'This lady, who was in the cloisters at the time of the murder. Mr Temple says she was sitting at his table. But isn't it funny that Mr Temple should have drawn special attention to himself by asking for a Phi book, today of all days? If he was once a Fellow of the college, he'd know which way Dr Greeby would go after his lecture; and he may have had a grudge against him on account of that old trouble, whatever it was. He'd know about the niche in the wall, too. And he's got an attaché-case with him that might easily hold a lady's hat and a skirt long enough to hide his trousers. And why is he wearing a top-coat on such a hot day, if not to conceal the upper portion of his garments? Not that it's any business of mine--but--well, I just took the liberty of asking myself. And I've got him out there, with his case, and the porter keeping an eye on him.'
Thus Mr Egg, rather breathlessly. Radcott gaped at him.
'Temple? My dear man, you're as potty as he is. Why, he's always confessing--he confessed to this--you can't possibly suppose--'
'I daresay I'm wrong,' said Mr Egg. 'But isn't there a fable about the man who cried "Wolf!" so often that nobody would believe him when the wolf really came? There's a motto in the Salesman's Handbook that I always admire very much. It says: "Discretion plays a major part in making up the salesman's art, for truths that no one can believe are calculated to deceive." I think that's rather subtle, don't you?'
MAHER-SHALAL-HASHBAZ
A Montague Egg Story
............
No Londoner can ever resist the attraction of a street crowd. Mr Montague Egg, driving up Kingsway, and observing a group of people staring into the branches of one of the slender plane-trees which embellish that thoroughfare, drew up to see what all the excitement was about.
'Poor puss!' cried the bystanders, snapping encouraging fingers. 'Poor pussy, then! Kitty, kitty, kitty, come on!'
'Look, baby, look at the pretty pussy!'
'Fetch her a bit of cat's-meat.'
'She'll come down when she's tired of it.'
'Chuck a stone at her!'
'Now then, what's all this about?'
The slender, shabby child who stood so forlornly holding the empty basket appealed to the policeman.
'Oh, do please send these people away! How can he come down, with everybody shouting at him? He's frightened, poor darling.'
From among the swaying branches a pair of amber eyes gleamed wrathfully down. The policeman scratched his head.
'Bit of a job, ain't it, missie? However did he come to get up there?'
'The fastening came undone, and he jumped out of the basket just as we were getting off the bus. Oh, please do something!'
Mr Montague Egg, casting his eye over the crowd, perceived on its outskirts a window-cleaner with his ladders upon a truck. He hailed him.
'Fetch that ladder along, sonnie, and we'll soon get him down, if you'll allow me to try, miss. If we leave him to himself, he'll probably stick up there for ages. "It's hard to reassure, persuade or charm the customer who once has felt alarm." Carefully, now. That's the ticket.'
'Oh, thank you so much! Oh, do be gentle with him. He does so hate being handled.'
'That's all right, miss; don't worry. Always the gentleman, that's Monty Egg. King about the house and clean with children. Up she goes!'
And Mr Egg, clapping his smart trilby upon his head and uttering crooning noises, ascended into the leafage. A loud explosion of spitting sounds and a small shower of twigs floated down to the spectators, and presently Mr Egg followed, rather awkwardly, clutching a reluctant bunch of ginger fur. The girl held out the basket, the four furiously kicking legs were somehow bundled in, a tradesman's lad produced a piece of string, the lid was secured, the window-cleaner was rewarded and removed his ladder, and the crowd dispersed. Mr Egg, winding his pocket-handkerchief about a lacerated wrist, picked the scattered leaves out of his collar and straightened his tie.
'Oh, he's scratched you dreadfully!' lamented the girl, her blue eyes large and tragic.
'Not at all,' replied Mr Egg. 'Very happy to have been of assistance, I am sure. Can I have the pleasure of driving you anywhere? It'll be pleasanter for him than a bus, and if we pull up the windows he can't jump out, even if he does get the basket open again.'
The girl protested, but Mr Egg firmly bustled her into his little saloon and inquired where she wanted to go.
'It's this address,' said the girl, pulling a newspaper cutting out of her worn handbag. 'Somewhere in Soho, isn't it?'
