Nothing Serious (30 page)

It
said: “Hullo, Ukridge, old top. You here? What a night, what a night, what a
night?”

I
recognized the voice of Looney Coote. And picture my astonishment, Corky, when,
flashing my torch on him, I perceived that he was wearing a policeman’s
uniform. When I commented on this, he laughed like a hyæna calling to its mate
and told me all.

Chagrined
at losing his money on the previous night at The Cedars, he had decided to fit
himself out at a costumier’s and go and raid the place: thus, as he himself put
it, giving it the salutary lesson it had been asking for and making it think a
bit. Such, Corky, is Looney Coote, and always has been, I felt, as I had so
often felt in my earlier dealings with him, that his spiritual home was
definitely Coley Hatch.

Slowly
I adjusted my faculties. “You mean there aren’t any cops here?”

“Only
me.”

I had
to pause at this to master my emotion. When I thought of the intense nervous
strain to which I had been subjected and recalled the way I had been tiptoeing
about the place and quaking at sudden noises and not letting a twig snap
beneath my feet, and all because of this pie-faced half-wit, the temptation to
haul off and bust him in the eye was very powerful.

I
succeeded in restraining myself, but my manner was cold and severe. “And the
next thing that will happen,” I said, “is that a bevy of genuine constables
will blow in, and you’ll get two years hard for impersonating a policeman.”

This
rattled him. “I never thought of that.”

“Muse
on it now.”

“The
Law gets a bit shirty, does it, if you impersonate policemen?”

“It
screams with annoyance.”

“Well,
well, well, I’d better leg it, you think?”

“I do.”

“I
will. Listen, Ukridge, old man,” said Looney, “there’s something you can do for
me. I locked an abundant multitude of the blighters in the drawing-room. I
should be vastly obliged if, after I’ve gone, you would let them out. Here’s
the key. And, by the way, weren’t you saying something this morning about
wanting me to lend you money, or something?”

“I was.”

“Would
a tenner be enough?”

“I
could make it do.”

“Then
here you are. Talking of money,” said Looney, “there was a strong movement
afoot among the blighters to bribe me to let them go. A good deal of feeling
was shown. Amused me, I must confess. Well, good night, old man. It’s been nice
seeing you. Do you think, if I’m stopped by a cop, I could get away with it by
saying I was on my way to a fancy-dress ball?”

“You
might try it.”

“I
will. Did I give you that tenner?” he said. “No.”

“Then
here you are. Good night, old man, good night.”

I went
back to the potting shed and told my aunt that a quick burst from the garden
wall was now in order, and she thanked me in a trembling voice and kissed me
and said she had misjudged me. She then popped off at a good speed, and I
pushed along to the drawing-room, forming my plans and schemes with lightning
rapidity as I went. What Looney had said about the inmates trying to bribe him
had stirred me not a little.

And I
am happy to say that he had not deceived me. I found them most anxious to do
business. A few
pourparlers
through the keyhole and the deal was fixed
up at so much per head. The money was placed in my hands by a stately bird with
white whiskers— He looked as if he might be the President of the Anti-Gambling
League or some equally respectable institution, and there was no doubt that he
had been asking himself quite often during his vigil what the harvest would be.

There
was champagne on the sideboard. When they had all gone, I sat down and opened a
bottle. I felt that I had earned it.

Ukridge
paused, and drew luxuriously at his cigar. There was a look of deep and sublime
contentment on his face.

“So
there you are, Corky. That is why I am now able to stand you lunch in this
robber’s den without a thought for the prices in the right-hand column. My aunt
is all over me, and I am once more the petted guest in her home. This gives me
a base from which I can operate while making up my mind how best to employ my
enormous capital. For it is enormous. I’d hate to tell you, old horse, how much
I’ve got. It would be tactless. You are a struggling young fellow who
considers himself lucky if he snaffles thirty bob for an article in
Interesting
Bits,
on “Famous Lovers of History” or some such rot, and it would be agony
to you to know how rolling I am. You would bite your lip and brood and get all
sorts of subversive ideas about the unfair distribution of wealth. It wouldn’t
be long before we should have you throwing bombs.”

I
reassured him. “Don’t worry. I’m not envious. It is enough for me to feel that
after this magnificent spread you are going to pay the bill.”

There
was a pause. I noticed that behind his gingerbeer-wired pince-nez his eyes had
taken on an apologetic look.

“I’m
glad you brought that up, Corky,” he said, “for I was just wondering how to
break it to you. I’m extraordinarily sorry, old horse, but I find that I have
inadvertently left my money at home. You, I fear, will have to settle up. I’ll
pay you back next time I see you.”