Luck of the Bodkins (33 page)

'That's what I said.
’

'Yes. And you were absolutely right'

'You don't mind it being dark?'

1 prefer it being dark.'

'Did you see Peasemarch?
’

'Oh, yes. He was just finishing
a
beer which
a
few friends and admirers had stood him.'

1 suppose he was pleased his song was such a success?'

'Oh, most. I gather that he intends to add "The Bandolero" to his repertoire. Up till now, it appears, he has more or less concentrated on the "Yeoman's Wedding Song".
’

'Yes. Did you ask him to bring me a wrap?'

'Yes. I gave him instructions to that effect, which will no doubt bear fruit anon.'

He did not add, for a man likes to have his little secrets, that he had also instructed Albert Peasemarch, before executing this commission, to proceed to the junction of the first and second-class decks and to hold that post, as Horatius did his bridge, against the invasion of Lottie Blossom. It was this strategic move that had caused the fever in his soul to abate. Everything, he felt, was all right now. The steward, as we have seen, was not in his opinion one of the world's great master-minds, but he could be relied on not to bungle a simple, straightforward job like that.

He drew in a deep breath of Western Ocean air, feeling like a general at the end of a successful campaign. He kissed Gertrude fondly, not once but many times.

It went well. There was no question of that. She plainly appreciated it. But she seemed unable to give herself up entirely to the ecstasy of the moment. There was in her manner a reserve, and in her voice when she spoke just that slight flatness which tells of a mind not wholly at ease.

'Monty,' she said.

‘
Hullo?'

There was a pause.

'Monty, you remember what we wer
e talking about before lunch?' ‘
Eh?'

'About your not speaking to Miss Blossom.
’

'Oh, ah, yes.'

'You haven't, have you?
’

Monty's chest swelled. Had he had on a stiff-bosomed shirt and not one of the more modern soft
pique
,
that shirt would have crackled. No chest swells so elastically as that of the man with a clear conscience.

‘
Absolutely not.
’

Tm so glad
’

'I haven't so much as seen her.
’

That slight flatness returned to Gertrude's voice.

1 see. You mean you would have spoken to her, if you had?
’

'No, no. Not so, quite. I doubt if I would even have bowed.
’

'Oh, you would have bowed.'

‘
No.'

'I wouldn't mind you bowing.
’

'Well, perhaps I might have bowed - coldly
’

'No more.'

'Not an inch more.
’

'I'm so glad. She's not a nice girl.'

‘
No.'

'I suppose it's living in Hollywood that makes her like that.
’

'I shouldn't wonder.
’

'Or having red hair.
’

'That, too, possibly.
’

'But you haven't spoken to her?
’

'Not a syllable.
’

'I'm so glad... Monty!
'

'Gertrude!
'

'No, don't. There's someone coming.
’

A white-jacketed figure was approaching through the darkness. A certain heaviness of breathing and an occasional reference to 'The Bandolero' removed any doubts as to its identity.

‘
Peasemarch?' said Gertrude.

'Ah, there you are, miss,' said the steward gently; 'I've brought your wrap, miss.' Thank you so much.'

'Whether it's the right wrap or the wrong wrap, I couldnt say, but I found it hanging in your wardrobe. It is fleecy in its nature, and blue.'

'That's the one I wanted. How clever of you. Thank you ever so much. I'm so glad your song went so well, Peasemarch.'

Thank you, miss. Yes, I fancy I knocked them. The applause was unstinted. It's a good number, miss. As you pointed out yourself, it has lots of swing. I intend to render it frequently in the future.'

'So Mr Bodkin was telling me.
’

The steward peered in the uncertain light.

'Oh, is that Mr Bodkin standing beside you, miss? I was unable to identify him for the moment. I've a message for you, sir,' said Albert Peasemarch affably. 'I met Miss Blossom, as you instructed me, and headed her back, informing her that you would not be able to meet her here as per your existing arrangement, and she told me to tell you that it was quite all right and would you come to her state-room any time between eleven pm. and midnight.'

Chapter
19

Sidling along passages, tiptoeing down stairs, starting at the sight of stewards and wincing guiltily away from stewardesses and such of his fellow-passengers as he encountered
en route,
Reggie Tennyson, who had left the main lounge at ten precisely, arrived outside the door of Lottie Blossom's state-room at three and a half minutes past. His heart was beating rapidly and felt as if it had become dangerously enlarged. His spine had begun to crawl about under his dinner jacket like a snake. It was so long since he had breathed that he had almost forgotten how to. Like Monty Bodkin facing the task of keeping Miss Blossom engaged in conversation; like Albert Peasemarch cowering before the nameless perils of
^‘
The Bandolero'; Reginald Tennyson, contemplating the ordeal before him, was suffering from a bad attack of stage fright.

It had been his intention, when setting out upon his journey, to make it in an easy and nonchalant manner, like a carefree young fellow enjoying an after-dinner saunter with no particular object in view. But with every step he took the portrayal had grown less convincing, until now, as he halted and looked furtively up and down the quiet corridor with the low, sinister creaking of the woodwork adding to his mental discomfort, he seemed to have changed his conception of the part completely. What he was giving at this moment was a perfect representation of one of those men who are always getting arrested by the police for loitering with intent A policeman, had one been present, might have been uncertain as to whether Reggie was meditating murder, arson, robbery from the person with violence, or the purchase of chocolates after eight pm., but he would have known it was something pretty bad.

