by Admin
At the moment when Baxter stole cautiously in, it was looking its best in the gentle evening light. But Baxter was not in sight-seeing mood. He ignored the carved bedstead, the cosy armchairs, the pictures, the decorations, and the soft carpet into which his feet sank. The beauty of the sky through the french windows that gave on to the balcony drew but a single brief glance from him. Without delay, he made for the writing-desk which stood against the wall near the bed. It seemed to him a good point of departure for his search.
There were several pigeon-holes in the desk. They contained single sheets of notepaper, double sheets of notepaper, postcards, envelopes, telegraph-forms, and even a little pad on which the room’s occupant was presumably expected to jot down any stray thoughts and reflections on Life which might occur to him or her before turning in for the night.
But not one of them contained the fatal letter.
He straightened himself and looked about the room. The drawer of the dressing-table now suggested itself as a possibility. He left the desk and made his way towards it.
The primary requisite of dressing-tables being a good supply of light, they are usually placed in a position to get as much of it as possible. This one was no exception. It stood so near to the open windows that the breeze was ruffling the tassels on its lamp-shades: and Baxter, arriving in front of it, was enabled for the first time to see the balcony in its entirety.
And, as he saw it, his heart seemed to side-slip. Leaning upon the parapet and looking out over the sea of gravel that swept up to the front door from the rhododendron-fringed drive, stood a girl. And not even the fact that her back was turned could prevent Baxter identifying her.
For an instant he remained frozen. Even the greatest men congeal beneath the chill breath of the totally unexpected. He had assumed as a matter of course that Sue was down in the dining-room, and it took him several seconds to adjust his mind to the unpleasing fact that she was up on her balcony. When he recovered his presence of mind sufficiently to draw noiselessly away from the line of vision, his first emotion was one of irritation. This chopping and changing, this eleventh hour alteration of plans, these sudden decisions to remain upstairs when they ought to be downstairs, were what made women as a sex so unsatisfactory.
To irritation succeeded a sense of defeat. There was nothing for it, he realized, but to give up his quest and go. He started to tip-toe silently to the door, agreeably conscious now of the softness and thickness of the Axminster pile that made it possible to move unheard, and had just reached it, when from the other side there came to his ears a sound of chinking and clattering – the sound, in fact, which is made by plates and dishes when they are carried on a tray to a guest who, after a long railway journey, has asked her hostess if she may take dinner in her room.
Practice makes perfect. This was the second time in the last three hours that Baxter had found himself trapped in a room in which it was vitally urgent that he should not be discovered: and he was getting the technique of the thing. On the previous occasion, in the small library, he had taken to himself wings like a bird and sailed out of the window.
In the present crisis, such a course, he perceived immediately, was not feasible. The way of an eagle would profit him nothing. Soaring over the balcony, he would be observed by Sue and would, in addition, unquestionably break his neck. What was needed here was the way of a diving-duck.
And so, as the door-handle turned, Rupert Baxter, even in this black hour efficient, dropped on all-fours and slid under the bed as smoothly as if he had been practising for weeks.
Ill
Owing to the restricted nature of his position and the limited range of vision which he enjoys, virtually the only way in which a man who is hiding under a bed can entertain himself is by listening to what is going on outside. He may hear something of interest, or he may hear only the draught sighing along the floor: but, for better or for worse, that is all he is able to do.
The first sound that came to Rupert Baxter was that made by the placing of the tray on the table. Then, after a pause, a pair of squeaking shoes passed over the carpet and squeaked out of hearing. Baxter recognized them as those of Footman Thomas, a confirmed squeaker.
After this, somebody puffed, causing him to deduce the presence of Beach.
‘Your dinner is quite ready, miss.’
‘Oh, thank you.’
The girl had apparently come in from the balcony. A chair scraped to the table. A savoury scent floated to Baxter’s nostrils, causing him acute discomfort. He had just begun to realize how extremely hungry he was and how rash he had been, firstly to attempt to dine off a couple of sandwiches, and secondly to undertake a mission like his present one without a square meal inside him.
