Money for Nothing (15 page)

'No, no!'

'I'm through.'

'Don't say that.'

'I do say thad.'

'But, Chimpie, we've got it all fixed for you to get away with the stuff tonight.'

Chimp stared at him incredulously.

'Tonight? You thig I'm going out tonight with this code of mine, to clibe through windows and be run off my legs by . . .'

'But, Chimpie, there's no danger of that now. We've got everything set. That guy Hugo and his friend are going to London this morning, and so's the other fellow. You won't have a thing to do but walk in.'

'Oh?' said Chimp.

He relapsed into silence, and took a thoughtful sniff at the jug. This information, he was bound to admit, did alter the complexion of affairs. But he was a business man.

'Well, if I do agree to go out and risk exposing this nasty, feverish code of mine to the night air, which is the worst thig a man can do – ask any doctor . . .'

'Chimpie!' cried Mr Molloy in a stricken voice. His keen intuition told him what was coming.

'. . . I don't do it on any sigsdy-forty basis. Sigsdy-five–thirty–five is the figure.'

Mr Molloy had always been an eloquent man – without a natural turn for eloquence you cannot hope to traffic successfully in the baser varieties of oil stocks – but never had he touched the sublime heights of oratory to which he soared now. Even the first few words would have been enough to melt most people. Nevertheless, when at the end of five minutes he paused for breath, he knew that he had failed to grip his audience.

'Sigsdy-five–thirty-five,' said Chimp firmly. 'You need me, or you wouldn't have brought me into this. If you could have worked the job by yourself, you'd never have tode me a word about it.'

'I can't work it by myself. I've got to have an alibi. I and the wife are going to a theatre tonight in Birmingham.'

'That's what I'm saying. You can't get alog without me. And that's why it's going to be sigsdy-five–thirty-five.'

Mr Molloy wandered to the window and looked hopelessly out over the garden.

'Think what Dolly will say when I tell her,' he pleaded.

Chimp replied ungallantly that Dolly and what she might say meant little in his life. Mr Molloy groaned hollowly.

'Well, I guess if that's the way you feel . . .'

Chimp assured him it was.

'Then I suppose that's the way we'll have to fix it.'

'All right,' said Chimp. 'Then I'll be there somewheres about eleven, or a little later, maybe. And you needn't bother to leave any window opud this time. Just have a ladder laying around and I'll bust the window of the picture-gallery, where the stuff is. It'll be more trouble, but I dode bide takid a bidder trouble to make thigs look more natural. You just see thad thad ladder's where I can fide it, and then you can leave all the difficud part of it to me.'

'Difficult!'

'Difficud was what I said,' returned Chimp. 'Suppose I trip over somethig id the dark? Suppose I slip on the stairs? Suppose the ladder breaks? Suppose that dog gets after me again? That dog's not goig to London, is it? Well, then! Besides, considering that I may quide ligely get pneumonia and pass in my checks . . . What did you say?'

Mr Molloy had not spoken. He had merely sighed wistfully.

Although anxious thought for the comfort of his juniors was not habitually one of Lester Carmody's outstanding qualities, in planning his nephew John's expedition to London he had been considerateness itself. John, he urged, must on no account dream of trying to make the double journey in a single day. Apart from the fatigue inseparable from such a performance, he was a young man, and young men, Mr Carmody pointed out, are always the better for a little relaxation and an occasional taste of the pleasures which a metropolis has to offer. Let John have a good dinner in London, go to a theatre, sleep comfortably at a first-class hotel and return at his leisure on the morrow.

Nevertheless, in spite of his uncle's solicitude, nightfall found the latter hurrying back into Worcestershire in the Widgeon Seven. He did not admit that he was nervous, yet there had undoubtedly come upon him something that resembled uneasiness. He had been thinking a good deal during his ride to London about the peculiar behaviour of his cousin Hugo on the previous night. The supposition that Hugo had found Doctor Twist of Healthward Ho trying to burgle Rudge Hall was, of course, too absurd for consideration, but it did seem possible that he had surprised some sort of an attempt upon the house. Rambling and incoherent as his story had been, it had certainly appeared to rest upon that substratum of fact, and John had protested rather earnestly to his uncle against being sent to London, on an errand which could have been put through much more simply by letter, at a time when burglars were in the neighbourhood.

Mr Carmody had laughed at his apprehensions. It was most unlikely, he pointed out, that Hugo had ever seen a marauder at all. But assuming that he had done so, and that he had surprised and pursued him about the garden, was it reasonable to suppose that the man would return on the very next night? And if, finally, he did return, the mere absence of John would make very little difference. Unless he proposed to patrol the grounds all night, John, sleeping as he did over the stable-yard, could not be of much help, and even without him Rudge Hall was scarcely in a state of defencelessness. Sturgis, the butler, it was true, must, on account of age and flat feet, be reckoned a non-combatant, but apart from Mr Carmody himself the garrison, John must recollect, included the intrepid Thomas G. Molloy, a warrior at the very mention of whose name Bad Men in Western mining-camps had in days gone by trembled like aspens.

