles which, as we have seen, affected her so unpleasantly.
Miss Priestley looked dumbly at the revolting object. When a woman of high principles has nursed a girl through the storms and stresses of childhood and the moment the latter is grown up is asked to sell her for gold, her emotions are not easy to describe. Foremost among those of Sally’s ex-Nanny was a wild regret that she had come out without her umbrella, for it would have soothed her a little to have been able to strike this smooth philanderer over the head with it. Deprived of this form of therapy, all she could do was to hurl the bribe from her as if it had been a serpent and return to the house.
A pound note has many merits, too numerous to go into here, but it has the defect of not making a good missile. This one fell limply at Mr Trout’s feet, and as he stooped to recover it a sudden breeze sprang up and lent it the wings of a dove. It leaped in one direction, frolicked in another. It was as if it had got the holiday spirit and was brushing up its country dances for the next dance around the maypole. It could not have been livelier if it had been told that it was going to be queen of the May.
Nor was Mr Trout any less agile. He was not one of those men who part lightly with anything in the shape of currency. He had once spent half an hour on his hands and knees trying with the aid of a walking-stick to retrieve a dollar bill which had gone to earth under a chest of drawers. The present crisis brought out all the huntsman in him. He wanted that pound note and was determined to get it. Wherever it went, he went, and when eventually it sailed over the fence into the next-door garden it seemed only natural to him to follow it. He would, he knew, be offending against the laws of trespass, but his blood was up and he didn’t care.
The breeze had dropped and his quarry was lying inert on the little patch of grass outside the front door, an easy prey. Somewhat out of breath but thrilled by the prospect of the happy ending, he advanced on it with gleaming eyes and outstretched hands, and as he did so an odd sound as of someone gargling mouthwash in his rear made him turn. With a sinking heart he saw that he had been joined by a dog.
He stiffened, growing colder and colder from the feet upwards. He had never been at his ease with dogs, and this was a particularly formidable specimen of the species—the sort of dog that hangs about on street corners and barks out of the side of its mouth; a dog, more than probably, known to the police. He viewed it with concern, and the dog viewed him with open suspicion.
Percy was the dog’s name, and mention was made earlier of his habit of chasing Miss Priestley’s cats. But he was not a specialist who confined himself to this branch of industry. Postmen paled beneath their tan when they saw him, and representatives of consumer research firms were equally affected. His guiding rule in life was ‘If it moves, bite it’, and it was unfortunate, therefore, that at this moment Mr Trout should have moved. Abandoning the more prudent policy of standing rigid and hoping that he would be mistaken for a flowering shrub of some kind, he thrust forward a trembling hand, an action against which his best friends would have warned him, and said:
‘Good dog. Good boy. Good old fellow.’
Percy’s liveliest suspicions were confirmed. He had supposed himself to be up against a unit of organised crime, and how right, he felt, he had been. Panic had robbed Mr Trout’s voice of its usual suavity. His ‘Good dog’ had sounded like a threat to take immediate aggressive steps, as had his ‘Good boy’, and his ‘Good old fellow’, and Percy had been left in no doubt that he was in the presence of a far more sinister character than any postman or consumer research man. He ranked Mr Trout even higher as a menace to the public weal than Miss Priestley’s three cats, dangerous devils though they were.
He acted promptly, for he shared with Napoleon the belief that attack is the best form of defence. Without waiting for Mr Trout to start throwing the bombs of which his pockets were no doubt full he bit the outstretched hand with all the emphasis at his disposal, and Mr Trout uttered a howl which might well have been that of a dozen cats stepped on simultaneously by a dozen men in hobnailed boots. It had the effect of so startling Percy that he took to his heels and disappeared at some fifty m.p.h., while at the same time a woman came out of the house, plainly eager for explanations.
This was Mrs Amelia Bingham, the widow who owned the other half of the semi-detached house inhabited by Miss Priestley and her cats. Mr Trout, seeing her only dimly through the mist of unshed tears
caused by Percy’s prompt action, would not have been able to describe her, but she was what is generally termed a comfortable woman. A tendency to plumpness made it unlikely that she would ever become Miss Great Britain, or Miss London and Adjoining Suburbs, or even Miss Valley Fields, but she was beyond a question comfortable. She radiated an atmosphere of cosiness. Mr Trout had once got lost on a walking tour on a cold and rainy night and after hours of wandering had come upon an inn, its lights shining through the mists with their promise of warmth and comfort. His first sight of Amelia Bingham filled him with the same feelings he had had then.
