Mulliner Nights (2 page)

‘Like this?’
said Adrian.

‘Wider than
that.’

‘How about
this?’

‘Better,’ said
the specialist, ‘but still not quite so elastic as one could desire. Naturally,
you need practice. We must expect the muscles to work rustily for a while at
their unaccustomed task. No doubt things will brighten by and by.’

He regarded
Adrian thoughtfully.

‘Odd,’ he
said. ‘A curious smile, yours, Mr Mulliner. It reminds me a little of the Mona
Lisa’s. It has the same underlying note of the sardonic and the sinister. It
virtually amounts to a leer. Somehow it seems to convey the suggestion that you
know all. Fortunately, my own life is an open book, for all to read, and so I
was not discommoded. But I think it would be better if, for the present, you
endeavoured not to smile at invalids or nervous persons. Good morning, Mr
Mulliner. That will be five guineas, precisely.’

On Adrian’s
face, as he went off that afternoon to perform the duties assigned to him by
his firm, there was no smile of any description. He shrank from the ordeal
before him. He had been told off to guard the wedding-presents at a reception
in Grosvenor Square, and naturally anything to do with weddings was like a
sword through his heart. His face, as he patrolled the room where the gifts
were laid out, was drawn and forbidding. Hitherto, at these functions, it had
always been his pride that nobody could tell that he was a detective. To-day, a
child could have recognized his trade. He looked like Sherlock Holmes.

To the gay
throng that surged about him he paid little attention. Usually tense and alert
on occasions like this, he now found his mind wandering. He mused sadly on
Millicent. And suddenly — the result, no doubt, of these gloomy meditations,
though a glass of wedding champagne may have contributed its mite — there shot
through him, starting at about the third button of his neat waistcoat, a pang of
dyspepsia so keen that he felt the pressing necessity of doing something about
it immediately.

With a violent
effort he contorted his features into a smile. And, as he did so, a stout,
bluff man of middle age, with a red face and a grey moustache, who had been
hovering near one of the tables, turned and saw him.

‘Egad!’ he
muttered, paling.

Sir Sutton
Hartley-Wesping, Bart — for the red-faced man was he — had had a pretty good
afternoon. Like all baronets who attend Society wedding-receptions, he had been
going round the various tables since his arrival, pocketing here a fish-slice,
there a jewelled egg-boiler, until now he had taken on about all the cargo his
tonnage would warrant, and was thinking of strolling off to the pawnbroker’s in
the Euston Road, with whom he did most of his business. At the sight of Adrian’s
smile, he froze where he stood, appalled.

We have seen
what the specialist thought of Adrian’s smile. Even to him, a man of clear and
limpid conscience, it had seemed sardonic and sinister. We can picture, then,
the effect it must have had on Sir Sutton Hartley-Wesping.

At all costs,
he felt, he must conciliate this leering man. Swiftly removing from his pockets
a diamond necklace, five fish-slices, ten cigarette-lighters and a couple of
egg-boilers, he placed them on the table and came over to Adrian with a nervous
little laugh.

‘How
are
you,
my dear fellow?’ he said.

Adrian said
that he was quite well. And so, indeed, he was. The specialist’s recipe had
worked like magic. He was mildly surprised at finding himself so cordially
addressed by a man whom he did not remember ever having seen before, but he
attributed this to the magnetic charm of his personality.

‘That’s fine,’
said the Baronet heartily. ‘That’s capital. That’s splendid. Er — by the way —
I fancied I saw you smile just now.

‘Yes,’ said
Adrian. ‘I did smile. You see—’

‘Of course I
see. Of course, my dear fellow. You detected the joke I was playing on our good
hostess, and you were amused because you understood that there is no animus, no
arrière pensée,
behind these little practical pleasantries — nothing
but good, clean fun, at which nobody would have laughed more heartily than
herself. And now, what are you doing this weekend, my dear old chap? Would you
care to run down to my place in Sussex?’

‘Very kind of
you,’ began Adrian doubtfully. He was not quite sure that he was in the mood
for strange week-ends.

‘Here is my
card, then. I shall expect you on Friday. Quite a small party. Lord
Brangbolton, Sir Jasper Addleton, and a few more. Just loafing about, you know,
and a spot of bridge at night. Splendid. Capital. See you, then, on Friday.’