‘That is chicken, miss. En casserole. ’
Baxter had deduced as much, and was trying not to let his mind dwell on it. He uttered a silent groan. In addition to the agony of having to smell food, he was beginning to be conscious of a growing cramp in his left leg. He turned on one side and did his best to emulate the easy nonchalance of those Indian fakirs who, doubtless from the best motives, spend the formative years of their lives lying on iron spikes.
‘It looks very good.’
‘I trust you will enjoy it, miss. Is there anything further that I can do for you?’
‘No, thank you. Oh, yes. Would you mind fetching that manuscript from the balcony. I was reading it out there, and I left it on the chair. It’s Mr Threepwood’s book.’
‘Indeed, miss? An exceedingly interesting compilation, I should imagine?’
‘Yes, very.’
‘I wonder if it would be taking a liberty, miss, to ask you to inform me later, at your leisure, if I make any appearance in its pages.’
You?’
Yes, miss. From what Mr Galahad has let fall from time to time, I fancy it was his intention to give me printed credit as his authority for certain of the stories which appear in the book.’
‘Do you want to be in it?’
‘Most decidedly, miss. I should consider it an honour. And it would please my mother.’
‘Have you a mother?’
‘Yes, miss. She lives at Eastbourne.’
The butler moved majestically on to the balcony, and Sue’s mind had turned to speculation about his mother and whether she looked anything like him, when there was a sound of hurrying feet without, the door flew open, and Beach’s mother passed from her mind like the unsubstantial fabric of a dream. With a little choking cry she rose to her feet. Ronnie was standing before her.
15 OVER THE TELEPHONE
And meanwhile, if we may borrow an expression from a sister art, what of Hugo Carmody?
It is a defect unfortunately inseparable from any such document as this faithful record of events in and about Blandings Castle that the chronicler, in order to give a square deal to each of the individuals whose fortunes he has undertaken to narrate, is compelled to flit abruptly from one to the other in the manner popularized by the chamois of the Alps leaping from crag to crag. The activities of the Efficient Baxter seeming to him to demand immediate attention, he was reluctantly compelled some little while back to leave Hugo in the very act of reeling beneath a crushing blow. The moment has now come to return to him.
The first effect on a young man of sensibility and gentle upbringing of the discovery that an unfriendly detective has seen him placing stolen pigs in caravans is to induce a stunned condition of mind, a sort of mental coma. The face lengthens. The limbs grow rigid. The tie slips sideways and the cuffs recede into the coat-sleeves. The subject becomes temporarily, in short, a total loss.
It is perhaps as well, therefore, that we did not waste valuable time watching Hugo in the process of digesting Percy Pilbeam’s sensational announcement, for it would have been like looking at a statue. If the reader will endeavour to picture Rodin’s Thinker in a dinner-jacket and trousers with braid down the sides, he will have got the general idea. At the instant when Hugo Carmody makes his reappearance, life has j
ust begun to return to the stiffened frame.
And with life came the dawning of intelligence. This ghastly snag which had popped up in his path was too big, reflected Hugo, for any man to tackle. It called for a woman’s keener wit. His first act on emerging from the depths, therefore, was to leave the drawing-room and totter downstairs to the telephone. He got the number of Matchingham Hall and, establishing communication with Sir Gregory Parsloe-Parsloe’s butler, urged him to summon Miss Millicent Threepwood from the dinner-table. The butler said in rather a reproving way that Miss Threepwood was at the moment busy drinking soup.
Hugo, with the first flash of spirit he had shown for a quarter of an hour, replied that he didn’t care if she was bathing in it. Fetch her, said Hugo, and almost added the words
‘You scurvy knave.’ He then clung weakly to the receiver, waiting, and in a short while a sweet, but agitated, voice floated to him across the wire.
‘Hugo?’
‘Millicent?’
‘Is that you?’
‘Yes. Is that you?’
‘Yes.’
