Dolly, observing these improved conditions, felt that the need for restraint was past and that questions were now in order.
'What happened. Soapy? Did you go there? Did you see her? What's she like?'
Soapy winced. The question had touched an exposed nerve. As had been the case with Freddie Widgeon, he had expected to find in Leila Yorke a frail little wisp of a thing who would be corn before his sickle, and right from the start her personality had intimidated him. He had found those bright, piercing blue eyes of hers particularly disturbing, and later, when she had produced that shot-gun…He shivered at the recollection. He was a man not easy to disconcert - if you make your living selling stock in derelict oil wells, you learn to present a confident, even a brassy, face to the world - but Leila Yorke had done it.
'She's a tough egg,' he said, drying his forehead again. 'You remember Soup Slattery?'
'Of course.' That eminent safe-blower had been one of their intimate circle in the old Chicago days. 'But what's Soup got to do with it?'
'She's a little like him. Better-looking, of course, but that same way of giving you the cold, glassy eye that Soup has when you're playing poker with him and he's got the idea that it's not all according to Hoyle. Those eyes of hers sort of go through you and come out on the other side. Moment I saw her, I knew it wasn't going to be easy, but I never dreamed things were going to turn out the way they did. No, sir, it never occurred to me.'
Nothing is more irritating to a woman of impatient habit, wanting to get the news headlines quick, than to try to obtain them from a man who seems intent on speaking in riddles, and a less affectionate wife than Dolly might well at this point have endeavoured to accelerate her husband by striking him with the cocktail shaker. It is to her credit that she confined herself to words.
'What way? How do you mean? What happened?’
Soapy marshalled his thoughts. He had finished that second martini now, and was feeling calmer. The knowledge that seven miles separated him from Leila Yorke had done much to restore his composure. And he was reminding himself, as Dolly had reminded him yesterday, that you can't win 'em all. It was a comforting reflection. He was not entirely his old hearty self as he began his story, but he had shaken off that dizzy feeling which comes to the man who pays a social call and suddenly finds his hostess jabbing a shot-gun into his diaphragm.
Well, sir, I got to Castlewood and rang the bell. The front door bell. I rang it. Yes, sir, I rang the front door bell.'
Though accustomed to her loved one's always deliberate methods as a raconteur, Dolly could not repress a sharp yelp of exasperation. She needed her lunch, and it looked as though this was going to take some time.
'Get on, get on! I didn't think you blew a bugle.'
This puzzled Soapy. Except when he was selling oil stock, his mind always moved rather slowly.
"Bugle?'
'Get on.'
'Why would I blow a bugle?'
'Skip it. Let it go.'
‘I didn't have a bugle. Where would I get a bugle?'
‘I said skip it. Do concentrate, honey. We left our hero ringing at the door. What happened then?’
‘'She opened it.'
‘She did?'
‘Yes.'
'Hasn't she a maid?'
'Didn't seem to have.'
'No help at all?'
'Not that I could see. Why?'
'Oh, nothing. I was just thinking.'
The thought that had floated into Dolly's mind was that if the garrison of Castlewood was so sparsely manned, it might be possible to drop in one evening with a sandbag and do something constructive. She had always been a woman who liked the direct approach. But Soapy's next words showed this to be but an idle dream.
'All she's got is a secretary and a shot-gun.'
'A shot-gun?’
'That's right. One of those sporting guns it looked like.'
Dolly did not often touch her hair when she had done it to her liking, but she clasped it now with both hands. She was finding her mate's story difficult to follow. The shot-gun motif perplexed her particularly.
'Tell me the whole thing right from the beginning,' she said, reckless of the fact that this might involve another description of how he rang the doorbell.
Soapy asked if there was a dividend. There was, and he drank it gratefully. Then, as if inspired, he plunged into his narrative without more delay.
'Well, like I say, she opened the door, and there we were. "Miss Leila Yorke?" I said. "That's me, brother," she said. "You'll forgive me for butting in like this, Miss Yorke," I said, "but I am one of your greatest admirers. Can I talk to you for a moment?" I said, and then I went into my spiel. It was a swell spiel. If I say it myself, I was good.'
