"Could I speak to you, madam?"
"Yes, Chibnall?"
A closer student of the Greek drama than Mrs Steptoe would have been reminded of a messenger bringing news from Troy, but even now she sensed nothing ominous in the atmosphere.
"It is with reference to the young man Weatherby, madam."
Mrs Steptoe's tranquil mood was shot through by a quick twinge of irritation. She respected Chibnall. She had always thought him an excellent butler. But she found his conversation annoyingly limited in its range. It seemed to her that her recent life had been one long series of interviews with him which began with this preamble. She had a feeling that when she died the words, "It is with reference to the young man Weatherby, madam," would be found graven on her heart.
"Weatherby? Hasn't he gone?"
Not yet, madam.
"Then get him out of here immediately," snapped Mrs Steptoe, going briskly into her rattlesnake imitation. "I never heard of such a thing. When I fire someone-"
Mr Steptoe came out of his coma with a start.
"Did you fire Weatherby, honey?"
"Yes, I did. And when I fire someone I expect them to act like they were fired. So he's still here, is he, lounging about the place just as if—"
"No, madam. He is in the coal cellar."
"What?"
"I apprehended him and an associate burgling the house this evening, madam, and thought it advisable to lock them in the coal cellar."
It was a sensational announcement, and Chibnall knew it. It gratified him accordingly to note that it had gone over with solid effect. Apart from his own, and excluding those of the Pekinese, the Alsatian and the cat, there were three lower jaws in the room, and each had fallen to its furthest extent. In addition to this Mr Steptoe had uttered a low, choking cry.
"Burgling the house?"
Yes, madam.
"Why was I not told about this before?"
"I thought it best to wait until after dinner, madam, in order not to interfere with your enjoyment of the meal."
This was obviously very decent and considerable of a man, and Mrs Steptoe recognised it as such. She suspended that line of enquiry.
"Had they taken anything?" she asked in a softer voice.
"Yes, madam. The portrait of Mrs Chavender that hangs in the breakfast room."
The Pekinese raised its head with a frown. The loving fingers which were kneading its stomach had administered an unpleasantly sharp jab.
"You don't say?'' said Mrs Steptoe.
"Yes, madam. I received information from a reliable source that the young man Weatherby was concealing something of value in his bedchamber, and I proceeded thither and instituted a rigorous search. I discovered the canvas hidden in a drawer and deposited it in my pantry. I then took up my station behind the curtain in the room, armed with a shotgun, and waited. Eventually Weatherby arrived with his associate, and I apprehended them and conducted them to the coal cellar."
He paused modestly, like an orator waiting for the round of applause. It came in the shape of a marked tribute from Mrs Steptoe.
"Nice work, Chibnall."
"Thank you, madam."
"Have you phoned the police?"
"Not yet, madam. I was awaiting your instructions."
"Go do it."
"Yes, madam. Should I bring Weatherby to you?"
"Why?"
"I gather that he wishes to make a statement."
"All right. Fetch him along."
Very good, madam.
The stage wait which followed the butler's exit was filled in by a masterly resume of the affair by Mrs Steptoe who, like the detective in the final chapter of a thriller, proceeded to sum up and strip the case of its last layers of mystery.
There had been a time, Mrs Steptoe frankly confessed, when the machinations of the man Weatherby had perplexed her. She had guessed, of course, that he was up to some kind of phonusbolonus, but if you had asked her what particular kind of phonusbolonus she would not have been able to tell you. Everything was now crystal clear. This bimbo Weatherby was obviously a hireling in the pay of the bozo Duff, whom she had distrusted the moment she saw him ( You remember, Howard, when you found him sneaking around the place that time. ) And it was her intention after shipping Weatherby off to a dungeon, to bring an action against Duff for whatever it was—any good lawyer would tell her—and soak him for millions. This, in Mrs Steptoe's view, would teach him.
All this took the form of a monologue, for neither Mr Steptoe nor Mrs Chavender seemed in the mood to contribute the remarks which would have turned it into a symposium. Mrs Chavender was still scratching the Pekinese's stomach meditatively, while Mr Steptoe paced the floor, his habit at times of mental unrest.
It seemed to Howard Steptoe that the curse had come upon him. Already he was solidly established in the doghouse as the result of that craps business. Into what inferno he would be plunged when this bird Weatherby arrived and started spilling the beans he shuddered to think.
His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the bird Weatherby, escorted by Chibnall.
Joss was not looking his best. You cannot spend several hours in a coal cellar and be spruce. There was grime both on his hands and on his face. His cheerfulness, however, remained undiminished.
"Good evening," he said. "I must apologize for appearing before you like this, but my suggestion of a wash and a brush up was vetoed by our good friend here. He seemed to think that speed was of the essence.
