'Uncle Gally!'
'Ronnie, darling,' cried Sue, 'What is it?'
She might well have asked. The young man's eyes were fixed in a ghastly stare. His usually immaculate hair was disordered where he had thrust a fevered hand through it. Even his waistcoat seemed ruffled.
'.. . they are your mother and Lady Constance,' proceeded the Hon. Galahad, who was never an easy man to interrupt. 'And here's something that will surprise you. Young Monty Bodkin is after the thing, too. Young Bodkin has turned out to be an Al snake in the grass, I'm sorry to say. He's under orders from the man who runs the firm that was going to publish my book to pinch it and take it to him - Lord Tilbury. I used to know him years ago as Stinker Pyke. Why they ever made young Stinker a peer...'
'Uncle Gally!'
A little testily the Hon. Galahad allowed the stream of his eloquence to be diverted at last. 'Well, what is it?'
A sort of frozen calm, the calm of utter despair, had come upon Ronnie Fish.
'Monty Bodkin was in here just now,' he said. 'He wanted that manuscript. I told him where it was. And he went off to get it.'
Chapter Eleven
No joy in the world is ever quite perfect. Surgit, as the old Roman said, oliquid amari. Monty Bodkin, having removed the manuscript from Ronnie's chest of drawers and gloated over it and taken it to his room and, after gloating over it again, deposited it in a safe place there, found his ecstasy a little dimmed by the thought of the awkward interview with Percy Pilbeam which now faced him. He was a young man who shrank from embarrassing scenes, and it seemed to him that this one threatened to be extremely embarrassing. Pilbeam, he realized, would have every excuse for being as sore as a gumboil.
Look at the thing squarely, he meant to say. A private detective has his feelings. He resents being made a silly ass of. If you commission him to do something, and then buzz off and do it yourself, pique inevitably supervenes. Suppose Sherlock Holmes, for instance, had sweated himself to the bone to recover the Naval Plans or something, and then the Admiralty authorities had come along and observed casually, 'Oh, I say, you know those Naval Plans, old man? Well, don't bother about them. We've just gone and snitched them ourselves.' Pretty sick the poor old human bloodhound would have felt, no doubt. And pretty sick in similar circumstances Monty anticipated that Percy Pilbeam was going to feel. He did not like the job of breaking the news at all.
However, it had to be done. He found the proprietor of the Argus (Pilgus, Piccy, London) in the smoking-room, massaging his moustache, and with some trepidation proceeded to edge into the agenda.
' Oh, there you are, Pilbeam. I say. ..'
The investigator looked up. It increased Monty's feeling of guilt to note that he had evidently been thinking frightfully hard. He had a sort of boiled look.'Ah, Bodkin, I was just coming to find you. I have been thinking ...'
Monty's tender heart bled for the fellow, but he supposed it was kindest to let him have it on the chin without preamble.
'I know you have, my poor old sleuth,' he said. 'I can see it in your eye. Well,I've got a bit of bad news for you, I'm afraid. What I came to tell you was to switch off the brain-power. Stop scheming. Put the mind back into neutral. I'm taking you off the case.'
'Eh?'
'I'm sorry, but there it is. You see, what with one thing and another, I've been and got that manuscript myself.' 'What!' 'Yes.'
There was a long pause.
'Well, that's fine,' said Pilbeam. 'I hope you have hidden it carefully?'
'Oh, yes. It's shoved away under the bed in my room. Right up against the wall.'
'Well, that's fine,' said Pilbeam.
His attitude occasioned Monty much relief. He had braced himself up to endure reproaches, to wince beneath recriminations. It seemed to him extraordinarily decent of the man to take it like this. He was dashed, indeed, if he could remember ever having met anyone who, under such provocation, had been so extraordinarily decent.
'What are you going to do with it?' asked Pilbeam. 'I'm taking it down to the Emsworth Arms to a fellow of the name of Tilbury.' 'Not Lord Tilbury?'
