Mr Mulliner Speaking (9 page)

'Your boots!'

'How much do I want for my boots?'

'Precisely. I am anxious to obtain your boots. How much for the boots?'

'How much for the boots?'

'Exactly. The boots. How much for them?'

'You want to buy my boots?'

'Precisely.'

'Ah,' said the driver, 'but the whole thing is, you see, it's like this. I'm not wearing any boots. I suffer from corns, so I come out in a tennis shoe and a carpet slipper. I could do you them at ten bob the pair.'

Cedric Mulliner sank dumbly back. The disappointment had been numbing. But the old Mulliner resourcefulness stood him in good stead. A moment later, his head was out of the window again.

'Take me,' he said, 'to Seven, Nasturtium Villas, Marigold Road, Valley Fields.'

The driver thought this over for a while.

'Why?' he said.

'Never mind why.'

'The Albany you told me,' said the driver. 'Take me to the Albany was what you said. And this here is the Albany. Ask anyone.'

'Yes, yes, yes. But I now wish to go to Seven, Nasturtium Villas . . .'

'How do you spell it?'

'One ''n''. Seven, Nasturtium Villas, Marigold Road . . .'

'How do you spell
that
?'

'One ''g''.'

'And it's in Valley Fields, you say?'

'Precisely.'

'One ''v''?'

'One ''v'' and one ''f '',' said Cedric.

The driver sat silent for awhile. The spelling-bee over, he seemed to be marshalling his thoughts.

'Now I'm beginning to get the whole thing,' he said. 'What you want to do is go to Seven, Nasturtium Villas, Marigold Road, Valley Fields.'

'Precisely.'

'Well, will you have the tennis shoe and the carpet slipper now, or wait till we get there?'

'I do not desire the tennis shoe. I have no wish for the carpet slipper. I am not in the market for them.'

'I could do you them at half-a-crown apiece.'

'No, thank you.'

'Couple of bob, then.'

'No, no, no. I do not want the tennis shoe. The carpet slipper makes no appeal to me.'

'You don't want the shoe?'

'No.'

'And you don't want the slipper?'

'No.'

'But you do want,' said the driver, assembling the facts and arranging them in an ordinary manner, 'to go to Seven, Nasturtium Villas, Marigold Road, Valley Fields?'

'Precisely.'

'Ah,' said the driver, slipping in his clutch with an air of quiet rebuke. 'Now we've got the thing straight. If you'd only told me that in the first place, we'd have been 'arf-way there by now.'

The urge which had come upon Cedric Mulliner to visit Seven, Nasturtium Villas, Marigold Road, Valley Fields, that picturesque suburb in the south-eastern postal division of London, had been due to no idle whim. Nor was it prompted by a mere passion for travel and sightseeing. It was at that address that his secretary, Miss Myrtle Watling, lived: and the plan which Cedric had now formed was, in his opinion, the best to date. What he proposed to do was to seek out Miss Watling, give her his latch-key, and dispatch her to the Albany in the cab to fetch him one of his thirty-seven pairs of black boots. When she returned with them he could put them on and look the world in the face again.

He could see no flaw in the scheme, nor did any present itself during the long ride to Valley Fields. It was only when the cab had stopped outside the front garden of the neat little red-brick house and he had alighted and told the driver to wait ('Wait?' said the driver. 'How do you mean, wait? Oh, you mean wait?') that doubts began to disturb him. Even as he raised his finger to press the door-bell, there crept over him a chilly feeling of mistrust, and he drew the finger back as sharply as if he had found it on the point of prodding a Dowager Duchess in the ribs.

Could he meet Miss Watling in morning-clothes and yellow shoes? Reluctantly he told himself that he could not. He remembered how often she had taken down at his dictation letters to the
Times
deploring modern laxity on matters of dress: and his brain reeled at the thought of how she would look if she saw him now. Those raised brows . . . those scornful lips . . . those clear, calm eyes registering disgust through their windshields . . .

No, he could not face Miss Watling.

A sort of dull resignation came over Cedric Mulliner. It was useless, he saw, to struggle any longer. He was on the point of moving from the door and going back to the cab and embarking on the laborious task of explaining to the driver that he wished to return to the Albany ('But I took you there once, and you didn't like it,' he could hear the man saying) when from somewhere close at hand there came to his ears a sudden, loud, gurgling noise, rather like that which might have proceeded from a pig suffocating in a vat of glue. It was the sound of someone snoring. He turned, and was aware of an open window at his elbow.

The afternoon, I should have mentioned before, was oppressively warm. It was the sort of afternoon when suburban householders, after keeping body and soul together with roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, mealy potatoes, apple tart, cheddar cheese and bottled beer, retire into sitting-rooms and take refreshing naps. Such a householder, enjoying such a nap, was the conspicuous feature of the room into which my cousin Cedric was now peering. He was a large, stout man, and he lay in an arm-chair with a handkerchief over his face and his feet on another chair. And those feet, Cedric saw, were clad merely in a pair of mauve socks. His boots lay beside him on the carpet.

