‘That’s all – run away. Mr Egg, it looks as if you’d got hold of something right enough. Here, Sergeant!’
The sergeant gave him an understanding wink and went out. Half an hour elapsed, marked only by the almost imperceptible descent of the driving weight and the solemn ticking of the clock. Then the sergeant came in again, with a bag in his hand.
‘Quite right, sir – under a heap of sacking in the hen-house. It must be either Rudd or the barman, George.’
‘They must both be in it,’ said the Inspector. ‘But which of them did the job, damned if I know. We’ll have to wait for those finger-prints.’
‘Why not ask them for the key of the clock?’ put in Mr Egg.
‘What for?’
‘Just an idea of mine.’
‘All right. Send Rudd in. Rudd, we want the key of this clock.’
‘Oh, do you?’ said the landlord. ‘Well, I haven’t got it, see. I don’t know where it’s gone, and you can put that in your pipe and smoke it. A nice job this is, in a respectable house.’
‘All right,’ said the Inspector, ‘we’ll ask George. Where’s this clock-key, George?’
The barman passed a hand across his dry mouth. ‘It’s in that there pot on the chimbley-piece,’ he said.
‘It’s not there,’ said the Inspector, peering into the pot.
‘No,’ said Monty. ‘And how did Rudd know it wasn’t there, if he wasn’t hunting for it last night to wind that weight back to the right place, after he’d put the clock eleven hours forward? No wonder the plate is turned upside-down.’
The landlord turned a dirty green colour, and George broke out into a whimper.
‘Please, sir, I never knew nothing about it till it was all over. I didn’t have no hand in it.’
‘Put the bracelets on ’em both, Sergeant,’ said Inspector Birch. ‘And you, Slater, remember your evidence will be wanted. Much obliged to you, Mr Egg. But it’s a funny thing where that key can have gone to.’
‘Better ask young Hopeful,’ said Mr Egg. ‘It’s surprising how a little thing like that will trip a man up. As
The Salesman’s Handbook
says: Attend to details and you’ll make your sale – a little weight will often turn the scale.’
THE PROFESSOR'S MANUSCRIPT
A Montague Egg Story
‘See here, Monty,’ said Mr Hopgood (travelling representative for Messrs Brotherhood, Ltd) to Mr Egg (travelling representative for Messrs Plummett & Rose); ‘while you’re here, why don’t you have a go at old Professor Pindar? I should say he was just about in your line.’
Mr Egg brought his mind back – a little unwillingly – from the headlines in his morning paper (‘
SCREEN STAR'S MARRIAGE ROMANCE PLANE DASH
’ – ‘
CONTINENT COMBOUT OUT FOR MISSING FINANCIER
’ – ‘
COUNTRY-HOUSE MYSTERY BLAZE ARSON SUSPICIONS
’ – ‘
BUDGET INCOME-TAX REMISSION POSSIBILITY
’), and inquired who Professor Pindar might be when he was at home.
‘He’s a funny old bird that’s come and settled down at Wellingtonia House,’ replied Mr Hopgood. ‘You know, where the Fennels used to live. Bought the place last January and moved in about a month ago. Writes books, or something. I went along yesterday to see if there was anything doing in our way. Heard he was a retired sort of old party. Thought he might be good for a case of Sparkling Pompayne or something else in the soft drinks line. Quite rude to me, he was. Called it “gut-rot”, and spilled a piece of poetry about “windy waters”. Shouldn’t have expected such strong expressions from a brainy-looking old gent like him. Apologised for taking up his time, of course, and said to myself, “Here’s where young Monty gets in with his matured spirits and fine old fruity.” Thought I’d give you the tip, that’s all – but suit yourself, of course.’
Mr Egg thanked Mr Hopgood, and agreed that Professor Pindar sounded like a useful prospect.
‘One gets to see him all right, then?’ he asked.
‘Yes – only you have to state your business,’ said Mr Hopgood. ‘Housekeeper’s a bit of a dragon. No good trying on the old tale of being sent round by his dear friend Mr So-and-so, because, for one thing, he’s got no friends round here and, for another, they know that one.’
