Summer Moonshine

  'It is,' insisted Mr Bulpitt. 'Women don't understand these things.'

  'I understand you've got a nerve, coming and trying to plaster people in your own sister's home.'

  'To a plasterer whose heart is in his work,' said Mr Bulpitt sententiously, 'there is no such word as "sister".'

  'So you won't lay off?'

  'No, Alice. I'd do most anything for you, but the show must go on.'

  Lady Abbott sighed. Remembrance of her childhood came to her, when Sam had always been as obstinate as a mule. She realized that no word of hers could soften this man, and, with her customary placid amiability, forbore to argue further.

  'Well, suit yourself,' she said.

  'Sure,' said Mr Bulpitt. 'Those'll be spannles, won't they?'

  Lady Abbott admitted that James and John belonged to the breed mentioned, and silence fell for a space. As if by mutual agreement, they both lowered themselves to the carpet of buttercups and daisies. Mr Bulpitt gazed across the river, sentimentality in his eye. These idyllic surroundings appealed to him. There was something about them that reminded him of Bellport, Long Island, where he had once put the bite on a millionaire whose summer home was in that charming resort. He mentioned this to his sister.

  'Jest the same sunny, peaceful afternoon it was, with the sky a lovely blue and the birds singing their little hearts out. He chased me half-way to Patchogue, I remember, with something in his hand that I have an idea was a pitchfork, though I didn't stop to make sure.'

  Lady Abbott was interested.

  'Then you're allowed to assault a process server?'

  'You aren't allowed to. But,' said Mr Bulpitt thoughtfully, 'I've known it done.'

  'Maybe you'd better be careful, Sam.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I was thinking of this young Vanringham's brother. He's visiting us now.'

  'What about him?'

  'Oh, nothing. Except that he was telling Buck he used to be a box fighter.'

  'Where was he ever a box fighter?'

  'Out on the Pacific Coast a few years ago.'

  'I've never heard of him. Probably one of these five-dollar prelim boys. Listen,' said Mr Bulpitt. 'One time I slapped a plaster on Young Kelly, the middle-weight challenger, in his own home. He was having supper with his brother Mike, the all-in wrestler, his cousin Cyril, who killed rats with his teeth, and his sister Genevieve, who was a strong woman in vaudeville. Vanringham? Phooey! Just a novice.'

  In spite of herself, Lady Abbott was impressed.

  'You do live, Sam.'

  'Only just, sometimes. What crossed my mind,' explained Mr Bulpitt, 'was the time I handed the papers to that snake charmer. Sixteen snakes of all sizes, and he sicked 'em all on to me.'

  'When did you start this line?'

  'Nine, maybe ten, years after I saw you last.'

  'What do they pay you?'

  'Not much. But it's not the money. It's the joy of the chase.'

  'Sort of like big-game hunting, like Buck used to do?'

  'That's it. You get a big kick out of plastering a man that thinks he's got you foiled.'

  'I don't see how you're going to plaster Tubby Vanringham.'

  'I'll find a way.'

  'It'll be no good your putting on false whiskers. You can't disguise that map of yours.'

  Mr Bulpitt sneered openly at the idea of doing anything so banal as donning a disguise.

  'And if you set foot in the grounds, Buck'll butter you over the terrace.'

  For the first time, Mr Bulpitt seemed concerned.

  'I hope you'll try to make his lordship understand that there's no animus. I like him.'

  'He doesn't like you.'

  'They don't often like me,' sighed Mr Bulpitt. 'It's the cross we of the profesh have to bear.'

  Lady Abbott rose. She pointed a finger up at the Hall.

  'How good's your eyesight, Sam?'

  'Pretty good.'

  'Can you see a big cedar tree up there? Follow the line of the house.'

  'I see a tree. I know the one you mean. Noticed it when I was calling on you.'

  'Well, young Vanringham's sitting under that tree with a good book, and he's got orders not to stir. So how you think you're going to get at him is more than I can understand.'

  'That's where the science comes in.'

  'You and your science!'

  'All right, then, me and my science.'

  There was hostility in Lady Abbott's eyes, but also a certain reluctant respect, such as the Napoleon type always extorts from women.

