Hangmans Holiday (20 page)

“I know the lady, Dr. Moyle. That is to say, she has been here several times lately. She usually wears an M.A. gown. I saw her here this morning, but I didn’t notice when she left. I don’t think I ever heard her name, but seeing that she was a senior member of the University—”

Mr. Egg waited to hear no more. An idea was burgeoning in his mind. He walked away, courageously pushed open the Readers’ Wicket, and stalked down the solemn mediæval length of Duke Humphrey’s Library. In the remotest and darkest bay, he observed Mr. Temple, who, having apparently had his sandwich and forgotten about the murder, sat alone, writing busily, amid a pile of repellent volumes, with a large attaché-case full of papers open before him.

Leaning over the table, Mr. Egg addressed him in an urgent whisper:

“Excuse me, sir. The police Superintendent asked me to say that they think they have found the lady, and would be glad if you would kindly step down at once and identify her.”

“The lady?” Mr. Temple looked up vaguely. “Oh, yes—the lady. To be sure. Immediately? That is not very convenient. Is it so very urgent?”

“They said particularly to lose no time, sir,” said Mr. Egg.

Mr. Temple muttered something, rose, seemed to hesitate whether to clear up his papers or not, and finally shovelled them all into the bulging attaché-case, which he locked upon them.

“Let me carry this for you, sir,” said Monty, seizing it promptly and shepherding Mr. Temple briskly out. “They’re still in the cloisters, I think, but the Super said, would you kindly wait a few moments for him in the porter’s lodge. Here we are.”

He handed Mr. Temple and his attaché-case over to the care of the porter, who looked a little surprised at seeing Mr. Egg in academic dress, but, on hearing the Superintendent’s name, said nothing. Mr. Egg hastened through quad and cloisters and mounted Mr. Radcott’s staircase at a run.

“Excuse me, sir,” he demanded breathlessly of that young gentleman, “but what is a Phi book?”

“A Phi book,” replied Radcott, in some surprise, “is a book deemed by Bodley’s Librarian to be of an indelicate nature, and catalogued accordingly, by some dead-and-gone humorist, under the Greek letter
phi.
Why the question?”

“Well,” said Mr. Egg, “it just occurred to me how simple it would be for anybody to walk into the Bodleian, disguise himself in a retired corner—say in Duke Humphrey’s Library—walk out, commit a murder, return, change back to his own clothes and walk out. Nobody would stop a person from coming in again, if he—or she—had previously been seen to go out—especially if the disguise had been used in the library before. Just a change of clothes and an M.A. gown would be enough.”

“What in the world are you getting at?”

“This lady, who was in the cloisters at the time of the murder. Mr. Temple says she was sitting at his table. But isn’t it funny that Mr. Temple should have drawn special attention to himself by asking for a Phi book, to-day of all days? If he was once a Fellow of this college, he’d know which way Dr. Greeby would go after his lecture; and he may have had a grudge against him on account of that old trouble, whatever it was. He’d know about the niche in the wall, too. And he’s got an attaché-case with him that might easily hold a lady’s hat and a skirt long enough to hide his trousers. And why is he wearing a topcoat on such a hot day, if not to conceal the upper portion of his garments? Not that it’s any business of mine—but—well, I just took the liberty of asking myself. And I’ve got him out there, with his case, and the porter keeping an eye on him.”

Thus Mr. Egg, rather breathlessly. Radcott gaped at him.

“Temple? My dear man, you’re as potty as he is. Why, he’s always confessing—he confessed to this—you can’t possibly suppose—”

“I daresay I’m wrong,” said Mr. Egg. “But isn’t there a fable about the man who cried ‘Wolf!’ so often that nobody would believe him when the wolf really came? There’s a motto in the
Salesman’s Handbook
that I always admire very much. It says: ‘Discretion plays a major part in making up the salesman’s art, for truths that no one can believe are calculated to deceive.’ I think that’s rather subtle, don’t you?”

N
O LONDONER CAN EVER
resist the attraction of a street crowd. Mr. Montague Egg, driving up Kingsway, and observing a group of people staring into the branches of one of the slender plane-trees which embellish that thoroughfare, drew up to see what all the excitement was about.

“Poor puss!” cried the bystanders, snapping encouraging fingers. “Poor pussy, then! Kitty, kitty, kitty, come on!”

“Look, baby, look at the pretty pussy!”

“Fetch her a bit of cat’s-meat.”

“She’ll come down when she’s tired of it.”

“Chuck a stone at her!”

“Now then, what’s all this about?”

