‘I say!’
‘Well?’
‘I wish you’d listen. I tell you I can explain everything. About that night at Mario’s, I mean. I know exactly how it is. You think Miss Brown is fond of me. I give you my solemn word she can’t stand the sight of me. She told me so herself.’
A pleasing thought came to Ronnie.
‘You can’t stay in there all night,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to stay in here all night.’
‘Well, come on out, then.’
The voice became plaintive.
‘I tell you she had never set eyes on me before that night at Mario’s. She was dining with that fellow Carmody, and he went out and I came over and introduced myself. No harm in that, was there?’
Ronnie wondered if kicking would do any good. A tender feeling for his toes, coupled with the reflection that his Uncle Clarence might have something to say if he started breaking up cupboard doors, caused him to abandon the scheme. He stood, breathing tensely.
‘Just a friendly word, that’s all I came over to say. Why shouldn’t a fellow introduce himself to a girl and say a friendly word?’
‘I wish I’d got there earlier.’
‘I’d have been glad to see you,’ said Pilbeam courteously.
‘Would you?’
‘Quite.’
‘I shall be glad to see you,’ said Ronnie, ‘when I can get this damned door open.’
Pilbeam began to fear asphyxiation. The air inside the cupboard was growing closer. Peril lent him the inspiration which it so often does.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘are you Ronnie?’
Ronnie turned pinker.
‘I don’t want any of your dashed cheek.’
‘No, but listen. Is your name Ronnie?’
Silence without.
‘Because, if it is,’ said Pilbeam, ‘you’re the fellow she’s come here to see.’
More silence.
‘She told me so. In the garden this evening. She came here calling herself Miss Shoemaker or some such name, just to see you. That ought to show you that I’m not the man she’s keen on.’
The silence was broken by a sharp exclamation.
‘What’s that?’
Pilbeam repeated his remark. A growing hopefulness lent an almost finicky clearness to his diction.
‘Come out!’cried Ronnie.
‘That’s all very well, but . . .’
‘Come out, I want to talk to you.’
You are talking to me.’
‘I don’t want to bellow this through a door. Come on out. I swear I won’t touch you.’
It was not so much Pilbeam’s faith in the knightly word of the Fishes that caused him to obey the request as a feeling that, if he stayed cooped up in this cupboard much longer, he would get a rush of blood to the head. Already he was beginning to feel as if he were breathing a solution of dust and mothballs. He emerged. His hair was rumpled, and he regarded his companion warily. He had the air of a man who has taken his life in his hands. But the word of the Fishes held good. As far as Ronnie was concerned, the war appeared to be over.
‘What did you say? She’s here?’
‘Quite.’
‘What do you mean, quite?’
‘Certainly. Quite. She got here just before I did. Haven’t you seen her?’
‘No.’
‘Well, she’s here. She’s in the room they call the Garden Room. I heard her tell that old bird Galahad so. If you go there now,’ said Pilbeam insinuatingly, ‘you could have a quiet word with her before she goes down to dinner.’
‘And she said she had come here to see me?’
‘Yes. To explain about that night at Mario’s. And what I say,’ proceeded Pilbeam warmly, ‘is, if a girl didn’t love a fellow, would she come to a place like this, calling herself Miss Shoolbred or something, simply to see him? I ask you!’ said Pilbeam.
Ronnie did not answer. His feelings held him speechless. He was too deep in a morass of remorse to be able to articulate. Indeed, he was in a frame of mind so abased that he almost asked Pilbeam to kick him. The thought of how he had wronged his blameless Sue was almost too bitter to be borne. It bit like a serpent and stung like an adder.
From the surge and riot of his reflections one thought now emerged clearly, shining like a beacon on a dark night. The Garden Room!
Turning without a word, he shot out of the door as quickly as Percy Pilbeam a short while ago had shot in. And Percy Pilbeam, with a deep sigh, went to the dressing-table, took up the brush, and started to restore his hair to a state fit for the eyes of the nobility and gentry. This done, he smoothed his moustache and went downstairs to the drawing-room.