"You'll get a bath in prison," Mrs Steptoe pointed out, possibly wishing to be consoling, though this was not suggested by her manner.
"Oh, we hope it won't come to that."
"Will we?"
"Statement," said Chibnall in a curt aside. Throughout these exchanges he had contrived with admirable skill to combine in his manner the inexorable rigidity of the G-man with the demure respectfulness of the butler. He was now for the moment pure G-man.
"Eh?"
"You told me you wished to make a statement."
"And I do wish to make a statement," said Joss heartily. "First, however, I would like to acquit by roommate of the coal cellar of any complicity in this affair. He was merely a crony I had brought in for a smoke and a chat and nobody more surprised than himself when he discovered that he was being held up with guns and placed among the anthracite. Dismiss him without a stain on his character is my advice."
"Madam."
"Yes?"
"This is not true. My informant heard these two men plotting together. Their words left no room for doubt that they were in this game together up to the neck. "Accomplices," said Chibnall, correcting with a slight blush this lapse from the purer English.
"Well, never mind about the other fellow," said Mrs Steptoe.
"What do you want to say?"
"This," said Joss. "I admit that I removed that portrait. But why did I?"
''I'll tell you."
"No, let me tell you. I painted that portrait myself. It was my own unaided work and my masterpiece. Well, you know how artists feel when they paint masterpieces. They hate to let them go. If they let them go they want· them back. It was thus with me.
The moment I parted with that portrait I felt an irresistible urge to get it into my possession again. I had to have it. So I took it.
Blame me if you will—"
"I will."
"You will? I had hoped," said Joss reproachfully, "that a woman as sound on Corot as Mrs Steptoe would understand and sympathize."
"Well, she doesn't."
"I shouldn't be surprised if Corot hadn't frequently done the same thing in his time. We artists are like that."
"And we Steptoes are like this. When we catch smooth young thugs looting the joint we put them in the cooler. And that's what's going to happen to you, my friend. I don't believe a word of your story."
"But it's good," protested Joss.
"Go phone the police, Chibnall."
Howard Steptoe had stopped pacing the room. He was standi
ng propped up against the table, trying to nerve himself to speak.
The cat sprang onto the top of his head, unheeded.
The amazing discovery that this Weatherby, so far from spilling beans, intended to take the rap and go in silence to a prison cell had first stunned Howard Steptoe, then aroused all the latent nobility in his nature. Not normally a very emotional man, he found himself stirred to his depths. He saw that he must reveal all.
To say that he liked the idea would be an overstatement, but he felt that he must do it.
And he was on the point of starting to do it when Mrs Chavender spoke.
"Just a minute, Mabel."
"Yes, Beatrice?"
"Mr Weatherby did paint that portrait."
"Is that any reason why he should steal it?"
"That wasn't the reason why he stole it. He did it for me."
"No, no," cried Joss. "Don't listen to her. The woman's potty."
Mrs. Steptoe's china-blue eyes were wide with astonishment.
"For you?"
"Yes. I had to raise some money in a hurry, and I'm busted. I'm afraid I have misled you a little about my finances, Mabel. I lost practically all I had a couple of years ago."
"Delirium," said Joss. "Pay no attention."
Mrs Steptoe blinked.
"You," she said, and paused.
"Are," she said, and paused again.
"Busted?'' she said, her voice breaking in an incredulous squeak.
"Is this a joke, :Beatrice?"
"Not for me."
Mrs Steptoe's face had been slowly turning bright red.
"Weil!" she said.
"Still, after all," said Joss, "what's money?''
"Well!"
"You can't take it with you."
"Well!"
"It isn't money that counts; it's—"
"Weil!" said Mrs Steptoe. "I must say!" She had sprung to her feet. The Alsatian, who came between her and the carpet, uttered a yelp which drew a quiet smile from the cat.
"Well, I must say I wouldn't have expected you to be so deceitful, Beatrice. After this...Of course this makes everything very different....Of course, for poor Otis' sake, you can always have a home with me—"
"I knew you would be sweet about it, Mabel."
"But—"
"But," said Mrs Chavender, "I expect my husband will want me to make my home with him."
"Your husband?"
''I'm going to marry Jimmy Duff."
"Oh!" said Mrs Steptoe. She paused, disconcerted.
"He's very rich, isn't he?"
"Very.''
"I should estimate J. B.'s annual income," said Joss, putting his oar in his helpful way, "at around two hundred thousand dollars. It will be larger, of course, if he employs me."
Mrs Steptoe eyes him coldly. The thought that she had been so injudicious as to treat as a poor relation a woman who was about to marry a millionaire was a bitter one, and she accepted thankfully this opportunity of working off some of her chagrin.