Mr Egg, with some surprise, read the advertisement:
'Wanted: hard-working, capable Cat (either sex), to keep down mice in pleasant villa residence and be companion to middle-aged couple. Ten shillings and good home to suitable applicant. Apply personally to Mr John Doe, La Cigale Bienheureuse, Frith St., W., on Tuesday between 11 and 1 o'clock.'
'That's a funny set-out,' said Mr Egg, frowning.
'Oh! do you think there's anything wrong with it? Is it just a joke?'
'Well,' said Mr Egg, 'I can't quite see why anybody wants to pay ten bob for an ordinary cat, can you? I mean, they usually come gratis and f.o.b. from somebody who doesn't like drowning kittens. And I don't quite believe in Mr John Doe; he sounds like what they call a legal fiction.'
'Oh, dear!' cried the girl, with tears in the blue eyes. 'I did so hope it would be all right. You see, we're so dreadfully hard up, with father out of work, and Maggie--that's my stepmother--says she won't keep Maher-shalal-hashbaz any longer, because he scratches the table-legs and eats as much as a Christian, bless him!--though he doesn't really--only a little milk and a bit of cat's-meat, and he's a beautiful mouser, only there aren't many mice where we live--and I thought, if I could get him a good home--and ten shillings for some new boots for Dad, he needs them so badly--'
'Oh, well, cheer up,' said Mr Egg. 'Perhaps they're willing to pay for a full-grown, certified mouser. Or--tell you what--it may be one of these cinema stunts. We'll go and see, anyhow; only I think you'd better let me come with you and interview Mr Doe. I'm quite respectable,' he added hastily. 'Here's my card. Montague Egg, travelling representative of Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits, Piccadilly. Interviewing customers is my long suit. "The salesman's job is to get the trade--don't leave the house till the deal is made"--that's Monty's motto.'
'My name's Jean Maitland, and Dad's in the commercial line himself--at least, he was till he got bronchitis last winter, and now he isn't strong enough to go on the road.'
'Bad luck!' said Monty sympathetically, as he turned down High Holborn. He liked this child of sixteen or so, and registered a vow that 'something should be done about it.'
It seemed as though there were other people who thought ten shillings good payment for a cat. The pavement before the grubby little Soho restaurant was thick with cat-owners, some carrying baskets, some clutching their animals in their arms. The air resounded with the mournful cries of the prisoners.
'Some competition,' said Monty. 'Well, anyhow, the post doesn't seem to be filled yet. Hang on to me, and we'll try what we can do.'
They waited for some time. It seemed that the applicants were being passed out through a back entrance, for, though many went in, none returned. Eventually they secured a place in the queue going up a dingy staircase, and, after a further eternity, found themselves facing a dark and discouraging door. Presently this was opened by a stout and pursy-faced man, with very sharp little eyes, who said briskly: 'Next, please!' and they walked in.
'Mr John Doe?' said Monty.
'Yes. Brought your cat? Oh, the young lady's cat. I see. Sit down, please. Name and address, miss?'
The girl gave an address south of the Thames, and the man made a note of it, 'in case,' he explained, 'the chosen candidate should prove unsuitable, and I might want to write to you again. Now, let us see the cat.'
The basket was opened, and a ginger head emerged resentfully.
'Oh, yes. Fine specimen. Poor pussy, then. He doesn't seem very friendly.'
'He's frightened by th
e journey, but he's a darling when he once knows you, and a splendid mouser. And so clean.'
'That's important. Must have him clean. And he must work for his living, you know.'
'Oh, he will. He can tackle rats or anything. We call him Maher-shalal-hashbaz, because he "makes haste to the spoil." But he answers to Mash, don't you, darling?'
'I see. Well, he seems to be in good condition. No fleas? No diseases? My wife is very particular.'
'Oh, no. He's a splendid healthy cat. Fleas, indeed!'
'No offence, but I must be particular, because we shall make a great pet of him. I don't care much for his colour. Ten shillings is a high price to pay for a ginger one. I don't know whether--'
'Come, come,' said Monty. 'Nothing was said in your advertisement about colour. This lady has come a long way to bring you the cat, and you can't expect her to take less than she's offered. You'll never get a better cat than this; everyone knows that the ginger ones are the best mousers--they've got more go in them. And look at this handsome white shirt-front. It shows you how beautifully clean he is. And think of the advantage--you can see him--you and your good lady won't go tripping over him in a dark corner, same as you do with these black and tabby ones. As a matter of fact, we ought to charge extra for such a handsome colour as this. They're much rarer and more high-class than the ordinary cat.'
