Appleby's Answer (3 page)

‘Regular?' Rather oddly, the Captain gave an impression of shying away from this. ‘Pick one up on a bookstall from time to time. Or from our local library. Couple of shelves of them there. Grubby, rather. But dashed impracticable, most of them.' Captain Bulkington suddenly relapsed into his former gloom. ‘I suppose
you
have to read the lot,' he said, rousing himself. ‘Make sure somebody hasn't had the idea before.'

‘Well, that can be an anxiety. Of course, one talks to one's fellow practitioners – to one's
confrères
.'

‘And one's
consoeurs
too, eh? Ha-ha!' This learned witticism, although it struck Miss Pringle as displeasing, appeared to amuse Captain Bulkington very much.

‘Something of the kind is the object of my present journey.' It was an occasion of gratification to Miss Pringle that she now had a secure footing among men (and women) of letters. She never failed to attend cocktail parties at the invitation of publishers; she went to lectures of a superior sort, followed by tea and discussion, such as are organised by the National Book League and the Society of Authors; she had even been given dinner by a distinguished fan in a rearward region of the Athenaeum. ‘I have recently been elected to membership of the Crooks' Colloquium. Tonight is the occasion of our annual dinner. We call it the
Diner Dupin
. A little joke.'

‘Crooks' Colloquium?' the Captain repeated blankly. ‘Dupin?'

‘Perhaps it ought really to be Tecs' Colloquium – only the alliteration wouldn't be so good. And Dupin, of course, is in honour of the great Poe.'

‘The great po?' This, from a lady, appeared to leave the Captain a little shocked. ‘In mess games our subalterns used to – But never mind.'

‘Edgar Allan Poe, the founder of detective literature. At the annual dinner we are addressed by a guest of honour – usually an eminent criminologist. Tonight it is to be Sir John Appleby. I believe he was at one time head of the CID at New Scotland Yard. Or perhaps it was something even more distinguished than that.'

‘Talking about cunning ways of bringing it off, eh?' New horizons seemed to be opening before Captain Bulkington. ‘Straight from the horse's mouth, and all that? Dashed interesting.'

‘I don't at all know what subject he will choose. But he is said to have solved the most impenetrable mysteries. Real-life ones, that is.'

‘Ah, real life!' The Captain had recaptured his sombre tone. ‘The trouble with
you
people' – and he tapped Miss Pringle's book – ‘is that you need such deuced peculiar circumstances. In this one, for example, you need a cathedral. Now, how is a fellow to come by that? A local parish church would be a different matter. But how, I repeat, is a fellow to come by a cathedral? It just isn't on.'

‘I'm not sure that I quite follow you.' Miss Pringle was wondering whether, had she chosen a more modest ecclesiastical edifice as setting for the mystery in question, she would have rated a good beta-plus. She was also wondering, if only fleetingly, whether Captain Bulkington mightn't be a trifle mad.

‘A mere random thought.' The Captain waved a dismissive hand. ‘This crooks' affair – what else does it go in for?'

‘We have a little quarterly journal, with articles on things that interest us – professionally, that is.'

‘Good Lord! False beards, and silencers, and secret codes, and poisons unknown to science – all that?'

‘Certainly things of that sort. And police procedure, and how criminal trials are really conducted, and so on. It is so important to get one's facts right. To control one's all too powerful imagination.'

‘Can anybody buy the thing? Could I get it at Smith's?'

‘Our journal? Well, no. One doesn't want such information in the wrong hands. Not in the hands of people making a living out of crime. One has to belong.'

‘To this crooks' club? Can anybody join – I mean by paying a subscription?'

‘Oh, no.' Miss Pringle tried not to betray amusement. ‘One must have contributed to detective literature.'

‘Published a yarn, eh? It can't be too hard to do that.'

‘I suppose not.' Secretly, Miss Pringle did not agree. ‘It's quite competitive,' she said.

‘One would have to have a head for it, of course.' For some moments Captain Bulkington brooded darkly. ‘Thought of it myself, as a matter of fact.'

‘A good many people have.'

