Keep It Quiet

by Richard Hull

  I have never thought that he was a very good waiter, though you, I know, regard him as the apple of your eye. For a light man he has an incredibly heavy footstep, for instance, and he is far too officious all round. He thinks he owns those library floor rooms, I believe. All of this, however, I would have passed by if I had not observed the very curious way in which he has been looking at me. If I go into the library, if I pass him in the passage, always I find the same fishy eye staring at me, trying to penetrate what is in my mind, and i will not have it!

  Understand that once and for all. The man has become a positive menace. To you, which matters only because I like controlling you. To Anstruther, who is more important to me, and by the way, much more sensible. And above all, to me. That Hughes should dare to suspect me of having something to do with Morrison’s death is a piece of impertinence which I will not tolerate or allow for a minute longer.

  You will therefore not only dismiss him, but you will sack him with every circumstance of ignominy. You will arrange somehow within the next month that he is short in his cash, or that he is found drunk – surely Anstruther can provide you with a suitable drug? – or whatever other crime your ingenuity can suggest, but anyhow he will go, and he will go characterless and pensionless.

  And if you don’t, there will be more trouble for you.

  ‘Even,’ said Ford to himself, with unconsciously more accuracy than usual, ‘a worm will turn.’

  Standing in his rather dingy little office he worked himself up into a passion. It was one thing to force him to overhaul the machinery of the Club, to worry the Committee into making this or that change, to make his own life restless, but when it came to interfering with the staff – that, in his turn, he would not tolerate. The members could look after themselves – after all, he was not responsible for them; they elected each other; but the staff –

  ‘Damn it all!’ he burst out, ‘I hand-pick them myself.’

  And Anstruther? Well, Anstruther must look out for himself. Forgetful of the fact that it was at his request that the doctor had signed the death certificate, Ford decided that he would not even tell him of the letter. Judging by the way that he seemed prepared to assist actively in any poisoning enterprises that might be about, Anstruther might even be capable of advising him to tell Hughes to go, at any rate for a time. No, his mind was made up. He would do no more. Hughes should stay, let the consequences be what they might! Perhaps, with luck, the time for which Anstruther had been playing was already gained. Perhaps it was safe and the blackmailer’s hold had already rotted away?

  With a sudden rush of relief, Ford realised that the decision freed him from all the tyranny under which he had been suffering. He looked at the bundle of letters.

  ‘From this time on, I don’t care how badly cooked the vegetables are, or what the temperature of the rooms is, or how fast the clocks may be. The pettiness of it!’

  Logically he should have ended by giving three cheers for the old and happy golden age of incompetence which was now to return. Actually, he merely sat down, lit a cigarette, and went into a daydream. From this time on, he decided, he would, if possible, do nothing. It was a very soothing decision.

  15

  Over Coffee

  In a corner of the smoking-room a number of members had gathered, as was their custom, after lunch, to take their coffee and smoke for a while before returning to their chambers, offices, or consulting rooms.

  The conversation had turned on the Club book thief. The members as a whole hardly knew how to take it. They all felt that it was so very disgraceful that there should be such a person. For a long while it had been fondly hoped that the occasional disappearances could be put down to absent-mindedness. It was easy to believe that someone wanted to finish some story he had started, and fell to the temptation of ‘borrowing’ it for an evening, with every intention of returning it, and then forgot. Or that a book read in bed by someone sleeping in the Club had been accidentally packed the next morning; perhaps unpacked the other end by a housemaid and carefully put away in a shelf without the reader having any idea that he had by mistake acquired a book that was not his. It was easy to imagine such a train of events or many similar ways in which such a thing might happen, easy and soothing to the feelings.

  For after all, no one likes to think that he belongs to an institution that contains a thief. Besides, a deliberate thief was so improbable amongst the members of such an institution as the Whitehall. For many years the theory of accident held the field. It was reinforced from time to time. There was, for instance, the slightly improper novel posted back anonymously. True, it was postmarked from a distant town in the West in which only one member of the Club lived, and the anonymity was therefore very thin. But as the member in question was so very respectable, the incident went round as a joke, the point of which was not that he should have taken away the book in question, but that he should have read it at all.

  Then there was the sad case of Mr Geoffrey. There was no doubt about it; Mr Geoffrey had been so anxious to finish that thrilling story, The Mystery of the Poisoned Banana, that he had taken it home one evening. The next morning he had been unable to return it first thing, so he had put it on his hall table to remind him to bring it back that evening. But he had forgotten that by this time a book-marker with the name of the Club on it had been tied into every book; forgotten, too, that he shared a flat with a well-meaning man, an individual who, seeing the book and the marker, had gone straight round to the Club and returned the book with the message that Mr Geoffrey had asked him to bring it back. That, the unfortunate Geoffrey had been quite unable to explain away. Fortunately, however, the Committee, after delivering a homily on his wicked ways, had been unable not to see the funny side.

  But the introduction of these book-markers had taken the thing a stage further. It was just possible still to imagine that people took books away accidentally, or with intent to return, but it was no longer possible to believe that they kept them in ignorance as to where they belonged.

  The subject had been raised after lunch that day by Cardonnel.

