“No wonder,” said Wimsey, “no wonder.” He heaved a deep sigh. “The police are interested in my cousin Bredon.”
“How thrilling!”
“What for?” demanded Milligan.
“For impersonating me, among other things,” said Wimsey, now happily launched and well away. “I cannot tell you in the brief time at our disposal, the distress and humiliation I have been put to on Bredon's account. Bailing him out at police stations–honouring cheques drawn in my name–rescuing him from haunts of infamy–I am telling you all these distressing details in confidence, of course.”
“We won't split,” said Dian.
“He trades upon our unfortunate resemblance,” went on Wimsey. “He copies my habits, smokes my favourite brand of cigarettes, drives a car like mine, even whistles my favourite air–one, I may say, peculiarly well adapted for performance upon the penny whistle.”
“He must be pretty well off,” said Dian, “to drive a car like that.”
“
That
,” said Wimsey, “is the most melancholy thing of all. I suspect him–but perhaps I had better not say anything about that.”
“Oh, do tell,” urged Dian, her eyes dancing with excitement. “It sounds too terribly breath-taking.”
“I suspect him,” said Wimsey, in solemn and awful tones, “of having to do with–
smug-druggling
–
I
mean, dash it all–drug-smuggling.”
“You don't say so,” said Milligan.
“Well, I can't prove it. But I have received warnings from a certain quarter. You understand me.” Wimsey selected a fresh cigarette and tapped it, with the air of one who has closed the coffin-lid upon a dead secret and is nailing it down securely. “I don't want to interfere in your affairs in any way at all, Major Milligan. I trust that I shall never be called upon to do so.” Here he transfixed Milligan with another hard stare. “But you will perhaps allow me to give you, and this lady, a word of warning. Do not have too much to do with my cousin Bredon.”
“I think you're talking rot,” said Dian. “Why, you can't even get him to–”
“Cigarette, Dian?” interrupted Milligan, rather sharply.
“I do not say,” resumed Wimsey, raking Dian slowly with his eyes, and then turning again to Milligan, “that my deplorable cousin is himself an addict to cocaine or heroin or anything of that description. In some ways, it would be almost more respectable if he were. The man or woman who can batten on the weaknesses of his fellow-creatures without sharing them is, I admit, to me a singularly disgusting object. I may be old-fashioned, but there it is.”
“Quite so,” said Milligan.
“I do not know, and do not wish to know,” went on Wimsey, “how you came to allow my cousin Bredon into your house, nor what, on his side, can have brought him there. I prefer not to suppose that he found there any other attraction than good drinks and good company. You may think, Major Milligan, that because I have interested myself in certain police cases, I am a consistent busybody. That is not the case. Unless I am forced to take an interest in another man's business, I greatly prefer to let him alone. But I think it only fair to tell you that I
am
forced to take an interest in my cousin Bredon and that he is a person whose acquaintance might prove–shall I say, embarrassing?–to any one who preferred to live a quiet life. I don't think I need say any more, need I?”
“Not at all,” said Milligan. “I am much obliged to you for the warning, and so, I am sure, is Miss de Momerie.”
“Of course, I'm frightfully glad to know all about it,” said Dian. “Your cousin sounds a perfect lamb. I like 'em dangerous. Pompous people are too terribly moribund, aren't they?”
Wimsey bowed.
“My dear lady, your choice of friends is entirely at your own discretion.”
“I'm glad to hear it. I got the impression that the Duchess wasn't too fearfully anxious to have both arms round my neck.”
“Ah! the Duchess–no. There, I fear, all the discretion is on the other side, what? Which reminds me–”
“Quite right,” said Milligan. “We have trespassed on your hospitality too long. We must really apologize and remove ourselves. By the way, there were some other members of our party–”
“I expect my sister-in-law will have dealt with them by now,” said Wimsey with a grin. “If not, I will make a point of seeing them and telling them that you have gone on to–where shall I say?”
Dian gave her own address.
“You'd better come round and have a drink, too,” she suggested.
“Alas!” said Wimsey, “duty and all that sort of thing, what? Can't leave my sister-in-law in the lurch, greatly as I should enjoy the entertainment.” He rang the bell. “You will excuse me now, I trust. I must see to our other guests. Porlock, show this lady and gentleman out.”
