The Girl in Blue (8 page)

It was
a unique happening, and its effect on him was to induce in him emotions similar
to those which had so stirred his Uncle Willoughby when
The Girl in Blue
had
come into his possession. It seemed to him, as it had seemed to Willoughby,
that a triumph like this must be celebrated by a lunch that would go down in
legend and song. It remained only to select the appropriate restaurant, and
after some thought he decided on the grill-room at Barribault’s world-famous
hostelry. Anything less luxurious would be an anti-climax.

As he
entered that stamping ground of Texas millionaires and Indian Maharajahs, one
thing alone prevented his feeling of what the French call
bien être
being
perfect. It was the fact that he
was
alone. All around him were rich men
and fair women digging in and getting theirs in couples, but he had no-one to
help him celebrate. How merrily, he felt, he would sail into the bill of fare
if the girl he loved were there.

At this
moment he saw that she was. She was drinking coffee at a table near the door.

He
halted, transfixed. A Texas millionaire, who was following him into the
grill-room, rammed him in the small of the back, but he scarcely noticed him.
He was staring as Homer Pyle had stared when first encountering Vera Upshaw,
with this difference that Homer had had no doubt from the start that what he
was goggling at was a corporeal entity, while he was under the impression that
he was seeing something in the nature of a mirage or figment of the
imagination, possibly an astral body that had somehow managed to get transported
from Bournemouth to the west end of London. Then she looked up, smiled an
enchanting smile and waved a cordial coffee spoon.

‘Well!’
she said, as he bounded forward, tripping over a Maharajah. ‘G. G. F. West, if
I mistake not.’

Jerry
collapsed on to the banquette beside her. Somebody in the vicinity seemed to be
playing the trap drums, but investigation told him that it was only his heart
beating.

This,’
he said, ‘is amazing. I thought you were in Bournemouth.’

‘I am
in Bournemouth, or I shall be there again ere yonder sun has set. I came up for
the day on business.’

‘Oh,
you aren’t here permanently?’ he said, disappointed.

‘No,
just passing through.’

That’s
too bad. Well, let’s have lunch.’

‘I’ve
had lunch.’

‘Have
another.’

‘No,
thanks. But don’t let me stop you.

‘It
would take a good deal to stop me.’ said Jerry. ‘If you must know it, I came in
here to gorge. And to check the “Greedy pig” which I see trembling on your
lips, I must explain that my mid-day meal today was to be a celebration. I don’t
know how much you know about peddling cartoons?’

‘Not
much.’

‘Well,
on Wednesday you make the round of the magazines with your little portfolio,
and if you’re lucky, you sell a single cartoon after four or five unsuccessful
shots, art editors as a class being incapable of recognizing a good thing when
they see one.’

‘Like
the base Indian one used to hear about at school who threw the pearl away
richer than all his tribe. Why base?’

‘He
sang bass!’

‘Of
course. Well, press on. You were saying that you’re lucky if you sell a single
cartoon after four or five unsuccessful shots.’

‘Six or
seven sometimes.’

‘But
today?’

‘Precisely.
But today I sold my whole output at the very first place I went to.’

‘Why,
that’s wonderful!’

‘It’s
stupendous.’

‘I don’t
wonder you felt you had to celebrate. I only hope I’ll have the same sort of
luck.’

‘In
what way?’

This
business of mine I’ve come up from Bournemouth about. What would you say it
meant when a lawyer writes to you saying that if you call on him, you will
learn of something to your advantage?’

‘It
ought to mean money.

‘I
trust it does, because on the strength of those kind words I did myself well at
lunch. I felt I could afford it.’

Then
you’ve had that sort of letter?’

‘It
came this morning.’

‘It
ought to mean that someone’s left you a legacy.’

‘It
ought, oughtn’t it. But I can’t think who.’

‘Have
any of your relations died lately?’

‘Not
that I know of. And none of them have any money, anyway.

‘Some
old school crony from Cheltenham? Some girl who scored a goal at hockey because
you passed to her at just the right moment.’

‘But
what would she be doing, dying? She would be in her early twenties.’

‘I see
what you mean. Yes, it’s mysterious.’

‘My
aunt thinks it’s a trap.’

‘What
kind of trap?’

‘White
slavers. They lure me into their den, pretending to be lawyers, and chloroform
me and ship me off to South America.’

‘Why
you particularly?’

‘I
suppose they’ve got to chloroform somebody.’

‘Yes,
there’s that, of course. And they just happened to hit on you.’

‘My
aunt thinks they keep a list.’

‘Would
you say it seemed likely?’

‘Nothing
my aunt thinks ever seems likely.’

‘Where
did these lawyers write from? Don’t you feel that a lot depends on that? I
mean, if it was from Joe the Lascar’s underground cellar in Limehouse, that
doesn’t look so good.’

‘No,
the address is all right. Bedford Row. And the firm sounds respectable. Scrope,
Ashby and Pemberton. The one who signed the letter was Willoughby Scrope.’

‘Well,
I’ll be… damned I suppose is the word I’m groping for.’

‘And
why, Mr Bones, will you be damned?’

‘Because
Willoughby Scrope’s my uncle.’

‘Really?
And you think he’s all right?’

‘A
splendid fellow.’

‘Doesn’t
chloroform girls?’

‘Wouldn’t
dream of it. Wouldn’t drug them, either. If he offers you a drink, have no
hesitation in downing it.’

‘Well,
that’s fine. You’ve eased my mind.’

These
conversational exchanges, though set down in that way for the sake of
convenience, had actually not been continuous. Jerry had abandoned his original
idea of making the sort of lunch that would have appealed to the Roman emperor
Vitellius, but he had summoned waiters and taken nourishment. Barribault’s do
not like it if you just go there and sit. He had now finished a modest meal and
was lighting a cigarette, having seen to it that his companion was supplied
with one.

