CHAPTER VI
Among the compensations of advancing age is a wholesomepessimism, which, though it takes the fine edge off of whatevertriumphs may come to us, has the admirable effect of preventingFate from working off on us any of those gold bricks, coins withstrings attached, and unhatched chickens, at which ardent youthsnatches with such enthusiasm, to its subsequent disappointment.As we emerge from the twenties we grow into a habit of mind thatlooks askance at Fate bearing gifts. We miss, perhaps, theoccasional prize, but we also avoid leaping light-heartedly intotraps.
Ashe Marson had yet to reach the age of tranquil mistrust; andwhen Fate seemed to be treating him kindly he was still youngenough to accept such kindnesses on their face value and rejoiceat them.
As he sat on his bed at the end of his first night in CastleBlandings, he was conscious to a remarkable degree that Fortunewas treating him well. He had survived--not merely withoutdiscredit, but with positive triumph--the initiatory plunge intothe etiquette maelstrom of life below stairs. So far from doingthe wrong thing and drawing down on himself the just scorn of thesteward's room, he had been the life and soul of the party. Evenif to-morrow, in an absent-minded fit, he should anticipate thegroom of the chambers in the march to the table, he would beforgiven; for the humorist has his privileges.
So much for that. But that was only a part of Fortune'skindnesses. To have discovered on the first day of theirassociation the correct method of handling and reducing tosubjection his irascible employer was an even greater boon. Aprolonged association with Mr. Peters on the lines in which theiracquaintance had begun would have been extremely trying. Now, byvirtue of a fortunate stand at the outset, he had spiked themillionaire's guns.
Thirdly, and most important of all, he had not only made himselffamiliar with the locality and surroundings of the scarab, but hehad seen, beyond the possibility of doubt, that the removal of itand the earning of the five thousand dollars would be thesimplest possible task. Already he was spending the money in hismind. And to such lengths had optimism led him that, as he sat onhis bed reviewing the events of the day, his only doubt waswhether to get the scarab at once or to let it remain where itwas until he had the opportunity of doing Mr. Peters' interiorgood on the lines he had mapped out in their conversation; for,of course, directly he had restored the scarab to its rightfulowner and pocketed the reward, his position as healer and trainerto the millionaire would cease automatically.
He was sorry for that, because it troubled him to think that asick man would not be made well; but, on the whole, looking at itfrom every aspect, it would be best to get the scarab as soon aspossible and leave Mr. Peters' digestion to look after itself.Being twenty-six and an optimist, he had no suspicion that Fatemight be playing with him; that Fate might have unpleasantsurprises in store; that Fate even now was preparing to smite himin his hour of joy with that powerful weapon, the EfficientBaxter.
He looked at his watch. It was five minutes to one. He had noidea whether they kept early hours at Blandings Castle or not,but he deemed it prudent to give the household another hour inwhich to settle down. After which he would just trot down andcollect the scarab.
The novel he had brought down with him from London fortunatelyproved interesting. Two o'clock came before he was ready for it.He slipped the book into his pocket and opened the door.
All was still--still and uncommonly dark. Along the corridor onwhich his room was situated the snores of sleeping domesticsexploded, growled and twittered in the air. Every menial on thelist seemed to be snoring, some in one key, some in another, somedefiantly, some plaintively; but the main fact was that they wereall snoring somehow, thus intimating that, so far as this side ofthe house was concerned, the coast might be considered clear andinterruption of his plans a negligible risk.
Researches made at an earlier hour had familiarized him with thegeography of the place. He found his way to the green-baize doorwithout difficulty and, stepping through, was in the hall, wherethe remains of the log fire still glowed a fitful red. This,however, was the only illumination, and it was fortunate that hedid not require light to guide him to the museum.
He knew the direction and had measured the distance. It wasprecisely seventeen steps from where he stood. Cautiously, andwith avoidance of noise, he began to make the seventeen steps.
He was beginning the eleventh when he bumped into somebody--somebody soft--somebody whose hand, as it touched his, felt smalland feminine.
The fragment of a log fell on the ashes and the fire gave a dyingspurt. Darkness succeeded the sudden glow. The fire was out.That little flame had been its last effort before expiring, butit had been enough to enable him to recognize Joan Valentine.
"Good Lord!" he gasped.
