William Again (18 page)

Mrs Croombe, open-mouthed, laid aside her sewing.

‘My
dear
Jim!’ she said. ‘How extraordinary! I wonder – you might try psychoanalysis if the vision comes again – it’s quite fashionable!’

‘I hope,’ said Mr Croombe, ‘that it won’t appear again. It wasn’t,’ he confessed, ‘on the whole, a pleasant expression.’

Meanwhile, William, asleep in bed, was dreaming of Mr and Mrs Croombe, handcuffed, and dressed from head to foot in red triangles.

‘It’s chiefly jewellery that’s been taken,’ announced Mr Brown from the local paper the next morning at breakfast.

‘Ha!’ said William sardonically.

‘Mrs Croombe wants us to go to dinner on Saturday,’ said Mrs Brown, looking up from a letter.

‘Who’s Mrs Croombe?’ said Ethel, William’s elder sister.

‘They’re new people, up Green Lane, the end house!’

‘Ha!’ snorted William.

‘What,’ said William’s elder brother, ‘is the matter with
you?

‘You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?’ said William with a disrespectful contortion of his face.
‘Just!’

Then he went up to his bedroom and, putting on his dressing-gown, stood scowling into space with his head resting on his hand and his elbow on the mantelpiece in the attitude of the Great
Detective thinking out a clue.

The bloodhound insisted on spoiling the picture by sitting up to beg.

That evening Mr Croombe looked very weary when he came home.

‘I went to a psychoanalyst,’ he said wearily, ‘about that – boy, you know, and he asked me questions for over an hour – all about my past life. He asked me if I’d ever
had a shock connected with boys, and I remembered that squib that a boy let off just in front of me last November. He says that this hallucination may be caused by a subconscious fear. He gave me a
lot of other cases of the same kind that he’s treating. He says that if, when I see the boy, I try to remember that really he doesn’t exist, I may get over it. I met cousin Agatha
afterwards. She thinks it’s a message – she wanted me to ask the Psychical Research Society to come down, but I think I’ll wait till after the dinner-party anyway.’

Mrs Croombe clasped her hands.

‘Oh, Jim!’ she said. ‘It’s all very wonderful, isn’t it?’

William, after deep consideration, had decided not to take anyone into partnership. In the play there had been a faithful and unobtrusive friend of the Great Detective, who had
merely asked questions and expressed admiration, but William, reviewing his circle of friends, could not think of anyone who would be content with this role
.
Therefore, he kept the whole
thing to himself. He decided to bring off his great coup on the evening of the Croombe’s dinner-party. He decided to go into the house and hide till the dinner had begun, and then go out and
collect the stolen jewellery and convict the criminals. He expected vaguely to be summoned to Buckingham Palace to receive the VC after it. Anyway, his family would treat him a bit different –
just!

He was in his bedroom, wearing his dressing-gown, and his faithful bloodhound was worrying the cord of it. He was sucking a lead pencil to represent the Great Detective’s pipe. He had, at
an earlier stage, experimented upon an actual pipe removed from the greenhouse where the gardener had left it for a moment. A very short experience of it had convinced him that a lead pencil would
do just as well.

Dusk was already falling when the Great Detective issued forth – a sinister figure, with frown, lead pencil and dressing-gown – on the track of the criminals. The villain’s house was
brightly lit up, and he experienced some difficulty in making his way in. He made it ultimately through the larder window, and was detained for a few minutes by a raspberry cream which was a
special weakness of his. Then, leaving the empty plate behind him, he gathered his dressing-gown about him and reconnoitred. The coast seemed to be clear. He crept upstairs and then on all fours
along the landing. A door opened suddenly, and the master of the house, in shirt-sleeves, appeared full in William’s way. William returned his gaze unflinchingly. The master of the house
paled and retired precipitately to his wife’s bedroom.

‘I’ve seen it again, Marie,’ he said.

‘What, dear?’

‘The – er – subconscious fear – the – er – message, you know. It was crawling along the passage outside in its curious long garment, and it gave me just the same kind of look.
Piercing,
you know – almost hostile. I’m beginning to feel rather nervous, my dear. You’ve – never seen anything of it, have you?’

WILLIAM RETURNED HIS GAZE UNFLINCHINGLY. THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE PALED AND RETIRED PRECIPITATELY.

‘Never!’

Mr Croombe wiped the perspiration from his brow.

‘I’d better look up some sort of comfortable – asylum, you know, somewhere where the food’s good – in case I go clean off it suddenly. I believe it generally begins by
hallucinations.’

‘You must go away for a change,’ said Mrs Croombe firmly, ‘as soon as you can after the upset of this party’s over.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Croombe, ‘but supposing I see it
there –
when I have gone away?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Croombe vaguely. ‘Perhaps they don’t travel – hallucinations, I mean.’

Meanwhile, the hallucination itself was concealed under the bed of his victim. He waited till host and hostess had gone down. He heard the sound of effusively polite greetings downstairs.

‘How
good
of you to come!’

‘Ha!’ snorted William to a cardboard hat-box that shared his refuge with him. ‘Just you
wait
!’

Then he crept out and began to look around the room. He managed to find some of Mr Croombe’s handkerchiefs and was disappointed not to find red triangles on them, but he found a horseshoe
on one, and that was just as likely to be the sign of a criminal gang. Then he went through the connecting door to Mrs Croombe’s bedroom. He opened a drawer and saw a leather box. There was a
key in it, but it was not locked. He opened it – pearls, rubies, emeralds –
all
the stolen jewellery.