And,
carelessly dropping another egg-boiler on the table as he passed, Sir Sutton
disappeared.

Any doubts
which Adrian might have entertained as to accepting the Baronet’s invitation
had vanished as he heard the names of his fellow-guests. It always interests a
fiancé to meet his fiancées father and his fiancée’s prospective fiancé. For
the first time since Millicent had told him the bad news, Adrian became almost
cheerful. If, he felt, this baronet had taken such a tremendous fancy to him at
first sight, why might it not happen that Lord Brangbolton would be equally
drawn to him — to the extent, in fact, of overlooking his profession and
welcoming him as a son-in-law?

He packed, on
the Friday, with what was to all intents and purposes a light heart.

A fortunate
chance at the very outset of his expedition increased Adrian’s optimism. It
made him feel that Fate was fighting on his side. As he walked down the
platform of Victoria Station, looking for an empty compartment in the train
which was to take him to his destination, he perceived a tall, aristocratic old
gentleman being assisted into a first-class carriage by a man of butlerine
aspect. And in the latter he recognized the servitor who had admitted him to
18A, Upper Brook Street, when he visited the house after solving the riddle of
the missing Sealy-ham. Obviously, then, the white-haired, dignified passenger
could be none other than Lord Brangbolton. And Adrian felt that if on a long
train journey he failed to ingratiate himself with the old buster, he had
vastly mistaken his amiability and winning fascination of manner.

He leaped in,
accordingly, as the train began to move, and the Earl, glancing up from his
paper, jerked a thumb at the door.

‘Get out,
blast you!’ he said. ‘Full up.’

As the
compartment was empty but for themselves, Adrian made no move to comply with
the request. Indeed, to alight now, to such an extent had the train gathered
speed, would have been impossible. Instead, he spoke cordially.

‘Lord
Brangbolton, I believe?’

‘Go to hell,’
said his lordship.

‘I fancy we
are to be fellow-guests at Wesping Hall this week-end.’

‘What of it?’

‘I just
mentioned it.’

‘Oh?’ said
Lord Brangbolton. ‘Well, since you’re here, how about a little flutter?’

As is
customary with men of his social position, Millicent’s father always travelled
with a pack of cards. Being gifted by Nature with considerable manual
dexterity, he usually managed to do well with these on race-trains.

‘Ever played
Persian Monarchs?’ he asked, shuffling.

‘I think not,’
said Adrian.

‘Quite simple,’
said Lord Brangbolton. ‘You just bet a quid or whatever it may be that you can
cut a higher card than the other fellow, and, if you do, you win, and, if you
don’t, you don’t.’

Adrian said it
sounded a little like Blind Hooky.

‘It is like
Blind Hooky,’ said Lord Brangbolton. ‘Very like Blind Hooky. In fact, if you
can play Blind Hooky, you can play Persian Monarchs.’

By the time
they alighted at Wesping Parva Adrian was twenty pounds on the wrong side of
the ledger. The fact, however, did not prey upon his mind. On the contrary, he
was well satisfied with the progress of events. Elated with his winnings, the
old Earl had become positively cordial, and Adrian resolved to press his
advantage home at the earliest opportunity.

Arrived at
Wesping Hall, accordingly, he did not delay. Shortly after the sounding of the
dressing-gong he made his way to Lord Brangbolton’s room and found him in his
bath.

‘Might I have
a word with you, Lord Brangbolton?’ he said.

‘You can do
more than that,’ replied the other, with marked amiability. ‘You can help me
find the soap.’

‘Have you lost
the soap?’

‘Yes. Had it a
minute ago, and now it’s gone.

‘Strange,’
said Adrian.

‘Very strange,’
agreed Lord Brangbolton. ‘Makes a fellow think a bit, that sort of thing
happening. My own soap, too. Brought it with me.’

Adrian
considered.

Tell me
exactly what occurred,’ he said. ‘In your own words. And tell me everything,
please, for one never knows when the smallest detail may not be important.’

His companion
marshalled his thoughts.

‘My name,’ he
began, ‘is Reginald Alexander Montacute James Bramfylde Tregennis
Shipton-Bellinger, fifth Earl of Brangbolton. On the sixteenth of the present
month — to-day, in fact — I journeyed to the house of my friend Sir Sutton
Hartley-Wesping, Bart — here, in short — with the purpose of spending the
week-end there. Knowing that Sir Sutton likes to have his guests sweet and
fresh about the place, I decided to take a bath before dinner. I unpacked my
soap and in a short space of time had lathered myself thoroughly from the neck
upwards. And then, just as I was about to get at my right leg, what should I
find but that the soap had disappeared. Nasty shock it gave me, I can tell you.

