Ten minutes later, after one or two false starts, he had located the breakfast room and was peering through its open French windows at the fireplace and what hung above it.
Even now, though twenty-four hours had elapsed since they had had their little unpleasantness, Mr Duff's feelings towards Joss Weatherby were not cordial. The desire to skin him still lingered.
But he had to admit that the young hound, in painting that portrait, had done a good job. It was all he had said it was, and more, and it drew Mr Duff like a magnet. He was inside the room, creeping across the floor like a leopard, when his concentration was disturbed by the falling on his shoulder of a heavy hand, and he found himself gazing into the eyes of an enormous man with a squashed nose and ears that seemed to be set at right angles to his singularly unprepossessing· face.
"What's the idea?" enquired this person.
Mr Duff's heart, which had been dashing about in his mouth like an imprisoned rabbit, returned slowly to its base. He swallowed once or twice, and his moustache trembled gently, like a field of daffodils stirred by a March wind.
"It's all right," he said ingratiatingly.
He had endeavoured to inject into the words all the charm of which he was capable, and it was with a pang that he saw that his effort had been wasted.
"You go spit up a rope," retorted his companion. "It's not all right. What you doing in my house?"
"Are you Mr Steptoe?''
"I am."
The situation was unquestionably a difficult one, but Mr Duff persevered.
"Pleased to meet you," he said.
"You won't be long," predicted the other.
"I guess it seems funny to you, finding me here."
"A scream. I'm laughing my head off."
"I can explain everything."
"I'm listening."
"Lemme tell you a little story."
"It better be good."
"My name is Duff."
Mr Steptoe started. It was plain that the name had touched a chord.
"Duff? The guy that was on the phone yesterday, making an offer for that portrait?"
"That's right."
There was no need for the little story. Mr Steptoe was not a highly intelligent man, but he could put two and two together.
"Now I got it. So when Mrs Steptoe turned you down you think to yourself you'll gumshoe in and swipe the thing?"
"No, no. I-er-just wanted to look at it."
"Oh yeah?"
"Well, I'll tell you."
"You don't have to. Listen. How bad do you want that portrait?"
"Listen. I've just got to have it. Can you," asked Mr Duff, his voice trembling emotionally, "understand a man pining for a woman he's loved and lost and wanting to have her portrait so that he can sit and look at it and dream of what might have been?"
"Sure," said Mr Steptoe cordially. "I've seen somebody doing that in the pictures. I've an idea it was Lionel Barrymore. Either him or Adolph Menjou. I guessed it must be something like that when Mrs Steptoe told me about you phoning. Listen. Was it right what she said, that you're willing to pay good money for it?"
"Listen," said Mr Duff. "The sky's the limit."
"You mean that?"
"Well, within reason," said Mr Duff, his native prudence jogging his elbow.
"Then let's go," said Mr Steptoe. "You need the old . portrait.
I need the old money. Got a knife?"
"No."
"Nor me. I'll go fetch one," said Mr Steptoe and, bounding to the door, checked himself just in time to avoid a collision with the lady of the house. He recovered his balance, which he had lost by tripping over his large feet, a constant habit of his pugilistic days and one which had done much to prevent him rising to great heights in his profession. "Oh, hello, honey," he said, giggling girlishly. "Meet Mr Duff."
It seemed to Mr Duff, as it would have seemed to any sensitive man, that at this woman's entrance a chill had crept into the warmth of the summer day. He fingered his moustache nervously.
Mrs Steptoe's eyes were roaming over his person with a distressing effect on his equanimity. They were at their coldest and hardest. Like her husband she could put two and two together, and she found no difficulty in accounting for Mr Duffs' presence.
He had come, she concluded, to plead in person for the boon which
had been denied him over the telephone. Her lips tightened. She disapproved of these follow-up campaigns. When she announced a decision, she liked to have it accepted.
"Duff?"
"I spoke to you on the telephone yesterday, Mrs Steptoe-...:..."
"Yes. And I have nothing to add to what I said then. The portrait is not for sale. Howard, show Mr Duff out."
"Yes, honey."
In the aspect of the two men, as they shambled through the French windows, there was a crushed defeatism which would have reminded Napoleon, had he been present, of the old days at Moscow. Neither spoke until they were out of sight and hearing of the room they had left. Then Mr Steptoe, producing a handkerchief and passing it over his brow, said, "Cheese!" adding the words: "No dice!"
"Brother," he went on, clarifying his meaning beyond all chance of misunderstanding, "it's off!"
"What!"
"It's cold."
"You mean you won't get it?"
