Guy Renton (21 page)

It was good to talk over those old matches, hard to realize that it was only four years ago that he retired; what a vanished world. He lifted the bottle to replenish Masterman's glass. There was only enough wine to quarter-fill it. He signalled to the waiter, but Masterman intervened. “No, really, I must cope.”

“Of course not, it's my party.”

“Please: we butted in. Look at all the whisky my stablemate's consuming. I've had so many grand hours watching you from the touchline, I'd be honoured to think I'd stood a drink to G. S. Renton.”

Masterman was insistent and Guy gave way.

“It's only a question of signing an order, I suppose?”

Guy nodded. “That's how I got mine.”

The form was signed: within two minutes a bottle that was already cold was in the ice pail.

Tucker who had surrendered Margery to Drummond, was eyeing the dance hostesses.

“I like the red-head.” It was the first remark that Guy had heard him make. He had an unusual accent.

“Terrible fellow this,” said Masterman. “Can't keep his hands off girls. Wouldn't think so, would you, by the look of him. Quiet-looking guy. I don't know why I bother to go out with him. Spend half my time sitting at a table by myself while he's campaigning. All right, off you go.”

Tucker rose, mouched over to his red-head. “Time I was giving some of this champagne a work out,” said Masterman. He turned to Barbara: “Spot of the light fantastic, what?”

Renée and Roger were also on the floor. Guy was left alone. He glanced at the dance hostesses. Tucker was leaning across their table, talking to the red-head, but he did not take a seat. After a minute's talk he went out into the passage. The music went on and on. Guy watched Pamela and Franklin. There was a touching quality of youth and hopefulness about them. It was something he had never known, that half his generation had been robbed of. They had grown up so fast, they had had the responsibilities of manhood in their ‘teens, had never had the carefree period of unreflecting action. He looked across at Margery and
Drummond. Had Margery ever been like Pamela or had she always had to contend with men of his generation who had somehow missed their youth. He looked again towards the dance hostesses. Tucker was back at their table; sitting between the redhead and the Andalusian. A couple of sexagenarians, in dinner jackets with florid faces, had joined them: a waiter had been requisitioned and order forms were being signed. They had probably seen the last of Master Tucker for that evening.

A hand fell upon Guy's shoulder. “You can't be left alone at your own party,” Margery was saying. He was at the table's foot. Drummond and she sat beside him on the banquette. They were holding hands. There was a soft look in Margery's eyes. She looked towards the dancing floor. She was watching Pamela and Franklin. “They look so young and fresh and hopeful. I really ought to follow their example and make an honest man of Michael.”

“I can't think why you don't.”

“Maybe I shall.”

“It wouldn't be a bad idea.”

“That's what I've been telling her for the last six months.”

They laughed together. “When you finally make up your minds you'll be sure, won't you, to let me be the first to hear,” Guy said, “then I'll give a lovely big party for you to announce it at.”

“Darling, what heaven that sounds. Don't you think we'd better fix a date for it right away? Let's decide where we'll have it and how big to make it.”

She was gay and laughing: as though she were back to seventeen: aglow in the reflection of her brother's happiness. They started to plan out the party. A small dinner-party or a large cocktail party: or something that you came on to after dinner. “If it's something after dinner, it'll have to be elaborate, because after all. . .”

The sentence was never finished. From the passage came the disturbance of raised voices: the clatter of heavy boots; then suddenly a loud and commanding voice was ordering: “Will you all keep your seats now, please.” Two of the musicians stopped; the pianist and the ‘cellist continued. There was a moment of cacophony; then silence.

Five policemen were in the room. Drummond jumped up. “I'm one of the managers of this club. If there's any way in which I can assist you——”

A policeman smiled. “You've saved me a lot of trouble right away. Will you give me your name and address please. Then you can conduct me round your premises.” He raised his voice again. “Will you please keep quiet for a few minutes while I take your names; then you can go on dancing.”