  'Have you ever been beaten at this game, Sam?'

  'Once only,' said Mr Bulpitt, with modest pride. 'It was my last job before this one. There was this guy Elmer B. Zagorin – the Night Club King, they used to call him, on account he ran a chain of night clubs in all the big cities – had fifty million dollars and refused to pay a bill for forty for hair restorer. Claimed it hadn't restored his hair. Boy! Did I chase that bird! Clear up and down the country for months and months and months. And he fooled me in the end.'

  'He did?'

  'Yes, sir. Died on me – weak heart – leaving a signed statement that I had made him very, very happy, because he hadn't had so much fun since he was a small child. Seems I had cured him of onwee. He'd grown kind of bored by wealth and riches,' explained Mr Bulpitt, 'like all these well-to-do millionaires, and hadn't been able to get a kick out of anything till I came along. Me on his heels all the time stimylated him.'

  'Like these foxes that Buck says enjoy the chase more than anyone.'

  'That's right. A great guy,' said Mr Bulpitt, reverently as one laying a mental wreath on the Zagorin tomb. A shame we never met. I've a hunch I'd have liked him.'

  There was a silence. Lady Abbott looked up at the Hall, as if calculating the weary distance she had to travel. She gave a little sigh.

  'Well, good-bye, Sam. Pleased to have seen you.'

  'Been nice seeing you, Alice.'

  'Comfortable on that boat?'

  'Sure. Snug as a bug in a rug.'

  'Where do you eat?'

  'Down at the inn.'

  'I thought Buck had told them not to serve you?'

  'They've got to serve me,' said Mr Bulpitt, with modest triumph. 'If they don't, they lose their licence. Lord Abbott can use his pull to make them ease me out of my bedroom, but when it comes to eats and drinks, I'm the public and they have no option. That's the law.'

  'I see. Well, good-bye, Sam.'

  'Good-bye, Alice.'

  And having added a courteous word of advice about taking no wooden nickels, Mr Bulpitt watched his sister collect James and John and move majestically away across the water meadows.

  Up at the Hall, Sir Buckstone Abbott was stumping up and down the front drive in the company of his friend, Joe Vanringham.

  The callous indifference of Nature toward human anguish has become such a commonplace that nowadays even the most reproachful poet scarcely bothers to comment on it. In literary circles it is pretty well taken for granted that the moment when Man is mourning is the very moment which Nature can be relied on to select for smiling her broadest. The rule held good now. Sir Buckstone's heart was heavy, but the skies did not weep in sympathy with him. The grounds of Walsingford Hall were flooded with golden sunlight.

  Sir Buckstone walked with quick, short strides, with which Joe found it difficult to keep step, for his agitation was extreme. He had been in conversation with Mr Chinnery, and Mr Chinnery had made his flesh creep. On the subject of Sam Bulpitt that much-married man could be really eloquent, and had been. Discussing Sam, he had drawn a picture of a kind of supernatural force against which it was futile to try to struggle, illustrating his arguments with anecdotes of the other's illustrious career. Some of these Sir Buckstone was now retailing to Joe.

  There was a fellow named Jorkins,' said Sir Buckstone, falling in his emotion into a sort of hop, skip, and jump, 'who used to try to fool him by going out of the back door, crossing an alley, getting into the basement of
the house opposite, climbing on to the roof, walking along the roof tops to the end of the street and coming down through another house. You would have thought he would have been safe enough, taking precautions like that.'

  'You would, indeed. But—' said Joe, divining correctly that this was but Act I.

  'But,' said Sir Buckstone, 'what happened? Bulpitt finds out what he's doing, and goes to a policeman and says, "Officer, a strange thing is occurring, which I think you ought to know about. I've seen a man coming out of a back door, crossing an alley, getting into the basement of the house opposite—" and, in short, so on. So the policeman lurks in wait for Jorkins—'

  'Sees him going out of the back door, crossing an alley, getting into—'

  'Precisely. And collars him at the end of the route, and says, "What's all this?" "It's quite all right," says the man. "All this may look odd, but the matter is readily explained. I am doing it for a bet. I am a respectable householder named Jorkins." "Oh, you are, are you?" says Bulpitt, popping out from the shadows. "Then these are for you!" And hands him the papers. What do you think of that?'

