Bachelors Anonymous (19 page)

‘I
don’t see why we should be fussy about Trout’s feelings. He nearly ruined our
lives.’

‘But
with the best intentions.’

‘As it
is, he’s probably ruined mine.’

‘How do
you figure that out?’

‘All
through him I may have lost you.’

‘What
gives you the idea that you may have lost your Pickering?’

Sally
gulped. The moment had come for confession, and confession was as unpleasant to
her as it is to most people.

‘How
much does money matter to you, Joe?’

‘Very
little. Dross, I sometimes call it.’

‘Would
you still want me if I hadn’t any?’

‘Don’t
ask foolish questions.’

‘You
would?’

‘Of
course I would.’

‘Well,
that’s a relief. Because I haven’t.’

There
are observations, popularly known as conversation-stoppers, which are
calculated to cast a hushed silence on the most animated dialogue. One might
have supposed that this would have been one of them, but Joe, though startled,
received the news with equanimity. The truth was that in spite of Jerry
Nichols’s assurances he had not been able to overcome a certain uneasiness at
the thought of the wide gap between Sally’s finances and his own. Pure though
his motives were in seeking to make her his bride, he had had the uncomfortable
feeling that people who did not know those motives might place him in the
Jaklyn Warner class. Thanks to Mr Llewellyn, that modern Santa Claus, this
uneasiness had ceased to trouble him. He was able to speak with perfect
calmness.

‘You
haven’t any money?’

‘No.’

‘But
what’s become of it all? You can’t have spent twenty-five thousand pounds on
chocolates and ice cream since last Tuesday.’

Sally
smiled politely, but it was a painful smile. Confession was still to come, and
she hated it more than ever.

‘Did Mr
Nichols tell you about my legacy?’

‘Not in
any detail. I happened to mention to him that I loved you, and he said “Oh, the
heiress”, adding that somebody had left you a packet.’

‘Yes,
Miss Carberry. I told you about her.’

‘The
anti-tobacco woman you once worked for.’

‘Yes.
She left me the money on condition that I didn’t smoke. And Daphne Dolby was to
live with me to see that I didn’t. If she caught me smoking, it was all to go
to the Anti-Tobacco League. So I was careful not to smoke.’

‘Very
prudent. Very sensible. But I feel there is more to come.’

‘There
is. Tonight I did. I had a cigarette.’

‘With
the Dolby prowling and prowling around like the troops of Midian!’

‘She
wasn’t prowling around. That’s the whole point. She went out about five minutes
after you and Mr Trout left. She forgot to take her cigarette case with her. It
was lying on that little table there. It caught my eye, and suddenly I felt I
would die if I didn’t have a smoke. It was all Trout’s fault.’

‘That’s
the part where I don’t quite follow you. I don’t see how Trout comes into it.’

‘It was
the way he talked. Don’t you remember? All that stuff about being unable to
guarantee success because we must not lose sight of the fact that in the
matter under advisement we should be facing difficulties. He made it sound as
if he hadn’t a hope.’

‘Lawyers
always talk that way. You should hear Shoesmith of Shoesmith, Shoesmith,
Shoesmith, and Shoesmith. It’s their native caution. Building for the future,
as you might put it. If the thing’s a flop, they can say “I warned you that
this might happen.” If it’s a success, you will think how wonderful they must
be to have brought it off against all the odds.’

‘Well,
I didn’t know that, so he left me a quivering mass of nerves—’

‘But
looking terrific.’

‘—and I
was just wondering how I could pull myself together and shake off this awful
feeling of depression, when my eye fell on Daphne’s cigarette case.’

‘And
you reached for it?’

‘I
reached for it.’

Joe
nodded understandingly.

‘Just
what any girl would have done in your place. And the Dolby remembered her case
and came back to get it and found you blowing smoke rings?’

‘Yes.’

‘I
thought as much. I am a playwright, and we playwrights have a sort of sixth
sense. Well, when I say I’m a playwright,
Cousin Angela
did have sixteen
performances. Many a dramatist has to be content with opening on Friday and
closing on the following Saturday. And talking of
Cousin Angela…’

‘She
was as hard as nails about it.’

‘Talking
of
Cousin Angela…’

‘You
might think that as we had become friends she would have pretended not to
notice, but when it has anything to do with her job she has no friends.’

‘Very
praiseworthy. But I was about to speak of
Cousin Angela.
I have a bit of
news which may bring the roses back to your cheeks. Llewellyn is going to do it
as a picture.’

He was
right about the roses. They returned just as predicted. Sally emitted what in
any popsy less personable would have been a squeal.

‘You
might have told me before,’ she said reproachfully.

‘Slipped
my mind.’

‘I’ve
been going through hell.’

‘Good
for the adrenal glands.’

‘How
much?’

‘We
haven’t talked terms yet.’

‘But
these studios always pay the earth, don’t they?’

‘Invariably.’

‘We
shall be rich without my money.’

‘Modestly
bloated.’

‘And no
danger of your feelings being hurt because I paid the bills.’

‘The
husband always ought to have the money. Ask any husband.’

‘Yes.
Otherwise it offends his
amour pro pre.’

‘My
God. French and everything. I’m getting a gifted wife. You must have been on
many a day excursion to Boulogne.’

‘I did
go once.’

‘You
didn’t happen to run into a man named Bingham, did you?’

‘Not
that I remember.’

‘You
would have remembered if you had. He fell overboard. You would have noticed.
Well, excuse me for a moment.’

‘Where
are you going?’

‘Only
to the telephone. I thought I ought to ring Llewellyn up and ask him how he’s
getting on. He’s in hospital.’

‘Is he
ill?’