He returned to the garden by way of the terrace, whistling a passage of Bach, as was his way when pleased.
“Nun gehn wir wo der Tudelsack, der Tudel, tudel, tudel, tudel, tudelsack
....
”
“I wonder, was the fly too big and gaudy? Will he rise to it? We shall see.”
“My dear Peter,” said the Duchess, fretfully, “what a terrible time you have been. Please go and fetch Mme. de Framboise-Douillet an ice. And tell your brother I want him.”
SURPRISING ACQUISITION OF A JUNIOR REPORTER
V
ery early one morning, a junior reporter on the
Morning Star
, of no importance to anybody except himself and his widowed mother, walked out of that great newspaper's palatial new offices and into the affairs of Chief-Inspector Parker. This nonentity's name was Hector Puncheon, and he was in Fleet Street at that time because a fire had broken out the previous night in a large City warehouse, destroying a great deal of valuable property and involving the spectacular escapes of three night watchmen and a cat from the roofs of the adjacent buildings. Hector Puncheon, summoned to the scene for the excellent reason that he had lodgings in the West Central district and could be transported to the scene of action in a comparatively brief time, had written a short stop-press notice of the disaster for the early country editions, a longer and more exciting account for the London edition, and then a still longer and more detailed report, complete with the night-watchmen's and eye-witnesses' stories and a personal interview with the cat, for the early editions of the
Evening Comet
, twin-organ to the
Morning Star
and housed in the same building.
After completing all this toil, he was wakeful and hungry. He sought an all-night restaurant in Fleet Street, accustomed to catering for the untimely needs of pressmen, and, having previously armed himself with a copy of the
Morning Star
as it poured out damp from the machines, sat down to a 3 a.m. breakfast of grilled sausages, coffee and rolls.
He ate with leisurely zest, pleased with himself and his good fortune, and persuaded that not even the most distinguished of the senior men could have turned in a column more full of snap, pep and human interest than his own. The interview with the cat had been particularly full of appeal. The animal was, it seemed, an illustrious rat-catcher, with many famous deeds to her credit. Not only that, but she had been the first to notice the smell of fire and had, by her anguished and intelligent mewings, attracted the attention of night-watchman number one, who had been in the act of brewing himself a cup of tea when the outbreak took place. Thirdly, the cat, an ugly black-and-white creature with a spotted face, was about to become a mother for the tenth time, and Hector Puncheon by a brilliant inspiration had secured the reversion of the expected family for the
Morning Star
, so that half a dozen or so fortunate readers might, by applying to their favourite paper and enclosing a small donation for the Animals' Hospital, become the happy owners of kittens with a pre-natal reputation and a magnificent rat-catching pedigree. Hector Puncheon felt that he had done well. He had been alert and courageous, offering the night-watchman ten shillings on his own responsibility the very moment the big idea occurred to him, and the night-editor had okayed the stunt and even remarked that it would do quite well.
Filled with sausages and contentment, Hector Puncheon lingered over his paper, reading the Special Friday Feature with approval and appreciating the political cartoon. At length, he folded the sheet, stuffed it in his pocket, tipped the waiter extravagantly with sixpence and emerged into Fleet Street.
The morning was fine, though chilly, and he felt that after his night's labours, a little walk would do him good. He strolled happily along, past the Griffin at Temple Bar and the Law Courts and the churches of St. Clement Danes and St. Mary-le-Strand, and made his way up Kingsway. It was only when he got to the turning into Great Queen Street that he became aware of something lacking in an otherwise satisfactory universe. Great Queen Street led into Long Acre; off Long Acre lay Covent Garden; already the vans and lorries laden with fruit and flowers were rumbling in from all over the country and rumbling out again. Already the porters were unloading their stout sacks, huge crates, round baskets, frail punnets and long flat boxes filled with living scent and colour, sweating and grumbling over their labours as though their exquisite burdens were so much fish or pig-iron. And for the benefit of these men the pubs would be open, for Covent Garden interprets the London licensing regulations to suit its own topsy-turvy hours of labour. Hector Puncheon had had a successful night and had celebrated his success with sausages and coffee; but there are, dash it all! more suitable methods of celebration.