  'Devilish,' agreed Joe.

  'Fiendish,' said Sir Buckstone.

  'Tubby must avoid the back door.'

  'But he also comes to front doors.'

  'Versatile,' said Joe.

  'He comes carrying a bottle of champagne, and asks to see the man he's after. The butler, feeling that anyone will be glad of a present of champagne, suspects no trap. He admits the blighter, who proceeds to work his will.'

  'Fortunately, we are in the country, where it might excite remark if men called at houses with bottles of champagne.'

  'True. Yes, that is a point. But, my dear Joe, there is no end to the ingenuity of this man Bulpitt. Chinnery says that in order to serve a person in retreat at his seaside cottage, he has been known to put on a bathing suit and swim round to the fellow's private beach.'

  'He can't get here by swimming.'

  'No, that is so. But I fear the man. Do you know anything about the English law on these matters?'

  'Not a thing, I'm afraid. Though I'll bet it's silly.'

  'Chinnery says the American courts have ruled that a process server, though debarred from entering a house forcibly, may get in through an open door or window. If that is so in this country, it presents an appallingly grave problem. You can't keep all the windows shut in weather like this. And another thing. Have you spoken to your brother?'

  'Yes.'

  'What did you make of his attitude?'

  'I know what you mean. All that out-thrust chin and let-her-sue stuff.'

  'Precisely When I was talking to him this morning he was extremely difficult. He appeared to court a breach-of-promise suit. Is he half-witted?'

  'Well, you see, the whole thing is that Tubby regards himself as the injured party. His reason for breaking off the engagement was that he had reason to suppose that Miss Whittaker was double-crossing him and receiving presents on the side from a rival, and when I spoke to him, he kept saying that he had never heard of such nerve as his late betrothed was exhibiting and that there was nothing he would like better than to have the thing dragged into the pitiless light of day, so that the world might judge between this woman and him.'

  'In that case, we might as well chuck in our hand.'

  'Oh, no. I fancy it's all right now. I pointed out to him what would be the effect on our mutual stepmother of his being jerked before a tribunal for breach of promise, and he simmered down considerably. His passion for abstract justice waned. When I left him, he was seeing reason and had agreed to play ball. You need have no fear of Tubby breaking out.'

  Sir Buckstone drew a deep breath.

  'Joe,' he began, in a voice that quivered with gratitude. . . .'Oh, hullo, my dear.'

  Lady Abbott, limping a little, as marathon walkers will, had reached journey's end.

  'Been for a walk, Toots?'

  'I've been down seeing Sam.'

  Sir Buckstone's face, which had brightened at the sight of her, darkened once more.

  'Joe and I were just talking about him. What did he say when you saw him?'

  'He said he was like the North-West Mounted Police.'

  'He did, did he?'

  'Yes, and that the show must go on.'

  'He didn't happen to drop any sort of a hint as to what he was planning to do?'

  'No. Well, you would hardly expect him to, would you? But I'll bet the little weasel's got something up his sleeve, all right. I told him young Vanringham was sitting under the cedar with a book and wasn't going to stir, but it didn't seem to discourage him. He just grinned, and said something about science. Oh, well, I guess everything'll be all right,' said Lady Abbott, equably. 'All we've got to do is watch out.'

  And with these words of cheer, she passed on her way, anxious to get to her settee and put her feet up.

  Sir Buckstone, a disciple of the Chinnery, or pessimistic, school of thought, was not greatly uplifted by her prognostication. The picture of the subtle super-plasterer crouching for a spring depressed him. And, as he now observed to Joe, breaking the moody silence which had followed upon Lady Abbott's departure, the worst thing about the whole infernal business was the suspense, the waiting, the feeling that at any moment the worst might befall.

  Joe patted his arm sympathetically.

  'You mustn't let it get you down, Buck. But I know just what you mean. Most trying for the nervous system. It must recall to you very vividly, I imagine, the old days when you were a big-game hunter. Many a time, no doubt, as you made your way through the African jungle—'

  'There aren't any jungles in Africa.'

