Mr Gedge had received the suggestion well, and a pleasant dinner for two had begun at the Hotel des Etrangers at about nine-thirty. It was still in progress at midnight. At one a.m. the Vicomte had slipped silently to the floor with a peaceful expression on his face, and it was so evidently his intention to remain there that Mr Gedge felt that the time had arrived for home and bed. And here he was, about to turn in.
The sight of his room full of people seemed to puzzle him for a moment. He stared from one to the other with a questioning look. Then, seeming to say to himself that optical illusions like this were only to be expected at such a time, he removed his collar by the simple process of seizing both wings and pulling. Then he climbed into the bed and fell into a peaceful sleep.
Packy was the first to advance a comment.
'And that,' he said, 'is the man you want to make Ambassador to France! You seriously propose to let him loose on Paris! If this is how he goes on in St Rocque, think what he could accomplish with all the vast resources of Paris at his disposal. I advise you to take him back to California and keep him there. In fact,' said Packy, 'I'm afraid I must insist. The poor devil is pining for the old home town, and it's cruelty to keep him away from it. I should like your assurance, Mrs Gedge, that you will return with him to Glendale at the earliest opportunity.'
His eye met Mrs Gedge's. She saw the menace in it. She was a clear-thinking woman, and she realized how subversive to domestic discipline would be the confiding of her secret to Mr Gedge. Her teeth clicked together, but when they parted again it was to enable her to give the assurance required.
'And now,' said the Senator, with something of the manner of a pleased guest reluctantly tearing himself away from a party, 'we will be going. I have no doubt that we can find beds at the hotel.'
'I have a better idea,' said Packy. 'Come back to my boat for the night. Room for all, and very snug.'
'Capital!'
'If Mrs Gedge will allow us to borrow her motor-boat...? Then we will meet when you are ready at the boathouse.'
'And meanwhile,' said Senator Opal, 'I will be doing my own packing personally. There are several little valuables which I should be sorry to lose.'
He gave Mrs Gedge a meaning look. But Mrs Gedge made no answer. Without a word, she turned and strode from the room. A snore from the bed seemed to speed her on her way like a benediction.
7
Through the scented night Packy walked down the hill to the boathouse. The stars were shining peacefully, and there was peace in his heart. True, he had now lost Jane Opal for ever, but what did his personal misfortunes matter when weighed against the Niagara of sweetness and light which had suddenly flooded his little world? As far as the eye could reach, that little world's inhabitants, with the solitary exception of himself, were sitting pretty. The cloud had passed from the sky of Senator Opal. Mr Gedge, when he woke, if he ever did, would find happiness to console him for the rather severe headache from which he would be suffering. The Veek was himself again. And Jane and Blair would live happy ever after.
A pretty good bag, felt Packy. A very fine bag, indeed.
He reached the boathouse and opened the door. And as he did so his attention was attracted by an odd, strangled noise which seemed to proceed from a dark corner.
Advancing cautiously, he was able to discern what appeared to be a large-sized cocoon. And closer inspection revealed this as none other than Blair Eggleston. He was securely tied with stout cords, and there was a gag of some description in his mouth.
Packy cut the cords. He removed the gag.
'Egg!' he exclaimed solicitously.
Blair Eggleston did not reply. He was going through an intricate system of physical jerks and massage. His mood was plainly not radiant.
It was Jane who eventually broke an embarrassing silence. She had just reached the boathouse door.
'Blair!' she cried.
Packy had delicacy. He could recognize a sacred moment when he saw one. He withdrew silently, and, moving some little distance along the lake front, sat down and lit his pipe.
It was some ten minutes later that he heard a voice calling his name.
CHAPTER 18
JANE OPAL came out of the shadows.
'What was it all about?' asked Packy.
Jane seemed troubled.
'I couldn't make out half he said. He was so angry, I mean. He just bubbled most of the time.'
'And if ever a man had an excuse for bubbling...'