'I'll bet you were.'
'The line I took was that I was one of these rugged millionaires who'd made my money in oil, and I sketched out for her the sort of conditions you live in when you're starting out after oil - the barren scenery, the wooden shacks, the companionship of rough and uneducated men, the absence of anything that gives a shot in the arm to a guy's cultural side. I gave all that a big build-up.'
'I can just hear you.'
' "For years," I said, "I went along like that, starved for intellectual sustenance, and it was getting so that my soul was withering like a faded leaf in the Fall, when one day I happened on a tattered copy of one of her books."'
'Did she ask you which one?'
'Sure she did, and having looked her up in Who's Who, I was able to tell her. It was one of the early ones. I said it kind of seemed to open a new world to me, and as soon as I was able to raise the money from my meagre earnings I bought the whole lot and read them over and over, each time learning something fresh from them. I said I owed her more than I could ever repay.'
'That must have tickled her.'
'You'd have thought so, but it was just then that I noticed she was looking at me in that odd, Soup Slattery kind of way, sort of narrowing her eyes as if there was something about my face she didn't like.'
'If she didn't like your face, she must be cuckoo. It's a swell face.'
'Well, I've always got by with it, but that was the way she was looking. "So you feel you owe me a lot, do you?" she said, and I said, "I do indeed," and she said, "That's just how I feel."'
'Kind of conceited,' said Dolly disapprovingly.
'That's how it struck me. These authors, I said to myself. Still, I didn't hold it against her, because I knew they were all that way. I went into my sales talk. I said money was no object to me, and I wanted to buy this house of hers, no matter what it cost, and keep it as a sort of shrine. I wasn't sure, I said, if I wouldn't have it taken down and shipped over to America and set up on my big estate in Virginia. Like William Randolph Hearst used to do.'
'But Castlewood doesn't belong to her. She's only renting it, same as we did.'
'Yes, I knew that, of course, but I was just leading up to the big moment. She told me the place belonged to Keggs and he was in Singapore or somewhere on his round-the-world cruise, and I said well, that was too bad, because I'd set my heart on getting it and this was going to be a great disappointment to my friends on the other side, who were all great admirers of hers, same as me. "But you won't mind me just rambling about and taking a look at this shrine where you live and work?" I said, and was starting to head for the bedroom when she said, "Excuse me."'
'Went to powder her nose?'
'No, she went to get this shot-gun of hers. She came back with it, and pointed it at my wishbone. "Listen, rat!" she said. "Your kind attention for a moment, please. You have just three seconds to get out of here."'
'For Pete's sake! Why?'
'The very question I asked her. And she said, "So you made your money out of oil, did you? I'll say you did, my rugged millionaire, and a thousand pounds of it was donated by me. Le Touquet three years ago. Remember?" Baby, she was the dame in the Casino I told you about, the one I sold that Silver River to. Naturally I hadn't placed her. When
we did our deal, she was wearing dark glasses, and one meets so many people. But she remembered me all right. "I shall count three," she said, "and if by the time I say 'ee' you aren't half-way back to America, you'll get a charge of shot in the seat of the pants." Well, I can take a hint. I didn't stand loitering about. I left. So there you are, honey. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred that line of talk of mine would have dragged home the gravy, but this was the one time it didn't. Too bad, but nobody to blame.'
Dolly was all wifely sympathy.
'I'm not blaming, you, sweetie. You did all that man could do…unless…You couldn't have beaned her with a chair, I suppose?'
'Not a hope. If I'd made a move or so much as stirred a finger, I wouldn't be sitting down like this. I'd be lying on my face with you picking shot out of me with your eyebrow tweezers. She meant business,' said Soapy, and stirred uneasily in his chair as he thought of what might have been. He was a highly-strung man, and vivid mental pictures came easily to him.