  'There aren't?'

  'No.'

  'Negligence somewhere,' said Joe. 'Well, many a time, as you made your way through whatever substitute for jungles they have in Africa, you must have heard hoarse breathing off-stage and realized that you were being stalked by a local leopard, and I'm sure that the worst part of such an experience must have been the uncertainty of it all, the feeling that you could never know just when you were going to get the creature on your back collar stud. And so with this man Bulpitt. What, we ask ourselves, will his next move be?'

  'Exactly.'

  'And what do we reply? We reply that we're damned if we know. We can but, as Lady Abbott says, be on our guard. How simple,' sighed Joe, 'it would all have been if Peake had not let him have that houseboat.'

  Sir Buckstone quivered.

  'Joe,' he said, 'the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that you were right about Peake being Bulpitt's accomplice.'

  'The evidence does seem to point in that direction.'

  There isn't a doubt about it. What brought the man down here? He came to prepare the way for Bulpitt. Why did he take the houseboat? Obviously, so as to ensure Bulpitt a base of operations. There can be no other explanation. Do normal innocent people take houseboats? Of course, they don't. What the devil would anyone want a houseboat for? The Mignonette has been a drug in the market since the day it was built.'

  'Till Peake came along.'

  'Precisely. Twenty years that boat has been sitting there empty, and suddenly, a few days before Bulpitt's appearance, Peake says he wants it. And laid his plans with fiendish cunning, mark you. He appears to have scraped acquaintance with my daughter Jane at some country house, and thus made it possible to worm his way in. Gor!' said Sir Buckstone. 'I'd like to horsewhip the fellow!. . . What is it, Pollen?'

  The butler had come out of the house and was moving softly past them, his objective apparently the cedar tree at the end of the terrace, beneath which Tubby was sitting with his book. He halted.

  'A telephone call, Sir Buckstone, for Mr Vanringham.'

  'Eh? . . . Somebody wants you on the telephone, Joe.'

  'The younger Mr Vanringham, Sir Buckstone.'

  'What!'

  A far less sinister piece of information than this would have been enough to excite suspicion in the Baronet. In these dangerous days, if a fly had
come buzzing round Tubby's head, he would have questioned its motives. He started visibly, and shot a meaning glance at Joe. Joe pursed his lips, grave and concerned.

  'Who wants him?'

  'If I caught the name correctly, Sir Buckstone, it was a Mr Peake.'

  There was a sharp whistling sound. It was Sir Buckstone Abbott gasping. His eye, widening, once more encountered Joe's, and read in it a good man's horror at the low-down machinations of the wicked.

  He pulled himself together. This was not a time for reeling under blows. It was a time for action.

  'All right, Pollen,' he said, with an admirably assumed nonchalance. 'I'll answer it. Mr Vanringham's busy. Don't want to disturb him. . . . Come, Joe.'

  The telephone was in the hall. As Sir Buckstone picked up the receiver, the impression Joe got, watching his mauve face, was that he was about to bellow harsh words of violent abuse into it. But he had vastly underestimated the Machiavellian cunning of which members of the British Baronetcy are capable when the occasion calls. His companion's voice, when he spoke, was lowered to a respectful butlerine coo.

  'Are you there, sir? I regret that I have been unable to find Mr Vanringham. Could I give him a message?. . . Yes, sir. . . . very good, sir. . . I will inform him.'

  He hung up the receiver, puffing emotionally, while Joe stared, amazed at this exhibition of histrionic virtuosity.

  'Buck! What an artist!'

  Sir Buckstone had no time for compliments.

  'He's at the inn!'

  'The Goose and Gander?'

  'The Goose and Gander. And he wants your brother to go down there at once and see him about something very important.'

  Joe whistled.

  'Black work!'

  'A deliberate trap.'

  'Can be nothing else but. What are you going to do?'

  Sir Buckstone drew a laboured breath. Then his manner took on an ominous calm, like that of a cyclone gathering itself together before starting operations on the Texas hinterland.