Ill
The drawing-room was empty. And, to Pilbeam’s surprise, it continued to be empty for quite a considerable time. He felt puzzled. He had expected to meet a reproachful host with an eye on the clock and a haughty hostess clicking her tongue. As the minutes crept by and his solitude remained unbroken, he began to grow restless.
He wandered about the room staring at the pictures, straightening his tie and examining the photographs on the little tables. The last of these was one of Lord Emsworth, taken apparently at about the age of thirty, in long whiskers and the uniform of the Shropshire Yeomanry. He was gazing at this with the fascinated horror which it induced in everyone who saw it suddenly for the first time, when the door at last opened; and with a sinking sensation of apprehension Pilbeam beheld the majestic form of Beach.For an instant he stood eyeing the butler with that natural alarm which comes to all of us when in the presence of a man who a few short hours earlier has given us one look and made us feel like a condemned food product. Then his tension relaxed.
It has been well said that for every evil in this world Nature supplies an antidote. If butlers come, can cocktails be far behind? Beach was carrying a tray with glasses and a massive shaker on it; and Pilbeam, seeing these, found himself regarding their formidable bearer almost with equanimity.
A cocktail, sir?’
‘Thanks.’
He accepted a brimming glass. The darkness of its contents suggested a welcome strength. He drank. And instantaneously all through his system beacon-fires seemed to burst into being.
He drained the glass. His whole outlook on life was now magically different. Quite suddenly he had begun to feel equal to a dozen butlers, however glazed their eyes might be.
And it might have been an illusion caused by gin and vermouth, but this butler seemed to have changed considerably for the better since their last meeting. His eye, though still glassy, had lost the old basilisk quality. There appeared now, in fact, to be something so positively light-hearted about Beach’s whole demeanour that the proprietor of the Argus Enquiry Agency was emboldened to plunge into conversation.
‘Nice evening.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Nice after the storm.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Came down a bit, didn’t it?’
‘The rain was undoubtedly extremely heavy, sir. Another cocktail?’
‘Thanks.’
The re-lighting of the beacons had the effect of removing from Pilbeam the last trace of diffidence and shyness. He saw now that he had been entirely mistaken in this butler. Encountering him in the hall at the moment of his arrival, he had supposed him supercilious and hostile. He now perceived that he was a butler and a brother. More like Old King Cole, that jolly old soul, indeed, than anybody Pilbeam had met for months.
‘I got caught in it,’ he said affably.
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Yes. Lord Emsworth had been showing me some photographs of that pig of his . . . By the way, in strict confidence . . . what’s your name?’
‘Beach, sir.’
‘In strict confidence, Beach, I know something about that pig.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Yes. Well, after I had seen the photographs, I went for a walk in the park and the rain came on and I got pretty wet. In fact, I don’
t mind telling you I had to get under cover and take my trousers off to dry.’
He laughed merrily.
‘Another cocktail, sir?’
‘Making three in all?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Pilbeam.
For some moments he sat, pensive and distrait, listening to the strains of a brass band which seemed to have started playing somewhere in the vicinity. Then his idly floating thoughts drifted back to the mystery which had been vexing him before this delightful butler’s entry.
‘I say, Beach, I’ve been waiting here hours and hours. Where’s this dinner I heard you beating gongs about?’
‘Dinner is ready, sir, but I put it back some little while, as gentlemen aren’t punctual in the summer time.’
Pilbeam considered this statement. It sounded to him as if it would make rather a good song-title. Gentlemen aren’t punctual in the summertime, in the summertime (I said, In the summertime), So take me back to that old Kentucky shack . . . He tried to fit it to the music which the brass band was playing, but it did not go very well and he gave it up.
‘Where is everybody?’ he asked.
‘His lordship and her ladyship and Mr Galahad and Miss Threepwood are dining at Matchingham Hall.’
‘What! With old Pop Parsloe?’
‘With Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe, yes, sir.’