‘In that case –’ began Mr Egg; but Mr Hopgood did not appear to notice that he had said anything odd, and he felt it was hardly worthwhile to start an argument, especially as the morning was getting on, and he had not yet read about the film-star’s marriage dash or the country-house arson suspicions. He turned his attention to these, discovered that the romance was the lady’s fifth marriage and that the fire was thought to be yet another ramification of the insurance ramp, went on to ascertain that the person detained the day before in Constantinople was not, after all, the absconding head of Mammoth Industries, Ltd, and that the hope of sixpence off the income-tax was little more than the
Daily Trumpet
correspondent’s dream of wish-fulfilment, and then embarked upon a juicy leader-page article headed ‘
CAN COMMERCIAL TRAVELLERS BE CHRISTIANS
? – by One of Them’, which interested him, not so much because he had any doubts about commercial morality as because he fancied he knew who the author was.
Before very long, however, his own commercial conscience (which was sensitive) reminded him that he was wasting his employer’s time, and he went out to inquire into a complaint received from the landlord of the Ring of Bells that the last case of Plummett & Rose’s Superior Old Tawny (full body, fine masculine flavour) was not up to sample, owing to alleged faulty corking.
Having disposed of this little unpleasantness, and traced the trouble to the fact that the landlord had thoughtlessly run the main pipe of a new heating installation behind the racks housing the Superior Old Tawny, Mr Egg asked to be directed to Wellingtonia House.
‘It’s about five miles out of the town,’ said the landlord. ‘Take the road to Great Windings, turn off to the left by the tower they call Grabb’s Folly and then it’s down the lane on the right past the old water-mill. Biggish place with a high brick wall right down in the hollow. Damp, in my opinion. Shouldn’t care to live there myself. All right if you like peace and quietness, but I prefer to see a bit of life myself. So does the missis. But this old chap ain’t married, so I suppose it’s all right for him. Lives there alone with a housekeeper and a handy-man and about fifty million tons of books. I was sorry to hear he’d taken the house. What we want there is a family with a bit of money, to bring some trade into the town.’
‘Not a rich man, then?’ asked Mr Egg, mentally substituting a cheaper line for the Cockburn 1896 (a grand ancient wine thirty-five years in bottle) with which he had hoped to tempt the Professor,
‘He may have,’ replied the landlord; ‘must have, I suppose, since he’s bought the place freehold. But what’s the odds if he don’t spend it? Never goes anywhere. No entertaining. Bit of a crank, by what they tell me.’
‘Butcher’s meat?’ inquired Mr Egg.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the landlord, ‘and only the best cuts. But what’s one old gentleman’s steak and chop when you come to think of it? That don’t make a lot of difference in the week’s turn-over.’
However, the thought of the steak and chops comforted Mr Egg as he drove by Grabb’s Folly and the old water-mill and turned down the little, winding lane between high hedgerows starred with dog-violets and the lesser celandine. Grilled meat and wine went together almost as certainly as nut-cutlets and home-made lemonade.
The door of Wellingtonia House was opened by a middle-aged woman in an apron, at sight of whom Mr Egg instantly dismissed the manner he used for domestic servants and substituted the one reserved for persons ‘out of the top drawer’, as he phrased it. A pre-War gentlewoman in a post-War job, he decided. He produced his card and stated his business frankly.
‘Well,’ said the housekeeper. She looked Mr Egg searchingly up and down. ‘Professor Pindar is a very busy man, but he may like to see you. He is very particular about his wines – especially vintage port.’
‘Vintage port, madam,’ replied Mr Egg, ‘is a speciality with us.’
‘
Real
vintage port?’ asked the housekeeper, smiling.
Mr Egg was hurt, though he tried not to show it. He mentioned a few of Messrs Plummett & Rose’s choicer shipments, and produced a list.
‘Come in,’ said the housekeeper. ‘I’ll take the list to Professor Pindar. He may like to see you himself, though I can’t promise. He is very hard at work upon his book, and he can’t possibly spare very much time.’