His astonishment was short-lived. Next moment the only thing thatsurprised him was the fact that he was not more surprised. Therewas something about this girl that made the most bizarrehappenings seem right and natural. Ever since he had met her hislife had changed from an orderly succession of uninteresting daysto a strange carnival of the unexpected, and use was accustominghim to it. Life had taken on the quality of a dream, in whichanything might happen and in which everything that did happen wasto be accepted with the calmness natural in dreams.
It was strange that she should be here in the pitch-dark hall inthe middle of the night; but--after all--no stranger than that heshould be. In this dream world in which he now moved it had to betaken for granted that people did all sorts of odd things fromall sorts of odd motives.
"Hello!" he said.
"Don't be alarmed."
"No, no!"
"I think we are both here for the same reason."
"You don't mean to say--"
"Yes; I have come here to earn the five thousand dollars, too,Mr. Marson. We are rivals."
In his present frame of mind it seemed so simple and intelligibleto Ashe that he wondered whether he was really hearing it thefirst time. He had an odd feeling that he had known this allalong.
"You are here to get the scarab?"
"Exactly."
Ashe was dimly conscious of some objection to this, but at firstit eluded him. Then he pinned it down.
"But you aren't a young man of good appearance," he said.
"I don't know what you mean. But Aline Peters is an old friend ofmine. She told me her father would give a large reward to whoeverrecovered the scarab; so I--"
"Look out!" whispered Ashe. "Run! There's somebody coming!"
There was a soft footfall on the stairs, a click, and aboveAshe's head a light flashed out. He looked round. He was alone,and the green-baize door was swaying gently to and fro.
"Who's that? Who's there?" said a voice.
The Efficient Baxter was coming down the broad staircase.
A general suspicion of mankind and a definite and particularsuspicion of one individual made a bad opiate. For over an hoursleep had avoided the Efficient Baxter with an unconquerablecoyness. He had tried all the known ways of wooing slumber, butthey had failed him, from the counting of sheep downward. Theevents of the night had whipped his mind to a restless activity.Try as he might to lose consciousness, the recollection of theplot he had discovered surged up and kept him wakeful.
It is the penalty of the suspicious type of mind that it suffersfrom its own activity. From the moment he detected Mr. Peters inthe act of rifling the museum and marked down Ashe as anaccomplice, Baxter's repose was doomed. Nor poppy nor mandragora,nor all the drowsy sirups of the world, could ever medicine himto that sweet sleep which he owed yesterday.
But it was the recollection that on previous occasions ofwakefulness hot whisky and water had done the trick, which hadnow brought him from his bed and downstairs. His objective wasthe decanter on the table of the smoking-room, which was one ofthe rooms opening on the gallery that looked down on the hall.Hot water he could achieve in his bedroom by means of his stove.
So out of bed he had climbed and downstairs he had come; and herehe was, to all appearances, just in time to
foil the very plot onwhich he had been brooding. Mr. Peters might be in bed, but therein the hall below him stood the accomplice, not ten paces fromthe museum's door. He arrived on the spot at racing speed andconfronted Ashe.
"What are you doing here?"
And then, from the Baxter viewpoint, things began to go wrong. Byall the rules of the game, Ashe, caught, as it were, red-handed,should have wilted, stammered and confessed all; but Ashe wasfortified by that philosophic calm which comes to us in dreams,and, moreover, he had his story ready.
"Mr. Peters rang for me, sir."
He had never expected to feel grateful to the little firebrandwho employed him, but he had to admit that the millionaire, intheir late conversation, had shown forethought. The thoughtstruck him that but for Mr. Peters' advice he might by now be inan extremely awkward position; for his was not a swiftlyinventive mind.
"Rang for you? At half-past two in the morning!"
"To read to him, sir."
"To read to him at this hour?"
"Mr. Peters suffers from insomnia, sir. He has a weak digestionand pain sometimes prevents him from sleeping. The lining of hisstomach is not at all what it should be."
"I don't believe a word of it."
With that meekness which makes the good man wronged so impressivea spectacle, Ashe produced and exhibited his novel.
"Here is the book I am about to read to him. I think, sir, if youwill excuse me, I had better be going to his room. Good night,sir."
He proceeded to mount the stairs. He was sorry for Mr. Peters, soshortly about to be roused from a refreshing slumber; but thesewere life's tragedies and must be borne bravely.
