Big Money

by P. G. Wodehouse

  'I forget.'

  'It must be very interesting work, rounding up gangs.'

  'Oh, it is.'

  'Look!' said Ann. 'The Sniffer's gone into that inn.'

  Berry followed her gaze.

  'So he has.'

  'What are you going to do?'

  This was a point which was perplexing Berry, also. In the exhilaration of this ride, he had rather overlooked the fact that sooner or later it would be necessary to do something.

  'Well. . .' he said.

  Inspiration came to him, as it had come to Lord Biskerton. The afternoon was of a warmth that turned the thoughts in that direction. He would go in and have a drink.

  'Would you mind waiting here?' he said.

  'Waiting?'

  She saw a cold, stern look come into his face.

  'I'm going in after him.'

  'Well, can't I come in, too?'

  'No. There may be unpleasantness.'

  'I like unpleasantness.'

  'No,' said Berry firmly. 'Please.'

  Ann sighed.

  'Oh, very well. Have you got your gun?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, have it ready,' said Ann, 'and don't fire till you see the whites of his eyes.'

  Berry disappeared. He walked, Ann thought, just like a bloodhound. Leaning back against the warm leather, she gave herself up to delicious meditation. It was the first time anything of this kind had happened to Ann Moon. Never before had she been even in so much as a night-club raid. The only occasion on which she had ever touched lawlessness and crime had been once on the road between New York and Piping Rock, when a motorcycle policeman had handed her a ticket for exceeding the speed-limit.

  And then suddenly in the midst of her ecstasy something hard and sharp dug into the roots of her soul.

  'Hey!' said Conscience unpleasantly, resuming work at the old stand. 'Just a moment!'

  VI

  The saloon-bar of the Jolly Harvesters at the moment of Lord Biskerton's entry was unoccupied save by a robust lady in black satin with the sunlight, or something similar, in her hair, and a large brooch athwart her bosom with the word 'Baby' written across it in silver letters. She stood behind the counter, waiting, like some St Bernard dog on an Alpine pass, to give aid and comfort to the thirsty. She smiled genially at the Biscuit and favoured him with a summary of the weather.

  'Nice day,' she said.

  'Of the best,' agreed the Biscuit cordially.

  A foaming mug changed hands, and they fell into that pleasant, desultory chat which is customary on these occasions.

  The art of exchanging small-talk across the counters of saloon-bars is not given to everybody. Many of the world's finest minds have lacked the knack. The late Herbert Spencer is a case in point. But the Biscuit was in his element. He was at his best with barmaids. He had just the right manner and said just the right things. He was, moreover, a good listener. And as every barmaid has a long, complicated tale of grievances against her employer to tell, this gift is almost more valuable than that of easy speech.

  By the time he had quaffed a quarter of a pint of Surrey ale, relations of cordial intimacy had been established between his hostess and himself. So much so that the former at last felt justified in giving the conversation a more personal turn. Right from the start she had had a critical eye on the beard, but until now her natural breeding had kept her from anything in the shape of verbal comment.

  'Why ever do you wear that beard?' she asked.

  'It's the only one I've got,' said the Biscuit.

  'It looks funny.'

  'Don't you like it?

  'Oh, I've nothing against it. It looks funny, though.'

  'It would look a lot funnier,' argued the Biscuit, 'if it was half green and half pink.'

  The barmaid considered this and was inclined to agree.

  'Well, it does look funny,' she said.

  'Do you know how I got this beard?' asked the Biscuit.

  'Grew it, I suppose.'

  'Not at all. Far from it. Very much otherwise. It's a long story and reflects a good deal of discredit on some of the parties concerned. When I was a baby, you must know, I was a beautiful little girl. But one day my nurse took me out in my perambulator and stopped to talk to a soldier, as nurses will, and when her back was turned a wicked gipsy sneaked out of the bushes, carrying in her arms an ugly little boy with a beard. And do you know what she did? She stole me out of my perambulator and put that ugly little boy with a beard in my place. And ever since then I've been an ugly little boy with a beard.'

  'Pity she didn't leave a razor, too.'