‘Rather jolly to have one's name to a book. Once started on a manual of cavalry training. Only, just then, they pretty well stopped having cavalry.'

‘We shan't stop having crime.'

‘Always with us, eh? You have a point there.'

 

During the course of this stimulating conversation the train had traversed the greater part of one of the home counties, and both Windsor Castle and Eton College Chapel (always agreeable objects in Miss Pringle's regard) had appeared briefly on the horizon. They were a signal, moreover, to begin preparing for the end of her journey, and she thought with satisfaction of the porters who, although now so diminished a band at the London railway termini, still had the trick of being available outside the first-class carriages. She would take a taxi to her well-appointed ladies' club (another fairly recent index of status and prosperity, this), where she would find her friend and fellow-writer, Barbara Vanderpump. Miss Vanderpump was the authoress of historical novels, but had been admitted to the Colloquium on the strength of dealings with certain deeply mysterious events associated with the career of Cardinal Richelieu. So they would go together to the
Diner Dupin,
having first severally applied themselves with proper concentration to the
grandes toilettes
they had elected for the occasion. It was probable that they would even have a glass of sherry before setting out, thus ensuring that they should be one up and at their liveliest in the event of any such crisis as having, for example, Sir John Appleby presented to them early in the proceedings.

All this was putting Miss Pringle in good humour, for she was a nice woman, finding contentment in simple things. She was even inclined to find contentment in Captain Bulkington of ‘Kandahar', Long Canings, Wilts – although whether
he
was a simple thing was not exactly clear to her.

‘Some devilish-queer experiences in India,' Captain Bulkington was saying. ‘In the old days, that is. Might work up into something. As a thriller, I mean. Anybody ever offer you ideas – likely plots, and so on?'

‘Oh, quite frequently. A great many people – and sometimes most surprising people – believe they know how to commit an undetectable murder. The trouble is, they quite often
are
undetectable.'

‘But isn't that what you want?'

‘Of course not. Think of poor Catfish.'

‘Catfish?'

‘The Detective-Inspector you've been reading about in my story. He has to
solve
his crimes, hasn't he? So they just mustn't be undetectable. It would never do. That's the point that Timothy misses.'

‘Timothy Catfish?'

‘No, no. Timothy is my nephew, and he has some very clever young scientists among his friends. They often bring me ideas that are no good at all. Either one would have to offer such obvious clues that the murder would be completely boring, or there could be no means of getting at it whatever. You see?'

‘I believe I do.' Captain Bulkington was now (as novelists say) all attention; in fact he had bent on Miss Pringle a fascinated stare. ‘Where does this Timothy live?'

‘Timothy lives in London.'

‘I mean, what is his address?' The Captain had actually produced a pocket-diary. ‘I'd like to look him up.'

Miss Pringle now saw that her momentary, and seemingly bizarre, suspicion had been correct. Captain Bulkington was mad. She was so convinced of this that she glanced up nervously at the communic-ation-cord. A notice beside it informed her that the penalty for its improper use had been raised from £5 to £20. But there are occasions upon which one has to face up boldly to the soaring cost of living. Miss Pringle felt she ought to risk it, and pull. Her story would be an improbable one, but at least she would have gained the protection of the guard. She half-rose, and then sank back in her seat.

‘Timothy,' she heard herself saying firmly, ‘is at present abroad.'

‘A pity. He sounds a nice lad.' Quite amiably, Captain Bulkington had put the pocket-diary away again. ‘May I ask whether you have ever collaborated with another writer?'

‘I never have.'

‘It might be quite an idea, wouldn't you say? Labour-saving, and so on. One partner provides the ideas, and the other sweats it out on the typewriter.'

‘I am sure that I should not myself take satisfaction in such a division of labour.'

‘Or perhaps one do the whole job, and the other simply provide the working capital.'

‘The working capital?'

‘Well – ha-ha ! – while the grass grows the steed mustn't starve. Say five hundred down, and both names on the title-page. How about it?'

‘You appear to be proposing a peculiar variant of what is called vanity publishing.' Miss Pringle had decided that, after all, Captain Bulkington was harmless. ‘A sort of ghost-writing.'

