Bachelors Anonymous (9 page)

He need
have had no tremors. It was not Vera Dalrymple who stood on the mat, but Sally
Fitch. Sally was as conscientious in her way as Daphne Dolby was in hers. She
had promised her editress to interview Ivor Llewellyn today, and the mere fact
that she had been left twenty-five thousand pounds was not going to deter her.

Chapter Eight

In the course of the last
round of the amateur middleweight boxing final Joe, hard pressed in a corner by
an opponent who created the illusion of being all arms like an octopus, had
thrown out a right hand purely at random and with little expectation of
accomplishing anything constructive and, connecting with his adversary’s chin,
it had knocked the latter cold.

This
had delighted Joe and his supporters, though —showing once again that one
cannot please everybody—it had not brought the sunshine into the life of the
opponent. For a long time it had been Joe’s high spot, but it was now reduced
to second place. His emotions on beholding Sally, though somewhat similar, were
much more powerful.

Not
unnaturally, as has been shown, he had reached the conclusion that her failure
to keep their luncheon appointment had been due to the fact that she had
already had all the Joseph Pickering she required, but one look at her as she
stood there told him how mistaken such a theory was. Her lips were parted, her
eyes shining, her whole aspect that of a girl who has found the pot of gold at
the end of the rainbow. If she was not glad to see him, he told himself that he
did not know a girl who was glad to see a man when he met one.

‘Can
you ever forgive me?’ she said.

He
could answer that.

‘Don’t
give it a thought,’ he replied.

‘I can
explain, but I’m not sure the explanation doesn’t make it worse.’

‘No
need to explain. I know what must have happened. You were on your way to
Barribault’s when you saw a little golden-haired girl in the process of being
run over by a lorry. You rushed to the rescue and saved the child but got
knocked over and have only just got away from the hospital. Am I right?’

‘Not
quite. I fell asleep.’

‘You …
What did you say you did?’

‘I was
tired after a bad night last night and like an idiot I sat down in a very
comfortable chair and when I woke up it was two o’clock. I do hope you didn’t
wait long.’

‘About
an hour.’

‘Oh,
how perfectly awful!’

‘Quite
all right. An hour soon passes.

‘I feel
like bowing my head in the dust.’

‘No,
really. I was quite happy. But if remorse is gnawing you, you can make amends.’

‘How?,
Tell me how.’

‘By
dining with me tonight.’

‘I’d
love to.’

‘Same
place.’

‘I’ll
be there.’

‘About
half-past seven?’

‘Fine.
And it’s wonderful of you not to be frothing with fury.’

‘Not at
all. I quite understand. Got to get your sleep. It knits up the ravelled sleeve
of care, as Mr Llewellyn’s school marm would say.’

The
allusion to the school marm was naturally lost on Sally, but she reacted
powerfully to the mention of Mr Llewellyn’s name.

‘Mr
Llewellyn! That reminds me. Now perhaps you will solve the mystery that’s
turning my hair grey. How on earth do you come to be at Mr Llewellyn’s place?’

‘Quite
simple. I’m working for him.’

‘What
as?’

‘General
right-hand man.’

‘But
that’s terrific. Then you’ve given up the solicitor job you didn’t like?’

‘As of
today.’

‘Well,
that really is good news.’

‘Yes,
I’m pretty pleased about it.’

‘What
sort of a man is he?’

‘Very
amiable. Why? Have you come to interview him?’

‘Yes,
and I’ve heard he’s a terror.’

‘Nothing
of the kind. He’s a bit apt to throw porridge at people when the spirit moves
him, but apart from that he’s all sweetness and light. But here he comes now.
You’ll be able to judge for yourself.’

A
moment before, the door which marked the line of Mr Llewellyn’s retreat had
opened just enough to allow him to put his ear to the crack and hear the voice
of the visitor whose arrival had sent him into hiding. Satisfied that it was
not that of Miss Vera Dalrymple, he now threw off all concealment and emerged.