Pilbeam chuckled.
‘Well, well, well! Quick worker, old Parsloe. Don’t you think so, Beach? I mean, you advise him to do a thing, to act in a certain way, to adopt a certain course of action, and he does it right away. You agree with me, Beach?’
‘I fear my limited acquaintance with Sir Gregory scarcely entitles me to offer an opinion, sir.’
‘Talking of old Parsloe, Beach . . . you did say your name was Beach?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘With a capital B?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, talking of old Parsloe, Beach, I could tell you something about him. Something he’s up to.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘But I’m not going to. Respect client’s confidence. Lips sealed. Professional secret.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘As you rightly say, yes. Any more of that stuff in the shaker, Beach?’
A little, sir, if you consider it judicious.’
‘That’s just what I do consider it. Start pouring.’
The detective sipped luxuriously, fuller and fuller every moment of an uplifting sense of well-being. If the friendship which had sprung up between himself and the butler was possibly a little one-sided, on the one side on which it did exist it was warm, even fervent. It seemed to Pilbeam that for the first time since he had arrived at Blandings Castle he had found a real chum, a kindred soul in whom he might confide. And he was filled with an overwhelming desire to confide in somebody.
‘As a matter of fact, Beach,’ he said, ‘I could tell you all sorts of things about all sorts of people. Practically everybody in this house I could tell you something about. What’s the name of that chap with the light hair, for instance? The old boy’s secretary?’
‘Mr Carmody, sir.’
‘Carmody! That’s the name. I’ve been trying to remember it. Well, I could tell you something about Carmody.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
Yes. Something about Carmody that would interest you very much. I saw Carmody this afternoon when Carmody didn’t see me.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Yes. Where is Carmody?’
‘I imagine he will be down shortly, sir. Mr Ronald also.’
‘Ronald!’ Pilbeam drew in his breath sharply. ‘There’s a tough baby, Beach. That Ronnie. Do you know what he wanted to do just now? Murder me!’
In Beach’s opinion, for he did not look on Percy Pilbeam as a very necessary member of society, this would have been a commendable act, and he regretted that its consummation had been prevented. He was also feeling that the conscientious butler he had always prided himself on being would long ere this have withdrawn and left this man to talk to himself. But even the best of butlers have human emotions, and the magic of Pilbeam’s small-talk held Beach like a spell. It reminded him of the Gossip page of Society Spice, a paper to which he was a regular subscriber. He was piqued and curious. So far, it was true, his companion had merely hinted, but something seemed to tell him that, if he lingered on, a really sensational news-item would shortly emerge.
He had never been more right in his life. Pilbeam by this time had finished the fourth cocktail, and the urge to confide had become overpowering. He looked at Beach, and it nearly made him cry to think that he was holding anything back from such a splendid fellow.
‘And do you know why he wanted to murder me, Beach?’
It scarcely seemed to the butler that the action required anything in the nature of a reasoned explanation, but he murmured the necessary response.
‘I could not say, sir.’
‘Of course you couldn’t. How could you? You don’t know. That’s why I’m telling you. Well, listen. He’s in love with a girl in the chorus at the Regal, a girl named Sue Brown, and he thought I had been taking her out to dinner. That’s why he wanted to murder me, Beach.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
The butler spoke calmly, but he was deeply stirred. He had always flattered himself that the inmates of Blandings Castle kept few secrets from him, but this was something new.
‘Yes. That was why. I had the dickens of a job holding him off, I can tell you. Do you know what saved me, Beach?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Presence of mind. I put it to him – to Ronnie – I put it to Ronnie as a reasonable man that, if this girl loved me, would she have come to this place, pretending to be Miss Shoemaker, simply so as to see him?’
‘Sir!’
Yes, that’s who Miss Shoemaker is, Beach. She’s a chorus-girl called Sue Brown, and she’s come here to see Ronnie.’
Beach stood transfixed. His eyes swelled bulbously from their sockets. He was incapable of even an ‘Indeed, sir?’