Dolly sat frowning thoughtfully. A lesser woman would have been crushed by this tale of disaster, but she never allowed a temporary setback to make her forget the lesson of the story of Bruce and the spider. Like the poet, she held it truth with him who sings to one clear harp in divers tones that men - or, in her case, women - can rise on stepping stones of their dead selves to higher things.
'We must have another try,' she said, and Soapy started as if Leila Yorke and her shot-gun had materialized themselves before him.
'You aren't suggesting I go to Castlewood again?'
'Not you, sweetie, me.'
'But what sort of spiel can you give her?'
'Ah, that wants thinking out. But I'll dig up something. The thought of all that ice laying there on top of that wardrobes when at any moment someone might get the idea of dusting there and put their hooks on it, goes right against my better nature. Come on, honey, let's lunch. You need some nourishing food inside you after going through that…what's the word?'
'Ordeal,' said Mr. Molloy, whose life work had given him a good vocabulary. 'When you're up against a dame with glittering eyes and one ringer on the trigger of a shot-gun, that's an ordeal, and don't let anyone tell you different.'
There is something about lunch at a place like Barribault's that raises the spirits and stimulates the brain. The hors d'oeuvres seem to whisper that the sun will some day shine once more, the cold salmon with tartare sauce points out that though the skies are dark, the silver lining will be along at any moment, and with the fruit salad or whatever it may be that tops off the meal, there comes a growing conviction that the bluebird, though admittedly asleep at the switch of late, has not formally gone out of business. These optimistic reflections did not occur to Soapy, who remained downcast and moody throughout, but Dolly had scarcely taken two bites out of her peche Melba when she uttered a glad cry.
‘Soapy, I’ve got it!'
Mr. Molloy, who was toying with a strawberry ice, jerked a spoonful into space. It fell to earth, he knew not where. 'Got what, baby? Not an idea?'
'Yay, and a darned good one.'
The gloom which had been enveloping Soapy lightened a little. He had a solid respect for his wife's ingenuity.
'Look, honey, you told me there was no help at Castlewood. Well, look, this Yorke dame and the secretary have got to go out some time, haven't they? To do the shopping and all that.'
‘I guess so.'
'So the place'll be empty. Well, what's to stop me going down there and hanging around till the coast's clear and slipping in? The Widgeon guy goes off to his office in the morning, so I can wait in the front garden of Peacehaven till I see them leave.'
'Suppose they don't leave?'
'For heaven's sake, they've got to do it some time or other. As a matter of fact, I think the balloon'll go up tomorrow, because I read a thing in the paper about how Leila Yorke was due to speak at some luncheon or other, and I guess she'll take the secretary with her. Even if she doesn't, the secretary's sure to play hooky when she's not around. Ask me, the thing'll be handed to us on a plate. I'll go there tomorrow right after breakfast. Unless you'd rather?'
Mr. Molloy, shuddering strongly, said he would not rather.
'All right, then, me. I don't see how it can fail. The back door won't be locked. I can just slip in. Any questions?'
'Not a one. Baby,' said Mr. Molloy devoutly, 'I've said it before and I'll say it again, There's no one like you.'
10
The function at which Leila Yorke had committed herself to speak was the bi-monthly lunch of the women's branch of the Pen and Ink Club, and she had completely forgotten the engagement till Sally reminded her of it. On learning that the curse had come upon her, she uttered one of those crisp expletives which were too sadly often on her lips and said that that was what you got for letting your guard down for a single moment with these darned organising secretaries. Iron unremitting firmness was what you needed if you were not to be a puppet in their hands.
'They're cunning. That's the trouble. They write to you in December asking you to do your stuff in the following June, and you, knowing that June will never arrive, say you will, and blister my internal organs if June doesn't come around after all.'
'Suddenly it's Spring.'
'Exactly. And you wake up one fine morning and realize you're for it. You ever been to one of these fêtes that are worse than death, Sally?'
'No, I'm not a member of the Pen and Ink. Mine has been a very sheltered life.'
