'You couldn't lend it to me, I suppose?'
'No, sir.'
'No?'
'No, sir.'
'You won't?'
'No, sir.'
There was a pause. Monty coughed. Beach, with an inward shudder, felt that he had never heard anything so roopy and so villainous. He was surprised at Monty. A nice, respectable young gentleman he had always considered him. He could only suppose that he had been getting into bad company since those early days when he had been a popular visitor at the Castle.
'I'd give a good deal to read that thing, Beach.'
'Indeed, sir?'
'Ten quid, in fact.'
'Indeed, sir?'
'Or, rather, twenty.'
'Indeed, sir?'
'And when I say twenty,' explained Monty, ‘I mean, of course twenty-five.'
The sophisticated modern world has, one fears, a little lost its taste for the type of scene, so admired of an older generation, where Virtue, drawing itself up to its full height, scorns to be tempted by gold. Yet even the most hard-boiled and cynical could scarcely have failed to be thrilled had they beheld Beach now. He looked like something out of a symbolic group of statuary - Good Citizenship Refusing To Accept A Bribe From Big Business Interests In Connexion With The Contract For The New Inter-Urban Tramway System, or something of that kind. His eyes were hard, his waistcoat quivered, and when he spoke it was with a formal frigidity.
'I regret to say, sir, that I am not in a position to fall in with your wishes.'
And with a last stare, of about the same calibre as the last stare which he had directed at Percy Pilbeam, he moved in good order to the Housekeeper's Room, leaving Monty plunged in thought.
Too often, when a man of Monty Bodkin's mental powers is plunged in thought, nothing happens at all. The machinery just whirs for a while, and that is the end of it. But on the present occasion this was not so. Love is the great driving force, and now it was as if Gertrude Butterwick had her dainty foot on the accelerator of his brain, whacking it up to unprecedented m.p.h. The result was that after about two minutes of intense concentration, during which he felt several times as if the top of his head were coming off, an idea suddenly shot out of the welter like a cork from the Old Faithful geyser.
It was obvious that, with Beach turning so unaccountably spiky as he had done, he could accomplish nothing further by his own efforts. He must put the matter into the hands of a competent agent. And the chap to apply to was beyond a question this bird Pilbeam.
Pilbeam, he reasoned, was a private detective. The job to be done, therefore, would be right up his street: for stealing things must surely be one of the commonplaces of a private detective's daily life. From what he could remember of his reading, they were always being called upon to steal things - compromising letters, Admiralty Plans, Maharajah's rubies, and what not. No doubt the fellow would be only too glad of the commission.
He went in search of him, and found him lying back in an armchair in the smoking-room. He had the tips of his fingers together, Monty noted approvingly. Always a good sign.
‘I say, Pilbeam,' he said, 'are you in the market at the moment for a bit of stealthy stuff?'
'Pardon?'
'If so, I've got a job for you.' 'A job?'
Like Monty, Pilbeam had been thinking tensely, and what with the strain on his brain and the warmth of the weather, was not feeling so bright as he usually did.
'You are a detective?' said Monty anxiously. 'You weren't just pulling my leg about that, were you ?'
'Certainly I am a detective. I think I have one of my cards here.'
Monty inspected the grubby piece of pasteboard, and all anxiety left him. Argus Inquiry Agency. You couldn't get round that. Secrecy and Discretion Guaranteed. Better still. A telegraphic code address, too - Pilgus, Piccy, London. Most convincing.
'Topping,' he said. 'Well, then, coming back to it, I can put business in your way.'
'You wish to make use of my professional services?'
'If you're open for a spot of work at this juncture, I do. Of course, if you're simply down here taking a well-earned rest. ..'
'Not at all. I shall be glad to render you any assistance that is in my power. Perhaps you will tell me the facts.'
Monty was a little doubtful about the procedure. He had never engaged a private detective before.
'Do you want to know my name?'
'Isn't your name Bodkin?' said Pilbeam surprised.
'Oh, yes. Rather. Definitely. Only in all the stories I've read the chap who comes to the detective always starts off with a long yarn about what his name is and where he lives and who left him his money, and so forth. Save a lot of time if we can cut all that.'
'All I require are the facts.'
Monty hesitated again.
' It sounds so dashed silly,' he said coyly.
'I beg your pardon?'
'Well, bizarre, if you prefer the expression. Nobody could say it wasn't. Bizarre is the word that absolutely springs to the lips. It's about that book of Gally Threepwood's.'
Pilbeam gave a little jump.
'Oh?'
'Yes. You knew he had written a book?' 'Quite.'
'Well . . .' Monty giggled '. . . I suppose you'll think I'm a silly ass, but I want to get hold of it.'
Pilbeam was silent for a moment. He had not known that he had a rival in the field, and was none too pleased to hear it.
'You do think I'm a silly ass?'
'Not at all,' said Pilbeam, recovering himself. 'No doubt you have your reasons?'