‘No. Merely
hiding from Vera Dalrymple. I’ll explain later.’

From
her knowledge of Ivor Llewellyn, gathered at the time when she had interviewed
him for her paper, Sally would have supposed that any telephone conversation
in which he took part would have been of considerable duration. She had thought
of him as a man always with plenty to say and not averse to the sound of his
own voice. But this telephone conversation terminated almost before it had
begun. Joe said ‘I.L.? Pickering,’ and that was all he said. And after
listening for not more than a minute he hung up and came away from the
instrument, Mr Llewellyn having apparently replaced the receiver at the other
end.

It
perplexed Sally. Then she saw Joe’s face, and perplexity was succeeded by
dismay.

‘Joe!’ she
cried. ‘What is it?’ and he smiled the ghost of a twisted smile, the smile of a
man whose world has collapsed beneath him but who knows that he must show
himself one of the bull-dog breed whose upper lips never unstiffen.

‘Do you
want it broken gently?’

‘No!’

‘It’ll
be a shock.’

‘I
don’t care.’

‘Well,
I’m sorry to say Llewellyn has fired me and isn’t going to do the play.’

Sally
did not swoon, but looking back later she wondered how she had managed to avoid
doing so. The floor heaved like an ocean swell, and Joe became for a moment
two Joes, both flickering. It seemed an age before she could speak, and when
she did she could only say ‘But why?’

Joe
replied that Mr Llewellyn had not told him why.

‘All he
said was “Pickering, eh? Just the man I wanted to contact. You’re fired,
Pickering, and if you think I’m going to make a picture of your damned play,
you’re mistaken.”‘

‘Nothing
else?’

‘Only
instructions to remove my blasted belongings from 8 Enniston Gardens without
delay.’

‘But
what had you done to him?’

‘Not a
thing.’

‘Had he
seemed hostile?’

‘On the
contrary, my stock was particularly high with him. He wanted to avoid Vera
Dalrymple, who had phoned to say she was coming to call, and I suggested that
he should go to hospital. His gratitude was touching.’

‘Well,
I don’t understand it.’

‘I do.
It’s the jinx that’s been following me around for weeks, making everything I do
go wrong.’

‘Not
everything. You found me.’

‘But we
can’t get married.’

‘Why
can’t we get married? Try to stop me.’

‘What’ll
we live on?’

‘I’ve
got a job.’

‘I
haven’t.’

‘You’ll
get one.’

‘Who
says so?’

‘I say
so. We’ll be all right. All it needs is prudence and economy. And now go and
get your things, and then you can take me out to dinner at Barribault’s. You
owe me a dinner at Barribault’s.’

Joe, as
he reached journey’s end, was feeling somewhat, if only a little, better.
Agony though it was to be parted from Sally even for a moment, there was
something, he felt, to be said for being alone and free from interruptions. He
had much on his mind, and the solitude of 8 Enniston Gardens allowed him to
think.

One of
his subjects for thought was of course the mystery of the sudden animosity of
Ivor Llewellyn, which, as Sherlock Holmes would have said, undoubtedly
presented certain features of interest. For when a man has thanked you—and in
broken accents, at that—for showing him the way out of an unpleasant dilemma,
you do not expect him five minutes later, or practically five minutes later, to
start treating you like a leper who has tried to borrow from him.

But in
these bustling times one is seldom permitted to remain uninterrupted for long.
Scarcely had Joe set the little grey cells to work on the Case of the
Inexplicably Annoyed Motion Picture Magnate than the telephone rang. With a
sigh and wishing that he had someone, as Mr Llewellyn always had, to whom he
could say ‘Answer that. If it’s for me, say I’m out’, he reached for the receiver,
and a familiar voice spoke.

‘Joe?’

‘Oh,
hullo, Jerry.’

‘I’m
phoning to ask if everything went off all right. I must say I didn’t expect to
find you at Enniston Gardens. I thought you would have been at Fountain Court.’

‘I’m
going back there.’

‘Did things
go according to plan? ‘

‘Yes.’

‘You
followed my advice? ‘

‘Yes.’

‘Close
embrace?’

‘Yes.’

‘Till
ribs squeaked?’

‘Yes.’

‘Result,
complete reconciliation? ‘

‘Yes.’

‘You
don’t sound very ecstatic.’

‘I’ve
got a spot of Llewellyn trouble.’

‘Is
that all?’

‘It’s
enough for me.’

‘Don’t
let it get you down. These things always iron themselves out. It’s like when my
father starts throwing his weight about. We just sit tight and let him rave,
knowing that he will eventually come off the boil and resume his place in the
comity of nations. And now I must leave you, Joe. In fact, I must rush. I’m
putting on the nose-bag with a popsy. ‘Jerry withdrew, but the truth of the old
saying that if you particularly want to be left undisturbed to brood over your
problems the telephone is sure to ring was exemplified once more a moment
later. This time it was Mr Trout.

‘Pickering?
A hearty good evening to you, Pickering. Glad to find you in, Pickering. You
might have been out, and I want a word with you.’

Even
though separated from him by a length of wire Joe had no difficulty in
diagnosing the speaker’s mental state. Mr Trout’s voice was the voice of one who,
putting his fate to the touch to win or lose it all, has found himself a
winner. Its volume made that plain. No man, Joe felt, to whom the adored object
had handed the pink slip could so nearly have fractured his ear drum, and
forgetting his own troubles for the moment he rejoiced in the other’s good
fortune. Mr Trout might be the sort of man whose morning post was never without
its quota of attractive offers from lunatic asylums, but he wished him well.

‘I
gather from your manner,’ he said, ‘that you have offered your heart with good
results. Over the coffee?’