Mulliner Nights (7 page)
And then
abruptly, for one fleeting instant, he stopped lapping and glanced up at
Lancelot, and across his face there flitted a quick smile — so genial, so
intimate, so full of jovial camaraderie, that the young man found himself
automatically smiling back, and not only smiling but winking. And in answer to
that wink Webster winked, too — a wholehearted, roguish wink that said as
plainly as if he had spoken the words:
‘How long has
this been going on?’
Then with a
slight hiccough he turned back to the task of getting his quick before it
soaked into the floor.
Into the murky
soul of Lancelot Mulliner there poured a sudden flood of sunshine. It was as if
a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. The intolerable obsession of
the last two weeks had ceased to oppress him, and he felt a free man. At the eleventh
hour the reprieve had come. Webster, that seeming pillar of austere virtue, was
one of the boys, after all. Never again would Lancelot quail beneath his eye.
He had the goods on him.
Webster, like
the stag at eve, had now drunk his fill. He had left the pool of alcohol and
was walking round in slow, meditative circles. From time to time he mewed
tentatively, as if he were trying to say ‘British Constitution’. His failure to
articulate the syllables appeared to tickle him, for at the end of each attempt
he would utter a slow, amused chuckle. It was at about this moment that he
suddenly broke into a rhythmic dance, not unlike the old Saraband.
It was an
interesting spectacle, and at any other time Lancelot would have watched it
raptly. But now he was busy at his desk, writing a brief note to Mrs
Carberry-Pirbright, the burden of which was that if she thought he was coming
within a mile of her foul house that night or any other night she had vastly
underrated the dodging powers of Lancelot Mulliner.
And what of
Webster? The Demon Rum now had him in an iron grip. A lifetime of abstinence
had rendered him a ready victim to the fatal fluid. He had now reached the
stage when geniality gives way to belligerence. The rather foolish smile had
gone from his face, and in its stead there lowered a fighting frown. For a few
moments he stood on his hind legs, looking about him for a suitable adversary:
then, losing all vestiges of self-control, he ran five times round the room at
a high rate of speed and, falling foul of a small footstool, attacked it with
the utmost ferocity, sparing neither tooth nor claw.
But Lancelot
did not see him. Lancelot was not there. Lancelot was out in Bott Street,
hailing a cab.
‘6 A, Garbidge
Mews, Fulham,’ said Lancelot to the driver.
T
here
had fallen upon the bar-parlour of the Angler’s Rest one of those soothing
silences which from time to time punctuate the nightly feasts of Reason and
flows of Soul in that cosy resort. It was broken by a Whisky and Splash.
‘I’ve been
thinking a lot,’ said the Whisky and Splash, addressing Mr Mulliner, ‘about
that cat of yours, that Webster.’
‘Has Mr
Mulliner got a cat named Webster?’ asked a Small Port who had just rejoined our
little circle after an absence of some days.
The Sage of
the bar-parlour shook his head smilingly. ‘Webster,’ he said, ‘did not belong
to me. He was the property of the Dean of Bolsover who, on being raised to a
bishopric and sailing from England to take up his episcopal duties at his See
of Bongo-Bongo in West Africa, left the animal in the care of his nephew, my
cousin Edward’s son Lancelot, the artist. I was telling these gentlemen the
other evening how Webster for a time completely revolutionized Lancelot’s life.
His early up-bringing at the Deanery had made him austere and censorious, and
he exerted on my cousin’s son the full force of a powerful and bigoted
personality. It was as if Savonarola or some minor prophet had suddenly been
introduced into the carefree, Bohemian atmosphere of the studio.’
‘He stared at
Lancelot and unnerved him,’ explained a Pint of Bitter.
‘He made him
shave daily and knock off smoking,’ added a Lemon Sour.
‘He thought
Lancelot’s fiancée, Gladys Bingley, worldly,’ said a Rum and Milk, ‘and tried
to arrange a match between him and a girl called Brenda Carberry-Pirbright.’
‘But one day,’
concluded Mr Mulliner, ‘Lancelot discovered that the animal, for all its
apparently rigid principles, had feet of clay and was no better than the rest
of us. He happened to drop a bottle of alcoholic liquor and the cat drank
deeply of its contents and made a sorry exhibition of itself, with the result
that the spell was, of course, instantly broken. What aspect of the story of
Webster,’ he asked the Whisky and Splash, ‘has been engaging your thoughts?’