Hector Puncheon, swinging blithely along in his serviceable grey flannel bags and tweed jacket, covered by an old burberry, suddenly realized that he owned the world, including all the beer in Covent Garden Market. He turned into Great Queen Street, traversed half the length of Long Acre, dodged under the nose of a van horse at the entrance to the Underground Station, and set his face towards the market, picking his way cheerfully between the boxes and baskets and carts and straw that littered the pavement. Humming a lively tune, he turned in through the swing doors of the White Swan.
Although it was only a quarter past four, the Swan was already doing a brisk trade. Hector Puncheon edged his way up to the bar between two enormous carters and waited modestly for the landlord to finish serving his habitual customers before calling attention to himself. A lively discussion was going on about the merits of a dog named Forked Lightning. Hector, always ready to pick up a hint about anything that was, or might conceivably be turned into news, pulled his early
Morning Star
from his pocket and pretended to read it, while keeping his ears open.
“And what I say is,” said Carter the First, “–same again, Joe–what I say is, when a dawg that's fancied like that dawg is, stops dead 'arf way round the course like as if 'e'd a-bin shot, wot I say is, I likes to know wot's at the back of it.”
“Ar,” said Carter the Second.
“Mind you,” went on Carter the First, “I ain't sayin' as animals is always to be relied on. They 'as their off-days, same as you an' me, but wot I says is–”
“That's a fact,” put in a smaller man, from the other side of Carter the Second, “that's a fact, that is. An' wot's more, they 'as their fancies. I 'ad a dawg once as couldn't abide the sight of a goat. Or maybe it was the smell. I dunno. But show 'im a goat any time, and 'e got a fit of the trembles. Couldn't run all day. I remember one time when I was bringin' 'im up to run at the White City, there was a bloke in the street leadin' two goats on a string–”
“Wot did a bloke want with two goats?” demanded Carter the Second, suspiciously.
“'Ow should I know wot 'e wanted with goats?” retorted the little man, indignantly. “They wasn't my goats, was they? Well, that there dawg–”
“That's different,” said Carter the First. “Nerves is nerves, and a thing like a goat might 'appen to anybody, but wot I says is–”
“What's yours, sir?” inquired the landlord.
“Oh, I think I'll have a Guinness,” said Hector. “Guinness is good for you–particularly on a chilly morning. Perhaps,” he added, feeling pleased with himself and the world, “these gentlemen will join me.”
The two carters and the little man expressed their gratification, and ordered beer.
“It's a queer thing, this business of nerves,” said the little man. “Talking of Guinness, now, my old aunt had a parrot. Some bird it was, too. Learnt to speak from a sailor. Fortunately the old lady couldn't 'ear 'alf of wot it said, and didn't understand the other 'alf. Now, that there bird–”
“You seem to have had a wide experience with livestock,” observed Hector Puncheon.
“I 'ave that,” said the little man. “That there bird, as I was going to say, got fits of nerves as would surprise you. 'Unched 'isself up on 'is perch like, and shivered fit to shake 'isself to pieces. And wot was the reason of that, do you think?”
“Beggared if I know,” said Carter the Second. “Your 'ealth, sir.”
“Mice,” said the little man, triumphantly. “Couldn't stand the sight of a mouse. And wot do you think we 'ad to give it to pull it round, like?”
“Brandy,” suggested Carter the First. “Nothing like brandy for parrots. We got one at 'ome–one o' them green sort. My wife's brother brought it 'ome with 'im–”
“They ain't such good talkers as the grey ones,” said Carter the Second. “There was a parrot at the old Rose & Crown dahn Seven Dials way–”
“Brandy?” scoffed the little man, “not 'im. 'E wouldn't look at brandy.”
“Wouldn't 'e now?” said Carter the First. “Now, you show our old bird brandy, an' 'e'll 'op right out of 'is cage for it same as a Christian. Not too much, mind you, but give it 'im neat in a teaspoon–”
“Well, it wasn't brandy,” persisted the little man. “Aunt's was a teetotal bird, 'e was. Now, I'll give you three guesses, an' if you gets it right, I'll stand drinks all round, and I can't say fairer 'an that.”
“Aspirin?” suggested the landlord, anxious that the round of drinks should be stood by somebody.
The little man shook his head.
“Ginger,” said Carter the Second. “Birds is sometimes wonderful fond o' ginger. Stimulates the innards. Though, mind you, some says it's too 'eatin', an' brings their fevvers aht.”