'Oh, I'm not blaming him. Do you know he had been there like that for hours?'
'But who did it?'
'He says it was Medway...'
'Medway!'
'... and the man who called himself the Duc de Pont-Andemer. They just jumped on him and left him like that.'
'Poor devil!'
'He's very cross,' said Jane meditatively.
'I'm not surprised.'
'He says it's all our fault.'
This was a new aspect of the matter to Packy.
'Ours?'
'Yours and mine and Father's, because we got him mixed up with Medway. Apparently, Medway and this man Oily something are going to be married.'
'Tell Eggleston to take a strong line and not send them a wedding present.'
'I don't suppose I shall see Blair to tell him anything,' said Jane, gazing out over the dark water. 'He's going back to Bloomsbury.'
Packy's heart leaped.
'You mean he's broken off your engagement?'
'Yes.'
For an instant, all Packy could feel was an exquisite elation. Then he told himself sternly that this was unworthy of a modern Sidney Carton. Not for Sid to rejoice at such a breach, but rather to do all in his power to heal it.
'I shouldn't worry,' he said soothingly. 'He spoke without thinking. You can't expect a man who has been tied hand and foot in a smelly boathouse for goodness knows how many hours to be a little sunbeam right away. Leave him lay for a day or two, and you'll be surprised. You know how it is about the milk of human kindness. Something starts a leak and out it goes with a hoosh. But give it time and little by little it will flow back till the reservoir is full again. You take my word for it, in a day or two he will be twanging a guitar beneath your window.'
Jane was silent.
'He will come to you and say, "Forget those cruel words!"'
Jane kicked at a twig.
'But I'm not sure that I want to forget them.'
'What!'
'I rather think this may be the best thing that could have happened.'
Packy swallowed a jagged something that was interfering with his vocal cords.
'You don't mean—?'
'Yes, I do.'
'Don't you love Egg any more?'
'I'm not so sure that I ever did love him. You know how it is. You meet somebody and they seem to you all chock-a-block with wonderful ideals and you get sort of infatuated.'
Packy was stunned by this added proof that this girl and he were twin souls.
'You don't have to explain that to me. Boy, as good old Slattery would say, could I write a book! It was just that way with me and Beatrice.'
'But you haven't stopped loving Beatrice.'
'Yes, I have. With a sort of jerk at around twelve p.m. last night.'
'What!'
'And it's just as well,' said Packy, 'because my engagement has conked, too.'
'You don't mean that?'
'Yes, I do. Beatrice gave me the bird face to face at, I should say, about six-fifteen yesterday evening.'
'But she isn't here?'
'She was then.'
'But why did she break the engagement?'
Packy hesitated.
'Well, there were several reasons. Somehow or other she got the impression that I was a half-wit. And then...'
'Then?'
'Well, you see, she happened to run into your father, and he told her one or two things about...'
'About what?'
'Well, about you and me. She accused me
of making love to you behind her back.'
'But you haven't made love to me.'
'I know. Silly idea. But you know what women...'
Jane looked pensively out at the lake.
'I wish you would,' she said.
A curious sensation came upon Packy. It was out of the question, of course, that some invisible man should suddenly have beaned him with a blunt instrument, but he had all the emotions of one who has undergone such a beaning. Somebody had also removed all the muscle from his legs.
He forced himself to be calm.
'Did you say,' he asked carefully, 'that you wished I would?'
'Not,' said Jane, 'if you don't want to.'
The muscle returned to Packy's legs. His head cleared. He felt like a giant.
'But I do,' he cried. 'Gosh ding it, you don't mean to tell me that you – er – that you – ah – that you, as it were... how shall I put it?'
'I believe I've been in love with you ever since I was a kid and used to go and watch you play football.'
'It's exactly the same with me. I mean, I didn't watch you play football, but... well, you know what I mean.'
'And when you came here and were so marvellous, I suddenly realized it.'
