Uncle Fred in the Springtime (6 page)

The
atmosphere in the smoking-room of the Drones Club on the return of its members
from their annual weekend at Le Touquet was not always one of cheerfulness and
gaiety — there had been years when you might have mistaken the place for the
Wailing Wall of Jerusalem — but today a delightful spirit of happiness prevailed.
The dingy gods who preside over the
chemin-de-fer
tables at Continental
Casinos had, it appeared, been extraordinarily kind to many of the Eggs, Beans
and Crumpets revelling at the bar. And Pongo, drinking in the tales of their
exploits, had just decided to raise the assessment of several of those present
another ten pounds, when through the haze of cigarette smoke he caught sight of
a familiar face. On a chair at the far end of the room sat Claude Pott.

It was
not merely curiosity as to what Mr Pott was doing there or a fear lest he might
be feeling lonely in these unaccustomed surroundings that caused Pongo to go
and engage him in conversation. At the sight of the private investigator, there
had floated into his mind like drifting thistledown the thought that it might
be possible to start the ball rolling by obtaining a small donation from him.
He crossed the room with outstretched hand.

‘Why,
hullo, Mr Pott. What brings you here?’

‘Good
morning, sir. I came with Mr Davenport. He is at the moment in the telephone
booth, telephoning.’

‘I didn’t
know old Horace ever got up as early as this.’

‘He has
not retired to bed yet. He went to a dance last night.’

‘Of
course, yes. The Bohemian Ball at the Albert Hall. I remember. Well, it’s nice
seeing you again, Mr Pott. You left a bit hurriedly that time we met.’

‘Yes,’
said Claude Pott meditatively. ‘How did you come out with The Subject?’

‘Not
too well. She threw her weight about a bit.’

‘I had
an idea she would.’

‘You
were better away.’

‘That’s
what I thought.’

‘Still,’
said Pongo heartily, ‘I was very sorry you had to go, very. I could see that we
were a couple of chaps who were going to get along together. Will you have a
drink or something?’

‘No,
thank you, Mr T.’

‘A cigarette
or something?’

‘No,
thank you.’

‘A
chair or something? Oh, you’ve got one. I say, Mr Pott,’ said Pongo, ‘I was
wondering —’

The
babble at the bar had risen to a sudden crescendo. Oofy Prosser, the club’s
tame millionaire, was repeating for the benefit of some new arrivals the story
of how he had run his bank seven times, and there had come into Mr Pott’s eyes
a dull glow, like the phosphorescent gleam on the stomach of a dead fish.

‘Coo!’
he said, directing at Oofy the sort of look a thoughtful vulture in the Sahara
casts at a dying camel. ‘Seems to be a lot of money in here this morning.’

‘Yes.
And talking of money —’

‘Now
would be just the time to run the old Hat Stakes.’

‘Hat
Stakes?’

‘Haven’t
you ever heard of the Hat Stakes? It sometimes seems to me they don’t teach you
boys nothing at your public schools. Here’s the way it works. You take
somebody, as it might be me, and he opens a book on the Hat Race, the finish to
be wherever you like — call it that door over there. See what I mean? The punters
would bet on what sort of hat the first bloke coming in through that door would
be wearing. You, for instance, might feel like having a tenner —’

Pongo
flicked a speck of dust from his companion’s sleeve.

‘Ah,
but I haven’t got a tenner,’ he said. ‘And that’s precisely why I was saying
that I wondered —’

‘— on
Top Hat. Then if a feller wearing a top hat was the first to come in, you’d
cop.’

‘Yes, I
see the idea. Amusing. Ingenious.’

‘But
you can’t play the Hat Stakes nowadays, with everybody wearing these Homburgs.
There wouldn’t be enough starters. Cor!’

‘Cor!’
agreed Pongo sympathetically. ‘You’d have to make it clothes or something,
what? But you were speaking of tenners, and while on that subject…. Stop me
if you’ve heard this before….’

Claude
Pott, who had seemed about to sink into a brooding reverie, came out of his
meditations with a start.