Adrian had
listened to this narrative with the closest attention. Certainly the problem
appeared to present several points of interest.

‘It looks like
an inside job,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It could scarcely be the work of a gang.
You would have noticed a gang. Just give me the facts briefly once again, if
you please.’

‘Well, I was
here, in the bath, as it might be, and the soap was here — between my hands, as
it were. Next moment it was gone.’

‘Are you sure
you have omitted nothing?’ Lord Brangbolton reflected.

‘Well, I was
singing, of course.’

A tense look
came into Adrian’s face.

‘Singing what?’

‘“Sonny boy”.’

Adrian’s face cleared.

‘As I
suspected,’ he said, with satisfaction. ‘Precisely as I had supposed. I wonder
if you are aware, Lord Brangbolton, that in the singing of that particular song
the muscles unconsciously contract as you come to the final “boy”? Thus — “I
still have you, sonny BOY.” You observe? It would be impossible for anyone,
rendering the number with the proper gusto, not to force his hands together at
this point, assuming that they were in anything like close juxtaposition. And if
there were any slippery object between them, such as a piece of soap, it would
inevitably shoot sharply upwards and fall’ — he scanned the room keenly —’outside
the bath on the mat. As, indeed,’ he concluded, picking up the missing object
and restoring it to its proprietor, ‘it did.’

Lord
Brangbolton gaped.

‘Well, dash my
buttons,’ he cried, ‘if that isn’t the smartest bit of work I’ve seen in a
month of Sundays!’

‘Elementary,’
said Adrian with a shrug.

‘You ought to
be a detective.’

Adrian took
the cue.

‘I am a
detective,’ he said. ‘My name is Mulliner. Adrian Mulliner, Investigator.’

For an instant
the words did not appear to have made any impression. The aged peer continued
to beam through the soapsuds. Then suddenly his geniality vanished with an ominous
swiftness.

‘Mulliner? Did
you say Mulliner?’

‘I did.’

‘You aren’t by
any chance the feller—’

‘… who loves
your daughter Millicent with a fervour he cannot begin to express? Yes, Lord
Brangbolton, I am. And I am hoping that I may receive your consent to the
match.’

A hideous
scowl had darkened the Earl’s brow. His fingers, which were grasping a loofah,
tightened convulsively.

‘Oh?’ he said.
‘You are, are you? You imagine, do you, that I propose to welcome a blighted
footprint-and-cigar-ash inspector into my family? It is your idea, is it, that
I shall acquiesce in the union of my daughter to a dashed feller who goes about
the place on his hands and knees with a magnifying-glass, picking up small
objects and putting them carefully away in his pocket-book? I seem to see
myself! Why, rather than permit Millicent to marry a bally detective…’

‘What is your
objection to detectives?’

‘Never you
mind what’s my objection to detectives. Marry my daughter, indeed! I like your
infernal cheek. Why, you couldn’t keep her in lipsticks.’

Adrian
preserved his dignity.

‘I admit that
my services are not so amply remunerated as I could wish, but the firm hint at
a rise next Christmas….’

Tchah!’ said
Lord Brangbolton. ‘Pshaw! If you are interested in my daughter’s matrimonial
arrangements, she is going, as soon as he gets through with this Bramah-Yamah
Gold Mines flotation of his, to marry my old friend Jasper Addleton. As for
you, Mr Mulliner, I have only two words to say to you. One is POP, the other is
OFF. And do it now.’

Adrian sighed.
He saw that it would be hopeless to endeavour to argue with the haughty old man
in his present mood.

‘So be it,
Lord Brangbolton,’ he said quietly.

And, affecting
not to notice the nail-brush which struck him smartly on the back of the head,
he left the room.

The food and
drink provided for his guests by Sir Sutton Hartley-Wesping at the dinner which
began some half-hour later were all that the veriest gourmet could have
desired; but Adrian gulped them down, scarcely tasting them. His whole
attention was riveted on Sir Jasper Addleton, who sat immediately opposite
him.