For perhaps forty seconds the young man stood motionless except for his darting, swivelling eyes. Then, just as it had begun to seem that he might continue to do so indefinitely, a thought appeared suddenly to float into his mind, a thought that gave him energy and courage and brought back elasticity to the limbs. His face stiffened, his backbone followed its example, his shoulders ceased to sag, and his lips might have been seen to move silently. It was as though some inner voice had whispered in his ear the words Two thousand quid!
‘
and he had been saying:
‘I
know, I know. I hadn't forgotten.' With
a
swift, nervous twitch of the wrist he turned the handle and went in.

Considering that the proprietress of this state-room had once been very dear to him; that he had, indeed, on one occasion actually gone to the length of asking her to be his wife; it might have been supposed that a certain sentimentality would have gripped Reggie Tennyson as he now gazed upon the intimacies of her sleeping-apartment, causing him to pick up a hair-brush and press it to his lips with a tender little sigh, or fondle for an instant an orange stick or an eyebrow tweezer.

This, however, was not the case. His emotions were identical with those of Desmond Carruthers, the hero of the book which he had taken out of the ship's library that morning, when entering the Hindu temple to steal the great sapphire which formed the eye of the idol therein. Desmond had confined his thoughts strictly to business, and so did Reggie. His whole attention was riveted upon the cabin-trunk which stood in the corner. And when, investigating it, he found that it was locked, he felt much as Desmond Carruthers had done on discovering that between himself and the idol some canny priest had placed a couple of large cobras. Just the same hollow feeling that comes to
a
man when he perceives that the laugh is on him.

For a space he stood baffled.

He was not baffled, however, for long. Reason told him that where there are cabin-trunks there must be keys, and intuition led him to the dressing-table. The keys were in the first drawer he examined, and he had snatched them up and was about to slink back to the trunk when his eye fell on a photograph which stood in
a
silver frame against the mirror -
a
full-face photograph of his brother Ambrose smoking
a
pipe.

Novelists of the virile school ought to be prohibited by law from having themselves photographed with pipes in their mouths. It is not fair on those of the public who suddenly catch sight of them. It makes them look so strong and stern that the observer cannot but sustain a nasty shock. Reggie did. There was something horrible to him in the forceful way Ambrose was chewing that pipe. The thought that this rugged man was at large about the ship and might quite possibly pop in and catch him here chilled Reggie Tennyson, and for an instant he was incapable of movement.

Then that inner voice whispered: 'Two thousand quid!' in his ear again, and he shook off the momentary weakness. He returned to the trunk, found the key that fitted the lock and, pulling its jaws apart, began to search it with feverish haste.

He might just as well have spared himself the trouble and nervous strain. The briefest exploration was sufficient to tell him that wherever the Mickey Mouse might be it was not in Lottie Blossom's cabin-trunk. The very nature of a Mickey Mouse makes it easy for a seeker after it to detect whether it is or is not present in any given spot. It is not like a Maharajah's ruby or a secret treaty, which might get shoved away under a camisole and escape the eye. A Mickey Mouse has bulk; If you open a drawer and do not find it immediately, it is not in that drawer. It is merely a waste of time to go on routing about among negligees and step-ins.

Nevertheless, for several anguished minutes Reggie continued so to rout about. A man with as much at stake as he had does not readily give in and admit defeat. That inner voice -whose conversation, if it had a fault, was perhaps a little on the monotonous side - kept whispering: Two thousand quid!
‘
and the words were a spur that drove him on. If he had been one of those Customs inspectors who had been figuring so largely of late in Mr Ivor Llewellyn's nightmares, he could not have routed about more sedulously.

It seemed to him absolutely incredible that this trunk should not deliver the goods and supply the happy ending. In what other place in the whole bally room, he reasoned, could that Mickey Mouse possibly be?

He had already examined the drawers of the dressing-table.

It was not in one of them. He had searched the wardrobe. It was not there. He had felt behind the life-saving apparatus on top of the wardrobe. Not there, either. And a single glance about the apartment had been enough to assure him that the thing had not been left lying on a chair or thrown carelessly upon the bed. It positively must be somewhere in this ghastly trunk, he told himself, and with twitching fingers he groped among handkerchiefs, scarves, belts, woollen jumpers, silk jumpers, green jumpers, red jumpers, rummy things with ribbons on them, rummy things without ribbons on them and what his knowledge of the facts of life told him was knee-length underwear.

It was no good. He had to give it up. Reluctantly, with many a longing, lingering look behind, he closed the trunk, replaced the keys in their drawer, tried to avoid the eye of Ambrose's photograph, failed to do so, shuddered, and then, standing in the middle of the room, began to revolve slowly on his axis, his gaze fixed on the carpet as if in the hope that it might harbour trap-doors and secret oubliettes.

And suddenly, as he did so, there came into his face a new animation and ardour. He had seen something. There were no trap-doors or secret oubliettes, but there was, tucked away at the side of the bed so that it had up till now escaped his notice, a wickerwork basket - smallish, but not too small; just the sort of wickerwork basket, in fact, in which an ingenious girl with a brown plush Mickey Mouse to hide might quite well have hidden it.