  'Razors are no use,' said the Biscuit. 'They just fall back blunted and discouraged. So do barbed-wire clippers. One doctor I consulted advised me to set fire to the thing. I pointed out that this might possibly destroy the growth but that I also must inevitably perish in the conflagration. He seemed impressed and said he never thought of that. The whole affair is most unpleasant and constitutes a very difficult problem.'

  'Well, do you know what I'd have done, if you had come in here a few years ago when everybody was doing it?'

  'What?'

  'I'd have said "Beaver" and gone like this.'

  She reached out and gave the beard a hearty tweak. As she did so she chuckled merrily.

  It was the last chuckle she was to utter for days and days. Indeed, many people say she was never quite herself again. Berry, turning the door handle at that moment, stood transfixed as a piercing scream smote his ears. It sounded like part of a murder. He snatched the door open, and once more stood transfixed. In fact, he was now, if anything, a trifle more transfixed than he had been before.

  The spectacle he beheld was enough to transfix anyone. Behind the counter, holding a beard of Imperial cut in her hand, stood a barmaid. She seemed upset about something. In front of the counter, also ill at ease, stood his old school friend, Lord Biskerton. Berry stared. Many a time had he had nightmares much less weird than this.

  The next moment, the picture in still life had dissolved. Snatching the beard from the barmaid, the Biscuit replaced it hurriedly on his face. And the barmaid, uttering a long, whistling sigh, fell over sideways in what appeared to be a ladylike swoon.

  The Biscuit, though kindly disposed to the barmaid and ranking her among those whose conversation he enjoyed, was not feeling fond enough of her to remain and apply first aid. He wished to be elsewhere, and that right speedily. He turned, bounded towards the door, saw Berry and stopped in mid-stride.

  'Biscuit!' cried Berry.

  'Oh, my God!' said Lord Biskerton.

  With no further comment for the moment, he seized Berry by the arm and hurried him along the passage. Only when they were in the privacy of the stable-yard, concealed from view by a stone wall, did he pause for speech.

  'What on earth are you doing here, Berry?'

  'What are you?'

  'I was on my way to Sandown. What brought you here?'

  'I followed you to see what you were up to.'

  'How do you mean, up to?'

  'Well, dash it,' said Berry, 'when you go charging about all over London and the home counties in a long beard . . .'

  The Biscuit was registering deep concern.

  'Do you mean to say,' he faltered, shaken, 'that you recognized me all along?'

  It was not for Berry to dispel this idea. A swift thinker, he saw that he had been given the choice of appearing in the light of a shrewd and lynx-eyed observer and of a gullible chump. He chose the former.

  'Of course I recognized you,' he said stoutly.

  'Not in Bond Street?' pleaded the Biscuit.

  'Certainly.'

  'You mean, right from the start, directly I spoke to you?'

  'Of course.'

  'Well, why didn't you say so?'

  'I was humouring you, you old ass.'

  'Humouring me?'

  'Yes. I thought you would be disappointed if you didn't imagine you had fooled me.'

  'Gosh!' said the Biscuit, in
the depths.

  'What was the idea?'

  'Berry,' said the Biscuit, his voice shaking. 'Do you suppose that Ferraro and everybody at the Berkeley knew who I was?'

  'I suppose so.'

  'Well, all I can say is,' said the Biscuit, 'this opens up a new line of thought.'

  He followed this line of thought for a while in silence.

  'I bought that beard to deceive my creditors,' he explained at length. 'There's a whole pack of them baying on my trail, and I thought that if I could assume some impenetrable disguise I could go about London undetected. But you say you saw through the thing at once?'

  'In a flash.'

  'Then what it comes to,' said Lord Biskerton despondently, 'is that I shall have to leave the metropolis after all. I daren't risk being jerked before a tribunal and having my financial condition X-rayed in the County Court. I must lie low somewhere. Bexhill, perhaps. Southend, possibly. But, good Lord! How am I to explain?'

  'Explain?'

  'Well, dash it, I shall have to give some explanation of why I've suddenly disappeared. I've just got engaged to be married. My fiancée will be a little surprised, won't she, if I vanish off the map without a word.'

  'I never thought of that,' said Berry.