He was extremely courteous. Tucker had left the hostesses' table and had joined the police. Masterman had left Barbara and had also joined them. There was a minute or two of consultation. Then one policeman went with Tucker to the hostesses, while Masterman with another policeman came over to Guy's table. The waiter was brought across. The questionnaire began. “You are the host, sir, of this party?”

“Yes, officer.”

“Is this the first time you have been here?”

“Yes.”

“How did you obtain the whisky that is on your table?”

“I signed a form for it.”

“When did you sign the form, sir?”

“When I arrived.”

“And that would be?”

“About half-past ten.”

“Did you know that by law you could only obtain wines and spirits at a bottle party by giving the wine merchant with whom you deal twenty-four hours' notice?”

“Yes.”

“May I have your name, please, sir, and your address?”

Guy gave his correct name. He had decided upon that during the interrogation. Drummond might need him later to give evidence on his behalf. Better to tell the truth. The constable turned now to the waiter. “You took this order for the gentleman, and you also filled an order for this gentleman beside me for a bottle of champagne?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your name please, and address.”

The constable proceeded to document himself upon Guy's guests. They all with the exception of Roger gave their correct
names. He then moved on to the next table. The procedure was conducted with complete decorum.

Barbara's eyes shone. “Isn't this thrilling. Raided in a night club. How I'll boast over this. What'll happen to us? Will we be had up before a judge? Will we be fined? We won't have to go to prison, will we? Those two young men were police spies weren't they! To think I danced with one! I suppose he'll be bumped off one day. The underworld always gets the squealer. The
News of the World
will print his photograph. I'll point it out to all my friends, ‘Believe it or not,' I'll say, ‘but I once danced with him.' Look, he's coming back here now. Do we speak to him or cut him?”

Masterman had come back for his cigarettes. He flushed; looked awkward and embarrassed. “I left my cigarettes behind.” He was on guard against attack. He had no doubt in his time listened to some unpleasant things. He had his answers ready. Guy was not giving him that satisfaction.

“As a matter of curiosity,” he asked, “did we ever play football against each other?”

Masterman shook his head.

“I never played for anything better than Richmond B.”

“You did play for them, though.”

“Certainly. Still do.”

“Your name isn't Masterman, I suppose?”

“Of course not.”

For a moment Guy played with the idea of reporting the matter to the Richmond secretary, whom he knew quite well. But he thought better of it. He wasn't going to give whoever Masterman might be the opportunity of making a story out of an old international's attempt to identify the police nark who had got his name taken for him in a raided night club. He smiled. “I must congratulate you. You were convincing in the role.”

“That's why they picked me for it.”

It was said aggressively. Masterman was longing, Guy knew, to be insulted, so that he could relieve his feelings by being insulting back. It was probably a humiliating moment for him. He had been more than half sincere when he had talked about those old matches. Probably he had had a kind of hero-worship for him: Guy was not going to ease the boil of his humiliation with
the lancet of abuse. The music had begun again and he turned to Renée: “Let's dance.”

The gaiety of the evening had, however, gone. It was late and Roger was tired. Drummond had returned from his tour of the premises looking worried. The police, he said, had put a padlock on his cellar.

“Will they confiscate it?” Barbara asked.

He shrugged.

“It's hard to tell. I suppose they'd be within their rights. I'm not supposed to have any.”

“But surely a bottle party is a private house. Isn't that the fiction?”

“It may be but I'm not behaving as though it were a private house.”

Margery too was worried. “How serious is this for you?”

Again he shrugged.

“I won't say it's the basket in which all my eggs are, I haven't so very many eggs. But it was important.”

Margery was worried because he was worried. Barbara, now that the drama had subsided, was restless with a sense of anticlimax. Only Franklin was in a party mood. He wanted to go on somewhere else. There was a place he'd heard of called The Nest. If not The Nest why not The 43: that was always fun. He was persistent, almost too persistent. But not even Pamela could be cajoled there. They finished what wine was left and filed upstairs. “We'll meet at Philippi,” said Franklin.

