A well-defined dislike of Lady Constance Keeble had been germinating in Percy Pilbeam since the first moment they had met. He was brooding upon that unpleasantly supercilious manner of hers as he turned the corner now. And he had just come to the conclusion, as he always came on these occasions, that what she needed was a thoroughly good ticking off, when he was suddenly jerked out of his daydreams by the sound of a huge, reverberating, explosive laugh; and looking up with a start, espied protruding over the top of a deck-chair a few feet before him an egg-shaped head which he recognized as that of Beach, the butler.
We left Beach, it will be remembered, chuckling softly. And for a few minutes soft chuckles had contented him. But in a book of the nature of the Hon. Galahad Threepwood’s Reminiscences the student is sure sooner or later to come upon some high spot, some supreme expression of the writer’s art which demands a more emphatic tribute. What Beach was reading now was the story of Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe and the prawns.
‘HA . . . HOR . . . HOO!’ he roared.
Pilbeam stood spellbound. His had not been a wide experience of butlers, and he could not recall ever before having heard a butler laugh—let alone laugh in this extraordinary fashion, casting dignity to the winds and apparently without a thought for his high blood-pressure and the stability of his waistcoat buttons. As soon as the first numbing shock had passed away, an intense curiosity seized him. He drew near, marvelling. On tiptoe he stole behind the chair, agog to see what it could be that had caused this unprecedented outburst.
The next moment he found himself gazing upon the manuscript of the Hon. Galahad’s Reminiscences.
He recognized it instantly. Ever since that attempt upon it which this same butler had foiled, its shape and aspect had been graven upon his memory. And even if that straggling handwriting had not been familiar to him, the two lines which he read before uttering an involuntary cry would have told him what it was that flickered before his eyes.
‘Oof!’ said Pilbeam unable to check himself.
Beach gave a convulsive start, turned, and, looking up, beheld within six inches of his eyes the face of the leading executive of the sinister Parsloe Gang.
‘Oof!’ he exclaimed in his turn, and the deck-chair, as if in sympathy, also made an oof-like sound. Then, cracking under the strain, it spread itself out upon the ground.
Even under the most favourable conditions, the situation would have been one of embarrassment. The peculiar circumstances rendered it cataclysmic. Pilbeam, who had never seen a butler take a toss out of a deck-chair before, stood robbed of speech; while Beach, his heart palpitating dangerously, sat equally silent. He was frozen with horror. That the enemy should have succeeded in tracking him down already seemed to him to argue a cunning that transcended the human.
Rising with the manuscript clutched to the small of his back, if his back could be said to have a small, he began to retreat slowly towards the house. Continuing to recoil, he bumped into stonework, and with an infinite relief found that he was within leaping distance of the back door. With a last, lingering look, of a nature which a sensitive snake would have resented, he shot in, leaving Pilbeam staring like one in a dream.
Almost exactly at the instant when he reached the haven of his pantry, Monty Bodkin, taking a thoughtful stroll on the terrace, suddenly remembered with a start of shame and remorse that he had left Beach to pay that cab fare.
One points at Monty Bodkin with a good deal of pride. Most young men in his position would either have dismissed the matter with a careless ‘What of it?’ or possibly even the still more ignoble reflection that a bit of luck had put them half a crown up; or else would have made a mental note to slip the fellow the money at some vague future date. For in the matter of Debts the young man of today wavers between straight repudiation and a moratorium.
But in a lax age Monty Bodkin had his code. To him this obligation was a blot on the Bodkin escutcheon which had to be wiped off immediately.
And so it came about that Beach, panting from his recent clash with the Parsloe Gang and in his dazed condition not having heard the door open, became suddenly aware of emotional breathing in the vicinity of his left ear and discovered that the right-hand man of the Tilbury Gang had now invaded his fastness.
It was a moment which would have tried the morale of the hero of a Secret Service novel. It made Beach feel like a rabbit with not one stoat but a whole platoon of stoats on its track. He had been sitting, relaxed. He now rose like a rocket and, snatching up the manuscript in the old familiar manner, stood holding it to his heaving chest.
