The Girl in Blue (7 page)

‘Ah,
Bernadette.’

‘Hi,
Homer.’

‘Did
you have a pleasant afternoon?’

‘Fine.’

‘Where
did you go?’

‘Hither
and thither, seeing the sights. I did a little shopping.’

Homer
started violently, dislodging the fountain pen which had been assisting him to
put his soul on paper. ‘You didn’t—?’

She
smiled the indulgent smile she usually reserved for the foolish babblings of
doctors who told her she smoked too much.

‘No,
no, all cash transactions. You were quite wrong about that business at
Guildenstern’s. I keep telling you it was purely experimental. For some reason
I found myself thinking of Aunt Betsy, and I said to myself If she could pinch
things from under the noses of department store detectives, I ought to be able
to do it, too, so I gave it a try. It was a mistake, of course, I can see that
now. It might have been better not to have made the experiment. But how was I
to know that these fellows have eyes at the back of their heads?’

The
explanation she offered was the same which Homer had put before Duane
Stottlemeyer at the start of their interview, but he had not believed it then
and he did not believe it now. He was convinced that his sister, like the Aunt
Betsy she had mentioned, had some defect in her mental and spiritual make-up
which caused anything that was not nailed down to have an irresistible
attraction for her. His gratitude to Duane for that admirable suggestion of his
increased daily, and he hoped his next song of protest would find a sympathetic
editor and one with more of the Santa Claus spirit, when it came to payment,
than most of the editors of his experience. Thanks to Duane, Bernadette would
be safely at Mellingham Hall tomorrow, far away from the insidious temptations
of department stores.

Barney,
having made clear her motives for trying to get things on the cheap at
Guildenstern’s, changed the subject. It was not one that interested her
greatly.

‘By the
way,’ she said, ‘I met Bill Scrope’s brother Crispin this morning, the one who
owns Mellingham Hall.’

‘Indeed?
Where did you meet him?’

‘At
Bill’s office. I’d looked in to give him a miniature I’d picked up for a few
shillings at a hock shop, knowing that he collected the darned things, and the
first thing he did was show me one he’d just bought for some colossal sum. By
Gainsborough, I think he said it was, one of the guys up top, anyway. So
naturally I didn’t mention my five-shilling exhibit. It would have been like
entering a mongrel at the Westminster Kennel Show.’

‘And
how did you get on with Mr Crispin Scrope?’

‘Swell.
We’re practically kissing cousins.’

‘Good.
Good. Then you are sure to be happy at Mellingham Hall,’ said Homer, relieved.

His
relief lasted till the dinner hour, when it became replaced by a growing
uneasiness. This was caused by his sister Bernadette’s outspoken enthusiasm for
the Gainsborough miniature of which she had spoken.

Exhibited
at the table by Willoughby with a collector’s pardonable pride, it drew from
her a stream of what are called marked tributes. Gainsborough, if he had heard
them, would have felt that though he had always known he was good, he had never
supposed he was as good as all that. She called it cute. She thought the little
girl too ducky for words, though needing a square meal or two to fatten her up.
She reached for it to examine it more closely, and it seemed to Homer that
there was a glitter in her eyes which he did not like at all. Just so, he told
himself, they must have glittered as she went her way through Guildenstern’s
department store, and admirable though the dinner was that Willoughby’s cook
had served up, it is not too much to say that it turned to ashes in Homer’s
mouth. He sat crumbling bread and fearing the shape of things to come.

He rose
from the table at the conclusion of the meal empty as far as proteins and
carbohydrates were concerned, but full of a stem resolve. He did not like what
he had to do, but he knew that it was his obvious duty to do it. Briskly though
his flesh crawled at the prospect, Willoughby must be warned.

The
opportunity of warning him came when Barney had gone to bed and he and his host
were having a last drink in the study, which in this bachelor establishment was
the hub and centre of things. Willoughby, preparing to retire, had risen and
placed the miniature on the mantelpiece, giving Homer the opening he needed.

‘You
aren’t going to leave it there?’ he said, and Willoughby said: ‘Where else?’

‘I
would have thought you would have locked it up, a valuable object like that.’

The
suggestion amused Willoughby.

‘Think
somebody’s going to pinch it?’

‘I
should be apprehensive if it were mine.

‘There
are burglar alarms on all the windows.’

‘But is
that enough?’ said Homer, shrinking like a salted snail at the thought of
having to reveal the skeleton in the family cupboard, but feeling that if the
revelation must be made, this was the moment for a conscientious man to make
it. ‘Has it ever occurred to you, Scrope, to wonder why I have been so anxious
to find some remote spot for my sister to go to? You can imagine how
distressing it is for me to say this, but it is my duty to tell you that it is
not safe to leave her within reach of anything valuable.’

He had
expected his statement to be badly received, and he had not erred. Willoughby
stiffened formidably. The suspicion that this was a joke of some kind he had
dismissed without hesitation. Corporation lawyers do not drink too much at
dinner and indulge in tasteless humour afterwards. It was plain that his guest
meant what he had said, and there was frostiness in the gaze he directed at him.

‘Are
you suggesting that your sister is a thief?’

‘I am
afraid that it is more than a suggestion. Just before we sailed she was
arrested for shoplifting at one of the large department stores, and there was
no question of anything in the nature of a mistake; her pockets were full of
costume jewellery. Fortunately the manager of the store was a man I had known
at college, and he consented not to prefer charges. But he made it a condition
that Bernadette leave America at once, and a friend of mine advised me to place
her as a paying guest in an English country house, where she would be out of
the reach of temptation.’

The
minute or so this longish speech had taken to deliver had given Willoughby time
to recover from his shock and marshal his thoughts. He was able now to put his
finger on the flaw in Homer’s reasoning.

