Laughing Gas

  If I had not spotted this for myself, his reaction would have told me I had made a floater.

  'Autograph I' he said, in an unpleasant, low, growling voice that seemed to proceed from the left corner of his mouth. His eyes glinted tigerishly, and once more I sought in vain for an explanation of how he had ever come to be regarded with esteem by the mothers of America.

  He began to speak. He spoke well and fluently - as it turned out, much too fluently, for it was the fact that he postponed direct action in favour of this harangue that dished his plans and aims.

  You've probably noticed how often the same thing happens in detective stories. There's always a bit, I mean to say, where the villain has got the hero tied up in a chair or lashed to a bed and is about to slip it across him with the blunt instrument. But instead of smacking into it, the poor ass will persist in talking. You feel like saying: 'Act, man, actl Don't waste valuable time taunting the chap', because you know that, if he does, somebody is sure to come along and break up the twosome. But he always does it, and it always lays him a stymie.

  It was so on the present occasion. A cooler head than Tommy Murphy's would have seen that the right thing to do was to get down to fundamentals straight away. But no, he chose to stand there with his chin out, telling me what he proposed to accomplish when once he was ready to begin.

  He said, still in that hoarse, unpleasant voice that seemed to suggest that he had ingrowing tonsils: 'Autograph, huh?' He said:

  'Autograph, huh?' He said:

  'Don't you worry about autographs.' He said:

  'That'll be all about autographs from you. Do you know what I'm going to do to you? I'm going to soak you good, in case anyone should ask you. Do you know what I'm going to do to you? I'm going to knock the stuffing clean out of you. I'm going to lay you out like a pickerel on ice. I'm going to fix you so's there ain't nobody's going to sit and say "Oh, isn't he cute?" because you won't have any face left to be cute with. Do you know what I'm going to do to you? I'm going —'

  Here he broke off - not because he had finished, for he had evidently plenty more to say, but because the ground on which we were standing suddenly sort of exploded.

  Concealed here and there about these Beverley Hills lawns, you see, are little metal thingummies with holes in them, by means of which they are watered. One twiddle of a tap and the whole thing becomes a fountain. And this was what had happened now. Unseen by us, some hidden Japanese hand had turned on the juice, and there we were, right in the thick of it.

  Well, it wasn't so bad for me. Owing to my policy of steadily backing, I had reached a spot which, for the nonce, was comparatively dry. But the excrescence Murphy chanced to be standing immediately over one of the thingummies, with the result that he copped it right in the eyeball. Ironically enough, after what he had been saying, it soaked him good.

  His attention was diverted. Nobody could fail to let his thought wander a bit if he suddenly received about a pint and a half of water in the face, and for an instant Tommy Murphy's thoughts wandered. He leapt like the high hills, and I became pretty brisk and strategic. While he was still in mid-air, I was off and away, legging it down the road. I recalled that it was by this method that the child Cooley had been enabled to save himself embarrassment on other occasions.

  Until this moment, except for a little casual orange-bunging, I had had no opportunity of trying out this new body of mine and seeing what it was good for. My mirror had told me it was ornamental, and I had already divined that it was not any too muscular. With a gush of thankful emotion, I now discovered that it could run like blazes. As a sprinter over the flat, I was in the highest class.

  I headed down the street at a capital pace. Uncouth noises in my rear told me that the hunt was up, but I had little fear that I would be unable to shake off my pursuer's challenge. These solid, chunky kids are only selling platers, at the best.

  My judgement of form had not misled me. Class told. I entered Linden Drive a leader by several lengths, and was drawing so far ahead that I should have been able to come home on a loose rein, when somebody barged into me and I went base over apex into a bush.

  And when I had extricated myself from this bush and come right side up again, I found myself gazing into the bountifully spotted face of Orlando Flower.

  My position, in short, was precisely that of an African explorer who, breezing away from a charging rhinoceros, discovers, just as he has begun to think that everything is jakesey-jukesey, that he is vis-a-vis with a man-eating puma.

  Orlando Flower, like Tommy Murphy, proved to be in conversational mood. He stood over me, clenching and unclenching his fists, but he, too, postponed action in favour of talk.