Monty, who, like Pilbeam, had reacted strongly to the wholly unforeseen discovery of the precious object in the butler’s possession, was the first to recover from the shock.
‘What ho!’ he said. ‘Afraid I startled you, what?’
Beach continued to pant.
‘I came to give you the money for that cab.’
Beach, though reluctant to take even one hand off the manuscript, was not proof against half-crowns. Cautiously extending a palm, he accepted the coin, thrust it into his pocket, and restored his grasp to the papers almost in a single movement.
‘Must have given you a jump. Sorry. Ought to have blown my horn.’
There was a pause.
‘I see you’ve got that book of Mr Galahad’s there,’ said Monty, with a rather overdone carelessness.
To Beach it seemed more than rather overdone. He had been manoeuvring with the open door as his objective, and he now took a shuffling step in that direction.
‘Pretty good, I should imagine? Now, there’s a thing,’ said Monty,’ that I’d very much like to read.’
Beach had now reached the door, and the thought of having a clear way to safety behind him did something to restore his composure. That trapped feeling had left him, and in its stead had come a stern, righteous wrath. He stared at Monty, breathing heavily. A sort of glaze had come over his eyes, causing them to resemble two pools of cold gravy.
‘You couldn’t lend it to me, I suppose?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You won’t?’
‘No, sir.’
There was a pause. Monty coughed. Beach, with an inward shudder, felt that he had never heard anything so roopy and so villainous. He was surprised at Monty. A nice, respectable young gentleman he had always considered him. He could only suppose that he had been getting into bad company since those early days when he had been a popular visitor at the Castle.
‘I’d give a good deal to read that thing, Beach.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Ten quid, in fact.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘Or, rather, twenty.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘And when I say twenty,’ explained Monty, ‘I mean, of course twenty-five.’
The sophisticated modern world has, one fears, a little lost its taste for the type of scene, so admired of an older generation, where Virtue, drawing itself up to its full height, scorns to be tempted by gold. Yet even the most hard-boiled and cynical could scarcely have failed to be thrilled had they beheld Beach now. He looked like something out of a symbolic group of statuary—Good Citizenship Refusing To Accept A Bribe From Big Business Interests In Connexion With The Contract For The New Inter-Urban Tramway System, or something of that kind. His eyes were hard, his waistcoat quivered, and when he spoke it was with a formal frigidity.
‘I regret to say, sir, that I am not in a position to fall in with your wishes.’
And with a last stare, of about the same calibre as the last stare which he had directed at Percy Pilbeam, he moved in good order to the Housekeeper’s Room, leaving Monty plunged in thought.
Too often, when a man of Monty Bodkin’s mental powers is plunged in thought, nothing happens at all. The machinery just whirs for a while, and that is the end of it. But on the present occasion this was not so. Love is the great driving force, and now it was as if Gertrude But
terwick had her dainty foot on the accelerator of his brain, whacking it up to unprecedented m.p.h. The result was that after about two minutes of intense concentration, during which he felt several times as if the top of his head were coming off, an idea suddenly shot out of the welter like a cork from the Old Faithful geyser.
It was obvious that, with Beach turning so unaccountably spiky as he had done, he could accomplish nothing further by his own efforts. He must put the matter into the hands of a competent agent. And the chap to apply to was beyond a question this bird Pilbeam.
Pilbeam, he reasoned, was a private detective. The job to be done, therefore, would be right up his street: for stealing things must surely be one of the commonplaces of a private detective’s daily life. From what he could remember of his reading, they were always being called upon to steal things—compromising letters, Admiralty Plans, Maharajah’s rubies, and what not. No doubt the fellow would be only too glad of the commission.
He went in search of him, and found him lying back in an armchair in the smoking-room. He had the tips of his fingers together, Monty noted approvingly. Always a good sign.
