Mr. Campion's Lucky Day & Other Stories (13 page)

The gunshot startled me half out of my senses. I have heard a parrot imitate the popping of a cork and been amazed by it, but this was quite different. It sounded as a shot must sound when heard through a telephone. There was the first sharp crack and then the faint repercussions all uncannily reproduced and emphasised by that dreadful, devilish bird.

The scream which followed was equally convincing, and I felt my throat contract, but the peak of horror came afterwards in that soft, broken-hearted little moan and the single murmured word, so appalling in its economy.

“Dead.”

I think I must have fainted. When I came to myself I was lying upon the rug, the shawl clutched in my hand, and above me, on the table, the enormous ornamental cage, empty and innocent as when I had purchased it.

I did not sleep at all that night. In the morning I rose, determined to take the cage back to Robb’s immediately. I was haunted by the tragedy I had overheard so strangely, a tragedy made even more horrible by the awful element of low comedy which had dominated it.

I am naturally an inquisitive woman, but in this instance I was determined to make no inquiries. I did not want to know to whom the cage had belonged before. I did not care. I did not want to think of my dreadful experience again.

I actually had my hat on when I remembered Mrs. Beckwithston’s appointment. She was the sister of the Bishop of Mold, and although we had corresponded frequently we had never met. I knew her to be a kind woman, completely taken up with her good works, and when she had written me that she was passing through London on her way to France, and had asked if I could possibly see her at an unusually early hour, I had written back to invite her to breakfast. It was only my daily woman’s hasty preparations in the kitchenette which reminded me that I expected a visitor.

I went into the sitting-room and looked at the cage.Uncovered, it was certainly ugly but, I knew, not dangerous. I steeled myself to keep it in the house an hour longer.

Mrs. Beckwithston was punctual. The moment the bell rang I hurried out into the hall to meet her. However, my daily was before me and from the open front door I heard my visitor inquiring whether I was at home.

I did not scream, but my blood froze and I felt my face congealing. It was
the
voice. I should have recognised it anywhere by its timbre and the soft rolling of the R’s. I stood trembling, convinced that I was going mad. Mrs. Beckwithston, whom I knew well, at least by repute, was, I was certain, the woman whose part in a terrible tragedy I had overheard in my own room only the night before.

I stared at her. She had a very ordinary pale face with no distinctive features, little make-up and was dressed entirely in black.

Breakfast was a terrible meal. I’m afraid I barely spoke and when I did my words sounded distrait even to myself.

My guest, however, was completely at her ease. She chatted pleasantly about our common interests, congratulated me on my flat, and betrayed a personality that was altogether charming. Yet every time she spoke, at every syllable which left her sympathetic lips, I was reminded horribly of my experiences of the past two days.

When at last the meal was nearly over there was a second ring at my doorbell and she looked up.

“That will be my husband,” she said. “You don’t mind, do you? I told him to call in here for me. He’s been to the agency for our tickets.”

I felt a fine, perspiration break out all over my face and with what seemed an enormous effort I turned my head towards the door. It opened. My daily woman murmured something and then there came floating in to me from the hall that personal, individual giggle I knew so well.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Beckwithston to me, “this is George.”

They must have thought me demented. I was. I goggled at the man. He was round and short and devastatingly jolly.

“Some—some tea?” I stammered when even I noticed that the atmosphere was becoming strained.

“Splendid,” he ejaculated, and, turning to his wife, he threw out his hands. His voice was jocular. I knew exactly what it was going to be like even before I heard it, smug, bantering, ineffably foolish, “Give me to drink, Ambrosia. And, sweet Barm… a nice cup of tea would do as well as anything. I thought of that coming along in the cab. Rather nicer punctuation than the usual, don’t you think, or don’t you?”

“Darling,
must
you?” said Mrs. Beckwithston plaintively and actually laughed.

So did I, immoderately and rather wildly, I fear.

They left at last. The man went out first, but his wife turned back.

“I wonder,” she said. “I do hope you will forgive me for asking such a thing, but where did you get that cage?”

I felt the blood singing in my ears as I told her.

“A second-hand shop?” she exclaimed. “Well, then of course it really must be the same. How extraordinary!”