  'Yah!' he said.

  At our previous meeting, it will be recalled, I had countered his 'Yah!' with an equally vigorous 'Yah!' of my own. But on that occasion there had been a stout wall between us, and with diis obstacle removed I felt singularly little in the vein for back-chat. At this close range, there was something hideously disconcerting in the spectacle of those green eyes set close together among their encircling spots. Joey Cooley had confessed himself unable to decide whether this boy or Tommy Murphy was the tougher egg, and I experienced the same difficulty in arriving at a verdict. But of one thing I was certain. I was not equal to saying 'Yah 1' to him.

  I maintained an uneasy silence, accordingly, and he said 'Yah 1' again. And as he did so, there was a hoarse cry from down the road, and Tommy Murphy approached at a lumbering gallop. He came up and stood puffing, having evidently found the going a bit gruelling. It was some moments before he was able to speak. When he did so, he said, 'Hey!'

  The boy Flower seemed displeased at the interruption.

  'Well?' he said, with some acidity.

  'You lay off of him,' said Tommy Murphy.

  'Who, me?' said Orlando Flower.

  'Yay, you,' said Tommy Murphy.

  Orlando Flower gave him an unpleasant look.

  'Huh?'he said.

  'Huh,' said Tommy Murphy.

  'Huh?' said Orlando Flower.

  'Huh,' said Tommy Murphy.

  There was a pause.

  'I saw him first,' said Tommy Murphy. It was a good legal point, of course, but Orlando Flower had his answer. 'Oh, yeah?' 'Yeah.'

  'I caught him, didn't I?'

  'I saw him first, didn't I?'

  'I caught him, didn't I?'

  'I'm telling you I saw him first.'

  'I'm telling you I caught him.'

  'You lay off of him.'

  'Who, me?'

  'Yay, you.'

  'Huh?'

  'Huh.'

  'Huh?' 'Huh.'

  And having thus got back to where they had started, they paused again and stood sticking out their chins at one another, while I remained in the offing, holding the nosegay and experiencing mixed emotions.

  Chief among these, of course, was a rather vivid apprehension. It was far from agreeable to have to stand and listen to this brace of thugs arguing and disputing as to which should have the privilege of dotting me. But mingled with this alarm was pique and wounded pride. The whole situation was extremely humiliating for an old Boxing Blue.

  Presently the huh-ing broke out again.

  'Huh,' said Orlando Flower.

  'Huh,' said Tpmmy Murphy.

  'Huh.' said Orlando Flower.

  There was a moment's silence. Then Tommy Murphy spoke.

  'Huh,' he said, like one who has just thought of a new and original repartee.

  The psychology of these two young pustules was a sealed book to me. I could not follow their mental processes. There appeared to me to be absolutely nothing about this last 'Huh' that made it in any way different from the 'Huh's' which had preceded it. But there must have been, because its effect on the boy Flower was immediate. Flushing beneath his spots, he flung himself on Tommy Murphy, and they came to the ground together in a clawing mass.

  Well, I don't say I'm a particularly intelligent chap, but even an ass like th
at chauffeur who had recited 'Gunga Din' would have known what to do in a situation like this. Pausing only to kick them in the stomach, I picked up my feet and passed lightly on my way.

  As I reached April's door and pressed the bell, I looked over my shoulder. The two combatants had separated and risen and were staring at me helplessly, baffled by my

  adroitness and resource. I don't suppose two growing boys have ever looked so silly.

  I waved my hand derisively at them.

  'Yah I' I said. 'I wasn't speaking to you,' I added to the butler who had opened the door and was regarding me with some surprise. 'Just chatting with a couple of acquaintances down the road.'

  Chapter 21

  THE butler, when I asked to see April June, seemed a bit doubtful about the advisability of ushering me in. April, he explained, was expecting a visitor and had told him to tell callers that she was not at home. Fortunately, he appeared to come to the conclusion that a half-portion like myself could hardly be counted as a caller, and presently I was seated in a chair in the living-room, endeavouring to catch up with my breath.