Under normal conditions she smiled easily, but she was not smiling now. Knowing that Percy was at large, and hearing that awful cry, she feared the worst.
‘Oh dear. Are you hurt?’ she wailed, and ran to where Mr Trout was pirouetting like an Ouled Nail dancer with his hand to his mouth.
‘Madam,’ said Mr Trout, removing the hand for a moment, ‘I am.’
‘Did Percy bite you?’
‘If Percy is the name of that homicidal hound, he did.’
‘He probably thought you were the postman.’
‘If he cannot tell the difference between me and a letter-carrier,’ said Mr Trout, who could be terribly bitter when moved, ‘he ought to consult a good oculist.’
It was at this point that Amelia Bingham suggested that he should come into the house and have his wounds dressed, and he followed her there. He was still in the grip of the righteous wrath which animates men who have been bitten by dogs to whom they have not done a thing except address them as good boys and good old fellows, but gradually resentment gave way to kindlier feelings. It was impossible not to be soothed by contact with this woman. Very soon conversation was proceeding in the most amicable manner. Amelia Bingham said that Percy was a naughty dog, and Mr Trout said he had already formed that opinion.
‘You’re American, aren’t you?’ said Amelia Bingham. ‘I thought so. It was your saying “letter-carrier” instead of postman. Tell me if this hurts,’ she said, referring to the iodine which she was applying to his hand.
Mr Trout, his good humour completely restored, assured her that it did not. He also complimented her on the skill with which she was applying the bandage, and she said she had had a lot of practice.
‘Bandaging letter-carriers?’
‘Not very often, because Percy usually goes for their trousers. I meant at the hospital. I’m a hospital nurse.’
‘Ah, that would account for it.’
‘This is my day off. We get one a week at St Swithin’s. Whereabouts in America do you come from?’
‘California,’ said Mr Trout with the reverence that always came into his voice when he spoke that name. ‘My home is in Hollywood.’
‘Oh, are you in the movies?’
‘No, I am a lawyer.’
Amelia Bingham uttered a pleased cry.
‘Then you can tell me if the woman next door has any right to throw her snails into my garden.’
‘None whatever. Legally, snails are wild animals.’
‘What ought I to do?’
‘Throw them back.’
Amelia Bingham said he had taken a great weight off her mind, and Mr Trout said he was happy to have been able to be of service to her. Their relations were becoming more cordial every moment.
‘Is it nice there?’ Amelia Bingham asked.
‘Where?’
‘In California.’
‘Very nice. California is generally described as the jewel state of the Union. Bathed in eternal sunshine, cooled by gentle breezes, it affords the ideal dwelling place for the stalwart men and fair women who inhabit it. Its noble movie houses, its spreading orange groves—’
‘How about the earthquakes?’
Mr Trout, who had been waving his hands emotionally, stopped with them in mid-air as abruptly as if he had heard a director say ‘Cut’. He stared like one who is having a difficulty in believing his ears.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Didn’t you have a bad one some time ago?’
‘You are thinking of the San Francisco fire of 1906.’
‘Oh, it was a fire, was it?’
‘A fire,’ said Mr Trout firmly. ‘Earthquakes are absolutely unknown in California.’
‘One always gets these things wrong. There,’ said Amelia Bingham. ‘That ought to hold if you don’t wave it too much. And now you must let me give you a cup of tea. You would like a cup of tea, wouldn’t you?’
‘It would be extremely refreshing,’ said Mr Trout. It was over the meal that he first realised that strange things were happening to him this afternoon, strange emotions stirring within him. His whole outlook seemed to have changed. As he watched his hostess sip her tea and tucked into the superlative scones which, he learned, were of her own baking, he became more and more convinced that for the last twenty years he had been proceeding on entirely wrong lines. In supposing that the bachelor’s was the ideal life he had been guilty of a gross error. More and more clearly as the scones disappeared into his interior he saw that what the sensible man wanted was a wife and a home with scones like these always at his disposal. He had, in a word, like Romeo, Joe Pickering and other notabilities, fallen in love at first sight, and if any thought of Fred Basset, Johnny Runcible and G. J. Flannery came into his mind, he dismissed it without a qualm.