'1 haven't the nerve."
"Think of the money," pleaded Mr Duff.
Mr Steptoe was thinking of the money, and it was as if wildcats were clawing his vitals. His face was drawn with anguish.
Then abruptly, it brightened, and Mr Duff, startled by his sudden look of animation, wondered what had caused it. It seemed absurd to suppose that the other had had an idea, yet something was unmistakably stirring behind that concrete brow.
"Oi!" cried Mr Steptoe.
"Yes?" said Mr Duff. "Yes?"
"Listen. What's that thing fellows have to have? You know, when they're up against a stiff proposition and get cold feet."
"Grit?"
"Something to give them grit. Moral support! That's it. If I'm to put this deal through I got to have moral support. And I know where. to get it. My new valet. We'll bring him in on this."
"Your valet?"
"Wait till you see him. He's a wonder. Come along to the stable yard and we'll put it up to him. He's waiting there to give me a craps lesson."
Joss was not only waiting but getting tired of waiting. He was, indeed, on the point of giving his pupil up and leaving in dudgeon, when he observed him approaching. And with him, he saw with surprise, was the moustached stranger of the inn who had reminded him of something he had seen in a nightmare.
And now that the latter was close enough to be examined in detail recognition came.
"J, B.!"
"Weatherby!"
"Well, for Pete's sake," said Mr Steptoe, marvelling. "Do you guys know each other?"
"Do we know each other?'' said Joss. "Why, I look on J. B. Duff as a grandfather. Who ran to catch me when I fell and would some pretty story tell and kiss the place to make it well? J. B. Duff."
"Well, say, that's swell," said Mr Steptoe. "If you're that way there's no need for me to hang around, explaining things. I'm going to go get me a little drink. I kind of need it."
His departure was scarcely noticed. Joss was staring at Mr Duff.
Mr Duff was staring at Joss.
"Weatherby!" gasped Mr Duff at length. "What the devil are you doing here?''
There was a stem look on Joss's face.
"Don't go into side issues, J. B.," he said. "I demand an explanation. Of the growth on the upper lip," he added. "It's fright-
�; Ghastly.:•
,
Never mind--
"There must be a certain code in these matters. Either a man is Grover Whalen or he is not Grover Whalen. If he is not he has no right to wear a moustache like that."
"Never mind about my moustache. I asked you what you were doing here."
•
Joss raised his eyebrows.
"Steptoe said you were his valet."
"Yes, that's another way of putting it."
"There's something behind this."
"I see it's hopeless to try to conceal anything from one of your penetration. If you really want to know, J. B., I took on the job so that I could be with Miss Fairmile. You may possibly recall that I spoke of her with some warmth at our last meeting. Since then my feelings have, if such a thing were possible, deepened.
If you would like it in words of one syllable, J. B., I'm in love."
"Oh?"
"A rather chilly comment on a great romance, but let it go.
And now about the moustache. Explain fully, if you please."
Mr Duff had begun to see that all things were working together for good.
"Listen," he said. "Do you want your job back?"
"I am prepared to hear what you have to say on the point."
"Then listen," said Mr Duff.
Mr Steptoe reappeared, looking refreshed.
"Told him?" he asked.
"I was just going to," said Mr Duff. "Listen."
"Listen," said Mr Steptoe.
"Now I've got it," said Joss. "You want me to listen. Why didn't you say so before?"
He stood in thoughtful silence while Mr Duff placed the facts in the case before him.
"Well?" said Mr Steptoe.
"I beg your pardon? You spoke?"
"Will you?''
"Will I what? Oh, pinch the portrait? Of course, of course. I'm sorry I was distrait. I was just wondering how J. B. gets his food past the zareba. I suppose it works on a hinge or something. Yes, of course, I shall be delighted."
"When? Tonight?"
"Tonight's the night," said Joss. "And now away with trivialities.
Take these bones, Steptoe, and I'll show you how to roll them right."
Chapter XI
NIGHT HAD FALLEN on Claines Hall, terminating a day which had been fraught with no little interest for many of those beneath its roof. But to only a limited number of these had it brought restful slumber. Lord Holbeton was awake. Chibnall was awake. Mr Steptoe was awake. Joss was awake. Mrs Chavender, also, had found it impossible to start getting her eight hours.
As a rule this masterful woman shared with Napoleon the ability to sleep the moment the head touched the pillow. Others might count sheep, but she had no need for such adventitious aids to repose. She just creamed her face, basketed her Pekinese, climbed into bed, switched the light out and there she was.