‘Certainly not, madam,’ said Mr Egg, stepping in and wiping his boots carefully. They were perfectly clean, but the ritual was part of his regular routine, as laid down by
The Salesman’s Handbook
. (‘Be clean and courteous; raise your hat, And wipe your boots upon the mat: Such proofs of gentlemanly feeling Are to the ladies most appealing.’) ‘In my opinion,’ he added, as he followed his conductress through a handsome hall and down a long and thickly-carpeted passage, ‘more sales are lost through being too persistent than through not being persistent enough. There’s a little verse, madam, that I try to bear in mind: “Don’t stay too long; the customer has other things to do than sitting in the parlour and listening to you; And if, through your loquacity, she lets the dinner burn, She will not soon forget it, and it does you a bad turn.” I will just show the Professor my list, and if he is not interested, I will promise to go away at once.’
The housekeeper laughed. ‘You are more reasonable than most of them,’ she said, and showed him into a large and lofty room, lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. ‘Wait here a minute, and I will see what Professor Pindar says.’
She was gone for some time, and Mr Egg, being left to contemplate, with awe and some astonishment, the array of learning all about him, became restless, and even a little reckless. He walked about the library, trying to ascertain from the titles of the books what Professor Pindar was professor of. His interests, however, appeared to be catholic, for the books dealt with many subjects. One of them, a stout, calf-bound octavo in a long row of calf-bound octavos, attracted Mr Egg’s attention. It was an eighteenth-century treatise on Brewing and Distilling, and he extended a cautious finger to hook it from the shelf. It was, however, too tightly wedged between a bound collection of Pamphlets and a play by Ben Jonson to come out easily, and he abandoned the attempt. Curiosity made him next tiptoe over to the formidable great desk strewn with manuscripts. This gave more information. In the centre, near the typewriter, lay a pile of neatly-typed sheets, embellished with footnotes and a good many passages of what looked to Mr Egg like Greek, though it might, of course, have been Russian or Arabic, or any other language with a queer alphabet. The half-finished page upon the blotter broke off abruptly with the words: ‘This was the opinion of St Augustine, though Clement of Alexandria expressly declares –’ Here the sentence ended, as though the writer had paused to consult his authority. The open folio on the table was, however, neither St Augustine nor Clement of Alexandria, but Origen. Close beside it stood a metal strong-box with a combination-lock, which Mr Egg judged to contain some rare manuscript or other.
The sound of a hand upon the door-handle caused him to start guiltily away from the table, and when the door opened he had whisked round with his back to the desk and was staring abstractedly at a shelf crammed with immense tomes, ranging from Aristotle’s works to a Jacobean Life of Queen Elizabeth.
Professor Pindar was a very bent and tottery old gentleman, and the hairiest person Mr Egg had ever set eyes upon. His beard began at his cheekbones and draped his chest as far as the penultimate waistcoat-button. Over a pair of very sharp grey eyes, heavy grey eyebrows hung like a pent-house. He wore a black skull-cap, from beneath which more grey hair flowed so as to conceal his collar. He wore a rather shabby black velvet jacket, grey trousers, which had forgotten the last time they had ever seen a trousers-press, and a pair of carpet slippers, over which grey woollen socks wreathed themselves in folds. His face (what could be seen of it) was thin, and he spoke with a curious whistle and click due to an extremely ill-fitting set of dentures.
‘Hso you are the young man from the wine-merchant’s, hish, click,’ said the Professor. ‘Hsit down. Click.’ He waved his hand to a chair some little distance away, and himself shuffled to the desk and seated himself. ‘You brought me a list – where have I – ah! yesh! click! here it is, hish. Let me hsee.’ He fumbled about himself and produced a pair of steel spectacles. ‘Hish! yesh! Very interesting. What made you think of calling on me, click, hey? Hish.’
Mr Egg said that he had been advised to call by Messrs Brotherhood’s representative.
‘I thought, sir,’ he said ingenuously, ‘that if you disapproved so much of soft drinks, you might appreciate something more, shall we say, full-bodied.’
‘You did, did you?’ said the Professor. ‘Very shrewd of you. Click! Hsmart of you, hish. Got some good hish stuff here.’ He waved the list. ‘Don’t believe in highclassh wine-merchants touting for customers shthough. Infra dig. Hey?’
Mr Egg explained that the pressure of competition had driven Messrs Plummett & Rose to this undoubtedly rather modern expedient. ‘But of course, sir,’ he added, ‘we exercise our discretion. I should not dream of showing a gentleman like yourself the list we issue to licensed houses.’