  'I only just thought of it myself,' admitted the Biscuit handsomely. 'How would it be to write and tell her I've broken my leg and am confined to bed? No. She would come and see me, complete with flowers and grapes. Of course she would. Silly of me. Dash it, this is complex.'

  'I know,' said Berry. 'Mumps.'

  'What?'

  'Say you've got mumps. She won't come near you then.'

  The Biscuit patted his shoulder with a trembling hand.

  'Genius,' he said. 'Absolute genius, probably inherited from male grandparent. You've solved it, old boy. The only thing to decide now is where shall I go? I must go somewhere. I shall sell a few trinkets to obtain a bit of the ready for necessary expenses, and then fly at dead of night to – well, where? It must be somewhere in the wilds. No good a place like Brighton, for instance. Dykes, Dykes and Pinweed probably spend their week-ends in Brighton. Bexhill? I don't know. Hawes and Dawes have most likely got bungalows there. I believe Wigan would be safest, after all.'

  The history of this summer day has shown already that Berry Conway's brain was at its nimblest. Ever since Mr Frisby had breezed into the office and given him the freedom of the city, he had been in a highly stimulated cerebral condition. To this must be attributed the inspiration which seized him now.

  'Biscuit,' he said, 'I've got it. The fellow who lives next door to me – Bolitho, his name is, not that it matters – has had to leave suddenly for Manchester . . .'

  'He been having unpleasantness with his creditors, too?' asked Lord Biskerton sympathetically.

  'He wants to let his house, furnished. You could walk right in. I'll see him this evening, if you like. Or he may have gone already. Anyway, I could fix things through the house agent. That's the thing for you to do. Nobody would ever find you in Mulberry Grove. You could lie low there for the rest of your life. And we should be next door to one another.'

  'Prattle across the fence of an evening?' cried the Biscuit enthusiastically.

  'That's it.'

  'Gossip about the neighbours! Borrow each other's garden roller!'

  'Exactly.'

  'Berry, old boy,' said Lord Biskerton, 'you've hit it. That male grandparent of yours must have been a perfect mass of brain cells. I expect they ran excursion trains to see him. Fix up the details and drop me a line at my flat. Drop it dashed soon, mark you, because it's only a matter of days before I shall feel the hot breath of Dykes, Dykes and Pinweed on the back of my neck. I'm going to enjoy life in the suburbs. Get a nice rest.'

  'I'll have everything settled tonight.'

  'God bless you! A true friend, if ever man had one. And now,' said the Biscuit, 'I suppose I had better be getting back to that unfortunate female and explaining that I'm on my way to a fancy-dress garden-party or something. She had a severe shock, poor child, when the fungus came away in her hands. But no doubt I shall be able to smooth things over. How did you get down here, by the way?'

  'In a car,' said Berry guardedly.

  'Your own?'

  'No.'

  'Hired, eh? Well, I think I will remain lurking here till you've proceeded a parasang or two. Common prudence suggests the course. I owe a bit here and there at various garages, and your bloke may quite possibly be attached to one of them. So forgive me if I don't come to see you off.'

  'I will.'

  'What's the name of this desirable residence I'm renting?'

  'Peacehaven.'

  'Peacehaven!' said the Biscuit. 'The very sound of the word is balm. In passing, old boy, the fine old crusted title will have to go, I'm afraid. No mention of the Sieur de Biskerton if you don't mind. Tell this bird Bolitho that a Mr Smith wishes to take his shack, with use of bath. One of the Smithfield Smiths. Right. And now to trickle back and comfort Baby. When I left her, poor lamb, she was snorting like a steam-engine and turning blue round the nostrils.'

  VII

  Berry came out of the Jolly Harvesters, smiling contentedly. He had his plan of action perfectly shaped. He would tell the girl that the suspect had cleared himself, had proved not to be The Sniffer after all. And then he and she would drive off into Fairyland together and talk together of all those things which suit a perfect summer day.

  A good programme, he felt. Even an admirable programme.

  But programmes are notoriously subject to alteration without warning. Suddenly, abruptly, as if he had received some deadly stroke, the smile faded from his face, and he stared about him with a fallen jaw.

  The car had disappeared.