‘I say, Pilbeam,’ he said, ‘are you in the market at the moment for a bit of stealthy stuff?’
‘Pardon?’
‘If so, I’ve got a job for you.’
‘A job?’
Like Monty, Pilbeam had been thinking tensely, and what with the strain on his brain and the warmth of the weather, was not feeling so bright as he usually did.
‘You are a detective?’ said Monty anxiously. ‘You weren’t just pulling my leg about that, were you?’
‘Certainly I am a detective. I think I have one of my cards here.’
Monty inspected the grubby piece of pasteboard, and all anxiety left him. Argus Inquiry Agency. You couldn’t get round that. Secrecy and Discretion Guaranteed. Better still. A telegraphic code address, too—Pilgus, Piccy, London. Most convincing.
‘Topping,’ he said. ‘Well, then, coming back to it, I can put business in your way.’
‘You wish to make use of my professional services?’
‘If you’re open for a spot of work at this juncture, I do. Of course, if you’re simply down here taking a well-earned rest…’
‘Not at all. I shall be glad to render you any assistance that is in my power. Perhaps you will tell me the facts.’
Monty was a little doubtful about the procedure. He had never engaged a private detective before.
‘Do you want to know my name?’
‘Isn’t your name Bodkin?’ said Pilbeam surprised.
‘Oh, yes. Rather. Definitely. Only in all the stories I’ve read the chap who comes to the detective always starts off with a long yarn about what his name is and where he lives and who left him his money, and so forth. Save a lot of time if we can cut all that.’
‘All I require are the facts.’
Monty hesitated again.
‘It sounds so dashed silly,’ he said coyly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Well, bizarre, if you prefer the expression. Nobody could say it wasn’t. Bizarre is the word that absolutely springs to the lips. It’s about that book of Gally Threepwood’s.’
Pilbeam gave a little jump.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. You knew he had written a book?’
‘Quite.’
‘Well …’ Monty giggled ‘… I suppose you’ll think I’m a silly ass, but I want to get hold of it.’
Pilbeam was silent for a moment. He had not known that he had a rival in the field, and was none too pleased to hear it.
‘You do think I’m a silly ass?’
‘Not at all,’ said Pilbeam, recovering himself. ‘No doubt you have your reasons?’
It had just occurred to him that, so far from being a disconcerting piece of news, what he had heard was really tidings of great joy. He supposed, mistakenly, that Monty, who no doubt had many friends in high places, had been asked by one of them to take advantage of his being at the Castle to destroy the book. England, he knew, was full of men besides Sir Gregory Parsloe who wanted those Reminiscences destroyed.
The situation now began to look very good to Percy Pilbeam. He had only to secure that manuscript and he would be in the delightful position of having two markets in which to sell it. Competition is the soul of Trade. The one thing a man of affairs wants, when he has come into possession of something valuable, is to have people bidding against one another for it.
‘Oh, I have my reasons all right,’ said Monty. ‘But it’s a long story. Do you mind if we just leave it at this, that there are wheels within wheels?’
‘Just as you please.’
‘The thing is, a certain bloke—whom I will not specify—has asked me to get hold of this manuscript—for reasons into which I need not go—and… well, there you are.’
‘Quite,’ said Pilbeam, satisfied that the position was exactly as he had supposed.
Monty proceeded with more confidence.
‘Well, that’s that, then. Now we get down to it. I’ve just found out that the chap who’s got the thing is -‘
‘Beach,’ said Pilbeam.
Monty was astounded.
‘You knew that?’
‘Certainly.’
‘But how on earth—?’
‘Oh, well,’ said Pilbeam carelessly, as one who has his methods.
Monty was now convinced that he had come to the right shop. This man was uncanny. ‘Beach,’ he had said. Just like that. Might have been a mind-reader.
‘Yes, that’s the strength of it,’ he went on as soon as he had ceased marvelling. ‘That’s where the snag lies. Beach has got it and is hanging on to it like a limpet. He won’t let me lay a finger on the thing. So the problem, as I see it… You don’t mind me outlining the problem as I see it?…’
Pilbeam waved a courteous hand.