It had just occurred to him that, so far from being a disconcerting piece of news, what he had heard was really tidings of great joy. He supposed, mistakenly, that Monty, who no doubt had many friends in high places, had been asked by one of them to take advantage of his being at the Castle to destroy the book. England, he knew, was full of men besides Sir Gregory Parsloe who wanted those Reminiscences destroyed.
The situation now began to look very good to Percy Pilbeam. He had only to secure that manuscript and he would be in the delightful position of having two markets in which to sell it. Competition is the soul of Trade. The one thing a man of affairs wants, when he has come into possession of something valuable, is to have people bidding against one another for it.
'Oh, I have my reasons all right,' said Monty. 'But it's a long story. Do you mind if we just leave it at this, that there are wheels within wheels?'
'Just as you please.'
'The thing is, a certain bloke - whom I will not specify - has asked me to get hold of this manuscript - for reasons into which I need not go - and... well, there you are.'
'Quite,' said Pilbeam, satisfied that the position was exactly as he had supposed.
Monty proceeded with more confidence.
'Well, that's that, then. Now we get down to it. I've just found out that the chap who's got the thing is -'
'Beach,' said Pilbeam.
Monty was astounded.
'You knew that?'
'Certainly.'
'But how on earth - ?'
'Oh, well,' said Pilbeam carelessly, as one who has his methods.
Monty was now convinced that he had come to the right shop. This man was uncanny. 'Beach,' he had said. Just like that. Might have been a mind-reader.
'Yes, that's the strength of it,' he went on as soon as he had ceased marvelling. 'That's where the snag lies. Beach has got it and is hanging on to it like a limpet. He won't let me lay a finger on the thing. So the problem, as I see it... You don't mind me outlining the problem as I see it ?...'
Pilbeam waved a courteous hand.
'Well, then, the problem, as I see it,' said Monty, 'is, how the hell is one to get it away from the blighter?' 'Quite.'
'That is, as you might say, the nub?' 'Quite.'
'Have you any ideas on the subject?' 'Oh, yes.' 'Such as - ?'
'Ah, well,' said Pilbeam, a little stiffly. Monty was all apologies.
'I see, I see,' he said. 'Naturall
y you don't want to blow the gaff prematurely. Shouldn't have asked. Sorry. But I can leave the matter in your hands with every confidence, as I believe the expression is?'
'Quite.'
'He might let you borrow the thing to read?'
'At any rate, I have no doubt that I shall find a way of getting it into my possession.'
Monty eyed him admiringly. Externally, Percy Pilbeam was not precisely his idea of a detective. Not quite enough of that cold, hawk-faced stuff, and a bit too much brilliantine on the hair. But as far as brain was concerned he was undoubtedly the goods.
'I bet you will,' he said. 'You can't run a business like yours without knowing a thing or two. I expect you've pinched things before.'
'I have occasionally been commissioned to recover papers, and so forth, of value,' said Pilbeam guardedly.
'Well, consider yourself jolly well commissioned now,' said Monty.
Chapter Nine
Safe in the Housekeeper's Room, Beach sat gazing out of the window at the lowering sky. His chest was still rising and falling like a troubled ocean.
Too hot, felt Beach, too hot. Things were becoming too hot altogether.
His whole mind was obsessed by an insistent urge to get rid of these papers, the guardianship of which had become so hazardous a matter. The chase was growing too strenuous for a man of regular habits who liked a quiet life.
Nearly everything in this world cuts both ways. A fall from a deck-chair, for instance, is - physically - a painful experience. Against its obvious drawbacks, however, must be set the fact that it does render the subject nimbler mentally. It shakes up the brain. To the circumstance of his having so recently come down with a bump on his spacious trousers-seat must be attributed the swiftness with which Beach now got an idea that seemed to him to solve everything.
He saw the way out. He would hand this manuscript over to Mr Ronald. There was its logical custodian. Mr Ronald was the person most interested in its safety. He was, moreover, a young man. And the more he mused on the whole unpleasant affair, the more firmly did Beach come to the conclusion that the foiling of the Parsloe Gang and the Tilbury Gang was young man's work.
It would be necessary, of course, to apply to the Hon. Galahad for permission to take the step. If you went behind his back and acted on your own initiative after he had given you instructions, Mr Galahad could be quite as bad as any gang. Years of association with London's toughest citizens had given him a breadth of vocabulary which was not lightly to be faced. Beach had no intention of drawing upon himself the lightnings of that Pelican-Club trained tongue. As soon as he felt sufficiently restored to move, he went in search of the Hon. Galahad and found him in the small library.
'Might I speak to you, Mr Galahad?' 'Say on, Beach.'
Clearly and well the butler told his talc. He recounted the scene at the Emsworth Arms, the subsequent invasion of his pantry by the man Bodkin, the proffered bribe. The Hon. Galahad listened with fire smouldering behind his monocle.
'The young toad!' he cried.' Monty Bodkin. A fellow I've practically nursed in my bosom. Why, I can remember, when he was a boy at Eton, taking him aside as he was going back to school one time and urging him to put his shirt on Whistling Rufus for the Cesarewitch.'