‘Call it what you like. But it would get a fellow in with that Colloquium crowd – journal and all?'

As he asked this, the Captain got to his feet, and made a sudden lurch towards Miss Pringle. Her alarm was renewed, and then the thought suddenly occurred to her that she had perhaps been travelling with a drunkard. But Captain Bulkington didn't smell of drink. And at once she realised that he had simply risen to secure his suitcase, and that his loss of balance had been occasioned merely by the train's passing over some complicated system of points as it approached Paddington.

‘Venture to give you my card,' the Captain said. ‘Hope you won't consider it impertinent. Professional matter, eh? We might fix something up between us yet. Basis, as they say, of mutual advantage. Shall remain great admirer of yours, in any case.'

Miss Pringle had, of course, no need of Captain Bulkington's card. His address was engraved on her memory as securely as on any piece of pasteboard, and she could find him if she wanted to – although no contingency could be less probable. But he hadn't, so far, so much as mentioned his own name, and it would be rather rude simply to reject this valedictory gesture. She wouldn't, naturally, give him
her
address, nor would her publisher divulge it to him without permission. So there was no great risk of this eccentric character's proving a nuisance. Perhaps if she accepted the card with a faintly indicated air of amused indulgence he would take a hint from that. Miss Pringle evinced such an air, or hoped she did, and put the card in her bag.

‘How very charming of you,' she said in an appropriately conventional tone. ‘I shall remember our interesting talk. And now I must say goodbye.'

The train had, in fact, come to a halt, and Captain Bulkington was gallantly getting her suitcase down from the rack and pulling back the door of the compartment. Although so curiously deranged, there was no question of his agreeable manners. No doubt he had himself been in what he called the Brigade – which meant the soldiers who looked so splendid when the Colours were trooped, or the Guard was changed at Buckingham Palace. He might even be personally known to the Queen, or at least to the Duke of Edinburgh. Miss Pringle decided to go so far as to shake hands.

‘Share a taxi, perhaps?' the Captain suggested hopefully. ‘Small economies necessary, these days. All those damned taxes.'

‘Thank you, but I am being met by friends.' Miss Pringle rather prided herself upon her adroitness with small social lies; she even believed that she could manage quite a big lie at a pinch. ‘In the station hotel,' she added, by way of obviating any awkwardness on the platform.

‘Then
au revoir
,' Captain Bulkington said easily. ‘Hope you have a jolly dinner. And pick up a tip or two, eh? I'll be on the lookout for your next.'

‘That will be extremely nice of you.'

And thus Miss Pringle escaped into the almost open air of Paddington.

 

 

‘My dear Priscilla, you have made a conquest, I declare!' Miss Vanderpump spoke with what she would herself have described as a merry tinkle in her voice. She tapped the card her friend had shown her – so vivaciously that her sherry jumped in its glass. ‘A beau – and a military officer!' Being what is called a romantic novelist, Barbara Vanderpump felt it incumbent upon her to employ a slightly antique vocabulary. ‘And, you say,
un vert galant
.'

‘Just what does that mean?'

‘It means that you report his joints creaked.' Miss Vanderpump bubbled. ‘Do you think he is a Hussar? Or a Dragoon?'

‘He is certainly neither now. He appears to be a pedagogue.'

‘Which lends rather a sinister resonance to his address.'

‘Kandahar?' Miss Pringle was perplexed.

‘No, no. Long Canings. He is a most prodigious fustigator of small boys.'

‘Barbara, you are extremely foolish. A crammer takes on nineteen-year-old youths, who have been superannuated from the public schools. Boys who have been hopeless even in an Army Class. He prepares them for Sandhurst, and places of that sort. It must be a depressing means of livelihood.'

‘My dear, we are out of date, don't you think? It seems probable that, in these egalitarian times, Sandhurst is no longer entered in that way. Your new friend no doubt coaches his charges for admission to strange new universities. Which is worse and worse. Captain Bulkington is a figure of pathos, I declare. Did he seem very hard up?'

‘He offered me five hundred pounds.'