Uncle Dynamite (25 page)

‘You
know how it is.’

‘Oh,
rather.’

‘You
see … I’d sock those mice, if I were you.’

‘I will
— tomorrow — with an iron hand. Regardless of their age and sex.’

‘You
see, your heads were a bit close together.’

‘I was
merely lighting her cigarette.’

‘Of
course, of course. I realize that now. I know that I can trust you.’

‘Oh,
rather.’

‘I know
that you love Hermione and will make her happy. You will look on it as a sacred
duty.’

‘You
betcher.’

‘Fine,’
said Bill, clasping his hands and putting a good deal of soul into his expression.
‘That’s a bit of goose. I’m devoted to Hermione, Pongo.’

‘Yes,
you told me.’

‘Hermione
—

‘How
about having a long talk about her in the morning?’ ‘Not now?’

‘Bit
late, isn’t it?’

‘Ah
yes, I suppose you want to turn in. I was only going to say that Hermione is
the … dash it, what are those things?’

‘The
berries?’

‘Lode
stars. She is the lode star of my life. I’ve been crazy about her for years and
years and years, and her happiness means everything to me. How wonderful she
is, Pongo.’

‘Terrific.’

‘You
don’t find many girls like Hermione.’

‘Very
scarce.’

‘So beautiful.’

‘Ah.’

‘So
clever.’

‘What
ho.’

‘You’ve
read her novels, of course?’

Pongo
could not repress a guilty start. The question was an awkward one. He was
uncomfortably conscious of having devoted to
Murder in the Fog
hours of
study which would have been better employed in familiarizing himself with his
loved one’s output.

‘Well,
I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘Up to the moment of going to press, I haven’t for one
reason and another been able to smack into them to quite the extent I could
wish. But she’s given me her latest to read while I’m here, and I can see from
the first page that it’s the bezuzus. Strikes a new note, as you might say.’

‘Which
one is that?’

‘I’ve
forgotten the name, but I know it was called something.’

‘How
long has it been out?’

‘Just
published, I understand.’

‘Ah,
then I haven’t seen it. Fine. That’s a treat to look forward to. Isn’t she
amazing, Pongo? Isn’t it extraordinary that she can write all those wonderful
books —‘

‘Oh,
rather.’

‘— And
still be a simple, healthy, out-of-doors country girl, never happier than when
she is getting up at six in the morning and going for a long walk through the
—‘

Pongo
started.

‘Six in
the morning?’ He spoke in a thin, strained voice, and his jaw had fallen a
little. ‘She doesn’t get up at six in the morning?’

‘In the
summer always.’

‘And in
winter?’

‘Seven.
I’ve known her to do a round and a half of golf before breakfast, and if she
doesn’t play golf it’s a long walk through the woods and fields. I tell you,
she’s marvellous. Well, good night, Pongo, you’ll be wanting to get to bed,’
said Bill, and heaving himself up took his departure.

It was
a pensive Pongo Twistleton who went to the door and listened and then went to
the cupboard and extracted Elsie Bean. To say that Bill’s words had weakened
his great love would perhaps be going too far, for he still thought Hermione
Bostock a queen among women and had no intention of replying in the negative
when the clergyman said ‘Wilt thou, Reginald, take this Hermione to be thy
wedded wife?’ But the discovery that he was engaged to a girl who habitually
got up at six in the morning, and would presumably insist on him getting up at
that hour also, had definitely shaken him. His manner as he de-Beaned the
cupboard was distrait, and when his guest complained of being in the final
stages of suffocation he merely said ‘Oh, ah?’

His
detachment displeased Elsie Bean. She displayed a captious spirit.

‘What
did I have to go killing myself in cupboards for? It was only Mr William.’

‘Only!’
said Pongo, unable to share this easy outlook. ‘Do you realize that if he had
found you here, he would have pulled my head off at the roots?’

‘You
don’t say?’