'There's something in that,' admitted Mr Doe. 'Well, look here, Miss Maitland. Suppose you bring Maher--what you said--out to our place this evening, and if my wife likes him we will keep him. Here's the address. And you must come at six precisely, please, as we shall be going out later.'
Monty looked at the address, which was at the northern extremity of the Edgware-Morden Tube.
'It's a very long way to come on the chance,' he said resolutely. 'You will have to pay Miss Maitland's expenses.'
'Oh, certainly,' said Mr Doe. 'That's only fair. Here is half a crown. You can return me the change this evening. Very well, thank you. Your cat will have a really happy home if he comes to us. Put him back in his basket now. The other way out, please. Mind the step. Good morning.'
Mr Egg and his new friend, stumbling down an excessively confined and stuffy back staircase into a malodorous by-street, looked at one another.
'He seemed rather an abrupt sort of person,' said Miss Maitland. 'I do hope he'll be kind to Maher-shalal-hashbaz. You were marvellous about the gingeriness--I thought he was going to be stuffy about that. My angel Mash! How anybody could object to his beautiful colour!'
'Um!' said Mr Egg. 'Well, Mr Doe may be O.K., but I shall believe in his ten shillings when I see it. And, in any case, you're not going too his house alone. I shall call for you in the car at five o'clock.'
'But, Mr Egg--I can't allow you! Besides, you've taken half a crown off him for my fare.'
'That's only business,' said Mr Egg. 'Five o'clock sharp I shall be there.'
'Well, come at four, and let us give you a cup of tea, anyway. That's the least we can do.'
'Pleased, I'm sure,' said Mr Egg.
The house occupied by Mr John Doe was a new detached villa standing solitary at the extreme end of a new and unmade suburban road. It was Mrs Doe who answered the bell--a small, frightened-looking woman with watery eyes and a nervous habit of plucking at her pale lips with her fingers. Maher-shalal-hashbaz was released from his basket in the sitting-room, where Mr Doe was reclining in an arm-chair, reading the evening paper. The cat sniffed suspiciously at him, but softened to Mrs Doe's timid advances so far as to allow his ears to be tickled.
'Well, my dear,' said Mr Doe, 'will he do? You don't object to the colour, eh?'
'Oh, no. He's a beautiful cat. I like him very much.'
'Right. Then we'll take him. Here you are, Miss Maitland. Ten shillings. Please sign this receipt. Thanks. Never mind about the change from the half-crown. There you are, my dear; you've got your cat, and I hope we shall see no more of those mice. Now'--he glanced at his watch--'I'm afraid you must say goodbye to your pet quickly, Miss Maitland; we've got to get off. He'll be quite safe with us.'
Monty strolled out with gentlemanly reticence into the hall while the last words were said. It was, no doubt, the same gentlemanly feeling which led him to move away from the sitting-room door towards the back part of the house; but he had only waited a very few minutes when Jean Maitland came out, sniffing valiantly into a small handkerchief, and followed by Mrs Doe.
'You're fond of your cat, aren't you, my dear? I do hope you don't feel too--'
'There, there, Flossie,' said her husband, appearing suddenly at her shoulders, 'Miss Maitland knows he'll be well looked after.' He showed them out, and shut the door quickly upon them.
'If you don't feel happy about it,' said Mr Egg uneasily, 'we'll have him back in two twos.'
'No, its all right,' said Jean. 'If you don't mind, let's get in at once and drive away--rather fast.'
As they lurched over the uneven road, Mr Egg saw a lad coming down it. In one hand he carried a basket. He was whistling loudly.
'Look!' said Monty. 'One of our hated rivals. We've got in ahead of him, anyhow. "The salesman first upon the field gets the bargain signed and sealed." Damn it!' he added to himself, as he pressed down the accelerator, 'I hope it's O.K. I wonder.'
Although Mr Egg had worked energetically to get Maher-shalal-hashbaz settled in the world, he was not easy in his mind. The matter preyed upon his spirits to such an extent that, finding himself back in London on the following Saturday week, he made an expedition south of the Thames to make inquiries. And when the Maitlands' door was opened by Jean, there by her side, arching his back and brandishing his tail, was Maher-shalal-hashbaz.