‘What’s
that you said?’

‘I was
saying that while on the subject of tenners —’

‘Clothes!’
Mr Pott rose from his chair with a spasmodic leap, as if he had seen The
Subject entering the room. ‘Well, strike me pink!’

He shot
for the door at a speed quite remarkable in a man of his build. A few moments
later, he shot back again, and suddenly the Eggs, Beans and Crumpets assembled
at the bar were shocked to discover that some bounder, contrary to all club
etiquette, was making a speech.

‘Gentlemen!’

The
babble died away, to be succeeded by a stunned silence, through which there
came the voice of Claude Pott, speaking with all the fervour and
brio
of
his Silver Ring days.

‘Gentlemen
and sportsmen, if I may claim your kind indulgence for one instant! Gentlemen
and sportsmen, I know gentlemen and sportsmen when I see them, and what I have
been privileged to overhear of your conversation since entering this room has
shown me that you are all gentlemen and sportsmen who are ready at all times to
take part in a little sporting flutter.’

The
words ‘sporting flutter’ were words which never failed to touch a chord in the
members of the Drones Club. Something resembling warmth and sympathy began to
creep into the atmosphere of cold disapproval. How this little blister had
managed to worm his way into their smoking-room they were still at a loss to
understand, but the initial impulse of those present to bung him out on his ear
had softened into a more friendly desire to hear what he had to say.

‘Pott
is my name, gentlemen — a name at one time, I venture to assert, not unfamiliar
to patrons of the sport of kings, and though I have retired from active
business as a turf commission agent I am still willing to make a little book
from time to time to entertain sportsmen and gentlemen, and there’s no time
like the present. Here we all are — you with the money, me with the book — so I
say again, gentlemen, let’s have a little flutter. Gentlemen all, the Clothes
Stakes are about to be run.’

Few
members of the Drones are at their brightest and alertest in the morning. There
was a puzzled murmur. A Bean said, ‘What did he say?’ and a Crumpet whispered, ‘The
what Stakes?’

‘I was
explaining the how-you-do-it of the Hat Stakes to my friend Mr Twistleton over
there, and the Clothes Stakes are run on precisely the same principle. There is
at the present moment a gentleman in the telephone booth along the corridor,
and I have just taken the precaution to instruct a page-boy to shove a wedge
under the door, thus ensuring that he will remain there and so accord you all
ample leisure in which to place your wagers. Coo!’ said Claude Pott, struck by
an unpleasant idea. ‘Nobody’s going to come along and let him out, are they?’

‘Of
course not!’ cried his audience indignantly. The thought of anybody wantonly
releasing a fellow member who had got stuck in the telephone booth, a thing
that only happened once in a blue moon, was revolting to them.

‘Then
that’s all right. Now then, gentlemen, the simple question you have to ask
yourselves is — What is the gentleman in the telephone booth wearing? Or
putting it another way — What’s he got on? Hence the term Clothes Stakes. It
might be one thing, or it might be another. He might be in his
Sunday-go-to-meetings, or he might have been taking a dip in the Serpentine and
be in his little bathing suit. Or he may have joined the Salvation Army. To
give you a lead, I am offering nine to four against Blue Serge, four to one Pin-Striped
Grey Tweed, ten to one Golf Coat and Plus Fours, a hundred to six Gymnasium
Vest and Running Shorts, twenty to one Court Dress as worn at Buckingham
Palace, nine to four the field. And perhaps you, sir,’ said Mr Pott, addressing
an adjacent Egg, ‘would be good enough to officiate as my clerk.’

‘That
doesn’t mean I can’t have a bit on?’

‘By no
means, sir. Follow the dictates of your heart and fear nothing.’

‘What
are you giving Herringbone Cheviot Lounge?’

‘Six to
one Herringbone Cheviot Lounge, sir.’

‘I’ll
have ten bob.’

‘Right,
sir. Six halves Herringbone Cheviot Lounge. Ready money, if you please sir. It’s
not that I don’t trust you, but I’m not allowed by law. Thank you, sir. Walk
up, walk up, my noble sportsmen. Nine to four the field.’