  ‘One would like to think that it was an accident that the books go, but after all the notices about it, lists of books missing, and entreaties to all members to help in stamping it out, can you imagine anyone borrowing a book for a night or taking one by mistake?’

  ‘Have you heard the latest about it?’ Knight the solicitor chimed in. ‘An official memorandum from the Commissioner of Police (Lost Property Office in fact, of course), saying that the following book has been discovered in a public vehicle plying for hire in the Metropolitan Police District, viz. Murder in the Morning, which contains a book-marker showing the name of the Whitehall Club. I forget the exact wording, but Ford’s put it up on the notice board.’

  ‘Left in a taxi, was it? That’s pretty good.’

  Cardonnel turned to the last speaker.

  ‘Did you write it, Henry?’

  There was a general laugh at the novelist, which he managed to turn in his favour.

  ‘Certainly not. My books are not left in taxis. They are never put down until they are finished.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, nobody ever starts them. When they come in here, they lie about looking so lonely and dusty that he’s reduced to stealing them himself.’

  ‘My own theory,’ went on the novelist, ‘is that it’s the publishers. We’ve got as members here–’ (He mentioned the names of several well-known publishers.) ‘Now has anyone ever thought of classifying the books that are stolen according to who publishes them? If you found that they all came from the stables I have mentioned, you’d know who it was.’

  ‘I’ve got another theory,’ put in Cardonnel. ‘Eh! here’s Laming. Come and join us. We’re talking about book thieves.’

  The little man came jerkily up.

  ‘Tiresome subject, very. Your theory?’

  ‘Well, we know, don’t we, the dates on which they have gone? I mean, Ford could give us a list, couldn’t he?�
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  ‘Believe so – coffee and milk, please, Johnson.’ The smoking-room waiter, who knew perfectly well what the order would be, had in fact already produced it. ‘Yes, Cardonnel. What then?’

  ‘Take the list of dates and find out what events happened on those days. I believe it would give you a clue.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What sort of events?’ Knight looked interested.

  ‘Well, if a large number went just when the Courts ceased sitting, one would look for a member of the Bar.’

  ‘Or a judge.’

  ‘That would be lèse-majesté – but to go on. If the disappearance always coincided with the Varsity rugger match, or a Test Match, one would look for someone who came up from the country regularly to go to those sort of things.’

  ‘But when,’ put in the novelist, ‘you found that it always corresponded exactly with the meeting of the Church Assembly, you would not dare draw the conclusion.’

  ‘The trouble as I see it–’

  Cardonnel winked. ‘Now this is going to be depressing. The eminent chartered accountant, who has not previously spoken, is now going to tell us exactly why the scheme will not work. It’s the sole and invariable contribution of all his profession towards the revival of trade and industry.’

  The speaker thus objurgated continued quite placidly – ‘is to know where you are to stop. You have mentioned sport and two professional activities. But supposing it’s a film fan who comes up from the country every time, say, Marlene Dietrich has a new film, and takes a book back with him to last till the next time he has the chance to see that very charming lady. Are you to keep a record of every first night of Marlene’s?’

  ‘He mightn’t go to the first night.’

  ‘Exactly. And you would have to do it with every film star.’

  ‘Or stage star.’

  ‘And why stick to that sort of thing only. It may be somebody who comes up for dog shows or horticultural shows.’

  ‘And why assume that it is a country member. Are the London members more honest? There is, for instance, one member who breeds Pekingese in London. He wouldn’t have to come up for dog shows.’

  ‘But he would, my dear Henry, know how to spell it. Not Pekinese, as you did in your last novel – with a ‘g’ in future, please.’

  ‘As I thought,’ sighed Cardonnel, ‘the eminent chartered accountant has carefully destroyed my theory. It’s no good, Laming, we shall have to think of something else. Why not introduce a detective into the Club?’

  ‘Hate detectives.’ Laming took a gulp of coffee. ‘Won’t have them in the house.’

  ‘Besides, it would be so difficult to do. A strange waiter would excite the curiosity of all of us. Or do you propose to disguise a retired member of the C.I.D. as a page-boy?’

  ‘I’ve got a much brighter idea.’ The novelist sat forward. ‘Why not appoint my learned friend, Mr Cardonnel, as Club House Detective-in-Chief. Think, just think,’ he turned wickedly to Laming, ‘of how much trouble would be saved for everybody if his activities were fully occupied, instead of, shall I say, restlessly seeking an outlet.’

  ‘Henry,’ said Cardonnel solemnly, ‘one day someone will punch your face.’

  ‘Besides,’ went on the novelist, totally ignoring the slight interruption, ‘he might find out who it was. You all know what he is, bloodhound on the scent, and all that.’

  The Chartered Accountant saw his chance to get his own back gently.

  ‘Do get up and do your stuff, Cardonnel. I’m longing to see you go sniffing all over the carpet on the track of a book-marker.’

  ‘Do you usually trail the book you are going to steal along the carpet first?’

  Laming looked at his watch. This flippant conversation was not in his line. The Home Office was made of sterner stuff. It was only his desire to show that he really got on well with Cardonnel that had made him join the party. With a great appearance of activity he hustled to the door.