"If he's going to employ you," she said, "he'll have to wait awhile. Your time's going to be occupied elsewhere for quite a spell. Chibnall, phone the police."
"Mabel, you can't do this.''
"Can't I?"
"But Mabel—"
Whatever appeal Mrs Chavender had been intending to make to her sister-in-law's better nature was checked abruptly at its source. The air had suddenly become vocal with canine yelps and feline spittings.
Ever since he had been trodden on by Mrs Steptoe the Alsatian had been thinking things over and trying to fix the responsibility.
It had now become plain to him that all the evidence pointed to the cat. He had never liked the cat. He had disapproved all along of admitting her to the library. But he had been prepared to tolerate her presence, provided she started no phonus-bolonus. This, by hypnotizing women into treading on his sore foot and smiling superciliously after it had occurred, she had done, and it was time, he felt, to act.
The cat, at the moment when he reached this decision, was still on top of Mr Steptoe's head. It was consequently with something of a shock that the latter, whose attention had been riveted on his wife and Mrs Chavender, became aware that a dog whom he had never liked was leaping up and scrabbling at his face. Nothing could actually affect his face, for better or for worse, but it was the principle of the thing that was important. He resented being used by this animal as a steppingstone by which it could rise to higher things.
Nature had bestowed upon Howard Steptoe one gift of which he was modestly proud—his right uppercut. In the days when he had battled among the pork-and-beaners he had too often been restricted in its use by the evasiveness of his opponents; but now, at last, confronted by an antagonist who seemed willing to mix it, he was able to express himself. There was a dull, chunky sound, and the Alsatian, flying through the air, descended on an occasional table covered with china. Picking himself up, he sat surrounded by the debris, like Marius among the ruins of Carthage, and began licking himself. As far as the Alsatian was concerned the war was over.
"How-WERD!" said Mrs Steptoe.
There had been a time, and that recently, when the sound of his name, spoken by this woman in that tone of voice, would have been amply sufficient to reduce Mr Steptoe to a shambling protoplasm. But now his eye was steady, his chin firm. He looked like a statue of Right Triumphing Over Wrong.
A man cannot have all the nobility around in him by the splendid behaviour of chivalrous valets and on top of that win a notable one-punch victory over one of the animal kingdom and still retain the old, crushed outlook. It was a revised and improved edition of Howard Steptoe that now stood tickling the cat behind the ear with one hand and making wide, defiant gestures with the other. Just after he has kayoed an Alsatian that is the moment when a henpecked husband is to be feared.
"Listen," he said, "what's all this about fetching cops?"
"I intend to ·send this man to prison."
"Do you?" said Mr Steptoe, red about the eyes and bulging in the torso: "Is that a fact? Well, listen while I tell you something.
This guy Weatherby is a right guy, and he doesn't go to any hoosegow, not while I have my strength."
"Well spoken, Steptoe," said Joss."
"The boy's good," said Mrs Chavender.
"A fine fellow," said Joss. "I liked him from the first."
This excellent Press emboldened Mr Steptoe to continue.
"Who does this portrait belong to? Me. Who's the interested party then? Me. So who's got to prosecute if guys are to be slapped in the cooler for swiping it? Me. M-e," said Mr Steptoe, who was all right at words of one syllable. "And I'm not going to prosecute--see? You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to hunt up Duff and sell him the thing."
"You won't have to hunt far," said Joss. "You will find him in the cellar."
"What!" said Mr Steptoe.
''What!" said Mrs Chavender.
"And I'm sure he will be charmed to do a deal."
Mrs Chavender had risen, Peke in hand, and seldom in a long career of looking like Mrs Siddons in Macbeth had she looked more like Mrs Siddons in Macbeth than now. It is not given to many people to see an English butler cower, but that is what Chibnall did as her fine eyes scorched their way through him.
"What's that? Have you been shutting my Jimmy in your filthy coal cellar?"
Until this moment Chibnall's attitude had been that of a detached and interested spectator. Basking in the background, he had been storing up in his mind every detail of this priceless scene in . high life in order to be able to give Miss Pym a full eyewitness's description later. He had pictured her hanging on his lips as he reeled out sentences beginning with "He said" and "She said." That he might be swept into the swirl of the battle had not occurred to him, and now that this disaster had befallen he was unable to meet it with the old poise. He gave at the knees and looked sheepish.
"Er-yes, madam," he said in a soft, meek voice.
There was an instant when it seem
ed as if Mrs Chavender would strike him with the Pekinese. But she mastered her emotion.
"Take me to him immediately."
"Very good, madam. If you will come this way, madam."
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