  As I sat there, a wave of not unmanly sentiment poured over me. It was in this room that I had so often talked with April, bending an attentive ear as she spoke of her ideals and coming back with something informative about the English order of precedence and the right of Countesses to squash into dinner ahead of the wives of Viscounts. The whole atmosphere was redolent of her gentle presence, and I am not ashamed to say I sighed. In fact, when I reflected how hopeless now my love was, I came within a toucher of shedding tears.

  My wistful melancholy was accentuated by the sight of my photograph standing in the place of honour on her writing-table. There were other photographs about the room, some female with 'Fondest love from Mae' and that sort of thing on them, others male and bearing legends like 'All the best from Basil', but the only one on the writing-table was mine, and I thrilled at the sight of it.

  And when I say thrilled, I mean partly with gratification, of course, but quite a bit, in addition, with an icy horror at the thought of how easily, if she had reached the stage where she kept his photograph on her desk, the current Lord Havershot would have been able to get within punching distance of this girl. Had I not come to warn her to keep on her toes and watch his left hook, the worst must inevitably have occurred. I could see her, unapprised

  of his low designs, starting up with a pretty cry of delight as he entered the room and hurrying forward with her guard down to greet him. And then, as she stood there with the love-light shining in her eyes... socko!

  A gruesome picture, and one well calculated to make a chap shudder. I should probably have shuddered even more than I did, had there not begun to steal into my consciousness at this juncture a rummy sensation which I could not at first analyse. Then I got on to it. It was suddenly borne in upon me that I was dying of thirst. What with the warmth of the day and the fact that I had so recently been taking vigorous outdoor exercise, the epiglottis seemed to have become composed of sandpaper. Already I was gasping painfully like a stranded fish, and it seemed to me that if I didn't climb outside something moist in about half a jiffy, I should expire in dreadful agonies.

  And this thought had scarcely flitted into my mind when I noticed that all the materials for a modest binge were hospitably laid out on a table in the corner. There was the good old decanter, the jolly old syphon, the merry bucket of ice, and, in brief, the whole bag of tricks. They seemed to be beckoning to me, and I tottered across like a camel making for an oasis and started mixing.

  Of course, I ought to have realized that, while this urge to have a couple of quick ones was Lord Havershot's, the capacity for absorbing the stuff would be little Joey Cooley's; but at the moment, I confess, it didn't occur to me. I filled a flagon and drained it at a gulp.

  It didn't seem to taste as good as I had expected, so I had another to see if I really liked it. Then, refilling my glass and lighting a cigarette from the box on the table, I returned to my chair. And I had scarcely seated myself when I became aware of an odd sort of buzzing in the head, accompanied by an extraordinarily urgent desire to burst into song. It puzzled me a bit, for, except in my bath, I'm not much of a singer as a rule.

  I was pleased to find that I was in exceptionally good voice. No doubt I was not in a mood to be critical, but I must say my performance delighted me. The number which I had selected for rendition was that old and tried favourite, the 'Eton Boating Song', and it came out as smooth as silk, except that I noted a tendency on the part of the words to run into each other a little. In fact, after a while, I found that I got on better by substituting 'umpty-tumpty-tiddles' and 'tiddly-umpty-tums' for the existing libretto, and I was giving these out with a will, waving my glass and cigarette rhythmically as I sang, when a voice, speaking from behind me, said 'Good evening.'

  I switched off in the middle of an 'umpty', and turned. I found that I had been joined by an elderly female.

  'Oh, hullo,' I said.

  'Good evening,' she said again. She seemed a kindly, amiable old soul, and I warmed to her immediately. What attracted me about her particularly was the fact that she had a face exactly like that of a horse of mine at home, of which I was extremely fond. It made me feel that I was among friends.

  The instinct of the Havershots, on beholding the opposite sex enter a room in which they are seated, is, of course, to shoot up like a rocket. It occasioned me, therefore, no little embarrassment now to find that I was unable to do this. I had a couple of shots, but each time was compelled to sag back again. The old preux chevalier spirit was functioning on all six cylinders, but the legs seemed to have worked loose at the joints.

  'I say, I'm awfully sorry,' I said, 'but I don't seem able to get up.'

  'Please don't trouble.'

  'Touch of sciatica, I expect.'