'Indeed, sir?'
'And he notified me subsequently that, thanks to my kindly advice, he had cleaned up to the extent of eleven shillings - in addition to a bag of bananas, two strawberry ice-creams, and a three-cornered Cape of Good Hope stamp at a hundred to sixteen from a schoolmate who was making a book. And this is how he repays me!' said the Hon. Galahad, looking like King Lear. ' Isn't there such a thing as gratitude in the world ?'
He expressed his disgust with a wide, passionate gesture. The butler, with his nice instinct for class distinctions, expressed his with one a little less wide and not quite so passionate. These callisthenics seemed to relieve them both, for when the conversation was resumed it was on a calmer note.
‘I might have known,' said the Hon. Galahad, 'that a fellow like Stinker Pyke . . . what does he call himself now, Beach ?'
'Lord Tilbury, Mr Galahad.'
‘I might have known that a fellow like Lord Tilbury wouldn't give up the struggle after one rebuff. You don't make a large fortune by knuckling under to rebuffs, Beach.'
'Very true, Mr Galahad.'
'I suppose old Stinker has been up against this sort of thing before. He knows the procedure. The first thing he would do, after I had turned him down, would be to set spies and agents to work. Well, I don't see what there is to be done except employ renewed vigilance, like Clarence with his pig.'
Beach coughed.
'I was thinking, Mr Galahad, that if I were to hand the documents over to Mr Ronald ...' ' You think that would be safer ?'
'Considerably safer, sir. Now that Mr Pilbeam is aware that they are in my possession, I am momentarily apprehensive lest her ladyship approach me with a direct request that I deliver them into her hands.'
'Beach! Are you afraid of my sister Constance ?' 'Yes, sir.'
The Hon. Galahad reflected.
'Well, I see what you mean. It would be difficult for you. You couldn't very well tell her to go and put her head in a bag.' 'No, sir.'
'All right, then. Give the thing to Mr Ronald.' 'Thank you very much, Mr Galahad.'
Infinitely relieved, Beach allowed his gaze, hitherto concentrated on his companion, to travel to the window. 'Storm looks like breaking at last, sir.' 'Yes.'
The Hon. Galahad also looked out of the window. It was plain that Nature in all her awful majesty was about to let herself go. On the opposite side of the valley there shot jaggedly across the sky a flash of lightning. Thunder growled, and raindrops began to splash against the pane.
'That fool's going to get wet,' he said.
Beach followed his pointing finger. Into the scene below a figure had come, walking rapidly. His interview with Percy Pilbeam had left Monty in that exhilarated frame of mind which demands strenuous exercise. Where Lord Tilbury, on a previous occasion, had walked because his heart was heavy, Monty walked because his heart was light. Pilbeam had filled him with the utmost confidence. He did not know how or when, but he felt that Pilbeam would find a way.
So now he strode briskly across the park, regardless of the fact that the weather was uncertain.
'Mr Bodkin, sir.'
'So it is, the young reptile. He'll get soaked.' 'Yes, sir.'
There was quiet satisfaction in the butler's voice. It was even possible, he was reflecting, that this young man might be struck by lightning. If so, it was all right with Beach. As far as he was concerned, Nature's awful majesty could go the limit. He only wished that Pilbeam, too, were being exposed to the fury of the elements. He viewed members of gangs in rather an Old Testament spirit, and believed in their getting treated rough.
Ronnie was in his bedroom. When the heart is aching, there are few better refuges than a country-house bedroom. A man may smoke and think there, undisturbed.
Beach, tracking him down a few minutes later, found him well disposed to the arrangement he had come to suggest. He made no difficulties about accepting custody of the manuscript. Indeed, it seemed to Beach that he was scarcely interested. Listless was the word that occurred to the butler, and he put it down to the weather. He took his departure with feelings resembling those of the man who got rid of the Bottle Imp; and Ronnie, having thrown the manuscript into a drawer, resumed his seat and began thinking of Sue once more.
Sue!. . .
It wasn't that he blamed her. If she loved Monty Bodkin - well, that was that. You couldn't blame a girl for preferring one fellow to another.
All that stuff his mother had been saying about her being the typical chorus-girl fluttering from affair to affair was, of course, just a lot of pernicious bilge. Sue wasn't like that. She was as straight as they make 'em. It was simply that she had been dazzled by this blasted lissom Monty and couldn't help herself.
You were always reading about that sort of t
hing in novels. Girl gets engaged to bloke, thinking at the moment that he is what the doctor ordered. Then runs into second bloke and discovers in a sort of flash that she has picked the wrong one. No doubt, on that trip of hers to London she had happened to meet Monty accidentally in Piccadilly or somewhere and the thing had come on her like a thunderbolt.
It was what he had been expecting all along, of course. He had told her so himself. It stood to reason, he meant, that a terrific girl like her - a girl who practically stood alone, as you might say - was bound sooner or later to come across someone capable of cutting out a bally pink-faced midget who, except for getting a featherweight Boxing blue at Cambridge, had never done a thing to justify his existence.