Money in the Bank, Page 8

  From the scrutiny of these he was roused by the sound of voices, and, looking round, saw that his solitude had been invaded by a young woman of boldly attractive aspect and a man in the middle forties whose appearance suggested vaguely an American Senator.

  They were, though he had as yet, of course, no means of identifying them, that interesting and enterprising couple, Mr. and Mrs. Soapy Molloy.

  CHAPTER X

  THE news, conveyed to him some quarter of an hour earlier by his wife, that his old acquaintance, Chimp Twist, was on his way to Shipley Hall, had startled and disconcerted Mr. Molloy. And when it had become clear to him that it was through her instrumentality that this unwanted addition was being made to the strength of Mrs. Cork's little group of serious thinkers, he was more amazed than ever.

  "For goodness' sakes, honey," he exclaimed, "what ever did you want to go and do a thing like that for?"

  Mrs. Molloy was looking cold and proud.

  "Oh, I thought I would."

  "But Chimp, sweetie!" Mr. Molloy had as poor an opinion of the sleuth hound of Halsey Court as the latter had of him. "You know what he's like. As slippery as an eel dipped in butter. A bird you can't trust an inch."

  "Chimp's all right."

  "He's not all right. His work is raw. You know that as well as I do. The first thing that'll happen when he fetches up here is that he'll see something that takes his fancy and isn't nailed down, and he'll swipe it and be gone like the wind. And then what? We're in bad for recommending him. I give us a coupla days. After that, we'll be handed our hats and told to get the hell out."

  "You wouldn't like that."

  "You betcher I wouldn't like it."

  "No. It would break your heart, wouldn't it, to have to part from your Mrs. Cork."

  "What do you mean, pettie? You're acting strange."

  All the banked-up fires in Dolly Molloy burst out.

  "So you don't know what I mean? That's a laugh. You think I haven't been hep to your goings-on, do you? Well, I have. Who roamed with her in rose gardens, having blooms stuck in his buttonhole?"

  Mr. Molloy gaped. "But, sweetie---"

  "Who patted her hand on the terrace this very afternoon, trying to look like great lovers through the ages? You don't know I seen you, did you? Well, I did, and it was like as if someone had batted me over the bean with an iron casing. I'd never of thought it of you, Soapy. After all that stuff the minister put across about forsaking all others and sticking around me in sickness and in health, and you nodding as much as to say that it was okay by you."

  "But, sweetie, you've got me wrong."

  "You patted her lunch-hook."

  "Sure I patted her lunch-hook. And why? Because I was trying to sell her oil stock."

  "What!"

  Mr. Molloy looked like a Senator clearing himself of the trumped-up charges of a foul and corrupt opposition.

  " Sure. When you're married to a business man, you've got to let him have his sales methods. She was telling me about her nephew Lionel and what a hell of a time he'd been having in the law courts and how she feared it might have bruised his eager, sensitive spirit permanent, and I threw in a pat just to help things along. It worked, too. It wasn't more'n a coupla minutes later that I was interesting her in a block of Silver River. We had to break off the conference just then, on account there was a guy she wanted to see indoors, but it's all fixed. She's giving me her cheque to-morrow."

  The stony expression had faded from Dolly Molloy's piquant face, as if erased by a sponge. As she realized how she had wronged this good man, tears of remorse dimmed her bright eyes.

  "Oh, Soapy! What a sap I've been."

  "It's all right, sweetness."

  "But why didn't you tell me?"

  "I was keeping it as a surprise for your birthday."

  "How much do we cop?"

  "Close on a thousand."

  "Dollars?"

  "Pounds."

  "A thousand pounds? Oh, Soapy!"

  She flung herself on her husband's ample bosom, sniffing emotionally. Nothing marred the ecstasy of this supreme moment, except those pangs of remorse which still continued to rend her. "Sap," she was feeling, was the exact word. She must have been a super-sap not to have understood from the start that her Soapy would never have dreamed of bestowing caresses upon another woman, unless actuated by the soundest commercial motives.