‘The
psychological aspect,’ said the Whisky and Splash. ‘As I see it, there is a
great psychological drama in this cat. I visualize his higher and lower selves
warring. He has taken the first false step, and what will be the issue? Is this
new, demoralizing atmosphere into which he has been plunged to neutralize the
pious teachings of early kittenhood at the Deanery? Or will sound churchmanship
prevail and keep him the cat he used to be?’
‘If,’ said Mr
Mulliner, ‘I am right in supposing that you want to know what happened to
Webster at the conclusion of the story I related the other evening, I can tell
you. There was nothing that you could really call a war between his higher and
lower selves. The lower self won hands down. From the moment when he went on
that first majestic toot this once saintly cat became a Bohemian of Bohemians.
His days started early and finished late, and were a mere welter of brawling
and loose gallantry. As early as the end of the second week his left ear had
been reduced through incessant gang-warfare to a mere tattered scenario and his
battle-cry had become as familiar to the denizens of Bott Street, Chelsea, as
the yodel of the morning milkman.’
The Whisky and
Splash said it reminded him of some great Greek tragedy. Mr Mulliner said yes,
there were points of resemblance.
‘And what,’
enquired the Rum and Milk, ‘did Lancelot think of all this?’
‘Lancelot,’
said Mr Mulliner, ‘had the easy live-and-let-live creed of the artist. He was
indulgent towards the animal’s excesses. As he said to Gladys Bingley one
evening, when she was bathing Webster’s right eye in a boric solution, cats
will be cats. In fact, he would scarcely have given a thought to the matter had
there not arrived one morning from his uncle a wireless message, dispatched in
mid-ocean, announcing that he had resigned his bishopric for reasons of health
and would shortly be back in England once more. The communication ended with
the words: “All my best to Webster.”‘
If you recall
the position of affairs between Lancelot and the Bishop of Bongo-Bongo, as I
described them the other night (said Mr Mulliner), you will not need to be told
how deeply this news affected the young man. It was a bomb-shell. Lancelot,
though earning enough by his brush to support himself, had been relying on
touching his uncle for that extra bit which would enable him to marry Gladys
Bingley. And when he had been placed
in loco parentis
to Webster, he had
considered this touch a certainty. Surely, he told himself, the most ordinary
gratitude would be sufficient to cause his uncle to unbelt.
But now what?
‘You saw that
wireless,’ said Lancelot, agitatedly discussing the matter with Gladys. ‘You
remember the closing words: “All my best to Webster.” Uncle Theodore’s first
act on landing in England will undoubtedly be to hurry here for a sacred
reunion with this cat. And what will he find? A feline plug-ugly. A gangster.
The Big Shot of Bott Street. Look at the animal now,’ said Lancelot, waving a
distracted hand at the cushion where it lay. ‘Run your eye over him. I ask you!’
Certainly
Webster was not a natty spectacle. Some tough cats from the public-house on the
corner had recently been trying to muscle in on his personal dust-bin, and,
though he had fought them off, the affair had left its mark upon him. A further
section had been removed from his already abbreviated ear, and his once sleek
flanks were short of several patches of hair. He looked like the late Legs
Diamond after a social evening with a few old friends.
‘What,’
proceeded Lancelot, writhing visibly, ‘will Uncle Theodore say on beholding
that wreck? He will put the entire blame on me. He will insist that it was I
who dragged that fine spirit down into the mire. And phut will go any chance I
ever had of getting into his ribs for a few hundred quid for honey-moon
expenses.
Gladys Bingley
struggled with a growing hopelessness.
‘You don’t
think a good wig-maker could do something?’
‘A wig-maker
might patch on a little extra fur,’ admitted :Lancelot, ‘but how about that
ear?’
‘A facial
surgeon?’ suggested Gladys.
Lancelot shook
his head.
‘It isn’t
merely his appearance,’ he said. ‘It’s his entire personality. The poorest
reader of character, meeting Webster now, would recognize him for what he is —
a hard egg and a bad citizen.’