The lead
thus given them removed the last inhibitions of the company. Business became
brisk, and it was not long before Mr Pott had vanished completely behind a mass
of eager punters.

Among
the first to invest had been Pongo Twistleton. Hastening to the hall porter’s
desk, he had written a cheque for his last ten pounds in the world, and he was
now leaning against the bar, filled with the quiet satisfaction of the man who
has spotted the winner and got his money down in good time.

For
from the very inception of these proceedings it had been clear to Pongo that
Fortune, hitherto capricious, had at last decided that it was no use trying to
keep a good man down and had handed him something on a plate. To be a
successful punter, what you need is information, and this he possessed in
abundant measure. Alone of those present, he was aware of the identity of the
gentleman in the telephone booth, and he had the additional advantage of
knowing the inside facts about the latter’s wardrobe.

You
take a chap like — say — Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright, that modern Brummel, and
you might guess for hours without hitting on the precise suit he would be
wearing on any given morning. But with Horace Pendlebury-Davenport it was
different. Horace had never been a vivacious dresser. He liked to stick to the
old and tried till they came apart on him, and it was this idiosyncrasy of his
which had caused his recent
fiancée,
just before her departure for Le
Touquet, to take a drastic step.

Swooping
down on Horace’s flat, at a moment when Pongo was there chatting with its
proprietor, and ignoring her loved one’s protesting cries, Valerie Twistleton
had scooped up virtually his entire outfit and borne it away in a cab, to be
given to the deserving poor. She could not actually leave the unhappy man in
the nude, so she had allowed him to retain the shabby grey flannel suit he
stood up in and also the morning clothes which he was reserving for the wedding
day. But she had got away with all the rest, and as no tailor could have
delivered a fresh supply at this early dare, Pongo had felt justified in
plunging to the uttermost. The bulk of his fortune on Grey Flannel at ten to
one and a small covering bet on Morning Suit, and there he was, sitting pretty.

And he
was just sipping his cocktail and reflecting that, while his winnings must
necessarily fall far short of the stupendous sum which he owed to George Budd,
they would at least constitute something on account and remove the dark shadow
of Erb at any rate temporarily from his life, when like a blow on the base of
the skull there came to him the realization that he had overlooked a vital
point.

The
opening words of his conversation with Claude Pott came back to him, and he
remembered that Mr Pott, in addition to informing him that Horace was in the
telephone booth, had stated that the latter had attended the Bohemian Ball at
the Albert Hall and had not been to bed yet. And like the knell of a tolling
bell there rang in his ears Horace’s words: ‘I am going as a Boy Scout.’

The
smoking room reeled before Pongo’s eyes. He saw now why Claude Pott had leaped
so enthusiastically at the idea of starting these Clothes Stakes. The man had
known it would be a skinner for the book. The shrewdest and most imaginative
Drone would never think of Boy Scouts in telephone booths at this hour of the
morning.

He
uttered a stricken cry. At the eleventh hour the road to wealth had been
indicated to him, and owing to that ready-money clause he was not in a position
to take advantage of the fact. And then he caught sight of Oofy Prosser at the
other end of the bar, and saw how by swift, decisive action he might save his
fortunes from the wreck.

The
attitude of Oofy Prosser towards the Clothes Stakes had been from the first
contemptuous and supercilious, like that of a Wolf of Wall Street watching
small boys scrambling for pennies. This Silver Ring stuff did not interest
Oofy. He held himself aloof from it, and as the latter slid down the bar and
accosted him he tried to hold himself aloof from Pongo. It was only by
clutching his coat sleeve and holding on to it with a fevered grip that Pongo
was able to keep him rooted to the spot.

‘I say,
Oofy —’

‘No,’
replied Oofy Prosser curtly. ‘Not a penny!’

Pongo
danced a few frantic dance steps. Already there was a lull over by the table
where Mr Port was conducting his business, and the closing of the book seemed
imminent.

‘But I
want to put you on to a good thing!’