It was all very plausible, yet John, having completed his business in London, swallowed an early dinner and turned the head of the Widgeon Seven homewards.

It is often the man with the smallest stake in a venture who has its interests most deeply at heart. His uncle Lester John had always suspected of a complete lack of interest in the welfare of Rudge Hall; and, as for Hugo, that urban-minded young man looked on the place as a sort of penitentiary, grudging every moment he was compelled to spend within its ancient walls. To John it was left to regard Rudge in the right Carmody spirit, the spirit of that Nigel Carmody who had once held it for King Charles against the forces of the Commonwealth. Where Rudge was concerned, John was fussy. The thought of intruders treading its sacred floors appalled him. He urged the Widgeon Seven forward at its best speed and reached Rudge as the clock over the stables was striking eleven.

The first thing that met his eye as he turned in at the stable-yard was the door of the garage gaping widely open and empty space in the spot where the Dex-Mayo should have stood. He ran the two-seater in, switched off the engine and the lights, and, climbing down stiffly, proceeded to ponder over this phenomenon. The only explanation he could think of was that his uncle must have ordered the car out after dinner on an expedition of some kind. To Birmingham, probably. The only place you ever went to from Rudge after nightfall was Birmingham.

John thought he could guess what must have happened. He did not often read the Birmingham papers himself, but the
Post
came to the house every morning: and he seemed to see Miss Molloy, her appetite for entertainment whetted rather than satisfied by the village concert, finding in its columns the announcement that one of the musical comedies of her native land was playing at the Prince of Wales. No doubt she had wheedled his uncle into taking herself and her father over there, with the result that here the house was without anything in the shape of protection except butler Sturgis, who had been old when John was a boy.

A wave of irritation passed over John. Two long drives in the Widgeon Seven in a single day had induced even in his whipcord body a certain measure of fatigue. He had been looking forward to tumbling into bed without delay, and this meant that he must remain up and keep vigil till the party's return. Well, at least he would rout Emily out of her slumbers.

'Hullo?' said Emily sleepily, in answer to his whistle. 'Yes?'

'Come down,' called John.

There was a scrabbling on the stairs. Emily bounded out, full of life.

'Well, well, well!' she said. 'You back?'

'Come along.'

'What's up? More larks?'

'Don't make such a beastly noise,' said John. 'Do you know what time it is?'

They walked out together and proceeded to make a slow circle of the house. And gradually the magic of the night began to soften John's annoyance. The grounds of Rudge Hall, he should have remembered, were at their best at this hour and under these conditions. Shy little scents were abroad which did not trust themselves out in the daytime, and you needed stillness like this really to hear the soft whispering of the trees.

London had been stiflingly hot, and this sweet coolness was like balm. Emily had disappeared into the darkness, which probably meant that she would clump back up the stairs at two in the morning having rolled in something unpleasant and ruin his night's repose by leaping on his chest, but he could not bring himself to worry about it. A sort of beatific peace was upon him. It was almost as though an inner voice were whispering to him that he was on the brink of some wonderful experience. And what experience the immediate future could hold except the possible washing of Emily when she finally decided to come home he was unable to imagine.

Moving at a leisurely pace, he worked round to the back of the house again and stepped off the grass on to the gravel outside the stable-yard. And as his shoes grated in the warm silence a splash of white suddenly appeared in the blackness before him.

'Johnnie?'

He came back on his heels as if he had received a blow. It was the voice of Pat, sounding in the warm silence like moonlight made audible.

'Is that you, Johnnie?'

John broke into a little run. His heart was jumping, and all the happiness which had been glowing inside him had leaped up into a roaring flame. That mysterious premonition had meant something, after all. But he had never dreamed it could mean anything so wonderful as this.

The night was full of stars, but overhanging trees made the spot where they stood a little island of darkness in which all that was visible of Pat was a faint gleaming of white. John stared at her dumbly. Only once in his life before could he remember having felt as he felt now, and that was one raw November evening at school at the close of the football match against Marlborough when, after battling wearily through a long half hour to preserve the slenderest of all possible leads, he had heard the referee's whistle sound through the rising mists and had stood up, bruised and battered and covered with mud, to the realization that the game was over and won. He had had his moments since then, but never again till now had he felt that strange, almost awful ecstasy.

Pat, for her part, appeared composed.

'That mongrel of yours is a nice sort of watchdog,' she said. 'I've been flinging tons of gravel at your window and she hasn't uttered a sound.'

'Emily's gone away somewhere.'

'I hope she gets bitten by a rabbit,' said Pat. 'I'm off that hound for life. I met her in the village a little while ago and she practically cut me dead.'

There was a pause.

'Pat!' said John, thickly.

'I thought I'd come up and see how you were getting on. It was such a lovely night, I couldn't go to bed. What were you doing, prowling round?'