‘When do you
expect your uncle?’ asked Gladys, after a pause.
‘At any
moment. He must have landed by this time. I can’t understand why he has not
turned up.
At this moment
there sounded from the passage outside the
p/op
of a letter falling into
the box attached to the front door. Lancelot went listlessly out. A few moments
later Gladys heard him utter a surprised exclamation, and he came hurrying
back, a sheet of note-paper in his hand.
‘Listen to
this,’ he said. ‘From Uncle Theodore.’
‘Is he in
London?’
‘No. Down in
Hampshire, at a place called Widdrington Manor. And the great point is that he
does not want to see Webster yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’ll read you
what he says.
And Lancelot
proceeded to do so, as follows:
‘Widdrington
Manor,
‘Bottleby-in-the-Vale,
‘Hants.
‘
MY
DEAR LANCELOT
,
‘You will
doubtless be surprised that I have not hastened to greet you immediately upon
my return to these shores. The explanation is that I am being entertained at
the above address by Lady Widdrington, widow of the late Sir George Widdrington,
C.B.E., and her mother, Mrs Pulteney-Banks, whose acquaintance I made on
shipboard during my voyage home.
‘I find our
English countryside charming after the somewhat desolate environment of
Bongo-Bongo, and am enjoying a pleasant and restful visit. Both Lady Widdrington
and her mother are kindness itself, especially the former, who is my constant
companion on every country ramble. We have a strong bond in our mutual love of
cats.
‘And this, my
dear boy, brings me to the subject of Webster. As you can readily imagine, I am
keenly desirous of seeing him once more and noting all the evidences of the
loving care which, I have no doubt, you have lavished upon him in my absence,
but I do not wish you to forward him to me here. The fact is, Lady Widdrington,
though a charming woman, seems entirely lacking in discrimination in the matter
of cats. She owns and is devoted to a quite impossible orange-coloured animal
of the name of Percy, whose society could not but prove distasteful to one of
Webster’s high principles. When I tell you that only last night this Percy was
engaging in personal combat — quite obviously from the worst motives — with a
large tortoiseshell beneath my very window, you will understand what I mean.
‘My refusal to
allow Webster to join me here is, I fear, puzzling my kind hostess, who knows
how greatly I miss him, but I must be firm.
‘Keep him,
therefore, my dear Lancelot, until I call in person when I shall remove him to
the quiet rural retreat where I plan to spend the evening of my life.
‘With every good wish to you both,
‘Your affectionate uncle,
‘
THEODORE
.
Gladys Bingley
had listened intently to this letter, an as Lancelot came to the end of it she
breathed a sigh c relief.
‘Well, that
gives us a bit of time,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ agreed
Lancelot. ‘Time to see if we can’t awake in this animal some faint eh of its
old self-respect. From to-day Webster goes into monastic seclusion. I shall
take him round to the vet’s, with instructions that he be forced to lead the
simple life. In those pure surroundings, with no temptations, no late nights,
plain food and a strict milk diet, he may become himself again.’
‘“The Man Who
Came Back”,’ said Gladys.
‘Exactly,’
said Lancelot.
And so for
perhaps two weeks something approaching tranquillity reigned once more in my
cousin Edward’s sons studio in Bott Street, Chelsea. The veterinary surgeon
issued encouraging reports. He claimed a distinct improvement in Webster’s
character and appearance, though he added that he would still not care to meet
him at night in a lonely alley. And then one morning there arrived from his
Uncle Theodore a telegram which caused the young man to knit his brows in
bewilderment.
It ran thus:
‘On receipt of
this come immediately Widdrington Manor prepared for indefinite visit period
Circumstances comma I regret to say comma necessitate innocent deception semicolon
so will you state on arrival that you are my legal representative and have
come to discuss important family matters with me period Will explain fully when
see you comma but rest assured comma my dear boy comma that would not ask this
were it not absolutely essential period Do not fail me period Regards to
Webster.’
Lancelot
finished reading this mysterious communication, and looked at Gladys with
raised eyebrows. There is unfortunately in most artists a material streak
which leads them to place an unpleasant interpretation on telegrams like this.
Lancelot was no exception to the rule.