‘Oh
there you are. Come on in,’ said Joe hospitably. ‘This is Miss Fitch, who wants
to interview you.’

‘I made
an appointment,’ said Sally.

‘Sure,
I remember. Let’s get down to it. Pop off, Pickering.’

Joe was
glad to do so. If he was to take up residence at 8 Enniston Gardens, it would
be necessary to go back to his flat and pack a suitcase. His typewriter and
the rest of his belongings could come on later.

‘Don’t
forget tonight,’ he said to Sally.

‘I
won’t.’

Joe
went out, his heart singing within him. When he returned, Sally had left and Mr
Llewellyn was smoking a cigar with the unmistakable air of a man who has just
been speaking at length on the subject of The Motion Picture—Whither?

‘Nice
girl,’ he said.

He had
broached a subject on which his young right-hand man felt himself entitled to
speak with authority.

‘Yes,’
said Joe, giving the monosyllable a ringing emphasis which must have made his
employer feel he was back with the boys at Llewellyn City. ‘You speak sooth,
I.L., if I may call you I.L. She is the most wonderful girl in the world. Did
you notice her eyes? Terrific. Did you observe her mouth? Sensational. Did you
get her voice? Like silver bells tinkling across a meadow in the moonlight. And
as sweet and kind and lovable as she is beautiful. I’m giving her dinner
tonight.’

‘Is
that so?’ said Mr Llewellyn, starting.

‘And I
shall instruct her to pay no attention to the prices in the right-hand column,
colossal though they are at Barribault’s, for this, I.L., is an Occasion. Meanwhile
I will be unpacking what I’ve brought for my simple needs. My bulkier
belongings will be coming later. Where’s my room? Capital,’ said Joe, having
been informed on this point. ‘Did you happen to catch that little dimple in her
left cheek? Earth has not anything to show more fair, as the poet Wordsworth
said. You probably remember the passage from your school marm days.’

He left
Mr Llewellyn looking as if he were taking a screen test and the director had
told him to register uneasiness. He had conceived a warm affection for Joe,
and it was impossible for one so imbued with the principles of Bachelors
Anonymous as himself not to feel concern at this talk of dimples and silver
bells tinkling in the moonlight.

It was
precisely talk of this nature which would have made Ephraim Trout purse his
lips and his colleagues on Bachelors Anonymous purse theirs. Fervently he
wished that Mr Trout were here to advise him what steps to take in order to
save Joseph Pickering from the peril that confronted him, and at this moment
the telephone rang. He went to it, fortified by the reflection that if this
were Vera Dalrymple calling to inquire what the hell, he could always hang up.

‘Hello?’
he said.

‘Hello
there, I.L.,’ said a well-remembered voice. The voice of Ephraim Trout.

2

Mr Llewellyn quivered from
bald head to shoe sole. Direct answer to prayer frequently affects people in
this manner.

‘Eph,’
he cried. ‘Is that you?’

‘Who
else?’ said Mr Trout.

‘Where
are you?’

‘Here
in London at the Dorchester. I was called over unexpectedly on business, and of
course I got in touch with you right away. I naturally wanted to know how you
were making out. Did you go to Nichols, Erridge and Trubshaw as I advised?,’

‘Sure I
did, the first moment I got here,’ said Mr Llewellyn, feeling it unnecessary to
complicate things by mentioning his
passade
with Miss Vera Dalrymple.
‘I saw young Nichols, the junior partner.’

‘And he
provided a bodyguard?’

‘That’s
just what I want to talk to you about.’

‘We
must fix up a date.’

‘Fix up
a date nothing. Do it now.’

‘I was
going with a friend to that exhibition of first editions at Sotheby’s.’

‘Damn
your friends and blast first editions and curse Sotheby’s,’ said Mr Llewellyn,
who, when moved, always expressed himself forcibly. ‘If you aren’t here in
twenty minutes, I’ll take all my business away from you and give it to Jones,
Jukes, Jenkinson and Jerningham.’