Guy believed in meeting trouble three-quarter way. Early next morning he put through a call to Mr. Duke. “Did you see my future sister-in-law before you left home?” he asked.

“Except on holidays abroad I've never seen her at breakfast in my life. I shut myself up in my study with my mail, have my tea and toast brought to me and allow no one to ring me here till half-past ten. I'm a Victorian father.”

“In that case you won't have learnt that she's likely to appear before a magistrate in the next few hours.”

“She's what?”

Guy explained the situation. He made a funny story of it. Mr. Duke chuckled. “That's the last place I should have expected
a daughter of mine to appear, but since she'll appear in such good company——”

“You can guess how respectable a club it was when I tell you they were serving our new Brut champagne.”

Later he was to regret, how bitterly, having mentioned that. But how, he was to ask himself, could he have known? It was the precise amplification, so it seemed to him, that was required to complete the joke. Mr. Duke burst out laughing.

“That crowns it. The turn of the screw. Pamela arrested for drinking her own father's wines. They'll laugh over this in Boodle's. I only hope that the club doesn't owe us for the wine, though if they did that would make it an even better joke. That a Duke should have paid for the wine twice and then be had up before the beak for drinking it. What a story! Will you find out right away, dear boy, whether the club has paid for its wine or not? Then ring me back at once. I'm going to dine out on this for weeks. I've got to have the details right.”

It was a point on which Guy himself wanted to be informed. He turned the leaves of the telephone book. Frisby and Dunkin: no, no entry. A new firm then. He put through a call to the accounts department. Had Frisby and Dunkin ordered direct through them or through an agency? If it was through an agency, the account, as far as they themselves were concerned, was safe. The agency was responsible for its own bad debts. A mushroom firm could hardly have opened an account with them direct. “Does the name Frisby and Dunkin convey anything to you?” he asked.

He was answered by Pilcher's son.

“Yes, sir, a new account: a very profitable one apparently.” The ‘apparently' came after a pause that was significant.

“What do you mean ‘profitable', and what do you mean ‘apparently'?”

“They've placed large orders, sir, but they've only paid for part of their first order.”

“How long has this account been running?”

“Five months, sir.”

“Is it a large account?”

“Do you want the exact figures, sir?”

“No, roughly will do.”

“It was over two thousand, sir, the last time I looked.”

“Over two thousand pounds?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But surely you've been pressing them?”

“Naturally, sir, but it was an A account.”

The accounts were registered from A to K, in relation to the amount of credit they were allowed. Only exceptional accounts were higher marked than C. ‘A' was practically unlimited credit. And Frisby and Dunkin were a mushroom firm. ‘I'd better ask Pilcher about this,' he thought.

Before he did, a cautionary instinct advised him to ring up the senior partner. He had an idea that it might be as well to give Mr. Duke the facts he needed before he himself knew too much about the matter, while he could still answer truthfully. “Your story's better than you dared to hope,” he said. “The wine has not been paid for.”

A guffaw greeted him from the other end. “That's rich, regally rich. How I'm going to enjoy myself to-day at Boodle's.”

Guy went in search of Pilcher. He had decided not to ring him through. He wanted to watch the expression on his face. “I'm curious about an account with Frisby and Dunkin. How did we come to give it an A status?”

Pilcher started, then flushed. He looked guilty. “Is there anything wrong about them, Mr. Guy?”

“Not so far as I know, but I'm curious.”

“They should be all right. Mr. Franklin vouched for them.”

“In that case I'm sure they are.”

It was the last thing he thought himself; but he could not let Pilcher suspect he was not satisfied. He had learnt enough from that quick start and look of guilt. Franklin had got round Pilcher with that infallible capacity to charm. Pilcher had let himself be cajoled, but against his own trained judgment. Guy knew that from the way Pilcher was shifting his weight from one foot to the other.