'Yes,' said the girl, 'he found his way back, the clever darling! Just a week ago today--and he was dreadfully thin and draggled--how he did it, I can't think. But we simply couldn't send him away again, could we, Maggie?'
'No,' said Mrs Maitland. 'I don't like the cat, and never did, but there! I suppose even cats have their feelings. But it's an awkward thing about the money.'
'Yes,' said Jean. 'You see, when he got back and we decided to keep him, I wrote to Mr Doe and explained, and sent him a postal order for the ten shillings. And this morning the letter came back from the Post Office, marked "Not Known." So we don't know what to do about it.'
'I never did believe in Mr John Doe,' said Monty. 'If you ask me, Miss Maitland, he was no good, and I shouldn't bother any more about him.'
But the girl was not satisfied, and presently the obliging Mr Egg found himself driving out northwards in search of the mysterious Mr Doe, carrying the postal order with him.
The door of the villa was opened by a neatly dressed, elderly woman whom he had never seen before. Mr Egg inquired for Mr John Doe.
'He doesn't live here. Never heard of him.'
Monty explained that he wanted the gentleman who had purchased the cat.
'Cat?' said the woman. Her face changed. 'Step inside, will you? George!' she called to somebody inside the house, 'here's a gentleman called about a cat. Perhaps you'd like to--' The rest of the sentence was whispered into the ear of a man who emerged from the sitting-room, and who appeared to be, and was in fact, her husband.
George looked Mr Egg carefully up and down. 'I don't know nobody here called Doe,' said he; 'but if it's the late tenant you're wanting, they've left. Packed and went off in a hurry the day after the old gentleman was buried. I'm the caretaker for the landlord. And if you've missed a cat, maybe you'd like to come and have a look out here.'
He led the way through the house and out at the back door into the garden. In the middle of one of the flower-beds was a large hole, like an irregularly shaped and shallow grave. A spade stood upright in the mould. And laid in two lugubrious rows upon the lawn were the corpses of some very dead cats. At a hasty estimate, Mr Egg reckoned that there must be close on fifty of them.
'If any of these is yours,' said George, 'you're welcome to it. But they ain't in what you might call good conditi
on.'
'Good Lord!' said Mr Egg, appalled, and thought with pleasure of Maher-shalal-hashbaz, tail erect, welcoming him on the Maitlands' threshold. 'Come back and tell me about this. It's--it's unbelievable!'
It turned out that the name of the late tenants had been Proctor. The family consisted of an old Mr Proctor, an invalid, to whom the house belonged, and his married nephew and the nephew's wife.
'They didn't have no servant sleeping in. Old Mrs Crabbe used to do for them, coming in daily, and she always told me that the old gentleman couldn't abide cats. They made him ill like--I've known folks like that afore. And, of course, they had to be careful, him being so frail and his heart so bad he might have popped off any minute. What it seemed to us when I found all them cats buried, like, was as how maybe young Proctor had killed them to prevent the old gentleman seeing 'em and getting a shock. But the queer thing is that all them cats looks to have been killed about the same time, and not so long ago, neither.'
Mr Egg remembered the advertisement, and the false name, and the applicants passed out by a different door, so that none of them could possibly tell how many cats had been bought and paid for. And he remembered also the careful injunction to bring the cat at 6 o'clock precisely, and the whistling lad with the basket who had appeared on the scene about a quarter of an hour after them. He remembered another thing--a faint miauling noise that had struck upon his ear as he stood in the hall while Jean was saying good-bye to Maher-shalal-hashbaz, and the worried look on Mrs Proctor's face when she had asked if Jean was fond of her pet. It looked as though Mr Proctor junior had been collecting cats for some rather sinister purpose. Collecting them from every quarter of London. From quarters as far apart as possible--or why so much care to take down names and addresses?
'What did the old gentleman die of?' he asked.
'Well,' said Mrs George, 'it was just heart-failure, or so the doctor said. Last Tuesday week he passed away in the night, poor soul, and Mrs Crabbe that laid him out said he had a dreadful look of horror on his poor face, but the doctor said that wasn't anythink out of the way, not with his disease. But what the doctor didn't see, being too busy to come round, was them terrible scratches on his face and arms. Must have regular clawed himself in his agony--oh, dear, oh, dear! But there! Anybody knew as he might go off at any time like the blowing out of a candle.'
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