‘I can
see how unpleasant it must have been for you,’ he said, his genial self again
and the coldness gone from his voice, ‘but I don’t feel that you need be
disturbed. She must have done it as a joke, to see if she could get away with
it.’

‘I
thought that at first, but I have changed my mind.’

‘Then
she probably felt that it was no worse than smuggling stuff through the
Customs. In any case, you can’t tell me that a woman like Barney, whatever she
might do in a department store, would abuse a friend’s hospitality by sneaking
things from his house while she was a guest there. I would trust her if I had
the crown jewels here.’

Then
you won’t lock it up?’

‘Of
course I won’t. I should feel I was insulting her.’

‘She
wouldn’t know.’

‘I
should know, and I shouldn’t be able to look myself in the face when I shaved.
I’d have to grow a beard. Let’s drop the subject and go to bed. I have to be at
the office early tomorrow. I’m going off for a short holiday, and there are all
sorts of things to clean up before I leave.’

Homer
went to bed, but not to sleep. He had slid between the sheets a few minutes
before midnight. At one a.m. he was still restless and wakeful. Nor had
conditions improved by two. At two-fifteen his mind was made up. He rose, put
on a dressing-gown, crept down to the study, took the miniature from the
mantelpiece, deposited it in the middle drawer of the desk, closed the drawer
and went back to his bed. Tomorrow afternoon, if he could not manage it
earlier, he would telephone Willoughby and put him abreast.

He was
asleep by two-forty-seven.

CHAPTER SIX

1

Jerry, too, had passed a
disturbed night. Quite a few of the hours that should have been reserved for
slumber had been taken over by meditation.

The
problem he was hoping to solve was one which keeps cropping up in the Advice To
The Lovelorn columns. What he was anxious to figure out was What should a young
man do who, betrothed to Girl A, unexpectedly finds himself in love with Girl
B, the latter plainly the mate intended for him from the beginning of time by
the authorities who arrange these things.

Had he
been in America, he could have consulted Dear Abby or Doctor Joyce Brothers. In
London he could think of no-one on whose acumen he could place a similar
reliance. There was Aunt Phyllis on the weekly paper for which he did a good
deal of work, but Aunt Phyllis was a fat man in his fifties with a passion for
lager beer and a ribald outlook on life, and he shrank from confiding in him.

Sitting
down after breakfast and lighting the after-breakfast pipe, he set himself to
review the situation.

It was
beyond a doubt not the most agreeable of situations to be in, but in one
respect he could see that he had something to be thankful for. He had promised
Vera that at that Savoy lunch he would take up once again with his uncle Bill
the matter of his money, this time being very firm and resolute, and but for
the addition of Barney to the guest list he would presumably have done so. And
had he done so, there was no question what would have happened. Uncle Bill had
been in the sort of effervescent high spirits which make a man leap at the
opportunity of doing anything to oblige anybody. Asked for the money, he would
have had his cheque book and fountain pen out of his pocket with the swiftness
of a conjurer de-rabbiting a top hat, and the last obstacle to union with Vera,
only daughter of the late Charles Upshaw and his wife Dame Flora Faye, would
have been removed. The squeak had been so narrow that, warm though the morning
was, a chill passed through Jerry from top hair to bedroom slippers as he
thought of it.

But his
guardian angel had seen to it that Barney should be. there, and he was suitably
grateful to him. He wished he could find him and slap him on the back and tell
him how deeply he appreciated his work. Not a hope, of course. Guardian angels
keep themselves to themselves and are hard to get hold of when you want them.

Well,
he reflected as he lit his second pipe, so far so good, but he was a dear-thinking
young man and he did not try to disguise it from himself that he was still
separated from the happy ending by a wide margin. His guardian angel had
certainly given satisfaction to date, but there remained much for him to do,
and there must be no folding of the hands, no sitting back and taking it easy,
no slackening of the will to win on his part. He must continue on his toes as
sedulously as ever until that unfortunate betrothal was a thing of the past.
For from whatever angle you looked at the set-up and however much you refused
to face facts, there was no getting away from it that he was still engaged to
Vera Upshaw and unless prompt steps were taken through the proper channels
would ere long be walking up the aisle with her in a morning coat and spongebag
trousers, which, she would probably hiss in his ear in that critical way of
hers, needed pressing.

He had
been giving the peril that encompassed him the tensest thought for a
considerable time, when a glance at the morning paper which lay on the table
beside him reminded him that today was Wednesday and, arising from that, that
life is stern and life is earnest. Reluctantly, for he would have preferred to
brood indefinitely, he rose, shaved, took a shower bath and put on shirt, tie,
flannel suit and shoes. This done, he went out, carrying his portfolio.

Wednesday
is the day when cartoonists pack up their week’s cartoons and take them round
the magazines for the inspection of art editors. A dozen or so nervous
cartoonists would assemble outside the art editor’s door and be called in one
by one by a bodiless head which came poking out at intervals, as a rule
smoking an evil-smelling cigar. The atmosphere created was much the same as
that which prevails in a dentist’s waiting-room.

Generally,
on Wednesdays Jerry had to sit in several waiting-rooms before making a sale,
for art editors, like Queen Victoria, are not easily amused, but today it was
as if Fate, sympathizing with the difficulties which were casting a shadow over
his love life, had very decently decided to do something to cheer him up.
Feeling that there he would at least get a friendly reception, he had started
his quest at the offices of the weekly paper which took so much of his work,
the one for which Aunt Phyllis conducted the Advice To The Lovelorn column, and
the benevolent occupant of the editorial chair made history by accepting not
one whimsical cartoon but the entire contents of his portfolio, seeming
disappointed that these were all he had to offer.