  CHAPTER 5

  About the entry of Lord Biskerton into the suburb which was to be his temporary home there was nothing that savoured even remotely of the ostentatious or the spectacular, no suggestion whatever of a conquering king taking seisin of subject territory. He behaved from the start like one desirous of attracting as little attention to himself as possible. A purist might even have considered him furtive.

  Having partaken of an early lunch at his club, he stole out on to the front steps, looked keenly up and down the street with his hat well over his eyes, and then, leaping into a passing taxi, drove to Victoria, where he caught the one-fifty-nine. Only when the train rolled out of the station did he allow himself to relax. Unless Dykes, Dykes and Pinweed were hiding under the seat, he was now safe.

  Valley Fields, when he reached it a short while later, came as an agreeable surprise. Essentially urban in his prejudices, the Biscuit had always thought of the Surrey-side suburbs, when he thought of them at all, as grim and desolate spots where the foot of white man had not trod nor the Gospel been preached. Valley Fields, sunlit and picturesque, struck him as distinctly jolly. With its pleasant gardens and leafy trees, it had something of the air of a village, and he was puzzled to see what there was about the place to arouse his friend Berry Conway's dislike.

  The very station had the look of a country station. Grass banks sloped away from it, gaily decorated with cabbages, beets, and even roses. Not to mention four distinct beehives. The Biscuit came to the conclusion that Berry did not know a good thing when he saw it. Why, Valley Fields, as far as a cursory inspection would allow him to judge, appeared to be the sort of place an American song-writer would have wanted to go back, back, back to. It was in excellent humour that he called at the offices of Messrs Matters and Cornelius, House Agents, for the keys of his new domain.

  Mr Cornelius welcomed him paternally. He was an old gentleman of Druidical aspect with a long, white beard at which the Biscuit, that connoisseur of beards, looked with respectful envy. Full of patriotic spirit where Valley Fields was concerned, Mr Cornelius approved of those who wished to come and live there.

  'A most desirable property,' he assured the Biscuit. 'A bijou bower of verdure. The house is a beautifully appointed modern residen
ce, fitted with every up-to-date convenience and in perfect order.'

  'Company's own water?' asked the Biscuit, keenly.

  'Certainly.'

  'Both H and C?'

  'Quite.'

  'The usual domestic offices?'

  'Of course.'

  'And how about the estate?'

  'Peacehaven,' said Mr Cornelius, 'has park-like grounds extending to upwards of an eighth of an acre.'

  'What happens if you get lost?' asked the Biscuit, interested. 'I suppose they send St Bernard dogs in after you.'

  He proceeded on his way, and came presently to his journey's end, Mulberry Grove. And his contentment deepened. For his eye, as he approached, was caught by what appeared to be a most admirable pub just round the corner. He went in and tested the beer. It was superb. Every explorer knows that the most important thing in a strange country is the locating of the drink supply: and the Biscuit, satisfied that this problem had been adequately solved, came out of the hostlery with a buoyant step, and a moment later the full beauties of Mulberry Grove were displayed before him.

  In the course of a letter to the South London Argus exposing the hellhounds of the local Gas Light and Water Company, Major Flood-Smith of Castlewood had once referred to Mulberry Grove as a 'fragrant backwater'. He gave the letter to his parlour-maid to post, and she forgot it and found it three weeks later in a drawer and burned it, and the editor would never have printed it, anyway, as it was diametrically opposed to the policy for which the Argus had always fearlessly stood, but – and this is the point we would stress – in describing Mulberry Grove as a fragrant backwater the Major was dead right.

  Mulberry Grove was a tiny cul-de-sac, bright with lilac, almond, thorn, rowan and laburnum trees. There were only two houses in it – Castlewood (detached) and a building of the same proportions next door which some years earlier had been converted into two semi-detached residences, The Nook and Peacehaven. The other side of the road was occupied by a strip of ornamental water, with two swans on it – reading from left to right, Egbert and Percy. And the general effect of rural seclusion was completed by the fact that the back-gardens of the houses terminated in the verdant premises of the Valley Field Lawn Tennis Club. There was, in short, a pastoral charm about the place which – to quote Major Flood-Smith once again – made it absolutely damned impossible for you to believe that you were only seven miles from Hyde Park Corner – or if a crow, only five.