Bachelors Anonymous (7 page)

He was
doing so now.

‘Daph,’
he said, getting the tremolo into his voice which he found so effective in his
dealings with women, ‘I’m in a terrible hole.’

‘Again?’

Over
her glass Daphne fixed those clear eyes of hers on him. She had no illusions
about the man she intended to marry. Theirs was not one of the great romances.
She had become engaged to him because his bride would be Lady Warner, and he
had become engaged to her because she had plenty of money.

She was
waiting now for the inevitable moment when she would be given the opportunity
of transferring a portion of that money from her possession to his.

‘It’s
not my fault this time,’ he said. ‘I had this tip on a dead cert and the horse
won all right, but there was an objection.’

‘How
much do you want?’

‘Ten
pounds.’

‘That
all?’

‘Well,
actually twenty.’

‘I can
manage that.’

‘Thank
God.’

‘Merely
remarking that after that disaster at Kempton Park you promised never to bet
again.’

‘I
know, I know. But when you’re given an absolutely sure thing.’

‘Yes,
no doubt you acted from the best motives. But I wish you were like the raven.’

‘Raven?
How do you mean? What raven?’

‘The
one who said “Nevermore”.’

‘Oh,
yes, I see. Of course. Ha, ha. Good Lord, it must be fifteen years since I
heard anyone mention that poem. My old guv’nor used to make me recite it as a
kid when he got a bit bottled.’

‘I’ll
bet you had him rolling in the aisles.’

The
financial preliminaries concluded, Jaklyn was at his ease and in the mood for
light conversation.

‘Well,
old girl,’ he said. ‘What’s new?’

‘My
address for one thing. From now on you will find me at 3A Fountain Court, Park
Lane. Make a note of it.’

‘You’re
joking.’

‘No.
That’s where I’ll be.’

‘Have
you been left a fortune?’

‘Somebody
else has, and I shall be living with her. By the way, you must know her,
because I saw you together at the theatre one night.’ And, she added silently,
I bet she paid for the tickets. ‘Look in your little black book. You’ll find
her among the F’s. Sally Fitch.’

‘Sally
Fitch?
Good Lord.’

‘You do
know her?’

‘I used
to know her quite well. Her father was the vicar of a village in Worcestershire
and did some cramming on the side. He coached me when I was trying for the
Diplomatic Service. Sally Fitch! Well, for heaven’s sake. But who on earth
would be leaving her … did you say a fortune?’

‘Figure
of speech. But certainly not a windfall to be sneezed at. Twenty-five thousand
pounds and this flat in Park Lane. I’m living there with her.’

‘Why?’

‘Because
I’ve been hired to.’

‘I
don’t understand.’

‘You
don’t have to.’

‘I
can’t see how you get into the act.’

‘There
are certain conditions attached to the legacy, and I’m there to see that she
observes them.’

‘What
conditions?’

‘Never
mind. They’ve nothing to do with you. Well, I must be getting along. Heavy day
at the office. All sorts of arrangements to make, now that I shall be away so
much.’

She
left Jaklyn in pensive mood. He was not a man to whom you could mention that a
female of his acquaintance had acquired twenty-five thousand pounds and a flat
in Park Lane without stirring his brain to activity. Even while his betrothed
had been talking the thought had flashed into his mind that if he hurried round
to Laburnam Road and asked Sally to marry him, he would have every chance of
being successful. They had once been engaged, and surely some of the old
affection must still be lingering. And he could picture his astonishment when,
nestling in his arms, she informed him that there would be no need for them to
live on bread and cheese and kisses as she was now an heiress.

Thus
ran his thoughts, and he would have been out of Murphy’s Mews and into a cab at
lightning speed, had not there occurred at this juncture a sudden knocking on
the front door.

It gave
him pause. As he had told Daphne, when people knocked on his door he felt
uneasy. Who this was, he could not say. It might be the rent-collector, it
might be the tailor to whom he was so deeply in debt or somebody hostile from
the racing world. Whoever it was, he shrank from meeting him, and as these
fellows had a nasty knack of waiting on the pavement outside in the hope of
catching him sneaking out under the erroneous impression that the coast was
clear, he reluctantly decided to abandon his journey to Laburnam Road and wait
till his visitor had gone away.

Consoling
himself with the thought that a letter would be equally as effective as a
personal interview, he refilled his glass and sat down to write it.

He made
it extremely passionate.

3

Sally, her toilet
completed, was looking forward to lunch with mixed feelings. The new dress was
all that she had expected of it, but she had a haunting fear that she was not
going to be at her best. Excited by anticipation of the visit to Nichols,
Erridge, Trubshaw and Nichols, she had slept badly on the previous night, and
this had resulted in a tendency to yawn. It would be disastrous, she felt, if
she yielded to this weakness at the luncheon table. Joe had struck her as an
amiable young man, but even amiable young men resent it if the guest they are
entertaining yawns at them all the time.

Hoping
for the best, she made her way to the front door, and opening it found Mabel
Potter playing truant on the other side, wriggling with eagerness to hear the
latest news.

‘Sally!’
cried Mabel. ‘I was afraid I had missed you. Are you off to see those lawyers?’

‘I’ve
been.’

‘What
happened? Did you learn of something to your advantage?’

‘I
certainly did,’ said Sally.

She
could not have asked for a more receptive audience. Mabel’s favourite reading
had always been the novels of the Rosie M. Banks and Leila J. Pinkney whose
output so offended the artistic soul of Joe Pickering, and in those this sort
of thing happened all the time. She would have considered it most unusual if an
impecunious heroine had not been left a substantial legacy by someone.