Anything in the nature of misunderstanding was cleared away. It was both of them.
‘What’s up?’
‘Everything’s up.’
‘How do you mean?’
TU tell you,’ said Hugo, and did so. It was not a difficult story to tell. Its plot was so clear that a few whispered words sufficed.
‘You don’t mean that?’ said Millicent, the tale concluded.
‘I do mean that.’
‘Oh, golly!’said Millicent.
Silence followed. Hugo waited palpitatingly. The outlook seemed to him black. He wondered if he had placed too much reliance in woman’s wit. That ‘Golly!’ had not been hopeful.
‘Hugo!’
‘Hullo?’
‘This is a bit thick.’
Yes,’ agreed Hugo. The thickness had not escaped him.
‘Well, there’s only one thing to do.’
A faint thrill passed through Hugo Carmody. One would be enough. Woman’s wit was going to bring home the bacon after all.
‘Listen!’
‘Well?’
‘The only thing to do is for me to go back to the dining-room and tell Uncle Clarence you’ve found the Empress.’
‘Eh?’
‘Found her, fathead.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Found her in the caravan.’
‘But weren’t you listening to what I was saying?’ There were tears in Hugo’s voice.
‘Pilbeam saw us putting her there.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, what’s our move when he says so?’
‘Stout denial.’
‘Eh?’
‘We stoutly deny it,’ said Millicent.
The thrill passed through Hugo again, stronger than before. It might work. Yes, properly handled, it would work. He poured broken words of love and praise into the receiver.
‘That’s right,’ he cried. ‘I see daylight. I will go to Pilbeam and tell him privily that if he opens his mouth I’ll strangle him.’
‘Well, hold on. I’ll go and tell Uncle Clarence. I expect he’ll be out in a moment to have a word with you.’
‘Haifa minute! Millicent!’
‘Well?’
‘When am I supposed to have found this ghastly pig?’
‘Ten minutes ago, when you were taking a stroll before dinner. You happened to pass the caravan and you heard an odd noise inside, and you looked to see what it was, and there was the Empress and you raced back to the house to telephone.’
‘But, Millicent! Haifa minute!’
‘Well?’
‘The old boy will think Baxter stole her.’
‘So he will! Isn’t that splendid! Well, hold on.’
Hugo resumed his vigil. It was some moments later that a noise like the clucking of fowls broke out at the Matchingham Hall end of the wire. He deduced correctly that this was caused by the ninth Earl of Emsworth endeavouring to clothe his thoughts in speech.
‘Kuk-kuk-kuk . . .’
‘Yes, Lord Emsworth?’
‘Kuk-Carmody!’
‘Yes, Lord Emsworth?’
‘Is this true?’
‘Yes, Lord Emsworth.’
‘You’ve found the Empress?’
‘Yes, Lord Emsworth.’
‘In that feller Baxter’s caravan?’
Yes, Lord Emsworth.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’
Yes, Lord Emsworth.’
So far Hugo Carmody had found his share of the dialogue delightfully easy. On these lines he would have been prepared to continue it all night. But there was something else besides, Yes, Lord Emsworth’ that he must now endeavour to say. There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune: and that tide, he knew, would never rise higher than at the present moment. He swallowed twice to unlimber his vocal cords.
‘Lord Emsworth,’ he said, and, though his heart was beating fast, his voice was steady,
‘there is something I would like to take this opportunity of saying. It will come as a surprise to you, but I hope not as an unpleasant surprise. I love your niece Millicent, and she loves me, Lord Emsworth. We have loved each other for many weeks and it is my hope that you will give your consent to our marriage. I am not a rich man, Lord Emsworth. In fact, strictly speaking, except for my salary I haven’t a bean in the world.