  Presently, the long, tender embrace ended. Mr. Molloy said "Gee!" and lit a cigar. Mrs. Molloy said "Gosh!" and powdered her nose. They walked along together in silent contentment. "Oh, blessings on the falling out that all the more endears," they were possibly saying to themselves. Or possibly not.

  "You know, sweetie-pie," said Mrs. Molloy dreamily, touching on an interesting point, "I've sometimes wondered if somewhere or other there really is a Silver River oil well."

  "Me, too."

  "There might be."

  "There might."

  "Funny, if there was."

  "Very funny," agreed Mr. Molloy. "What you would call a coincidence." He smiled, then struck a graver note. "But about Chimp, honey. I'm free to admit that I don't like the notion of that little grifter being let around loose in this joint."

  "I wouldn't worry."

  "But I do."

  "I mean, you don't have to. Chimp likes his home comforts. He won't stick it out here a day. Not when his stomach gets on to it that all that's coming to it is vegetables."

  "Something in that," said Mr. Molloy, brightening, and the conversation turned to other topics. They were debating the chances, if Mr. Molloy played his cards right, of Mrs. Cork putting in a repeat order for Silver River, when they rounded the corner of the shrubbery and perceived before them, standing on the brink of the pond, a personable young man whose air was that of one who watches water beetles.

  "Hello," said Mrs. Molloy.

  "Who's here?" said Mr. Molloy. "Looks like a new internee."

  They approached, and Mr. Molloy, in pursuance of his policy of being a ray of sunshine to all men, for you never knew who might not be wanting a sound investment in oil, gave Jeff a cheery good evening.

  "Good evening," said Jeff. He found the other impressive. The sweeping removal of Air. Molloy's hat had revealed a fine, high forehead, rather like Shakespeare's.

  "New member of our little community, sir?"

  "Just arrived. Nice place."

  Dolly uttered a mirthless laugh.

  "There's nothing wrong with the place. But, oh baby, wait till that dinner gong goes!"

  "The wife," said Mr. Molloy explanatorily. "My name is Molloy."

  "Mine is Adair," said Jeff, and was surprised to observe that the affable couple seemed startled.

  "Ad-what?"

  "Adair. Sheringham Adair."

  Mr. Molloy looked at Mrs. Molloy. Mrs. Molloy looked at Mr. Molloy. Then they transferred their gaze to Jeff, subjecting him to a penetrating stare. The lady's eyes were particularly questioning in their bright intentness.

  "Something wrong here," said Mr. Molloy.

  "Oompus-boompus, if you ask me," assented Dolly, whom a strenuous life had rendered peculiarly swift in the identification of oompus-boompus. "What's the game?" she demanded coldly.

  Jeff's heart had given a little jump. When Mr. Molloy, with that air of his of bestowing a public honour on a deserving recipient had told him his name, that name had had a vaguely familiar ring. But only now did he realize that this woman, whose eyes were boring into his with such unpleasant fixity, must be the Mrs. Molloy who had recommended Sheringham Adair to Mrs. Cork. He had not anticipated that on arrival at Shipley Hall he would meet someone presumably well acquainted with his neighbour of Halsey Court.

  But then, he reminded himself, he had not anticipated that he would meet Lionel Green. And look how he had handled him. He braced himself to handle with equal smoothness this new menace.

  Mr. Molloy, though shaken, had not abandoned his suavity of manner. He agreed with his wife that something was toward that had all th
e appearance of oompus-boompus, but he was prepared to listen to explanations.

  "What Mrs. Molloy means," he said, "is that we were expecting a friend of ours named Sheringham Adair around these parts to-night."

  "The private investigator," said Dolly.

  "And you're not him."

  "You're dead right he's not him."

  Jeff smiled. He had suddenly perceived that this was going to be absurdly easy. "How very amusing!"

  "I haven't started laughing yet," said Dolly austerely.

  "I don't wonder you're surprised. How long is it since you saw your friend?"

  "I was talking to him this morning."

  "And he didn't tell you he had sold the business?"

  "Sold the business?"

  "Lock, stock and barrel, with all the goodwill and everything. I took over this afternoon. Of course, one naturally assumes the trade name."