  'No doubt.'

  'Or lumbago.'

  'Very likely,' she neighed graciously. 'My name is Pomona Wycherley.'

  'How do you do? Mine is —'

  'Oh, I don't need to be told your name, Mr Cooley. I'm one of your fans. Have you come to see Miss June?'

  'Yes. I want to see her on a matter of —'

  'And you have brought her those lovely flowers,' she said, eyeing the nosegay, which was lying by my chair looking a bit shopsoiled after its recent vicissitudes. 'How sweet!'

  The idea of shoving the nosegay off on to April as a mark of my personal esteem had not occurred to me before, but I saw now that this would be an excellent scheme.

  'You think she'll like them?'

  'She's sure to. You seem very warm, Mr Cooley. Did you hurry here?'

  'You bet I hurried. The fact is, I was rather beset by scoundrels. There was a boy named Tommy Murphy —'

  'Oh, was Tommy Murphy chasing you?'

  'You know about Tommy Murphy?'

  'Oh, yes. It's all over Hollywood. I believe they have bets in some of the studios on whether or not he will catch you.'

  'Extremely dubious taste.'

  'He didn't catch you, I hope?'

  'Temporarily only. I eluded him. I also eluded a kid named Orlando Flower. In fact, I eluded both of them. It took a bit of earnest sprinting, of course, and, as you say, it has left me warm.'

  'So you mixed yourself a little drink?'

  I blushed. Her words had brought home to me how remiss I was being.

  'I say,' I said. 'Can I offer you a spot?'

  'No, thank you.'

  'Ah, come on.'

  'No, thank you, really.'

  'You're sure?'

  'Quite, thanks. It's so early in the evening, isn't it?' 'Is it?' I said, surprised. 'The usual hour for a snort, surely?'

  'You seem to speak as an expert. Do you often take what you call a snort at this time?' 'Oh, rather.' 'Fancy that. Whisky?' 'Whisky invariably.' 'And I see you smoke as well.' 'Oh, yes. In fact, rather better.' 'Always cigarettes?' 'Sometimes cigarettes. I prefer a pipe.' 'Well, well! At your age?'

  I couldn't fol
low this - possibly because the buzzing sensation in my head had now become more pronounced. The keen edge of my mind seemed a bit blunted.

  'My age?' I said. 'Why, dash it, I'm twenty-seven.'

  'What!'

  'Absolutely. Twenty-eight next March.'

  'Well, well, well! I should never have thought it.'

  'You wouldn't?'

  'No.'

  'You wouldn't have thought it?' 'I certainly would not.'

  Why this should have struck me as so droll, I don't know, but it amused me enormously, and I burst into a hearty guffaw. I had just finished this guffaw and was taking aboard breath with which to start another, when the door opened and in came April, looking extraordinarily ultra in some filmy stuff, Mousseline de sole, I shouldn't wonder, or something along those lines. Anyway, it was filmy and suited her fragile loveliness like the dickens.

  When I say she came in, she didn't right away. She stood framed in the doorway, gazing wistfully before her as if in some beautiful reverie. At this point, however, I unleashed the second guffaw, and it seemed to hit her like a bullet. She started as if she had stepped on a tin-tack.

  'You!' she said, in an odd, explosive sort of way. 'What are you doing here?' I took a sip of whisky and soda.

  'I want to see you on a matter of vital importance,' I said gravely, and was annoyed to find that the sentence had come out as one word. 'I want to see you up-on a matter of vital importance,' I added, spacing it out a bit this time.

  'He has brought you a lovely bouquet,' said Miss Wycherley.

  The nosegay didn't seem to go very big. I was not feeling strong enough to pick it up, but I shoved it forward with my foot and April looked at it in - it seemed to me -a rather distant manner. She appeared not too pleased about something. She swallowed once or twice, as if trying to overcome some powerful emotion.

  "Well, you can't stay here,' she said at length, speaking with something of an effort. 'Miss Wycherley has come to interview me.'

  This interested me.

  'Are you an interviewer, old horse?' I said. 'Yes. I'm from the Los Angeles Chronicle. I wonder if I could take a photograph of you?' 'Charge ahead.'