‘Ha!’ said William.

He emptied it into the pocket of his dressing-gown. He looked round the room again. There were some silver boxes and candlesticks. William’s stern frown deepened.

‘Ha!’ he said again.

All
stolen things. He put them also in his pockets.

The next thing was to try and find some handcuffs somewhere. He ought to have thought of that before.

The party downstairs was going very well. The conversation turned on the thefts in the neighbourhood.

‘I hear that they have taken a considerable amount of jewellery,’ said Mrs Brown.

Mrs Croombe paled.

‘Jewellery!’ she said. ‘Jim! I believe I forgot to lock my jewel-case. I believe I just left it in my drawer.’

He rose.

‘I’ll go and see, dear,’ he said.

He went out of the room. At the foot of the stairs was William, in a conspiratorial attitude, his pockets bulging.

White to the lips, Mr Croombe returned to his festive board.

‘I can’t go just now, dear,’ he said to his wife, then he whispered with an air of mystery:

‘It’s
there!’

AT THE FOOT OF THE STAIRS WAS WILLIAM, IN A CONSPIRATORIAL ATTITUDE, HIS POCKETS BULGING.

Someone gave a little scream.

‘Oh, is the house haunted?’

‘Well,’ admitted Mr Croombe, not without a certain wistful pride, ‘it’s not exactly the house. To be quite precise, it’s I who am haunted.’

The whole table was agog.

‘It’s – a boy,’ said Mr Croombe. ‘I see him everywhere – in the road, in the house, with a
piercing
expression and curious raiment. He looks straight
at
me
as if he meant something – a sort of freckled face – not friendly, I’m afraid. I’ve been psychoanalysed. It’s a sort of – er – complex—’

There was a hubbub of excitement.

‘Is it there – now – outside the room?’

‘It
was,
but
anyone
mightn’t see it.’

‘May we go and see?’

‘Er – yes. I should think so – but be careful. You know, those – er – emanations can be very dangerous – a hostile aura, you know.’

Three or four bold young men opened the door and crept cautiously into the hall. There was the sound of a scuffle and a high, indignant voice, familiar to two at least of the guests. The jaws of
Mr and Mrs Brown dropped suddenly.

‘Let
go
of me! Take your ole hands
out
of my pocket. Mind your
own
business! Well, I’m a detective, but I’ve not got any handcuffs. Leave
go
of me –
I’ve left my bloodhound behind – that’s not
your
stuff – well it isn’t his’n’— it’s stole stuff. I’ve tooken it ’cause I’m a
detective – let
go
of me, I say. Leave go of my dressing-gown, will you? I’ll call the police – I say he’s a robber, an’ I bet he’s a murderer – will you let
go
of me? He’s a gang – look at his handkerchiefs – what d’you think of that – well, will you let
go –
?’

Still expostulating, William was dragged into the dining-room. Mr Croombe covered his face with his hands.

‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Don’t bring it too near.’

‘It’s the thief,’ said the young men excitedly. ‘Look at his pockets full of things!’

‘Leave
go
of me!’ said William, with rising irritability

‘My jewels!’ screamed Mrs Croombe.

Mrs Brown, meeting her son face to face in such circumstances, did the only possible thing. She fainted dead away and did not recover till the crisis was partially over.

William frenziedly accused Mr Croombe of theft and murder. He referred to handcuffs and bloodhounds. He said wildly that he had had the house surrounded by police. It took about half an hour to
convince him of his mistake.

‘How do you
know
they’re their own things? They only
say
so – I’ve seen him walking suspicious with a bag full of something. Well, how do you
know
he
isn’t a gang?’

William, at the head of the gaily decorated table, pale and determined, in his dressing-gown, gesticulated wildly with his hands full of jewellery

Mr Croombe was apologetic and pleading, wistfully grateful to William for being real.

William – only gradually, and under the influence of a large and indigestible meal which Mr Croombe insisted on giving him in proof of his gratitude – forgot his grievances.

Later, he found his father less sympathetic. Later still, he surveyed the world scornfully through his bedroom window, and thought of his family. It was no good trying to do anything with a
family. The only thing was to cut loose from it altogether.

Mentally he surveyed the past evening. Everything was different in real life. What was the good of being a detective when everybody said the people hadn’t done the things?

Real life was stupid.

He decided to go on the stage. There one could be a detective in comfort, and everyone didn’t say the person hadn’t done the things, and you’d made a mistake.

He’d go on the stage.

Feeling much comforted by this resolve, he got into bed and went to sleep.

CHAPTER 11

THE CIRCUS

T
he circus was to be held in a big tent on the green. William had watched them putting up the tent the day before. He had hung around with wistful
eyes fixed upon it. Here was the Wonder of Wonders, the Mystery of Mysteries – a circus. He had seen the posters of it. It would be there that very day, with its lions and tigers, its horses and
dogs, its golden-haired, short-skirted beauties, its fascinating red-nosed kings of laughter, its moustached masters of the ring, its quips, its thrill, its mystery, its romance, its gilt and
tinsel and light – a circus! It is a strange fact that William had lived for the eleven years of his life and never seen a circus. But he was determined that the omission should be rectified. It
was dusk when he saw them pass. Through the bars of the cages looked out weary, spiritless lions and tigers, but to him they were veritable kings of the jungle. There was an elephant and two
camels, and, chained to the top of the van, a monkey, shivering in a green jacket.