'That's right,' said Mont}', surprised. 'Do you know him?' 'Before I opened the Argus, I was editor of Society Spices 'No, really? Fancy that. Before he booted me out, I was assistant editor of Tiny Tots. It seems to bring us very close together what?'
'But why does Lord Tilbury want it?'
'Well, you see, he has a contract with Gally for the book, and when Gally refused to publish he saw himself losing the dickens of a lot of money. Naturally he wants it.'
'I see. He ought to give you a pretty big reward.'
'Oh, I'm not asking him for money. I've got lots of money. What I want is a job. He promised to take me back on Tiny Tots if I would get the thing for him.'
'You are leaving here, then?'
Monty chuckled amusedly.
'You bet I'm leaving here. I expect the sack any moment. I'd have got it yesterday, all right," said Monty, with another chuckle, 'if old Emsworth had happened to come along when I was working on the door of that potting-shed.'
'What was that?'
'Rather amusing. I found old Tilbury locked up in a species of shed yesterday afternoon. Apparently he had been caught in conversation with that pig of the old boy's, offering it potatoes and so forth, and was suspected of trying to poison the animal. So they shut him up in this shed, and I came along and let him out. Just imagine how quick I should be leaving if Emsworth knew that I was the chap who flung wide the gates.'
' My word, yes!' said Pilbeam, laughing genially.
'He'd throw me out in a second.'
'He certainly would.'
'Rummy, his attitude about that pig,' said Monty musingly. 'A few years ago, he used to be crazy about pumpkins. I suppose, if you really face the facts, he's the sort of chap who has to be practically off his rocker about something. Yesterday, pumpkins. Today, pigs. Tomorrow, rabbits. This time next year, roosters or rhododendrons.'
‘I suppose so,' said Pilbeam. 'And when are you thinking of taking this manuscript to Lord Tilbury ?'
'Right away.'
'I wouldn't do that,' said Pilbeam, shaking his head. 'No, I don't think I would advise you to do that. You want to wait till everybody's dressing for dinner. Suppose you were to run into Threepwood.'
'I never thought of that.'
'Or Lady Constance.'
'Lady Constance?'
‘I happen to know that she is trying to get that manuscript. She wants to destroy it.' 'I say! You certainly find things out, don't you?'
'Oh, one keeps one's ears open.'
'I suppose you've got to, if you're a detective. Well, I do seem properly trapped in the den of the Secret Nine, what ? I'd better not make a move till dressing for dinner time, as you say. I'm glad you gave me that tip. Thanks.'
' Don't mention it,' said Pilbeam.
He rose.
'You off?' said Monty.
‘Yes. I've just remembered there is something I want to speak to Lord Emsworth about. You don't know where he is, do you?' 'Sorry, no. The ninth doesn't confide in me much.' ‘I suppose he's in the pigsty.'
'You can tell him by his hat,' said Monty automatically. 'Yes, I imagine he would be. Anything special you wanted to see him about?'
'Just something he asked me to find out for him.' 'In your professional capacity, do you mean? Pilgus, Piccy, London?' 'Yes.'
'Is he employing your services, then?' 'Oh, yes. That's why I'm here.' 'I see,' said Monty.
This made him feel much easier in his mind. If Pilbeam was drawing a nice bit of cash from old Simon Legree, it put a different complexion on everything. Naturally, in that case, he wouldn't so much mind being done out of the Bodkin fee.
Still, he did feel that the fellow had behaved most extraordinarily decently.
Lord Emsworth was not actually in the pigsty, but he was quite near it. It took more than a thunderstorm to drive him from the Empress's side. A vague idea that he was getting a little wet had cau
sed him to take shelter in the potting-shed during the worst of the downpour, but he was now out and about again. When Pilbeam arrived, he was standing by the rails in earnest conversation with Pirbright. He welcomed the detective warmly.