She went over and touched the infernal thing lovingly.

“It is!” she said joyfully. “I recognise it by that little nick on the brass there. Oh, my dear, I’m so glad
you’ve
got it. It belonged to our poor Johnny. We were so sad when he died, we couldn’t bear to keep it. He was the sweetest bird. So clever! He used to imitate George and me until you’d really think it was ourselves speaking. I
must
tell George.”

The husband was recalled and he too recognised the cage and was facetious on the subject of coincidences. They stood together, two respectable middle-aged persons, and eulogised their dead pet. He was amazing. So excruciatingly funny. So lifelike. So droll. So unexpected.

Mrs. Beckwithston sighed over his memory.

“He really loved us,” she said. “He was a true friend.”

They were on the doorstep by this time and George Beckwithston, whose eyes were sad, looked up.

“Ah, poor Johnny, he had only one fault. You remember, Marion?”

Mrs. Beckwithston smiled again.

“I do,” she said tolerantly. “It seems absurd to say it of a parrot, but Johnny really was half-human. And there was just this one little thing. He was—forgive such a forceful word, but there really is no other for it—such a dreadful
liar,
poor darling, I’m sure he hasn’t gone to heaven.”

It was particularly unfortunate for Mrs. Christopher Molesworth that she should have had burglars on the Sunday night of what was, perhaps, the crowningly triumphant week-end of her career as a hostess.

As a hostess Mrs. Molesworth was a connoisseur. She chose her guests with a nice discrimination, disdaining everything but the most rare. Mere notoriety was no passport to Molesworth Court.

Nor did mere friendship obtain many crumbs from the Molesworth table, though the ability to please and do one’s piece might possibly earn one a bed when the lion of the hour promised to be dull, uncomfortable and liable to be bored.

That was how young Petterboy came to be there at the great week-end. He was diplomatic, presentable, near enough a teetotaller to be absolutely trustworthy, even at the end of the evening, and he spoke a little Chinese.

This last accomplishment had done him but little good before, save with very young girls at parties, who relieved their discomfort at having no conversation by persuading him to tell them how to ask for their baggage to be taken ashore at Hong Kong, or to ascertain the way to the bathroom at a Peking hotel.

However, now the accomplishment was really useful, for it obtained for him an invitation to Mrs. Molesworth’s greatest week-end party.

This party was so select that it numbered but six all told. There were the Molesworths themselves—Christopher Molesworth was an M.P., rode to hounds, and backed up his wife in much the same way as a decent black frame backs up a coloured print.

Then there was Petterboy himself, the Feison brothers, who looked so restful and talked only if necessary, and finally the guest of all time, the gem of a magnificent collection, the catch of a lifetime, Dr. Koo Fin, the Chinese scientist himself—Dr. Koo Fin, the Einstein of the East, the man with the Theory. After quitting his native Peking, he had only left his house in New England on one memorable occasion when he delivered a lecture in Washington to an audience which was unable to comprehend a word. His works were translated but since they were largely concerned with higher mathematics the task was comparatively simple.

Mrs. Molesworth had every reason to congratulate herself on her capture. “The Chinese Einstein”, as the newspapers had nicknamed him, was hardly a social bird. His shyness was proverbial, as was also his dislike and mistrust of women. It was this last foible which accounted for the absence of femininity at Mrs. Moleswojth’s party. Her own presence was unavoidable, of course, but she wore her severest gowns, and took a mental vow to speak as little as necessary. It is quite conceivable that had Mrs. Molesworth been able to change her sex she would have done so nobly for that week-end alone.

She had met the sage at a very select supper party after his only lecture in London. It was the same lecture which had thrown Washington into a state of bewilderment. Since Dr. Koo Fin arrived he had been photographed more often than any film star. His name and his round Chinese face were better known than those of the principals in the latest
cause celebre,
and already television comedians referred to his great objectivity theory in their patter.

Apart from that one lecture, however, and the supper party after it, he had been seen nowhere else save in his own closely guarded suite in his hotel.