'Isn't it a scream, the way these things sort of dawn on you!' said Packy enthusiastically. 'I can see now that I really loved you from the moment you walked into your father's suite that day and sat down on the table. Something told me that we were soul-mates. Jane!' said Packy.
It was some moments after he had clasped her to him that Packy felt that there was something that remained to be said.
'You realize the sort of chump I am, don't you?' he asked anxiously. 'You aren't going into this with your eyes shut?'
'I think you're a precious angel pet.'
'I am a precious angel pet,' admitted Packy, 'but that doesn't alter the fact that I've been engaged twice before this. Once to Beatrice and once to the current Mrs Scott or Pott or Bott. In fact, getting engaged had become with me something of a habit, and many people would say I was a flippertygibbet.'
'What's a flippertygibbet?'
'It's something I used to be before I met you. But what I'm driving at is that all that sort of thing is over now. This is the finish.'
'The third time,' said Jane wisely, 'is always lucky.'
'Why,' asked Packy, 'does your nose turn up at the tip like that?'
'I don't know. It always has. Don't you like it?'
'I love it. I love every bit of you.' A fresh spasm of ecstasy seized Packy. 'Oh, gosh, what fun we're going to have! You won't make me go to concerts and lectures, will you? Of course you won't. We'll just roam about the world together for the rest of our lives, raising Cain hand in hand. Did I say that we were soul-mates?'
'I believe you did.'
'Well, we are. Young Jane,' said Packy, holding her at arm's length and gazing searchingly into her eyes, 'are you sure you love me?'
'Of course I am.'
Packy expelled a deep breath.
'This,' he said, 'is like being in heaven without going to all the bother and expense of dying.'
Something vast and shadowy loomed up beside them in the darkness.
''Scuse me!'
The shadowy something revealed itself as Mr Soup Slattery.
'I knew you were kidding me when you said you weren't that way with this beazel,' observed Mr Slattery with satisfaction.
Packy turned on him with a touch of not unjustifiable annoyance. It is not pleasant for an ardent young man to have safe-blowers popping up out of traps in his moments of deep emotion.
'What do you think you're doing here?'
'Just thought I'd say Hello and Good-bye.'
Packy's annoyance vanished.
'I'm glad you did,' he said. 'I haven't thanked you for coming and trying to help us. It was sporting of you.'
'Aw, hell!' said Mr Slattery modestly. 'I thought it over and I seen where I was doing you dirt, so I come along.'
'I'm afraid you had a wasted evening, Mr Slattery,' said Jane sympathetically.
'Her gentle woman's heart,' explained Packy, 'is touched at the thought that you hadn't time to snitch anything out of that safe.'
Mr Slattery seemed piqued. He bridled a little.
'Hadn't time? Hadn't time? Say, how much time do you think I need to dig into a pete? I just let me fingers flicker and there I am. I got away with a necklace, two rings, a pendant and a sun-boist. You won't see me around these parts no more. Me, back to the old country. Going to get me a farm, that's what I'm going to do. It's the only life – the farmer's. Eggs, milk, chickens... and brew your own applejack. Swell! Well, pleased to have seen you, boy. Wish you luck, miss. I'll be going.'
The night swallowed him up, and Packy gazed reverently after him.
'What a man!' he murmured.
A hideous noise woke the birds in the tree-tops. Senator Opal was coming down the path with a song on his lips.
P.G. Wodehouse
IN ARROW BOOKS
If you have enjoyed Hot Water, you'll love
Money for Nothing
1
The picturesque village of Rudge-in-the-Vale dozed in the summer sunshine. Along its narrow High Street the only signs of life visible were a cat stropping its backbone against the Jubilee Watering Trough, some flies doing deep-breathing exercises on the hot window-sills, and a little group of serious thinkers who, propped up against the wall of the Carmody Arms, were waiting for that establishment to open. At no time is there ever much doing in Rudge's main thoroughfare, but the hour at which a stranger, entering it, is least likely to suffer the illusion that he has strayed into Broadway, Piccadilly, or the Rue de Rivoli is at two o'clock on a warm afternoon in July.