The slender, shabby child who stood so forlornly holding the empty basket appealed to the policeman.

“Oh, do please send these people away! How
can
he come down, with everybody shouting at him? He’s frightened, poor darling.”

From among the swaying branches a pair of amber eyes gleamed wrathfully down. The policeman scratched his head.

“Bit of a job, ain’t it, missie? However did he come to get up there?”

“The fastening came undone, and he jumped out of the basket just as we were getting off the ’bus. Oh, please do something!”

Mr. Montague Egg, casting his eye over the crowd, perceived on its outskirts a window-cleaner with his ladders upon a truck. He hailed him.

“Fetch that ladder along, sonnie, and we’ll soon get him down, if you’ll allow me to try, miss. If we leave him to himself, he’ll probably stick up there for ages. ‘It’s hard to reassure, persuade or charm the customer who once has felt alarm.’ Carefully, now. That’s the ticket.”

“Oh, thank you so much! Oh, do be gentle with him. He does so hate being handled.”

“That’s all right, miss; don’t you worry. Always the gentleman, that’s Monty Egg. Kind about the house and clean with children. Up she goes!”

And Mr. Egg, clapping his smart trilby upon his head and uttering crooning noises, ascended into the leafage. A loud explosion of spitting sounds and a small shower of twigs floated down to the spectators, and presently Mr. Egg followed, rather awkwardly, clutching a reluctant bunch of ginger fur. The girl held out the basket, the four furiously kicking legs were somehow bundled in, a tradesman’s lad produced a piece of string, the lid was secured, the window-cleaner was rewarded and removed his ladder, and the crowd dispersed. Mr. Egg, winding his pocket-handkerchief about a lacerated wrist, picked the scattered leaves out of his collar and straightened his tie.

“Oh, he’s scratched you dreadfully!” lamented the girl, her blue eyes large and tragic.

“Not at all,” replied Mr. Egg. “Very happy to have been of assistance, I am sure. Can I have the pleasure of driving you anywhere? It’ll be pleasanter for him than a ’bus, and if we pull up the windows he can’t jump out, even if he does get the basket open again.”

The girl protested, but Mr. Egg firmly bustled her into his little saloon and inquired where she wanted to go.

“It’s this address,” said the girl, pulling a newspaper cutting out of her worn handbag. “Somewhere in Soho, isn’t it?”

Mr. Egg, with some surprise, read the advertisement:

“WANTED: hard-working, capable
CAT
(either sex), keep down mice in pleasant villa residence and be companion to middle-aged couple. Ten shillings and good home to suitable applicant. Apply personally to Mr. John Doe, La Cigale Bienheureuse, Frith St., W., on Tuesday between 11 and 1 o’clock.”

“That’s a funny set-out,” said Mr. Egg, frowning.

“Oh! do you think there’s anything wrong with it? Is it just a joke?”

“Well,” said Mr. Egg, “I can’t quite see why anybody wants to pay ten bob for an ordinary cat, can you? I mean, they usually come gratis and f.o.b. from somebody who doesn’t like drowning kittens. And I don’t quite believe in Mr. John Doe; he sounds like what they call a legal fiction.”

“Oh, dear!” cried the girl, with tears in the blue eyes. “I did so hope it would be all right. You see, we’re so dreadfully hard up, with father out of work, and Maggie—that’s my stepmother—says she won’t keep Maher-shalal-hashbaz any longer, because he scratches the table-legs and eats as much as a Christian, bless him!—though he doesn’t really—only a little milk and a bit of cat’s-meat, and he’s a beautiful mouser, only there aren’t many mice where we live—and I thought, if I could get him a good home—and ten shillings for some new boots for Dad, he needs them so badly—”

“Oh, well, cheer up,” said Mr. Egg. “Perhaps they’re willing to pay for a full-grown, certified mouser. Or—tell you what—it may be one of these cinema stunts. We’ll go and see, anyhow; only I think you’d better let me come with you and interview Mr. Doe. I’m quite respectable,” he added hastily. “Here’s my card. Montague Egg, travelling representative of Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits, Piccadilly. Interviewing customers is my long suit. ‘The salesman’s job is to get the trade—don’t leave the house till the deal is made’—that’s Monty’s motto.”

“My name’s Jean Maitland, and Dad’s in the commercial line himself—at least, he was till he got bronchitis last winter, and now he isn’t strong enough to go on the road.”

“Bad luck!” said Monty sympathetically, as he turned down High Holborn. He liked this child of sixteen or so, and registered a vow that “something should be done about it.”