The Efficient Baxter dogged him the whole way, sprinting silentlyin his wake and dodging into the shadows whenever the light of anoccasional electric bulb made it inadvisable to keep to the open.Then abruptly he gave up the pursuit. For the first time hiscomparative impotence in this silent conflict on which he hadembarked was made manifest to him, and he perceived that on meresuspicion, however strong, he could do nothing. To accuse Mr.Peters of theft or to accuse him of being accessory to a theftwas out of the question.
Yet his whole being revolted at the thought of allowing thesanctity of the museum to be violated. Officially its contentsbelonged to Lord Emsworth, but ever since his connection with thecastle he had been put in charge of them, and he had come to lookon them as his own property. If he was only a collector by proxyhe had, nevertheless, the collector's devotion to his curios,beside which the lioness' attachment to her cubs is tepid; and hewas prepared to do anything to retain in his possession a scarabtoward which he already entertained the feelings of a lifeproprietor.
No--not quite anything! He stopped short at the idea of causingunpleasantness between the father of the Honorable Freddie andthe father of the Honorable Freddie's fiancee. His secretarialposition at the castle was a valuable one and he was loath tojeopardize it.
There was only one way in which this delicate affair could bebrought to a satisfactory conclusion. It was obvious from what hehad seen that night that Mr. Peters' connection with the attempton the scarab was to be merely sympathetic, and that the actualtheft was to be accomplished by Ashe. His only course, therefore,was to catch Ashe actually in the museum. Then Mr. Peters neednot appear in the matter at all. Mr. Peters' position in thosecircumstances would be simply that of a man who had happened toemploy, through no fault of his own, a valet who happened to be athief.
He had made a mistake, he perceived, in locking the door of themuseum. In future he must leave it open, as a trap is open;and he must stay up nights and keep watch. With thesereflections, the Efficient Baxter returned to his room.
Meantime Ashe had entered Mr. Peters' bedroom and switched on thelight. Mr. Peters, who had just succeeded in dropping off tosleep, sat up with a start.
"I've come to read to you," said Ashe.
Mr. Peters emitted a stifled howl, in which wrath and self-pitywere nicely blended.
"You fool, don't you know I have just managed to get to sleep?"
"And now you're awake again," said Ashe soothingly. "Such islife! A little rest, a little folding of the hands in sleep, andthen bing!--off we go again. I hope you will like this novel. Idipped into it and it seems good."
"What do you mean by coming in here at this time of night? Areyou crazy?"
"It was your suggestion; and, by the way, I must thank you forit. I apologize for calling it thin. It worked like a charm. Idon't think he believed it--in fact, I know he didn't; but itheld him. I couldn't have thought up anything half so good in anemergency."
Mr. Peters' wrath changed to excitement.
"Did you get it? Have you been after my--my Cheops?"
"I have been after your Cheops, but I didn't get it. Bad men wereabroad. That fellow with the spectacles, who was in the museumwhen I met you there this evening, swooped down from nowhere, andI had to tell him that you had rung for me to read to you.Fortunately I had this novel on me. I think he followed meupstairs to see whether I really did come to your room."
Mr. Peters groaned miserably.
"Baxter," he said; "He's a man named Baxter--Lord Emsworth'sprivate secretary; and he suspects us. He's the man we--I meanyou--have got to look out for."
"Well, never mind. Let's be happy while we can. Make yourselfcomfortable and I'll start reading. After all, what could bepleasanter than a little literature in the small hours? Shall Ibegin?"
* * *
Ashe Marson found Joan Valentine in the stable yard afterbreakfast the next morning, playing with a retriever puppy. "Willyou spare me a moment of your valuable time?"
"Certainly, Mr. Marson."
"Shall we walk out into the open somewhere--where we can't beoverheard?"
"Perhaps it would be better."
They moved off.
"Request your canine friend to withdraw," said Ashe. "He preventsme from marshaling my thoughts."
"I'm afraid he won't withdraw."
"Never mind. I'll do my best in spite of him. Tell me, was Idreaming or did I really meet you in the hall this morning atabout twenty minutes after two?"
"You did."
"And did you really tell me that you had come to the castle tosteal--"
"Recover."
"--Recover Mr. Peters' scarab?"
"I did."
"Then it's true?"
"It is."
Ashe scraped the ground with a meditative toe.
"This," he said, "seems to me to complicate matters somewhat."
"It complicates them abominably!"
"I suppose you were surprised when you found that I was on thesame game as yourself."
"Not in the least."
"You weren't!"