The
figure stunned her a little. ‘Twenty-five thousand pounds! ‘

‘And a
flat.’

‘Where?’

‘Fountain
Court, Park Lane.’

‘Sounds
terrific.’

‘It
is.’

‘You’ve
seen it?’

‘I’ve
just been there.’

‘Come
along and show me.’

‘There’s
no time.’

‘Of
course there’s time. I only want to look at it. It won’t take five minutes.’

It was
soon evident, however, that five minutes was an under-estimate. 3A Fountain
Court fascinated Mabel. She flitted to and fro with squeaks of approval, while
Sally, feeling drowsier than ever, sank into one of the deep armchairs and
closed her eyes.

It was
a disastrous move. When she opened them again, it was with a scream of dismay.

‘Oh,
heavens! It’s two o’clock!’

Mabel
Potter, reclining on a neighbouring settee with the air of one who has never
been so comfortable in her life, nodded composedly.

‘Yes,
you had a nice sleep.’

‘Why
didn’t you wake me?’

‘It
never occurred to me. I could see you were tired out, and no wonder after all
this excitement. A good sleep was what you needed.’

‘But
I’ve missed my lunch.’

‘Lots
of doctors say that’s a good thing. Charlie often skips lunch. He says it does
wonders for him. Makes him bright in the afternoon.’

‘He’ll
think I stood him up on purpose.’

‘He?
What he would that be?’

‘A man
named Pickering. He wrote a play and I interviewed him, and I met him again at
the lawyers. He’s a friend of one of the partners.’

‘And
you want to see him and explain?’

‘And I
don’t know where he lives.’

‘Well,
for heaven’s sake it’s quite simple. You’ve only got to ask the partner he’s a
friend of. Ring him up.’

Sally
relaxed. Not for the first time she found Mabel’s practical way of looking at
things helpful. She supposed secretaries of theatrical managers had to be like
that.

‘Of
course. He’s bound to know, isn’t he? But I must go to Barribault’s first. He
may still be there.’

‘Pickering?’

‘Yes.’

‘When
were you supposed to meet him?’

‘One
o’clock.’

‘And
it’s now two fifteen. If he’s still there after waiting an hour and a quarter,
which’ll be an hour and a half by the time you clock in, he must be something
quite out of the ordinary.’

And it
was as she spoke that it suddenly dawned on Sally that Joseph Pickering most
definitely was.

Chapter Seven

Joe was not still there.
There are limits to the staying powers of even the most enamoured, and he had
eventually been compelled to recognise that this was just another of the slings
and arrows and abandon his vigil.

The
emotions of an ardent young man who has asked the girl he loves to lunch and
has waited an eternity without the pleasure of her company are necessarily
chaotic, and he had them all. On the whole bewilderment predominated. She had
seemed so friendly, so eager to better their acquaintance. He found it
incredible that she could simply have decided on reflection to have nothing
more to do with him. But apparently she had, and all that was left to him was
to accept the situation, dismiss her if possible from his mind and concentrate
on this Llewellyn who, according to Jerry Nichols, was anxious to secure his
services. He was now standing outside the door of 8 Enniston Gardens, the bell
of which he had just rung.

The
door opened, revealing a tall thin man with gentleman’s gentleman stamped all
over him. He was carrying a suitcase.

Joe
said he had come to see Mr Llewellyn.

‘Go
right in. He’s in there.’

‘Perhaps
you will lead the way?’

‘Not
me. I’m through.’

‘You’re
leaving?’

‘You’re
right, I’m leaving. Remarks I can put up with. Tantrums I don’t object to. But
throwing porridge at a man, that I will not have.’

And so
saying the tall thin man passed on his way.

He left
Joe a little uncertain as to how to proceed. His late companion’s remarks had
been brief, even terse, but he had said enough to establish beyond a doubt that
behind the door which he had indicated with a jerk of the thumb there lurked
something rather unusual in the way of prospective employers. He had an
unpleasant feeling of being confronted with a situation to which he was
unequal, like a nervous knight of King Arthur’s court who, having undertaken to
engage in personal combat with a fire-breathing dragon, finds that he has
forgotten to bring his magic sword along with him. The years rolled away, and
he was once more a boy of eleven, standing outside the study of the headmaster
of his preparatory school, the latter having announced his wish to see
Pickering there after morning prayers.

Rooted
to the spot is a neat way of describing his position, and he might have remained
so rooted indefinitely had not the door to which the man who disliked having
porridge thrown at him had alluded suddenly flown open, the motive power behind
it a large stout middle-aged individual with a bald head and a glare like a
searchlight.

‘Get
out,’ said this formidable apparition. ‘I don’t want any.’

Joe,
though far from feeling at his ease, was able to say ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Whatever
it is you’re selling. If it’s magazine subscriptions to help you through
college, I don’t give a damn if you never see the inside of a blasted college.
Bosher had no business to let you in. Wait there a moment and I’ll ring for him
to come and throw you out. Where the devil is Bosher?’

‘Gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘With
the wind.’

‘You
mean he’s quit?’

‘He
said that was his intention. He had a suitcase with him.’

The
news did not seem to depress the stout man.

‘Well,
easy come, easy go,’ he said.

‘He let
me in,’ said Joe, ‘and didn’t even start to announce me, so anxious was he to
be off and away. I gathered that there had been a little friction.’