  In a few minutes Cardonnel was left alone.

  ‘I’m not at all sure that I shan’t,’ he remarked to his coffee-cup.

  16

  A Really Merry Christmas

  Of all the miserable things to do, the most miserable is to spend Christmas Day in a Club. In the first place anyone who does so is obviously a depressing person without family, without even anyone who wants him. At the very best he will be somebody whose arrangements have broken down at the last moment, and who is suffering from all the irritation consequent on such an event.

  The very tables in the smoking-room proclaimed the desolation. There were no papers. One copy of yesterday’s Times with the crossword partly and inaccurately filled in was to be found lying about disconsolately, suggesting that the would-be solver had either happily left and joined his family, or had in despair stabbed himself in the billiards-room with the half-butt, the latter event seeming the more probable.

  Beside this derelict copy was placed neatly the pile of Annuals which everybody had finished reading in November and the previous day’s evening paper, full of photographs of others departing. It was almost a comfort to observe how crowded the trains were.

  All over the Club house the depression was the same. The Tape machine found no news that was worth recording, or if it did, as it ticked its message out letter by letter, the click resounded through the empty hall and emphasised the fact that no one would read it. Hughes, sitting in the little cupboard allotted to him on the library floor, was vainly endeavouring to drive away boredom and forget how much happier he would be at home trying to induce his children to believe that he was Father Christmas. He had been there all day and had served one tea and one slice of plain cake. If only someone had wanted him to mix them a cocktail or find a book for them, it would have been a relief. But no one was there, and hours more had still to be passed away somehow.

  In his lodge by the door the hall-porter dozed away uncomfortably. To his mind Christmas Day would be bearable if it fell in the New Year. He would have had something to do then. Every year he amused himself by learning the list of members by heart, and at the end of each year the few resignations and the election of new members would give him something to do. But on 25th December! He had become word perfect months ago.

  Drearily spreading his long legs in front of him in the smoking-room, Ford was wondering whether to get drunk. He resented bitterly the fact that, as he had no family himself, he had allowed the steward to go away to his home, while he stayed on duty to see that ‘things were all right’. He had an uneasy suspicion that his presence only deepened the gloom of the staff. To get drunk would have three advantages: it would pass the time away; it would soothe his nerves, frayed by the worries of the autumn, and it would help him to forget that his month of grace was nearly over. If he had not sacked Hughes by 1st January, something was to happen, and judging by the violence of the threats he was receiving, something pretty nasty.

  But it would not make him cheerful. Sitting there, the ash of his cigarette dropping all over his waistcoat, he did not feel that he could ever be cheerful again. He looked back on the few other occasions in his life when he had had too much to drink. They had been dull at the time, and incredibly dreary in retrospect. Getting drunk, he decided, was the most overrated form of amusement in the world. But then all forms of amusement were dull. Still, he might as well have a drink. He ordered a small whisky and soda, and decided after the second sip that he disliked the taste of whisky.

  Just as he was finishing it, he was annoyed to see Anstruther come in. Since he had made up his mind to disobey, and to risk the consequences both for himself and the doctor, his conscience had driven him away from Anstruther. If he talked to him, he must either tell him that something vague in outline, but definitely unpleasant, was going to occur, or he must lie, and Ford was well aware that he was a very poor liar.

  Gulping the rest of his whisky he fled to the coffee-room. Usually he found it a cheerful, pleasant room, but tonight its primrose walls struck him as chill, its re
d curtains as garish. The touch of fog that had drifted in made it worse. Besides, it was deserted, except for the cashier twiddling his thumbs behind his pay-desk, and one weary-looking waiter with a cough that sounded as if it might turn into bronchitis at any moment; and the emptiness added to the sense of unreality. It was usually a room humming with life.

  He turned to the menu apathetically. It was much too early for dinner, and the conventional efforts that Benson and his assistants had made to provide a real Christmas dinner seemed only to increase the depression. To eat plum pudding by yourself in a mournful manner is almost more depraved than to drink alone. Turkey Ford had never liked, and as for obtaining a happy month by eating a mince-pie, a happy month January was likely to be for him, so far as he could see! He flopped down on a chair with such violence that nothing but solid Victorian carpentry would have stood up to the onslaught. There was no evening paper; he seldom read a book; in the tone of one demanding a small prussic acid, he asked the bronchial waiter to bring him Punch. While he waited for it to come, he thought of a remark that seemed to him original. ‘Punch,’ he desired to say, ‘is getting worse than ever.’

  As it arrived, some member, exiled in fact owing to his cook’s influenza, crawled in, looked at him, shuddered slightly, and sat down in the opposite corner. Silence reigned. Five minutes after, a very old man, slightly bent, with an air of having been mislaid by his relatives, wheezed slowly across the room and sat in the corner opposite to Ford. He complained instantly about the draught, but seemed grateful when, coughing himself, the waiter went through the motions of shutting an already closed window. Not long after the old man, Pargiter came in. He stood in the middle of the room, apparently absorbed in a mathematical calculation, before selecting the seat that kept him as far as possible from all the other three occupants.