‘Not to
mention scooping out my insides with his bare hands.’

‘Coo!
What a nut!’

‘The
word nut understates it. When roused — and finding you on the premises would
have roused him like nobody’s business — he’s a menace to pedestrians and
traffic. Gosh!’ said Pongo, struck with an idea. ‘Why wouldn’t he be the man to
bop your Harold on the nose?’

‘But
you’re going to do it.’

‘In
case I can’t manage to get around to it, I mean. You know how full one’s time
is. I believe Bill would be just the chap you want.’

Elsie
Bean shook her head.

‘No, I
asked him.’

‘Asked
him?’

‘R. I
met him walking in the garden after I’d helped that nice old gentleman up the
water pipe. He said he wouldn’t.’

‘Why
not?’

‘He
doesn’t believe in bopping coppers on the nose.’

It was
a prejudice which Pongo shared, but nevertheless he found himself exasperated.
One never likes to see a man stifling his natural gifts. The parable of the
talents crossed his mind.

‘But
how on earth do you expect me to do it?’ he demanded peevishly. ‘The way
everybody talks, you’d think it was the simplest thing in the world to walk up
to a fifteen-stone policeman and sock him on the beezer. I can’t see the
procedure. How does one start? One can’t just go and do it. It wants leading up
to. And even then —‘

Elsie
Bean seemed to appreciate his difficulty.

‘I’ve
been thinking about that,’ she said. ‘How would it be if you pushed him into
the duck pond?’

‘What
duck pond?’

‘The
one outside the front gate.’

‘But he
may not go near the bally duck pond.’

‘Yes,
he will. He always does, when he’s on his beat. He goes and stands there and
spits into it.’

Pongo
brightened a little. It would be idle to pretend that he found the picture
which his companion had conjured up attractive, but it was less repellent than
the other.

‘Creep
up behind him, you mean?’

‘R.’

‘And
give him a hearty shove?’

‘R.’

‘Yes.
Yes, I see what you mean. Well, there is much in what you say, and I will give
the matter my attention It may be that you have found the solution. Meanwhile,
go and peer cautiously up and down the passage and see if there’s anybody
about. If there isn’t, pick up your feet and streak for your dug-out like a
flash.’

But
before she could reach the door, it had opened to admit Lord Ickenham and
Sally. Both looked greatly refreshed, the former in particular wearing the
contented expression of a man who has been steeping himself in boiled eggs.

‘As
good a little meal as I have ever tasted,’ he said. ‘Really, Mugsy does one
extraordinarily well. And now bed, don’t you think? The evening is wearing
along. You had better be putting a few things together, Pongo.’

Pongo
did not reply. He was staring at Sally. Lord Ickenham approached him and drove
a kindly finger into his ribs.

‘Ouch!’

‘Start
packing, my boy.’

‘Eh?
Oh, right ho!’

‘Just a
few necessaries. I can lend you a razor and my great sponge, Joyeuse.’ Lord
Ickenham turned to Elsie Bean. ‘You two have settled things, I hope?’

‘Yes,
sir. Mr Twistleton is going to push Harold into the duck pond.’

‘Capital,
capital,’ said Lord Ickenham heartily. ‘An excellent idea. You’ll enjoy that,
Pongo. Don’t forget that in pushing policemen into duck ponds the follow
through is everything.’

Pongo,
mechanically filling a suitcase, again made no reply. Though he had ceased to
stare at Sally, she still occupied his thoughts. The sight of her coming
through the door had acted upon him like a powerful electric shock, for her
eyes, the eyes of a girl refreshed with tea and eggs, had seemed, if possible,
brighter than ever, and once more she had flashed upon him that smile of hers.
And this time, though he had immediately thought of Hermione Bostock, it was
only to be reminded of her habit of rising at six in the summer and at seven
during the winter months.