  Mrs. Molloy looked at Mr. Molloy.

  "Chimp Twist never said a word to me about selling out."

  "He didn't?"

  "No, sir. Not a syllable."

  "You have found Mr. Twist a secretive man?" said Jeff, interested. "I noticed the same thing. A valuable quality, no doubt."

  Dolly was still unconvinced.

  "You don't look like a detective."

  "Surely," said Jeff, throwing in a "dear lady" for good measure, "that is just how a detective ought to look, in order to lull suspicion in suspects. Hullo," he went on, looking at his watch, "it's later than I thought. I suppose one ought to be going in and dressing. Good-bye, Mrs. Molloy. Good-bye, Mr. Molloy. For the present, of course. In the not distant future I hope that we shall see much of one another."

  He disappeared with long strides, trusting that he had not been abrupt but convinced that he had chosen a very suitable moment for breaking off the conversation, and Mrs. Molloy turned to her husband.

  "How about it, Soapy?"

  "Maybe it's on the up and up."

  "But wouldn't Chimp have mentioned he was selling out?"

  "He doesn't mention much."

  "And why would he sell out, sudden, like this?"

  "Maybe he had to skip, quick. He often does have to skip quick, the dishfaced little weasel."

  "That's true."

  They fell into a thoughtful silence, which remained unbroken till they had passed through the front door.

  CHAPTER XI

  A helpful housemaid directed Jeff to the room which had been allotted to him, and he had finished dressing and was relaxing over a cigarette, when the door was pushed open as by some irresistible force and a vast body of familiar aspect appeared on the threshold. From the kindly smile on the slablike face that topped it, Jeff saw at once that he was now in the presence of George, Viscount Uffenham, not of Cakebread. There was about the visitor none of that cold aloofness which had prevented a fusion of soul at their last meeting.

  "Haryer?" said the mountainous peer affably. "Just came to see if they'd made yer comfortable. Everything all right?"

  Jeff replied that everything was splendid.

  "Capital," said Lord Uffenham. "Capital."

  He spoke absently, for while he had not actually fallen into a trance, he had ceased to allow his attention to be riveted on what his young friend was saying. He was pottering about the room like a ruminative elephant, examining its contents with an abstracted eye. He picked up Jeff's pyjamas, and inspected them solemnly. There was a book on the table by the bed. He picked that up, and turned its pages for a moment. He also picked up and dropped into the fender a small china ornament which had been standing on the mantelpiece.

  The sharp, splintering sound caused by the descent of this objet d'art seemed to rouse him from his reverie. Returning to the centre of things and lowering himself into a chair, he reached out a massive finger and gave Jeff a nasty blow on the knee with it. His face was benign and fatherly. In the way in which he regarded the younger man, there was genuine affection, as well as something suggestive of a stuffed owl in a taxidermist's window.

  "I've been wanting a chat with you, young feller," he said.

  Jeff replied courteously that he, too, had been counting the moments.

  "Remember what we were talking about in that office?"

  It seemed to Jeff that the other, if he was expecting him to have forgotten this already, must be crediting him with a memory as uncertain as his own. He said, with a touch of surprise:

  "The diamonds, do you mean?"

  "Lord-love-a-duck, no, not the diamonds. About you being potty about my dashed niece."

  Jeff would have preferred him not to allude to the divinest of her sex as his dashed niece, but he abstained from rebuke. Policy dictated a friendly and respectful attitude towards this old codger.

  "Oh, yes."

  "Still love her, hey?"

  Jeff assured him that the passage of two and a half hours had made no difference in his fervour, except perhaps to deepen it, and Lord Uffenham seemed relieved.

  "That's good. Because I told her you did, and if you had changed your mind, it might have made me look a silly ass."

  Although a young man not ill-equipped with sang froid Jeff found it impossible to restrain a start.

  "You told her I loved her?"

  "Yerss."

  "I see. Er—how did she appear to take it?"

  "Looked a bit thoughtful, it seemed to me."

  "I see."

  "Gave me the impression she was turning the thing over in her mind."

  "I see."