'Avoid them,' Leila Yorke advised, 'especially the all-women ones. Yes, I know you're going to argue that it's better to be confronted with a gaggle of female writers in ghastly hats and pince-nez than a roomful of male writers with horn-rimmed glasses and sideburns, but I disagree with you. The female of the species is far deadlier than the male. What am I to say to these gargoyles?'
' "Good afternoon, gargoyles"?'
'And then sit down? Not a bad idea. I don't think it's ever been done. Well, go and get the car out. I've some shopping to do, so we'll make an early start.'
'We?'
'Oh, I'm not going to drag you into the lunch. One has one's human feelings. I want you to go and see Saxby and tell him of the changes of plans about the new book. As my literary agent, I suppose he's entitled to be let in on the thing. Break it to him gently. Better take a flask of brandy with you in case he swoons.'
'He'll be upset, all right.'
'And so will my poor perishing publishers. I've a contract for six books with them, and if I have my strength, those books are going to get starker and starker right along, and the starker they become, the lower will those unhappy blighters' jaws drop. But I can't help their troubles. Suppose they do lose their shirts? Money isn't everything.'
'You can't take it with you.'
'Exactly. After seeing Saxby, look in on them and tell them that. It'll cheer them up. But do you know who's going to howl like a timber wolf about this?'
'The whole firm, I should say. They rely on you for their annual holiday-at-Blackpool expenses.'
'Prosser, that's who. He's got a wad of money in the business, and when he finds I'm putting it in jeopardy, he'll hit the ceiling. Oh, well, no good worrying about Prosser. Into each life some rain must fall. Go and get the car.'
Sally got the car, and as they drove off and were passing Peacehaven startled her employer by uttering a sudden exclamation.
'Now what?' said Leila Yorke.
'Nothing,' said Sally.
But it had not been nothing. What had caused her to exclaim had been the sight of a spectacular blonde leaning on the Peacehaven front gate, as if, so it seemed to her jaundiced eye, the place belonged to her. The last thing a girl likes to see leaning in this manner on the gate of the man she loves, especially when she knows him to be one of the opposite sex's greatest admirers, is a blonde of that description. Even a brunette would have been enough to start a train of thought in Sally's mind, and she passed the remainder of the short journey to the metropolis in silen
ce, a prey to disturbing reflections on the subject of leopards and spots and the well-known inability of the former to change the latter. It was only when the car had been housed at a garage near Berkeley Square and she and Leila Yorke had parted, the one to do her shopping, the other to go and ruin the morning of Mr. Saxby, the literary agent, and of the Messrs. Popgood and Grooly, Miss Yorke's poor perishing publishers, that there came to her a consoling reflection - to wit, that Freddie had told her that he shared Peacehaven with his cousin George, the sleepless guardian of the law. Policemen, she knew, have their softer side and like, when off duty, to sport with Amaryllis in the shade. No doubt the spectacular one was a friend of George's. As she entered the premises of the Saxby literary agency, Freddie having thus been dismissed without a stain on his character, she was feeling quite happy.
So, as she leaned on the gate of Peacehaven and watched the car disappear round the corner, was Dolly Molloy. Everything, as she envisaged it, was now hunkadory. There remained only the task of walking a few yards, slipping in through a back door, mounting a flight of stairs, picking up a chamois leather bag and going home, a simple programme which she was confident would be well within her scope. And she was opening the gate as a preliminary to the first stage of the venture, when from immediately behind her a voice spoke, causing her to skip like the high hills and swallow the chewing gum with which she had been refreshing herself.
'Oh, hullo,' it said, and turning she perceived a tall, superbly muscled young man, at the sight of whom her hazel eyes, which had been shining with a glad light, registered dismay and horror. This was not because she disliked tall, superbly muscled young men or because the Oxford accent in which he had spoken jarred upon her transatlantic ear; it was due to the circumstance that the other was wearing the uniform and helmet of a policeman, and if there was one thing a checkered life had taught her to shrink from, it was the close proximity of members of the force. No good, in her experience, ever came of it.