'You're just the man I was wanting to see, my dear Pilbeam,' he said. 'Pirbright and I have been discussing the question of moving the Empress to a new sty. I say Yes, Pirbright says No. One sees his point, of course. I quite see your point, my dear Pirbright. Pirbright's point,' explained Lord Emsworth, 'is that she is used to this sty and moving her to a strange one might upset her and put her off her feed.'
'Quite,' said Pilbeam, profoundly uninterested.
'On the other hand,' proceeded Lord Emsworth, 'we know that there is this sinister cabal against her well-being. Attempts have already been made to nobble her, as I believe the term is. They may be made again. And my view is that this sty here is in far too lonely and remote a spot for safety. God bless my soul,' said Lord Emsworth, deeply moved, 'in a place like this, a quarter of a mile away from anywhere, Parsloe could walk in during the night and do her a mischief without so much as taking the cigar out of his mouth. Where I was thinking of moving her, Pirbright would be within call at any moment. It's near his cottage. At the slightest sign of anything wrong, he could jump out of bed and hurry to the rescue.'
It was possibly this very thought that had induced the pig-man to say 'Nur' as earnestly as he had done. He was a man who liked to get his sleep. He shook his head now, and a rather bleak look came into his gnarled face.
'Well, there is the position, my dear Pilbeam. What do you advise?'
It seemed to the detective that the sooner he gave his decision the sooner the unprofitable discussion would be ended. He was completely indifferent about the whole thing. Officially at the castle to help guard the Empress, his heart had never been in that noble task. Pigs bored him.
'I'd move her,' he said.
'You really feel that?'
'Quite.'
A mild triumph shone from Lord Emsworth's pince-nez.
'There you have an expert opinion, Pirbright,' he said. 'Mr Pilbeam knows. If Mr Pilbeam says Move her, she must certainly be moved. Do it as soon as possible.'
' Yur, m'lord,' said the pig-man despondently.
'And now, Lord Emsworth,' said Pilbeam, 'can I have a word with you?'
'Certainly, my dear fellow, certainly. But before you do so I have something very important to tell you. I want to hear what you make of it. Let me mention that first, and then you can tell me whatever it is that you have come to talk about. You won't forget whatever it is that you have come to talk about?' 'Oh, no.'
'I frequently do. I intend to tell somebody something, and something happens to prevent my doing so immediately, and when I am able to tell it to them I find I have forgotten it. My sister Constance has often been very vehement about it. I recollect her once comparing my mind to a sieve. I thought it rather clever. She meant that it was full of holes, you understand, as I believe sieves are. That was on the occasion when -'
Pilbeam had not had the pleasure of the ninth Earl's acquaintance long, but he had had it long enough to know that, unless firmly braked, he was capable of trickling on like this indefinitely.
'What was it you wished to tell me, Lord Emsworth ?' he said.
'Eh? Ah, yes, quite so, my dear fellow. You want to hear that very important fact that I was going to put before you. Well, I would like you to throw your mind back, my dear Pilbeam, to yesterday. Yesterday evening. I wonder if you remember my mentioning to you the extraordinary mystery of that man getting out of the potting-shed ?'
'Certainly.'
'The facts -'
‘I know.'
'The facts -'
‘I remember them.'
'The facts,' proceeded Lord Emsworth evenly, 'are as follows. In pursuance of my instructions, Pirbright was lurking near this sty yesterday afternoon, and what should he see but a ruffianly-looking fellow trying to poison my pig with a potato. He crept up and caught him in the act, and then shut him in that shed over there, intending to come back after he had informed me of the matter and hale him to justice. I should mention that, after placing the fellow in the shed, he carefully secured the door with a stout wooden staple.'
'Quite.I. ..'