Yet tonight she lay wakeful.
Ever since her return from Brighton there had been noticeable in Mrs Chavender's manner a strange moodiness. There was not a great deal of rollicking gaiety at Claines Hall, but from what there was she had held herself aloof. And if an observer could have seen her now as she lay staring into the darkness, he would have remarked that this moodiness still prevailed.
It was as she heaved a weary sigh and fell to wondering whether to get up and go to the library for the book which she had been reading after dinner or to stay where she was and give the sandman another chance that a faint whoofle from the direction of the door and a scratching of delicate paws on the woodwork told her that Patricia, her Peke, was up and about and wished to leave the room.
"Okay," said Mrs Chavender, rather pleased that the problem had been settled for her. "Just a minute. Hold the line."
She turned on the light and rose and donned a dressing gown.
"Grass?" she said.
The Peke nodded briefly.
"I thought as much," said Mrs Chavender. A slight disorder of the digestive tract, due to a surfeit of cheese, had been the cause of that visit to the vet, and on these occasions the dumb chum was apt to want to head for the lawn and nibble.
The French windows of the breakfast room suggested themselves as the quickest way to the great outdoors. She proceeded thither and threw back the heavy curtains. The cool fragrance of the night, pouring in, seemed to bring momentary relief from the cares which were gnawing at her.
"There you are," she said. "Push along and help yourself. You'll find me in the library."
Patricia pottered out and for some minutes roamed the dewy lawn, sniffing at this blade of grass and that like a connoisseur savouring rival vintages of brandy. Presently she found some excellent stuff and became absorbed in it. Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed before she was at liberty to turn her attention elsewhere. When she did she beheld a sight which brought her up with a sharp turn. She looked again to make sure that she had not been mistaken. But her eyes had not deceived her. The light in the breakfast room was on, and a man was standing in the window. He remained there for an instant, then drew the curtains.
Patricia stood staring. She was uncertain what to make of this.
It might be all right, or it might not be all right. Time alone could tell. Offhand she was inclined to think it fishy.
Lord Holbeton, having drawn the curtains, took a knife from the pocket of his dressing gown and walked to the fireplace. There for a while he stood, exchanging glances with the portrait which hung above it.
It was in no mood of gay adventure that Lord Holbeton had embarked upon this midnight raid. He definitely did not like the job. Sally had urged him to it with girlish eagerness, but if it had been merely a question of obliging Sally he would have been in bed. The motivating force behind his actions was the lust for gold.
Pondering over that disturbing encounter in the drive, he had suddenly realized that the moustached stranger must have been Mr Duff, whom he knew to be established at the local inn, and he was able to understand now why Mr Duff had shouted "Hey!" and come charging up at the double. Obviously he had been anxious for a conference. It was the thought of how he had avoided that conference and an accurate estimate of what the effects of that avoidance on his always rather easily annoyed trustee would be that had spurred Lord Holbeton on to take action. Only by securing the portrait and delivering it at the earliest possible moment could he hope to wipe out the bad impression he must have made and bring the other to a frame of mind where he would reach for his fountain pen and start writing cheques.
That was what had made him creep to the breakfast room in the watches of the night. But it would not make him like it.
Oddly enough, the discovery that the window was open had not caused him any additional concern. The inference he drew was not that others beside himself were abroad in the darkness but that whoever was supposed to lock up had been negligent. As a matter of fact, he had been intending to open it himself, for Sally,
Showing an easy familiarity with criminal procedure which he privately felt a really nice girl should not have possessed, had impressed it upon him that this must be made to look like an outside job.
He wrenched his gaze from that of the portrait, which he was beginning to find hypnotic, and opened his knife. If 'twere done, he felt, then 'twere well 'twere done quickly.
At this moment the door flew open and there entered at a brisk pace a gentleman with a battle-axe. He advanced upon Lord Holbeton like a Danish warrior of the old school coming ashore from his galley, and the· latter, dropping the knife, made an energetic attempt to get through the wall backwards. Not even on the occasion when he had called upon Mr Duff and asked him for a thousand pounds so that he could go to Italy and have his voice trained had he been conscious of so urgent a desire to be elsewhere.
His disintegration was, however, only momentary. A second glance showed him that martial figure was merely Chibnall.
Chibnall, like Mrs Chavender, had found himself unable, on retiring for the night, to fall into a refreshing slumber. Airily, even mockingly; though he had received them at the time, Miss Pym's alarmist theories regarding Joss Weatherby had been si
nking in throughout the day, and bedtime found him so entirely converted to them that sleep was out of the question.
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