But my Uncle Lester owns Rudge Hall, in Worcestershire – 1 dare say you have heard of the place? You turn to the left off the main road to Birmingham and go about a couple of miles . . . well, anyway, it’s a biggish sort of place in Worcestershire and my Uncle Lester owns it and the property is entailed and I’m next in succession . . . I won’t pretend that my Uncle Lester shows any indications of passing in his checks, he was extremely fit last time I saw him, but, after all, he’s getting on and all flesh is as grass and, as I say, I’m next man in, so I shall eventually succeed to quite a fairish bit of the stuff and a house and park and rent-roll and all that, so what I mean is, it isn’t as if I wasn’t in a position to support Millicent later on, and if you realized, Lord Emsworth, how we love one another I’m sure you would see that it wouldn’t be playing the game to put any obstacles in the way of our happiness, so what I’m driving at, if you follow me, is, may we charge ahead?’
There was dead silence at the other end of the wire. It seemed as if the revelation of a good man’s love had struck Lord Ems-worth dumb. It was only some moments later, after he had said ‘Hullo!’ six times and ‘I say, are you there?’ twice that it was borne in upon Hugo that he had wasted two hundred and eighty words of the finest eloquence on empty space.
His natural chagrin at this discovery was sensibly diminished by the sudden sound of Millicent’s voice in his ear.
‘Hullo!’
‘Hullo!’
‘Hullo!’
‘Hullo!’
‘Hugo!’
‘Hullo!’
‘I say, Hugo!’ She spoke with the joyous excitement of a girl who has just emerged from the centre of a family dog-fight. ‘I say, Hugo, things are hotting up here properly. I sprung it on Uncle Clarence just now that I want to marry you!’
‘So did I. Only he wasn’t there.’
‘I said “Uncle Clarence, aren’t you grateful to Mr Carmody for finding the Empress?”
and he said “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, to be sure. Capital boy! Capital boy! Always liked him.” And I said “I suppose you wouldn’t by any chance let me marry him?” and he said
“Eh, what? Marry him?” “Yes,” I said. “Marry him.” And he said “Certainly, certainly, certainly, certainly, by all means.” And then Aunt Constance had a fit, and Uncle Gaily said she was a kill-joy and ought to be ashamed of herself for throwing the gaff into love’s young dream, and Uncle Clarence kept on saying “Certainly, certainly, certainly.”
I don’t know what old Parsloe thinks of it all. He’s sitting in his cha
ir, looking at the ceiling and drinking hock. The butler left at the end of round one. I’m going back to see how it’s all coming out. Hold the line.’
A man for whom Happiness and Misery are swaying in the scales three miles away, and whose only medium of learning the result of the contest is a telephone wire, is not likely to ring off impatiently. Hugo sat tense and breathless, like one listening in on the radio to a championship fight in which he has a financial interest. It was only when a cheery voice spoke at his elbow that he realized that his solitude had been invaded, and by Percy Pilbeam at that.
Percy Pilbeam was looking rosy and replete. He swayed slightly and his smile was rather wider and more pebble-beached than a total abstainer’s would have been.
‘Hullo, Carmody,’ said Percy Pilbeam. ‘What ho, Carmody. So here you are, Carmody.’
It came to Hugo that he had something to say to this man.
‘Here, you!’ he cried.
‘Yes, Carmody?’
‘Do you want to be battered to a pulp?’
‘No, Carmody.’
‘Then listen. You didn’t see me put that pig in the caravan. Understand?’
‘But I did, Carmody.’
‘You didn’t – not if you want to go on living.’
Percy Pilbeam appeared to be in a mood not only of keen intelligence but of the utmost reasonableness and amiability.
‘Say no more, Carmody,’ he said agreeably. ‘I take your point. You want me not to tell anybody I saw you put that caravan in the pig. Quite, Carmody, quite.’
‘Well, bear it in mind.’
‘I will, Carmody. Oh yes, Carmody, I will. I’m going for a stroll outside, Carmody. Care to join me?’
‘Go to hell!’
‘Quite,’ said Percy Pilbeam.
He tacked unsteadily to the door, aimed himself at it and passed through. And a moment later Millicent’s voice spoke.
‘Hugo?’