You will find Rudge-in-the-Vale, if you search carefully, in that pleasant section of rural England where the grey stone of Gloucestershire gives place to Worcestershire's old red brick. Quiet – in fact, almost unconscious – it nestles beside the tiny river Skirme and lets the world go by, somnolently content with its Norman church, its eleven public-houses, its pop. – to quote the Automobile Guide – of 3,541, and its only effort in the direction of modern progress, the emporium of Chas Bywater, Chemist.
Chas Bywater is a live wire. He takes no afternoon siesta, but works while others sleep. Rudge as a whole is inclined after luncheon to go into the back room, put a handkerchief over its face and take things easy for a bit. But not Chas Bywater. At the moment at which this story begins he was all bustle and activity, and had just finished selling to Colonel Meredith Wyvern a bottle of Brophy's Paramount Elixir (said to be good for gnat-bites).
Having concluded his purchase, Colonel Wyvern would have preferred to leave, but Mr Bywater was a man who liked to sweeten trade with pleasant conversation. Moreover, this was the first time the Colonel had been inside his shop since that sensational affair up at the Hall two weeks ago, and Chas Bywater, who held the unofficial position of chief gossip-monger to the village, was aching to get to the bottom of that.
With the bare outline of the story he was, of course, familiar. Rudge Hall, seat of the Carmody family for so many generations, contained in its fine old park a number of trees which had been planted somewhere about the reign of Queen Elizabeth. This meant that every now and then one of them would be found to have become a wobbly menace to the passer-by, so that experts had to be sent for to reduce it with a charge of dynamite to a harmless stump. Well, two weeks ago, it seems, they had blown up one of the Hall's Elizabethan oaks and as near as a toucher, Rudge learned, had blown up Colonel Wyvern and Mr Carmody with it. The two friends had come walking by just as the expert set fire to the train and had had a very narrow escape.
Thus far the story was common property in the village, and had been discussed nightly in the eleven tap-rooms of its eleven public-houses. But Chas Bywater, with his trained nose for news and that sixth sense which had so often enabled him to ferret out the story behind the story when things happen in the upper world of the nobil
ity and gentry, could not help feeling that there was more in it than this. He decided to give his customer the opportunity of confiding in him.
'Warm day, Colonel,' he observed.
'Ur,' grunted Colonel Wyvern.
'Glass going up, I see.'
'Ur.'
'May be in for a spell of fine weather at last.'
'Ur.'
'Glad to see you looking so well, Colonel, after your little accident,' said Chas Bywater, coming out into the open.
It had been Colonel Wyvern's intention, for he was a man of testy habit, to inquire of Mr Bywater why the devil he couldn't wrap a bottle of Brophy's Elixir in brown paper and put a bit of string round it without taking the whole afternoon over the task: but at these words he abandoned this project. Turning a bright mauve and allowing his luxuriant eyebrows to meet across the top of his nose, he subjected the other to a fearful glare.
'Little accident?' he said. 'Little accident?'
'I was alluding—'
'Little accident!'
'I merely—'
'If by little accident,' said Colonel Wyvern in a thick, throaty voice, 'you mean my miraculous escape from death when that fat thug up at the Hall did his very best to murder me, I should be obliged if you would choose your expressions more carefully. Little accident! Good God!'
Few things in this world are more painful than the realization that an estrangement has occurred between two old friends who for years have jogged amiably along together through life, sharing each other's joys and sorrows and holding the same views on religion, politics, cigars, wine, and the Decadence of the Younger Generation: and Mr Bywater's reaction, on hearing Colonel Wyvern describe Mr Lester Carmody, of Rudge Hall, until two short weeks ago his closest crony, as a fat thug, should have been one of sober sadness. Such, however, was not the case. Rather was he filled with an unholy exultation. All along he had maintained that there was more in that Hall business than had become officially known, and he stood there with his ears flapping, waiting for details.
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