He was still endeavouring to assimilate this extraordinary revelation when Hugo Carmody entered the room.
‘Ah!’ said Hugo, his eye falling on Pilbeam. He stiffened. He stood looking at the detective like Schopenhauer’s butcher at the selected lamb.
‘Leave us, Beach,’ he said, in a grave, deep voice.
The butler came out of his trance.
‘Sir?’
‘Pop off.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The door closed.
‘I’ve been looking for you, viper,’ said Hugo.
‘Have you, Carmody?’ said Percy Pilbeam effervescently. ‘I’ve been looking for you, too. Got something I want to talk to you about. Each looking for each. Or am I thinking of a couple of other fellows? Come right in, Carmody, and sit down. Good old Carmody! Jolly old Carmody! Splendid old Carmody! Well, well, well, well, well!’
If the lamb mentioned above had suddenly accosted the above-mentioned butcher in a similar strain of hearty camaraderie, it could have hardly disconcerted him more than Pilbeam with these cheery words disconcerted Hugo. His stern, set gaze became a gaping stare.
Then he pulled himself together. What did words matter? He had no time to bother about words. Action was what he was after. Action!
‘I don’t know if you’re aware of it, worm,’ he said, ‘but you came jolly near to blighting my life.’
‘Doing what, Carmody?’
‘Blighting my life.’
‘List to me while I tell you of the Spaniard who blighted my life,’ sang Percy Pilbeam, letting it go like a lark in the springtime. He had never felt happier or in more congenial society. ‘How did I blight your life, Carmody?’
‘You didn’t.’
‘You said I did.’
‘I said you tried to.’
‘Make up your mind, Carmody.’
‘Don’t keep calling me Carmody.’
‘But, Carmody,’ protested Pilbeam, ‘it’s your name, isn’t it? Certainly it is. Then why try to hush it up, Carmody? Be frank and open. I don’t mind people knowing my name. I glory in it. It’s Pilbeam – Pilbeam – Pilbeam – that’s what it is – Pilbeam!’
‘In about thirty seconds,’ said Hugo, ‘it will be Mud.’
It struck Percy Pilbeam for the first time that in his companion’s manner there was a certain peevishness.
‘Something the matter?’ he asked, concerned.
‘I’ll tell you what’s the matter.’
‘Do, Carmody, do,’ said Pilbeam. ‘Do, do, do. Confide in me. I like your face.’
He settled himself in a deep armchair, and putting the tips of his fingers together after a little preliminary difficulty in making them meet, leaned back, all readiness to listen to whatever trouble it was that was disturbing this new friend of his.
‘Some days ago, insect . . .’
Pilbeam opened his eyes.
‘Speak up, Carmody,’ he said. ‘Don’t mumble.’
Hugo’s fingers twitched. He regarded his companion with a burning eye, and wondered why he was wasting time talking instead of at once proceeding to the main business of the day and knocking the fellow’s head off at the roots. What saved Pilbeam was the reclining position he had assumed. If you are a Carmody and a sportsman, you cannot attack even a viper, if it persists in lying back on its spine and keeping its eyes shut.
‘Some days ago,’ he began again, ‘I called at your office. And after we had talked of this and that, I left. I discovered later that immediately upon my departure you had set your foul spies on my trail and had instructed them to take notes of my movements and report on them. The result being that I came jolly close to having my bally life ruined. And, if you want to know what I’m going to do, I’m going to haul you out of that chair and turn you round and kick you hard and go on kicking you till I kick you out of the house. And if you dare to shove your beastly little nose back inside the place, I’ll disembowel you.’
Pilbeam unclosed his eyes.
‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘could be fairer than that. Nevertheless, that’s no reason why you should go about stealing pigs.’
Hugo had often read stories in which people reeled and would have fallen, had they not clutched at whatever it was that they clutched at. He had never expected to undergo that experience himself. But it is undoubtedly the fact that, if he had not at this moment gripped the back of a chair, he would have been hard put to it to remain perpendicular.
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