"I knew it directly I saw the advertisement in the Morning Post.And I hunted up the Morning Post directly you had told me thatyou had become Mr. Peters' valet."
"You have known all along!"
"I have."
Ashe regarded her admiringly.
"You're wonderful!"
"Because I saw through you?"
"Partly that; but chiefly because you had the pluck to undertakea thing like this."
"You undertook it."
"But I'm a man."
"And I'm a woman. And my theory, Mr. Marson, is that a woman cando nearly everything better than a man. What a splendid test casethis would make to settle the Votes-for-Women question once andfor all! Here we are--you and I--a man and a woman, each tryingfor the same thing and each starting with equal chances. SupposeI beat you? How about the inferiority of women then?"
"I never said women were inferior."
"You did with your eyes."
"Besides, you're an exceptional woman."
"You can't get out of it with a compliment. I'm an ordinary womanand I'm going to beat a real man."
Ashe frowned.
"I don't like to think of ourselves as working against eachother."
"Why not?"
"Because I like
you."
"I like you, Mr. Marson; but we must not let sentiment interferewith business. You want Mr. Peters' five thousand dollars. So doI."
"I hate the thought of being the instrument to prevent you fromgetting the money."
"You won't be. I shall be the instrument to prevent you fromgetting it. I don't like that thought, either; but one has got toface it."
"It makes me feel mean."
"That's simply your old-fashioned masculine attitude toward thefemale, Mr. Marson. You look on woman as a weak creature, to beshielded and petted. We aren't anything of the sort. We'reterrors! We're as hard as nails. We're awful creatures. Youmustn't let my sex interfere with your trying to get this reward.Think of me as though I were another man. We're up against eachother in a fair fight, and I don't want any special privileges.If you don't do your best from now onward I shall never forgiveyou. Do you understand?"
"I suppose so."
"And we shall need to do our best. That little man with theglasses is on his guard. I was listening to you last night frombehind the door. By the way, you shouldn't have told me to runaway and then have stayed yourself to be caught. That is anexample of the sort of thing I mean. It was chivalry--notbusiness."
"I had a story ready to account for my being there. You had not."
"And what a capital story it was! I shall borrow it for my ownuse. If I am caught I shall say I had to read Aline to sleepbecause she suffers from insomnia. And I shouldn't wonder if shedid--poor girl! She doesn't get enough to eat. She is beingstarved--poor child! I heard one of the footmen say that sherefused everything at dinner last night. And, though she vows itisn't, my belief is that it's all because she is afraid to make astand against her old father. It's a shame!"
"She is a weak creature, to be shielded and petted," said Ashesolemnly.
Joan laughed.
"Well, yes; you caught me there. I admit that poor Aline is not ashining example of the formidable modern woman; but--" Shestopped. "Oh, bother! I've just thought of what I ought to havesaid--the good repartee that would have crushed you. I supposeit's too late now?"
"Not at all. I'm like that myself--only it is generally the nextday when I hit the right answer. Shall we go back? . . . She is aweak creature, to be shielded and petted."
"Thank you so much," said Joan gratefully. "And why is she a weakcreature? Because she has allowed herself to be shielded andpetted; because she has permitted man to give her specialprivileges, and generally--No; it isn't so good as I thought itwas going to be."
"It should be crisper," said Ashe critically. "It lacks thepunch."
"But it brings me back to my point, which is that I am not goingto imitate her and forfeit my independence of action in returnfor chivalry. Try to look at it from my point of view, Mr.Marson. I know you need the money just as much as I do. Well,don't you think I should feel a little mean if I thought you werenot trying your hardest to get it, simply because you didn'tthink it would be fair to try your hardest against a woman? Thatwould cripple me. I should not feel as though I had the right todo anything. It's too important a matter for you to treat me likea child and let me win to avoid disappointing me. I want themoney; but I don't want it handed to me."
"Believe me," said Ashe earnestly, "it will not be handed to you.I have studied the Baxter question more deeply than you have, andI can assure you that Baxter is a menace. What has put him sofirmly on the right scent I don't know; but he seems to havedivined the exact state of affairs in its entirety--so far as Iam concerned, that is to say. Of course he has no idea you aremixed up in the business; but I am afraid his suspicion of mewill hit you as well. What I mean is that, for some time to come,I fancy that man proposes to camp out on the rug in front of themuseum door. It would be madness for either of us to attempt togo there at present."
"It is being made very hard for us, isn't it? And I thought itwas going to be so simple."