It seems to be a law of Nature that when a confirmed bachelor falls in love, he does it with a wholeheartedness beyond the scope of the ordinary man who has been scattering his affections hither and thither since he was so high. As a child of eight Mr Trout had once kissed a girl of six under the mistletoe at a Christmas party, but there his sex life had come to an abrupt halt, with the result that for forty years passion had been banking up inside him like water in a dam. Sooner or later the dam was bound to burst, and his meeting with Amelia Bingham had brought this about. Quite suddenly he found himself abandoning all the principles of a lifetime. No longer the silver-tongued denouncer of love at whom the personnel of Bachelors Anonymous pointed with pride, he yearned for Amelia Bingham as harts are said to yearn for waterbrooks. If somebody had happened to come along at this moment bearing a sprig of mistletoe, he would have kissed her under it without hesitation.
‘Delicious,’ he said, swallowing the last scone. ‘You really baked these yourself?’
‘And made the strawberry jam.’
‘Amazing. You must allow me to make some return for your hospitality. Could I persuade you to dine with me tonight?’
‘I should love it.’
‘I am staying at the Dorchester. Shall we dine there? At about seven-thirty?’
‘Splendid.’
‘Don’t bring Percy with you,’ said Mr Trout. ‘Ha, ha,’ he added, to show that this was whimsical humour.
‘Ha, ha,’ said Amelia Bingham.
‘Ho, ho,’ said Mr Trout.
He made a mental note to get his hair trimmed and to have a manicure and a shampoo.
Chapter Ten
The late afternoon of the day on which love had come to Mr Trout found Ivor Llewellyn in the best of spirits. His intention of putting a stick of dynamite beneath the pants of his London employees had been amply fulfilled; the cook he had engaged was proving excellent; a transatlantic telephone call to the studio had assured him that all was going well there in his absence; and he had not heard a word from Vera Dalrymple. Providence, he felt, was going out of its way to make things pleasant for a good man.
It was the last item on this list that set the seal on his wellbeing. As the days went by, he had become more and more alive to the perils inseparable from association with Miss Dalrymple. Twice since their first meeting he had come within a hair’s breadth of proposing marriage to her, and only the merest chance had averted disaster. Once a table-hopping friend of hers had interrupted him as the fatal words were trembling on his lips; on the other occasion he had been saved by a sudden attack of hiccups, giving him time to reflect while the waiter was patting hi
m on the back.
But he knew that luck like this could not last if he continued to see her, and the fact that there had been no communication on her part put new heart into him. At their last dinner together he had been appalled to notice her close resemblance to the more recent of his wives, and the thought that she had ceased to be a menace was very comforting.
He had been musing thus for some little time, when the sound of the front-door bell broke in on his reverie. He rose and went to answer it. Doing so, he recognised, involved a risk, but it had to be taken, for it might be his friend Trout who had rung. He was particularly anxious to see Trout. Trout would support his view that in his dealings with Vera Dalrymple he was proceeding on the right lines; and however confident he may be that he has out-generalled a woman, a man likes to have reassurance on the point from a knowledgeable third party.
It was his friend Trout, but a very different Trout from the Trout of the previous night; a Trout glowing from head to foot and quite capable of doing buck-and-wing dances on the door mat. Even in repose he seemed on the verge of one of those soft-shoe Shuffle-off-to-Buffalo forms of self-expression which used to be so popular in American vaudeville. He twitched, and his feet pawed the carpet like those of some mettlesome steed.
These phenomena passed unnoticed by Mr Llewellyn. It is never easy to detect molten passion from outside, particularly if you are rather self-centred, as he was. Trout to him, whether a-glow or with his inner light turned off, was just Trout. He said he was glad to see him and hoped that he could dine with him, and Mr Trout said he already had a dinner date. Sherlock Holmes, had he been present, would have drawn conclusions from the tremor in his voice as he spoke, but it made no impression on Mr Llewellyn. If he thought anything about it, he merely assumed that Mr Trout was suffering from catarrh.
‘I can only stop a minute,’ said Mr Trout. ‘I’m on my way to get my hair trimmed. I just looked in to have a word with young Pickering.’