It suddenly came home to John that he was neglecting his vigil. The thought caused him no remorse whatever. A thousand burglars with a thousand jemmies could break into the Hall and he would not stir a step to prevent them.

'Oh, just walking.'

'Were you surprised to see me?'

'Yes.'

'We don't see much of each other nowadays.'

'I didn't know. . . . I wasn't sure you wanted to see me.'

'Good gracious! What made you think that?'

'I don't know.'

Silence fell upon them again. John was harassed by a growing consciousness that he was failing to prove himself worthy of this golden moment which the Fates had granted to him. Was this all he was capable of – stiff, halting words which sounded banal even to himself? A night like this deserved, he felt, something better. He saw himself for an instant as he must be appearing to a girl like Pat, a girl who had been everywhere and met all sorts of men – glib, dashing men; suave, ingratiating men; men of poise and
savoir faire
who could carry themselves with a swagger. An aching humility swept over him.

And yet she had come here tonight to see him. The thought a little restored his self-respect, and he was trying with desperate search in the unexplored recesses of his mind to discover some remark which would show his appreciation of that divine benevolence, when she spoke again.

'Johnnie, let's go out on the moat.'

John's heart was singing like one of the morning stars. The suggestion was not one which he would have made himself, for it would not have occurred to him, but now that it had been made, he saw how super-excellent it was. He tried to say so, but words would not come to him.

'You don't seem very enthusiastic,' said Pat. 'I suppose you think I ought to be at home and in bed?'

'No.'

'Perhaps you want to go to bed?'

'No.'

'Well, come on then.'

They walked in silence down the yew-hedged path that led to the boat-house. The tranquil beauty of the night wrapped them about as in a garment. It was very dark here, and even the gleam of white that was Pat had become indistinct.

'Johnnie?'

'Yes?'

He heard her utter a little exclamation. Something soft and scented stumbled against him, and for an instant he was holding her in his arms. The next moment he had very properly released her again, and he heard her laugh.

'Sorry,' said Pat. 'I stumbled.'

John did not reply. He was incapable of speech. That swift moment of contact had had the effect of clarifying his mental turmoil. Luminously now he perceived what was causing his lack of eloquence. It was the surging, choking desire to kiss Pat, to reach out and snatch her up in his arms and hold her there.

He stopped abruptly.

'What's the matter?'

'Nothing,' said John.

Prudence, the kill-joy, had whispered in his ear. He visualized Prudence as a pale-faced female with down-drawn lips and mild, warning stare who murmured thinly 'Is it wise?' Before her whisper primitive emotions fled, abashed. The caveman in John fled back into the dim past whence he had come. Most certainly, felt the twentieth-century John, it would not be wise. Very clearly Pat had shown him, that night in London, that all that she could give him was friendship, and to gratify the urge of some distant ancestor who ought to have been ashamed of himself he had been proposing to shatter the delicate crystal of this friendship into fragments. He shivered at the narrowness of escape.

He had read stories. In stories girls drew their breath in sharply and said 'Oh, why must you spoil everything?' He decided not to spoil everything. Walking warily, he reached the little gate that led to the boat-house steps and opened it with something of a flourish.

'Be careful,' he said.

'What of?' said Pat. It seemed to John that she spoke a trifle flatly.

'These steps are rather tricky.'

'Oh?' said Pat.

He followed her into the punt, oppressed once more by a feeling that something had gone wrong with what should have been the most wonderful night of his life. Girls are creatures of moods, and Pat seemed now to have fallen into one of odd aloofness. She said nothing as he pushed the boat out, and remained silent as it slid through the water with a little tinkling ripple, bearing them into a world of stars and coolness, where everything was still and the trees stood out against the sky as if carved from cardboard.

'Are you all right?' said John, at last.

'Splendid, thanks.' Pat's mood seemed to have undergone another swift change. Her voice was friendly again. She nestled into the cushions. 'This is luxury. Do you remember the old days when there was nothing but the weed-boat?'

'They were pretty good days,' said John wistfully.

'They were, rather,' said Pat.

The spell of the summer night held them silent again. No sound broke the stillness but the slap of tiny waves and the rhythmic dip and splash of the paddle. Then with a dry flittering a bat wheeled overhead, and out somewhere by the little island where the birds nested something leaped noisily in the water. Pat raised her head.

'A pike?'

'Must have been.'

Pat sat up and leaned forward.

'That would have excited father,' she said. 'I know he's dying to get out here and have another go at the pike. Johnnie, I do wish somebody could do something to stop this absurd feud between him and Mr Carmody. It's too silly. I know father would be all over Mr Carmody if only he would make some sort of advance. After all, he did behave very badly. He might at least apologize.'

John did not reply for a moment. He was thinking that whoever tried to make his uncle apologize for anything had a whole-time job on his hands. Obstinate was a mild word for the squire of Rudge. Pigs bowed as he passed, and mules could have taken his correspondence course.