‘Lucky
my aunt isn’t here,’ she said, puffing.

‘She
doesn’t approve of smoking?’

‘She
thinks it gives you dyspepsia, sleeplessness, headache, weak eyes, asthma,
bronchitis, rheumatism, lumbago and sciatica and brings you out in red spots.’

‘I
would like to meet your aunt. Interesting woman.

‘She
wouldn’t like to meet you. You’re an artist.’

‘Ah
yes, all those Russian princesses. She strikes me as a bit on the austere side.
Why do you go back to her?’

‘I
must. And that reminds me. That dinner of ours.’

‘I’m
counting the minutes.’

‘Well,
I’m afraid you’ll have to count a few more, because I’m postponing it.’

‘Oh
hell, if I may use the expression. Why?’

‘I’d
forgotten it was her birthday on Friday. Shall we make it Saturday?’

‘I
suppose so, if we must, but I still say Oh, hell.’

‘Barribault’s
about eight?’

‘That’s
right.’

‘Then
it’s on. And I’m off. If I don’t see your uncle at once, I shall miss the only
good train in the afternoon. Is this Bedford Row near here?’

‘Not
very.

Then
you had better put me into a taximeter cab.’

The cab
rolled off. Jerry walked back to his flat. He had to. Barribault’s had drawn
heavily of his assets, and mere charm of manner is never accepted by taxi
drivers as a substitute for cash.

But he
would have walked even if he had been in funds, for he wanted to study this
problem of his from every angle, and he always thought better when in motion.

It was
a problem that needed all the thought he could give it. The recent encounter
had deepened his conviction that there was only one girl in the world he could
possibly marry, and as of even date he could see no way of avoiding marrying
another. An impasse, if ever there was one. King Solomon and Brigham Young
would have taken it in their stride, but he could see no solution.

Reaching
home, he sat down and continued to ponder. He recalled a musical comedy in
which the comedian, reminded by the soubrette that they were engaged to be
married, had said, ‘I forgot to tell you about that, it’s off’, and he was
thinking wistfully that they managed these things better in musical comedy,
when the telephone rang and over the wire came floating the lovely voice of the
Dame of the British Empire who, he greatly feared, was about to become his
mother-in-law. It surprised him a good deal, for she was not in the habit of
chatting with him over the telephone. Indeed, she had always given him the
impression that it revolted her to talk to him at all.

‘Gerald?
Oh, good afternoon, Gerald. I hope I am not interrupting your work?’

‘No, I
never work on Wednesday.’

‘How I
envy you. I am resting at the moment, but as a rule the Wednesday matinée is
the curse of my life. Did you ever hear the story of the actress who was
walking past the fish shop and saw all those fishy eyes staring at her? “That
reminds me,” she said, “I have a Wednesday matinée.” But I didn’t ring you up
to tell you funny stories. My mission is a serious one. I have just been seeing
Vera off to Brussels and she gave me a most unpleasant task to perform.’

‘Oh, I’m
sorry.’

‘I’m
afraid you will be even sorrier when you hear what it is,’ said Dame Flora,
cooing like a turtle dove in springtime.

2

Dame Flora was a woman of
her word. She had promised her ewe lamb that she would get her betrothed on the
telephone and make it clear to him that his idea that wedding bells were going
to ring out was a mistaken one, and this she proceeded to do. It was a masterly
performance, for which she would have been justified in charging him the price
of an orchestra stall.

‘I know
you will understand, Gerald,’ she concluded. ‘And Vera wants me to tell you
that she will always look on you as a dear, dear friend. Goodbye, Gerald,
goodbye, goodbye.’

The
receiver shook in Jerry’s hand as he replaced it. In the course of her remarks
Dame Flora had stressed the fact that the ewe lamb considered him weak, and
weak was what he was feeling, if weak is not too weak a word. Boneless is more
the one a stylist like Gustave Flaubert would have chosen, though being French
he would have used whatever the French is for boneless —
étourdit
perhaps,
or something like that.

It was,
of course, the bonelessness of relief, yet there again one needs a stronger
word. One does not speak of the condemned man on the scaffold who sees a
messenger galloping up on a foaming horse with a reprieve in his hand as
feeling relieved. Perhaps the best way out of the difficulty is to say that
Jerry’s emotions at this high spot in his life were very much those of Crispin
Scrope as he watched his brother Willoughby write a cheque for two hundred and
three pounds six shillings and fourpence.

For an
age he sat stunned, his mind a mere welter of incoherence, conscious only of a
reverent awe for the guardian angel who had somehow — he could not imagine how —engineered
this astounding coup. Then there crept in the realization that it is not enough
merely to contemplate a good thing; to get the best results one must push it
along. Free now to woo the girl he loved, he must lose no time in starting to
do so. They would be dining together next Saturday, but it would be madness to
hang about twiddling his thumbs till then. At times like this every minute
counts. Who knew that long before Saturday some dashing young spark at
Bournemouth might not have snapped her up? He had never been in Bournemouth,
but he presumed they had dashing young sparks there. He must go instantly to
Bournemouth and make his presence felt.

And his
first move must be to find out her name, a thing he had once again carelessly
omitted to do. A wooer who attempts to woo without having this vital fact at
his fingers’ ends can never hope to make a real success of his courtship.

Fortunately
it was simple. She had gone off to see his Uncle Bill and learn of something to
her advantage, so all he had to do was pick up the telephone…

‘Uncle
Bill? This is Jerry.’

Willoughby’s
reception of the information lacked cordiality. He was on the point of leaving
for his short golfing holiday, and he had not given himself too much time for
his train.