It seemed as though there were other people who thought ten shillings good payment for a cat. The pavement before the grubby little Soho restaurant was thick with cat-owners, some carrying baskets, some clutching their animals in their arms. The air resounded with the mournful cries of the prisoners.

“Some competition,” said Monty. “Well, anyhow, the post doesn’t seem to be filled yet. Hang on to me, and we’ll try what we can do.”

They waited for some time. It seemed that the applicants were being passed out through a back entrance, for, though many went in, some returned. Eventually they secured a place in the queue going up a dingy staircase, and, after a further eternity, found themselves facing a dark and discouraging door. Presently this was opened by a stout and pursy-faced man, with very sharp little eyes, who said briskly: “Next, please!” and they walked in.

“Mr. John Doe?” said Monty.

“Yes. Brought your cat? Oh, the young lady’s cat. I see. Sit down, please. Name and address, miss?”

The girl gave an address south of the Thames, and the man made a note of it, “in case,” he explained, “the chosen candidate should prove unsuitable, and I might want to write to you again. Now, let us see the cat.”

The basket was opened, and a ginger head emerged resentfully.

“Oh, yes. Fine specimen. Poor pussy, then. He doesn’t seem very friendly.”

“He’s frightened by the journey, but he’s a darling when he once knows you, and a splendid mouser. And so clean.”

“That’s important. Must have him clean. And he must work for his living, you know.”

“Oh, he will. He can tackle rats or anything. We call him Maher-shalal-hashbaz, because he ‘makes haste to the spoil.’ But he answers to Mash, don’t you, darling?”

“I see. Well, he seems to be in good condition. No fleas? No diseases? My wife is very particular.”

“Oh, no. He’s a splendid healthy cat. Fleas, indeed!”

“No offence, but I must be particular, because we shall make a great pet of him. I don’t care much for his colour. Ten shillings is a high price to pay for a ginger one. I don’t know whether—”

“Come, come,” said Monty. “Nothing was said in your advertisement about colour. This lady has come a long way to bring you the cat, and you can’t expect her to take less than she’s offered. You’ll never get a better cat than this; everyone knows that the ginger ones are the best mousers—they’ve got more go in them. And look at his handsome white shirt-front. It
shows
you how beautifully clean he is. And think of the advantage—you can
see
him—you and your good lady won’t go tripping over him in a dark corner, same as you do with these black and tabby ones. As a matter of fact, we ought to charge extra for such a handsome colour as this. They’re much rarer and more high-class than the ordinary cat.”

“There’s something in that,” admitted Mr. Doe. “Well, look here, Miss Maitland. Suppose you bring Maher—what you said—out to our place this evening, and if my wife likes him we will keep him. Here’s the address. And you must come at six precisely, please, as we shall be going out later.”

Monty looked at the address, which was at the northern extremity of the Edgware-Morden Tube.

“It’s a very long way to come on the chance,” he said resolutely. “You will have to pay Miss Maitland’s expenses.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Doe. “That’s only fair. Here is half a crown. You can return me the change this evening. Very well, thank you. Your cat will have a really happy home if he comes to us. Put him back in his basket now. The other way out, please. Mind the step.
Good
morning.”

Mr. Egg and his new friend, stumbling down an excessively confined and stuffy back staircase into a malodorous by-street, looked at one another.

“He seemed rather an abrupt sort of person,” said Miss Maitland. “I do
hope
he’ll be kind to Maher-shalal-hashbaz. You were
marvellous
about the gingeriness—I thought he was going to be stuffy about that. My angel Mash! how
anybody
could object to his beautiful colour!”

“Um!” said Mr. Egg. “Well, Mr. Doe may be O.K., but I shall believe in his ten shillings when I see it. And, in any case, you’re not going to his house alone. I shall call for you in the car at five o’clock.”

“But, Mr. Egg—I can’t allow you! Besides, you’ve taken half a crown off him for my fare.”

“That’s only business,” said Mr. Egg. “Five o’clock sharp I shall be there.”

“Well, come at four, and let us give you a cup of tea, anyway. That’s the least we can do.”

“Pleased, I’m sure,” said Mr. Egg.

The house occupied by Mr. John Doe was a new detached villa standing solitary at the extreme end of a new and unmade surburban road. It was Mrs. Doe who answered the bell—a small, frightened-looking woman with watery eyes and a nervous habit of plucking at her pale lips with her fingers. Maher-shalal-hashbaz was released from his basket in the sitting-room, where Mr. Doe was reclining in an armchair, reading the evening paper. The cat sniffed suspiciously at him, but softened to Mrs. Doe’s timid advances so far as to allow his ears to be tickled.