'It seemed out of the question that he could effect an escape - I am speaking of the fellow, not of Pirbright - and you may imagine his astonishment, therefore -1 am speaking of Pirbright, not of the fellow - when, on returning, he discovered that that is just what had occurred. The door of the shed was open, and he -1 am once more speaking of the fellow - was gone. He had completely disappeared, my dear Pilbeam. And here is the very significant thing I wanted to tell you. Just before you came up I got Pirbright to shut me in the shed and secure the door with the staple, and I found it impossible - quite impossible, my dear fellow, to release myself from within. I tried and tried and tried, but no, I couldn't do it. Now, what does that suggest to you, Pilbeam?' asked Lord Emsworth, peering over his pince-nez. 'Somebody must have let him out.'
'Exactly. Undoubtedly, Beyond a question. Who it was of course, we shall never know.' 'I have found out who it was.'
Lord Emsworth was staggered. He had always known in a nebulous sort of way that detectives were gifted beyond the ordinary with the power to pierce the inscrutable, but this was the first time he had actually watched them at it.
'You have found out who it was?' he gasped.
'I have.'
'Pirbright, Mr Pilbeam has found out who it was.' 'Ur, m'lord.'
'Already! Isn't that amazing, Pirbright?' 'Yur, m'lord.'
'I wouldn't have thought it could have been done in the time. Would you, Pirbright?' 'Nur, m'lord.'
'Well, well, well!' said Lord Emsworth. 'That is the most extraordinary ... Ah, I knew there was something I wanted to ask you ... Who was it ?'
'Bodkin.'
‘Bodkin!'
'Your secretary, young Bodkin,' said Pilbeam.
'I knew it!' Lord Emsworth shook a fist skywards, and his voice, as always in moments of emotion, became high and reedy. 'I knew it! I suspected the fellow all along. I was convinced that he was an accomplice of Parsloe's. I'll dismiss him,' cried Lord Emsworth, almost achieving an A in alt. 'He shall go at the end of the month.'
'It would be safer to get him off the place at once.'
'Of course it would, my dear fellow. You are quite right. He shall be turned out immediately. Where is he ? I must see him. I will go to him instantly.'
'Better let me send him to you out here. More dignified. Don't go to him. Let him come to you.'
' I see what you mean.'
'You wait here, and I'll go and tell him you wish to see him.' 'My dear fellow, I don't want to put you to all that trouble.' 'No trouble,' Pilbeam assured him. 'A pleasure.'
It is one of the distinguishing characteristics of your man of the world that he can keep his poise even under the most trying of conditions. Beyond a sort of whistling gasp and a sharp ' God give me strength!' the Hon. Galahad Threepwood displayed no emotion at Ronnie's sensational announcement.
He did, however, gaze at his nephew as if the latter had been a defaulting bookmaker.
'Are you crazy?' he said.
It was a question which Ronnie found difficult to answer. Even to himself, as he now told it, the story of that great gesture of his sounded more than a little imbecile. The best, indeed, that you could really say of the great gesture, he could not help feeling, was that, like so many rash acts, it had seemed a good idea at the time. He was bright scarlet and had had occasion to straighten his tie not once but many times before he reached the end of the tale. And not even the fact that Sue, with womanly sympathy, put her arm through his and kissed him was able to bring real consolation. To his inflamed senses that kiss seemed so exactly the sort of kiss a mother might have given her idiot child.
'You see what I mean, I mean to say,' he concluded lamely. 'I thought Sue had finished with me, so ther
e didn't seem any point in holding on to the thing any longer, and Monty said he wanted it, and so . .. well, there you are.'
'You can't blame the poor angel,' said Sue.
'I can,' said the Hon. Galahad. He moved to the fire-place and pressed the bell. 'It would surprise you how easily I could blame the poor angel. And if there was time I would. But we haven't a moment to waste. We must get hold of young Monty without a second's delay and choke the thing out of him. We'll have no nonsense. I am an elderly man, past my prime, but I am willing and ready to sit on his head while you, Ronnie, kick him in the ribs. We'll soon make him - Ah, Beach.'
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