He
closed the suitcase, and stood waiting. Strange thrills were shooting through
his streamlined body, and his heart, which had been comparatively inactive
recently, was again jumping and bumping. That consciousness of not having
pushed a good thing along was now very pronounced.

‘Well,
good night, Sally,’ said Lord Ickenham. ‘Good night, Uncle Fred. Good night,
Pongo. ‘‘Eh? Oh, good night.’

‘And
thanks for the sanctuary.’

‘Eh?
Oh, not at all.’

‘Good
night, Miss Bean.’

‘Good
night, sir.’

‘You
will be turning in yourself shortly, no doubt? A thousand thanks once more for all
your sympathy and kindness. The duck pond, eh?’ said Lord Ickenham thoughtfully.
‘Yes, admirable, admirable. Come along, Pongo.’

Half-way
along the corridor Pongo paused. Lord Ickenham eyed him enquiringly.

‘Forgotten
something?’

‘Eh?
Oh, no. I was only thinking about Sally.’

‘What
about her?’

‘She
looked dashed pretty in that dressing—gown.’

‘Charming.
By the way, she tells me she wants a lipstick. See to that tomorrow, will you.’

‘Right
ho,’ said Pongo. ‘Lipstick, one. Right.’

He
resumed his progress musingly.

10

If you motor to Wockley
Junction in the morning, starting from Ashenden Manor reasonably soon after an
early-ish breakfast, you can get an express train which deposits you on the
arrival platform at
Waterloo
at
twelve-forty-three. The passage of the hours in no way having weakened her
determination to visit her child and make plain to her the bleakness of the future
awaiting any girl rash enough to put on a white veil and walk down the aisle
with her arm linked in that of Reginald Twistleton, Lady Bostock had done this.
Bill Oakshott drove her to the junction, and she reached the block of flats
where Hermione had her London residence shortly after one, just as Hermione,
outside its front door, was about to step into her two-seater.

Privileged
to direct a square look at this girl as she stood there in the almost
unbelievable splendour of her new hat, her best frock and her carefully
selected shoes, gloves and stockings, the dullest eye would have been able to
see that she had what it takes. Her father might look like a walrus and her
mother like something starting at a hundred to eight in the two-thirty race at
Catterick
Bridge
, but Hermione herself, tall and
dark, with large eyes, a perfect profile and an equally perfect figure, was an
Oriental potentate’s dream of what the harem needed.

Hearing
Lady Bostock’s bleating cry, she turned and stared, incredulity blended in her
gaze with the natural dismay of a daughter who, having said goodbye to her
mother on a Monday afternoon after entertaining her for a week at her flat,
sees her come bobbing up again on Wednesday morning.

‘Mother!’
she exclaimed in the rich contralto which for years had been stirring up Bill
Oakshott’s soul like an egg whisk. ‘Whatever …?‘

‘Oh,
dear,’ said Lady Bostock. ‘Have you got to go? I came up specially to see you.’

‘I
must. I’m lunching at Barribault’s and I’m late already. What did you want to
see me about?’

‘Oh,
dear, oh, dear, oh, dear. Reginald.’ ‘Reginald?’

‘Yes,
dear. Your father —A smouldering gleam came into Hermione’s fine eyes. Those
words ‘Your father’, taken in conjunction with the name of the man to whom she
had plighted her troth, had aroused her suspicions. They could only mean, it
seemed to her, that in defiance of her explicit instructions Sir Aylmer had not
been treating her nominee like an ewe lamb. And she was a girl who when she
said ewe lamb meant ewe lamb.

‘What
has Father been doing to Reginald?’ she demanded sternly. ‘Has he been barking
at him?’

‘No,
no. Your father never barks. He sometimes raises his voice.’

‘Has he
been raising his voice, then?’

‘Scarcely
so that you could notice it. No, what has happened…. Oh dear, it’s such a
long story.’

‘Then I
really can’t wait to hear it now. I’m terribly late. And I’m lunching with a
publisher.’