"I think we should give him at least a week to simmer down."
"Fully that."
"Let us look on the bright side. We are in no hurry. BlandingsCastle is quite as comfortable as Number Seven Arundell Street,and the commissariat department is a revelation to me. I had noidea English servants did themselves so well. And, as for thesocial side, I love it; I revel in it. For the first time in mylife I feel as though I am somebody. Did you observe my mannertoward the kitchen maid who waited on us at dinner last night? Atouch of the old noblesse about it, I fancy. Dignified but notunkind, I think. And I can keep it up. So far as I am concerned,let this life continue indefinitely."
"But what about Mr. Peters? Don't you think there is danger hemay change his mind about that five thousand dollars if we keephim waiting too long?"
"Not a chance of it. Being almost within touch of the scarab hashad the worst effect on him. It has intensified the craving. Bythe way, have you seen the scarab?"
"Yes; I got Mrs. Twemlow to take me to the museum while you weretalking to the butler. It was dreadful to feel that it was lyingthere in the open waiting for somebody to take it, and not beable to do anything."
"I felt exactly the same. It isn't much to look at, is it? If ithadn't been for the label I wouldn't have believed it was thething for which Peters was offering five thousand dollars'reward. But that's his affair. A thing is worth what somebodywill give for it. Ours not to reason why; ours but to eludeBaxter and gather it in."
"Ours, indeed! You speak as though we were partners instead ofrivals."
Ashe uttered an exclamation. "You've hit it! Why not? Why anycutthroat competition? Why shouldn't we form a company? It wouldsolve everything."
Joan looked thoughtful.
"You mean divide the reward?"
"Exactly--into two equal parts."
"And the labor?"
"The labor?"
"How shall we divide that?"
Ashe hesitated.
"My idea," he said, "was that I should do what I might call therough work; and--"
"You mean you should do the actual taking of the scarab?"
"Exactly. I would look after that end of it."
"And what would my duties be?"
"Well, you--you would, as it were--how shall I put it? You would,so to speak, lend moral support."
"By lying snugly in bed, fast asleep?"
Ashe avoided her eye.
"Well, yes--er--something on those lines."
"While you ran all the risks?"
"No, no. The risks are practically nonexistent."
"I thought you said just now that it would be madness for eitherof us to attempt to go to the museum at present." Joan laughed."It won't do, Mr. Marson. You remind me of an old cat I once had.Whenever he killed a mouse he would bring it into thedrawing-room and lay it affectionately at my feet. I would rejectthe corpse with horror and turn him out, but back he would comewith his loathsome gift. I simply couldn't make him understandthat he was not doing me a kindness. He thought highly of hismouse and it was beyond him to realize that I did not want it.
"You are just the same with your chivalry. It's very kind of youto keep offering me your dead mouse; but honestly I have no usefor it. I won't take favors just because I happen to be a female.If we are going to form this partnership I insist on doing myfair share of the work and running my fair share of therisks--the practically nonexistent risks."
"You're very--resolute."
"Say pig-headed; I shan't mind. Certainly I am! A girl has got tobe, even nowadays, if she wants to play fair. Listen, Mr.Marson; I will not have the dead mouse. I do not like dead mice.If you attempt to work off your dead mouse on me this partnershipceases before it has begun. If we are to work together we aregoing to make alternate attempts to get the scarab. No otherarrangement will satisfy me."
"Then I claim the right to make the first one."
"You don't do anything of the sort. We toss up for first chance,like little ladies and gentlemen. Have you a coin? I will spin,and you call."
Ashe made a last stand.
"This is perfectly--
"
"Mr. Marson!"
Ashe gave in. He produced a coin and handed it to her gloomily.
"Under protest," he said.
"Head or tail?" said Joan, unmoved.
Ashe watched the coin gyrating in the sunshine.
"Tail!" he cried.
The coin stopped rolling.
"Tail it is," said Joan. "What a nuisance! Well, never mind--I'll get my chance if you fail."
"I shan't fail," said Ashe fervently. "If I have to pull themuseum down I won't fail. Thank heaven, there's no chance now ofyour doing anything foolish!"
"Don't be too sure. Well, good luck, Mr. Marson!"
"Thank you, partner."
They shook hands.
As they parted at the door, Joan made one further remark:"There's just one thing, Mr. Marson."
"Yes?"
"If I could have accepted the mouse from anyone I shouldcertainly have accepted it from you."
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