With a sudden thrill as sharp as if he had backed into a hot radiator in his bathroom, Cedric perceived that they were black boots.

The next moment, as if impelled by some irresistible force, Cedric Mulliner had shot silently through the window and was crawling on all fours along the floor. His teeth were clenched, and his eyes gleamed with a strange light. If he had not been wearing a top hat, he would have been an almost exact replica of the hunting-cheetah of the Indian jungle stalking its prey.

Cedric crept stealthily on. For a man who had never done this sort of thing before, he showed astonishing proficiency and technique. Indeed, had the cheetah which he so closely resembled chanced to be present, it could undoubtedly have picked up a hint or two which it would have found useful in its business. Inch by inch he moved silently forward, and now his itching fingers were hovering over the nearer of the two boots. At this moment, however, the drowsy stillness of the summer afternoon was shattered by what sounded to his strained senses like G. K. Chesterton falling on a sheet of tin. It was, as a matter of fact, only his hat dropping to the floor, but in the highly nervous state of mind into which he had been plunged by recent events it nearly deafened him. With one noiseless, agile spring, remarkable in one of his waist-measurement, he dived for shelter behind the arm-chair.

A long moment passed. At first he thought that all was well. The sleeper had apparently not wakened. Then there was a gurgle, a heavy body sat up, and a large hand passed within an inch of Cedric's head and pressed the bell in the wall. And presently the door opened and a parlourmaid entered.

'Jane,' said the man in the chair.

'Sir?'

'Something woke me up.'

'Yes, sir?'

'I got the impression . . . Jane!'

'Sir?'

'What is that top hat doing on the floor?'

'Top hat, sir?'

'Yes, top hat. This is a nice thing,' said the man, speaking querulously. 'I compose myself for a refreshing sleep, and almost before I can close my eyes the room becomes full of top hats. I come in here for a quiet rest, and without the slightest warning I find myself knee-deep in top hats. Why the top hat, Jane? I demand a categorical answer.'

'Perhaps Miss Myrtle put it there, sir.'

'Why would Miss Myrtle strew top hats about the place?'

'Yes, sir.'

'What do you mean, Yes, sir?'

'No, sir.'

'Very well. Another time, think before you speak. Remove the hat, Jane, and see to it that I am not disturbed again. It is imperative that I get my afternoon's rest.'

'Miss Myrtle said that you were to weed the front garden, sir.'

'I am aware of the fact, Jane,' said the man with dignity. 'In due course I shall proceed to the front garden and start weeding. But first I must have my afternoon's rest. This is a Sunday in June. The birds are sleeping in the trees. Master Willie is sleeping in his room, as ordered by the doctor. I, too, intend to sleep. Leave me, Jane, taking the top hat with you.'

The door closed. The man sank back in his chair with a satisfied grunt, and presently he had begun to snore again.

Cedric did not act hastily. Bitter experience was teaching him the caution which Boy Scouts learn in the cradle. For perhaps a quarter of an hour he remained where he was, crouching in his hiding place. Then the snoring rose in a crescendo. It had now become like something out of Wagner, and it seemed to Cedric that the moment had arrived when action could safely be taken. He removed his left boot and, creeping softly from his lair, seized one of the black boots and put it on. It was a nice fit, and for the first time something approaching contentment began to steal upon him. A minute more, one little minute, and all would be well.

This heartening thought had just crossed his mind when with an abruptness which caused his heart to loosen one of his front teeth the silence was again broken – this time by something that sounded like the Grand Fleet putting in a bit of gunnery-practice off the Nore. An instant later, he was back, quivering, in his niche behind the chair.

The sleeper sat up with a jerk.

'Save the women and children,' he said.

Then the hand came out and pressed the bell again.

'Jane!'

'Sir?'

'Jane, that beastly window-sash has got loose again. I never saw anything like the sashes in this house. A fly settles on them and down they come. Prop it up with a book or something.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And I'll tell you one thing, Jane, and you can quote me as having said so. Next time I want a quiet afternoon's rest, I shall go to a boiler-factory.'

The parlourmaid withdrew. The man heaved a sigh, and lowered himself into the chair again. And presently the room was echoing once more with the Ride of the Valkyries.

It was shortly after this that the bumps began on the ceiling.

They were good, hearty bumps. It sounded to Cedric as if a number of people with large feet were dancing Morris dances in the room above, and he chafed at the selfishness which could lead them to indulge in their pleasures at such a time. Already the man in the chair had begun to stir, and now he sat up and reached for the bell with the old familiar movement.

'Jane!'