How Mrs. Molesworth got herself invited to the supper party, and how, once there, she persuaded the sage to consent to visit Molesworth Court, is one of those minor miracles which do sometimes occur. Her enemies made many unworthy conjectures, but, since the university professors in charge of the proceedings on that occasion were not likely to have been corrupted by money or love, it is probable that Mrs. Molesworth moved the mountain by faith in herself alone.

The guest chamber prepared for Dr. Koo Fin was the third room in the west wing. This architectural monstrosity contained four bedrooms, each furnished with french windows leading on to the same balcony.

Young Petterboy occupied the room at the end of the row. It was one of the best in the house, as a matter of fact, but had no bathroom attached, since this had been converted by Mrs. Molesworth, who had the second chamber, into a gigantic clothes press. After all, as she said, it was her own house.

Dr. Koo Fin arrived on the Saturday by train, like a lesser person. He shook hands with Mrs. Molesworth and Christopher and young Petterboy and the Feisons as if he actually shared their own intelligence, and smiled at them all in his bland, utterly-too-Chinese way.

From the first he was a tremendous success. He ate little, drank less, spoke not at all, but he nodded appreciatively at young Petterboy’s halting Chinese, and grunted once or twice most charmingly when someone inadvertently addressed him in English. Altogether he was Mrs. Molesworth’s conception of a perfect guest.

On the Sunday morning Mrs. Molesworth actually received a compliment from him, and saw herself in a giddy flash the most talked-of woman in the cocktail parties of the coming week.

The charming incident occurred just before lunch. The sage rose abruptly from his chair on the lawn, and as the whole house party watched him with awe, anxious not to miss a single recountable incident, he stalked boldly across the nearest flower bed, trampling violas and London Pride with the true dreamer’s magnificent disregard for physical obstacles, and, plucking the head off a huge rose from Christopher’s favourite standard, trampled back with it in triumph and laid it in Mrs. Molesworth’s lap.

Then, as she sat in ecstasy, he returned quietly to his seat and considered her affably. For the first time in her life Mrs. Molesworth was really thrilled. She told a number of people so afterwards.

However, on the Sunday night there were burglars. It was sickeningly awkward. Mrs. Molesworth had a diamond star, two sets of ear-rings, a bracelet and five rings, all set in platinum, and she kept them in a wall safe under a picture in her bedroom. On the Sunday night, after the rose incident, she gave up the self-effacement programme and came down to dinner in full war paint. The Molesworths always dressed on Sunday and she certainly looked devastatingly feminine, all blue mist and diamonds.

It was the more successful evening of the two. The sage revealed an engaging talent for making card houses, and he also played five-finger exercises on the piano. The great simplicity of the man was never better displayed. Finally, dazed, honoured and happy, the house party went to bed.

Mrs. Molesworth removed her jewellery and placed it in the safe, but unfortunately did not lock it at once. Instead, she discovered that she had dropped an ear-ring, and went down to look for it in the drawing-room. When at last she returned without it the safe was empty. It really was devastatingly awkward, and the resourceful Christopher, hastily summoned from his room in the main wing, confessed himself in a quandary.

The servants, discreetly roused, whispered that they had heard nothing and gave unimpeachable alibis. There remained the guests. Mrs. Molesworth wept. For such a thing to happen at any time was terrible enough, but for it to occur on such an occasion was more than she could bear. One thing she and Christopher agreed: the sage must never guess… must never dream…

There remained the Feisons and the unfortunate young Petterboy. The Feisons were ruled out almost at once. From the fact that the window catch in Mrs. Molesworth’s room was burst, it was fairly obvious that the thief had entered from the balcony; therefore, had either of the Feisons passed that way from their rooms they would have had to pass the sage, who slept with his window wide. So there was only young Petterboy. It seemed fairly obvious.

Finally, after a great deal of consultation, Christopher went to speak to him as man to man, and came back fifteen minutes later hot and uncommunicative.

Mrs. Molesworth dried her eyes, put on her newest negligée, and, sweeping aside her fears and her husband’s objections, went in to speak to young Petterboy like a mother. Poor young Petterboy gave up laughing at her after ten minutes, suddenly got angry, and demanded that the sage too should be asked if he had “heard anything”. Then he forgot himself completely, and vulgarly suggested sending for the police.