“So the Duchess inferred,” replied Wimsey. “I am sorry. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave at once.”
“That's pretty good,” said Milligan, insolently. “I'm afraid it won't work. It may be a fact that we weren't invited here, but we aren't going to turn out for a nameless acrobat who's afraid to show his face.”
“You must be mistaking me for a friend of yours,” said Wimsey. “Allow me.” He stepped across to the nearest pillar and pressed a switch, flooding that end of the terrace with light. “My name is Peter Wimsey; I am Denver's brother, and my face–such as it is, is entirely at your service.”
He fixed his monocle in his eye and stared unpleasantly at Milligan.
“But aren't you my Harlequin?” protested Dian. “Don't be such an ass–I know you are. I know your voice perfectly well–and your mouth and chin. Besides, you were whistling that tune.”
“This is very interesting,” said Wimsey. “Is it possible–I fear it is–I think you must have encountered my unfortunate cousin Bredon.”
“That was the name–” began Dian, uncertainly, and stopped.
“I am glad to hear it,” replied Wimsey. “Sometimes he gives mine, which makes it very awkward.”
“See here, Dian,” broke in Milligan, “you seem to have dropped a brick. You'd better apologize and then we'll clear. Sorry we crashed in, and all that–”
“One moment,” said Wimsey. “I should like to hear more about this. Be good enough to come into the house for a moment. This way.”
He ushered them courteously round the corner of the terrace, up a side path and by way of a French window into a small ante-room, laid out with tables and a cocktail bar.
“What will you drink? Whiskies? I might have known it. The abominable practice of putting whisky on top of mixed drinks late at night is responsible for more ruined complexions and reputations than any other single cause. There is many a woman now walking the streets of London through putting whisky on top of gin cocktails. Two stiff whiskies, Tomlin, and a liqueur brandy.”
“Very good, my lord.”
“You perceive,” said Wimsey, returning with the drinks, “the true object of this hospitable gesture. I have established my identity, by the evidence of the reliable Tomlin. Let us now seek a spot less open to interruption. I suggest the library. This way. My brother, being an English gentleman, possesses a library in all his houses, though he never opens a book. This is called fidelity to ancient tradition. The chairs, however, are comfortable. Pray be seated. And now, tell me all about your encounter with my scandalous cousin.”
“One moment,” said Milligan, before Dian could speak. “I think I know the stud-book pretty well. I was not aware that you had a cousin Bredon.”
“It is not every puppy that appears in the kennel-book,” replied Wimsey carelessly, “and it is a wise man that knows all his own cousins. But what matter? Family is family, though indicated by the border compony (or gobony if you prefer that form of the word) or by the bend or baton sinister, called by most writers of fiction the bar sinister, for reasons which I am unable to determine. My regrettable cousin Bredon, having no particular right to one family name more than another, makes it his practice to employ them all in turn, thus displaying a happy absence of favouritism. Please help yourselves to smokes. You will find the cigars passable, Mr.–er–”
“Milligan.”
“Ah! the notor–the well-known Major Milligan? You have a residence on the river, I fancy. Charming, charming. Its fame has reached me from time to time through my good brother-in-law, Chief-Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard. A beautiful, retired spot, I believe?”
“Just so,” said Milligan. “I had the pleasure of entertaining your cousin there one night.”
“Did he gate-crash on you? That is exactly what he would do. And you have retorted upon my dear sister-in-law. Poetic justice, of course. I appreciate it–though possibly the Duchess will take a different view of the matter.”
“No; he was brought by a lady of my acquaintance.”
“He is improving. Major Milligan, painful though it may be to me, I feel that I ought to warn you against that cousin of mine. He is definitely not nice to know. If he has been thrusting his attentions upon Miss de Momerie, it is probably with some ulterior object. Not,” added Wimsey, “that any man would need an ulterior object for such attentions. Miss de Momerie is an object in herself–”
His eye wandered over Dian, scantily clothed and slightly intoxicated, with a cold appraisement which rendered the words almost impertinent.
“But,” he resumed, “I know my cousin Bredon–too well. Few people know him better. And I must confess that he is the last man to whom I should look for a disinterested attachment. I am unhappily obliged, in self-defence, to keep an eye on Cousin Bredon's movements, and I should be deeply grateful to be informed of the details of his latest escapade.”
“All right, I'll tell you,” said Dian. The whisky had strung her up to recklessness, and she became suddenly voluble, disregarding Milligan's scowls. She poured out the tale of her adventures. The incident of the fountain-dive seemed to cause Lord Peter Wimsey acute distress.
“Vulgar ostentation!” he said, shaking his head. “How many times have I implored Bredon to conduct himself in a quiet and reasonable manner.”
“I thought he was too marvellous,” said Dian, and proceeded to relate the encounter in the wood.
“He always plays 'Tom, Tom, the piper's son,' so of course, when you came along whistling it, I thought it was him.”
Wimsey's face darkened in a most convincing manner.
“Disgusting,” he said.
“Besides, you are so much alike–the same voice and the same face as far as one can see it, you know. But of course he never took off his mask–”
“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.”
CHAPTER XII
SURPRISING ACQUISITION OF A JUNIOR REPORTER
Very 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–”