The
threat was one Mr Trout could not ignore. Mr Llewellyn’s business was extremely
valuable to him, and Jones, aided and abetted by Jukes, Jenkinson and
Jerningham, had been trying to get it away from him for years.

‘I’ll
be there, I.L.,’ he said, and in less than the specified time he was in a chair
at 8 Enniston Gardens, and Mr Llewellyn was saying ‘Listen’, preparatory to
cleansing his stuffed bosom of the perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart,
as Shakespeare and the Welsh school marm would have phrased it, though
Shakespeare ought to have known better than to put ‘stuff’ and ‘stuffed’ in the
same sentence like that.

‘Listen,’
said Mr Llewellyn. ‘I have a problem.’

‘You
aren’t engaged to be married?’ said Mr Trout in sudden alarm.

‘Of
course I’m not.’

Mr
Trout could have criticised the use of the words ‘Of course’, but he refrained.

‘You
relieve my mind,’ he said. ‘I had a dream about you the other night.’

‘Never
mind your dreams.’

‘I
dreamed I saw you coming out of the church with your sixth wife under an arch
of crossed movie scripts, held by two rows of directors. But you say you aren’t
even engaged.’

‘It’s
not myself I’m worrying about, it’s Pickering.’

‘Who’s
Pickering?’

‘The
man those lawyers sent me.’

‘And
you’re worried about him? Don’t you like him?’

‘Yes,
very much.’

‘But
he’s no good for the job?’

‘He’s
excellent for the job. But a complication has arisen.’

‘Which
is?’

‘He’s gone
all haywire over a girl.’

‘I
don’t wonder that that worries you. He sounds the very last man you ought to
have around you in your delicate condition. Putting ideas into your head.’

‘No,
there you are wrong, Eph. No danger of that. I told you I wasn’t worried about
myself. My anxiety is all for Pickering.’

‘Why?
Is he your illegitimate son or something? ‘

‘No,
he’s no relation, but I’m as fond of him as if he were. From our first meeting
we have got along together like ham and eggs, and I don’t want to see him
ruining himself at the very outset of his career. He ought not to be dreaming
of marriage at his age. He’s much too young.’

‘How
old is he?’

‘About
twenty-five.’

‘He’d
be much too young if he were sixty-five.’

‘So I
wish you would talk to him.’

‘I will.’

‘You’ve
had so much experience.’

‘More
than you could shake a stick at in a month of Sundays. We’re used to these
hot-headed young Romeos at Bachelors Anonymous. ‘

‘They
come to you, do they?’

‘No, we
generally go to them. Word reaches us that some young pipsqueak is
contemplating matrimony, and we look him up. We regard him as an out-patient.
And I may say that we are nearly always successful, though it sometimes
happens, of course, that the madness has spread too far. Is the name Otis
Bewstridge familiar to you?’

‘Never
heard it.’

‘Heir
to the Bewstridge Potato Chips millions. When we tried to dissuade him from
marrying his fourth show girl, he blacked the eye of one of our members who was
reasoning with him. But his was an exceptional case. Generally reasoning does
what we want. Tell me about this Pickering. Is his case a severe one?’

‘You
bet your bottom affidavit it’s a severe one. He raves about her eyes.’

‘That’s
bad.’

‘He
says her voice is like silver bells tinkling across a meadow in the moonlight.’

‘That’s
worse.’

‘He
also has much to say about the dimple in her left cheek.’

‘I
don’t like the sound of that at all. You say there is no danger of you imbibing
his views, but how are we to be certain? I shall take the earliest opportunity
of talking to him like a Dutch uncle. Is this he?’ asked Mr Trout as a fresh
young voice raised in joyous song made itself heard from beyond the door. Mr
Llewellyn said it was, and next moment Joe entered, looking like the jovial
innkeeper in Act One of an old-fashioned comic opera.