  "What's the matter? You sound stuffy."

  "Oh, no. It only occurred to me that she might have thought it a little sudden."

  "You've got to be sudden with a girl like Anne. Listen," said Lord Uffenham, once more driving a piston-like finger at Jeff's knee, "I'll tell yer something. When I saw yer this evening, I took an instant liking to yer."

  "That was very nice of you. I can assure you that I, for my part---"

  "Don't interrupt, blast yer. An instant liking, I say. I'm a great reader of character—got an eye like an X-ray—and I saw at a glance that you were a fine young feller. I have neither chick nor child—at least, I don't think so," said Lord Uffenham, after a moment's hesitation, "and I regard you as a son. As a son, dash it. You're just the sort of feller I'd like to see married to Anne. You're like I was at your age, a hell of a young chap. They don't seem to breed 'em nowadays. Most modern young men are squirts and perishers. D'yer know Mrs. Cork's nephew, Lionel Green?"

  "We have met."

  "There's a perisher for you. There's a squirt, if you want one. A Hivite and a Jcbusite, no less. And Anne goes and gets engaged to him."

  "What!"

  "That's right. With the pick of the land at her disposal, she goes and gets secretly engaged to Lionel Green."

  Jeff was shaken to his foundations. The hideous news had found him utterly unprepared. Not for an instant had he suspected the possibility of this dreadful state of things.

  True, Mrs. Cork had hinted at such a possibility, but he had naturally paid little attention to her wild theories. If Mrs. Cork, he had felt, had observed anything in the relations of Anne Benedick and Lionel Green, it had no doubt been the wart Green persecuting the girl with his loathsome addresses. And as for all that stuff about her eyes blazing when she read of his, Jeff's, pitiless expose of the man, he had simply not believed it. What had happened, he presumed, was that her eyes had shone with a pretty delight, as what girl's would not, who read of a pill who had persecuted her with his addresses being put on the griddle by a brilliantly incisive young cross-examiner.

  He stared, aghast.

  "You don't mean that?"

  This seemed to puzzle Lord Uffenham.

  "What d'yer think I mean?" he asked.

  "It's too frightful."

  "Ghastly."

  "We must save her."

  "Exactly. You must cut him out."

  "I will."

  "How do you propose to set about it?"

  "Well---"

/>   Lord Uffenham raised a hand, like a policeman directing traffic.

  "That's enough. That tells me the whole story. You aren't thinking along the right lines. If you were, you wouldn't have said 'Well … you'd have said 'Set about it? I'll tell yer how I'm going to set about it. By setting about her, dash it, and sweeping her off her dashed feet!' That's what you would have said, and that's the only way you'll do it. Grab her! Seize her! Fold her in a close embrace. A really close embrace. One that'll make her ribs creak. Kiss her, too, of course. Kiss her repeatedly. At the same time saying 'You are my mate, dash it,' or something to that effect. That'll do the trick. That'll divert her mind from that oily French polisher of hers."

  He ceased. The glow faded from his eyes, which took on the glazed and corpselike look with which Jeff had now become familiar. His thoughts had drifted away to the year 1911 and a girl in a hat like a herbaceous border, whose name, if memory served him aright, had been Maudie.

  Jeff was glad of the silence. He took advantage of it to try to fight down the rising feeling of nausea with which these revolting words had filled him. He had become very fond of Lord Uffenham, but it was plain to him that the old gentleman's soul, if you could call it that, and his own were, like his own and Mr. Shoesmith's, poles apart. Their whole outlook on love and the way in which it should find expression was diametrically opposed. A costermonger, sporting with his donah on Hampstead Heath on a Bank Holiday, would probably have felt that Lord Uffenham had the right idea. To Jeff, who since meeting Anne Benedick had become practically pure spirit, his whole technique was appalling. The thought of soiling Anne, that ethereal being, with this knock-'em-down-and-drag-'em--out type of wooing got in amongst his finer feelings as if they had been hit by a black-jack, and, but for the fact that the latter was in a trance and in any case had got to be conciliated and kept friendly, he would have given the loose-thinking peer a severe look.