‘Well, then, the problem, as I see it,’ said Monty, ‘is, how the hell is one to get it away from the blighter?’
‘Quite.’
‘That is, as you might say, the nub?’
‘Quite.’
‘Have you any ideas on the subject?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Such as—?’
‘Ah, well,’ said Pilbeam, a little stiffly. Monty was all apologies.
‘I see, I see,’ he said. ‘Naturally you don’t want to blow the gaff prematurely. Shouldn’t have asked. Sorry. But I can leave the matter in your hands with every confidence, as I believe the expression is?’
‘Quite.’
‘He might let you borrow the thing to read?’
‘At any rate, I have no doubt that I shall find a way of getting it into my possession.’
Monty eyed him admiringly. Externally, Percy Pilbeam was not precisely his idea of a detective. Not quite enough of that cold, hawk-faced stuff, and a bit too much brilliantine on the hair. But as far as brain was concerned he was undoubtedly the goods.
‘I bet you will,’ he said. ‘You can’t run a business like yours without knowing a thing or two. I expect you’ve pinched things before.’
‘I have occasionally been commissioned to recover papers, and so forth, of value,’ said Pilbeam guardedly.
‘Well, consider yourself jolly well commissioned now,’ said Monty.
Chapter Nine
Safe in the Housekeeper’s Room, Beach sat gazing out of the window at the lowering sky. His chest was still rising and falling like a troubled ocean.
Too hot, felt Beach, too hot. Things were becoming too hot altogether.
His whole mind was obsessed by an insistent urge to get rid of these papers, the guardianship of which had become so hazardous a matter. The chase was growing too strenuous for a man of regular habits who liked a quiet life.
Nearly everything in this world cuts both ways. A fall from a deck-chair, for instance, is—physically—a painful experience. Against its obvious drawbacks, however, must be set the fact that it does render the subject nimbler mentally. It s
hakes up the brain. To the circumstance of his having so recently come down with a bump on his spacious trousers-seat must be attributed the swiftness with which Beach now got an idea that seemed to him to solve everything.
He saw the way out. He would hand this manuscript over to Mr Ronald. There was its logical custodian. Mr Ronald was the person most interested in its safety. He was, moreover, a young man. And the more he mused on the whole unpleasant affair, the more firmly did Beach come to the conclusion that the foiling of the Parsloe Gang and the Tilbury Gang was young man’s work.
It would be necessary, of course, to apply to the Hon. Galahad for permission to take the step. If you went behind his back and acted on your own initiative after he had given you instructions, Mr Galahad could be quite as bad as any gang. Years of association with London’s toughest citizens had given him a breadth of vocabulary which was not lightly to be faced. Beach had no intention of drawing upon himself the lightnings of that Pelican-Club trained tongue. As soon as he felt sufficiently restored to move, he went in search of the Hon. Galahad and found him in the small library.
‘Might I speak to you, Mr Galahad?’
‘Say on, Beach.’
Clearly and well the butler told his talc. He recounted the scene at the Emsworth Arms, the subsequent invasion of his pantry by the man Bodkin, the proffered bribe. The Hon. Galahad listened with fire smouldering behind his monocle.
‘The young toad!’ he cried.’ Monty Bodkin. A fellow I’ve practically nursed in my bosom. Why, I can remember, when he was a boy at Eton, taking him aside as he was going back to school one time and urging him to put his shirt on Whistling Rufus for the Cesarewitch.’
‘Indeed, sir?’
‘And he notified me subsequently that, thanks to my kindly advice, he had cleaned up to the extent of eleven shillings—in addition to a bag of bananas, two strawberry ice-creams, and a three-cornered Cape of Good Hope stamp at a hundred to sixteen from a schoolmate who was making a book. And this is how he repays me!’ said the Hon. Galahad, looking like King Lear. ‘Isn’t there such a thing as gratitude in the world?’
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