How Bredon Spent the Evening
Bredon had undoubtedly secured the best occupation for the evening.
For two whole days he had missed the feeling of cards between his
hands, and now he returned with a great hunger to his favourite
pastime. True, the circumstances were not ideal. It was thoughtless of
Leyland to have insisted on his sitting so close to the window; there
was, fortunately, a window-seat, but not generous enough in its
proportions to secure a convenient lay-out of the cards. The rows,
instead of lying flat, had to climb over downs and gullies in the
faded chintz; the result was an occasional avalanche, and a
corresponding loss of temper. In an ideal world, Bredon reflected, you
would have a large building like a racquet-court to play patience in,
and you would wheel yourself up and down between the rows in an
invalid’s chair.
There was a soft rustle at the door, and Angela came in. “Oo, I’ve
been feeling so nice and stealthy,” she said. “Mr. Eames and I crept
back down the lane like burglars. It was better than a cinema, I can
tell you! We dodged round the privet-hedge, and came in through the
back of Mrs. Davis’s kitchen. And I thought the back stairs would
never stop creaking. Did you hear me coming up?”
“I can’t say I did. But you see, I was otherwise engaged. To a man
like Brinkman, on the alert for every noise, your progress probably
sounded like a charge of cavalry. You’re sure you shut the door
properly? I need hardly say that a sudden draught would be a disaster
to all my best hopes. A little knitting is indicated for you, Angela,
to steady the mind.”
“Don’t you talk too much. If Brinky came out and saw your lips moving
it might worry him. Remember, you’re supposed to be alone in the room.
Though indeed he probably regards you as potty by now in any case, so
it wouldn’t surprise him to see you talking to yourself. Words cannot
depict the shame I have felt this evening at having such a lazy
husband. Talk of Nero fiddling while Rome was burning!”
“Say rather, Drake insisting on finishing his game of bowls. Or was it
William Tell? I forget. Anyhow, this is the fine old British spirit.
What’s the word? Not undaunted—imperturbable, that’s what I mean. The
myrmidons of Scotland Yard bustle to and fro outside; the great
detective sits calmly within, with all the strings in his hands. My
nets begin to close tighter round them, Watson. Dash it all, I believe
Pulteney’s let me down. Where’s his other two of spades?”
“I don’t want to be unpleasant, but you will perhaps allow me to
remind you that you are supposed to be on the lookout. If Brinky comes
out in front, you are to report to me. And how are you to see him, if
you will go scavenging about under the window-seat like that?”
“Well, you’ll jolly well have to find my two of spades, then, while I
keep an eye on the street. Fair division of labour. Watchman, what of
the night? There’s going to be a jolly fine thunder-storm. Did you see
that flash? I deduce that there will shortly be a slight roll of
thunder. There, what did I tell you?”
“It’s not so much the innate laziness of the man,” murmured Angela, as
if to herself, “it’s his self-sufficiency! Here’s your beastly two of
spades; don’t lose it again. You ought to have the cards tied round
your neck with a piece of string. I say, aren’t you excited? Do you
think Brinky will show fight when they nab him in the garage?”
“Don’t fluster me. I wish to be secluded from the world. Here before
me lies a very pretty problem, represented by two hundred and eight
pieces of pasteboard. Behind that, in the dim background of my
half-awake consciousness, lies a very pretty problem in detection. It
is my boast that I can do both at once. But how am I to do either if
women will chatter at me?”
“Passengers are requested not to speak to the man at the wheel. All
right, Aunty, go on with your silly game. I’m going to knit. It
doesn’t feel quite womanly to knit, somehow, with a thing like you in
the room.”
There was silence for a while, as Bredon sat over his cards, with an
occasional glance at the street below him. There is said to be a man
who has invented a Chinese typewriter; and since (they tell us) every
word in the Chinese language has its own symbol—the fault of
Confucius, for not thinking of letters—the machine is said to be of
the size and shape of a vast organ, and the typist runs to and fro,
pulling out a stop here, pressing down a pedal there, in a whirl of
activity. Not otherwise did Bredon appear when he saw the
possibilities of a particular gambit in his patience; then he would
sit for a while lost in thought, puzzling out combinations for the
future. Below him, the street lay in an unearthly half-darkness. Lamps
should not have been needed by this time on a June evening, but the
thick mantle of clouds had taken away all that was left of the sun’s
departing influence, and it was a twilit world that lay below. He
could see a broad splash of light from the front door, and, further
along, the mellower radiance diffused by the bar windows, with their
drawn red blinds. From time to time a sudden flare of lightning
illuminated the whole prospect, and shamed these human lights into
insignificance.
“Angela,” said Bredon suddenly, without turning round, “I don’t know
if it interests you at all, but a stealthy figure has crept out into
the moonlight. At least, there isn’t any moonlight, but still, those
irritatingly twirled moustaches, that supercilious pince-nez—can it
be? It is—our old friend Brinkman. He carries a despatch-box, but no
other luggage. He is passing down the street in the direction of the
turning; perhaps making for the garage—who shall say? He is looking
round at this window. Ha! ’tis well, I am observed. Anyhow, it’s up to
you to go to the telephone this time.”
Angela’s self-possession was more of a pose. She sprang up in a hurry,
dropping her knitting as she rose, and threw the door open silently
but swiftly; then, as silently, as swiftly, it shut again behind her.
But not before irretrievable damage had been done. The evening was
full of those sudden gusts and air-currents which a thunder-storm
brings with it. One of these, synchronizing with the sudden opening of
the door, neatly lifted up three of the cards from the window-seat,
and swept them out into the open air.
Bredon was intensely annoyed, and somewhat puzzled as to his duty. On
the one hand, it was impossible to go on with the game when three
cards, whose values he could not remember, were missing from a row. On
the other hand, Leyland’s instructions had been explicit; he was to
sit at the window without stirring. Then common sense came to his aid.
After all, Brinkman was no longer in sight; even if he were still
watching from the corner, he would never suspect that a movement in
the room upstairs portended discovery. With a great effort Bredon
heaved himself up from the chair into which he had sunk, opened the
door delicately for fear of fresh draughts, and in half a minute’s
time was searching before the front of the inn for his truant
pasteboard.
The king of spades, good. And here was the three of diamonds. But
there was one other card; he was certain of it. A friendly flash of
lightning gave him a sudden snapshot of the road; Brinkman was out of
sight; another figure, Eames presumably, was already making for the
turning. But there was no card in the street; no deceptive fragments
of paper, even, to catch the eye. He looked round, baffled. Then his
eye caught the sight of an open ground-floor window, that of the “best
room.” Could the fluttering runaway have dived indoors again? He put
his head in through the window; there it lay, close to the occasional
table with the photograph album on it. He was back through the front
door in an instant, and making his way upstairs again with his prize.
“Great Scott!” he said, aloud, as he regained his room, “could that
possibly be it? That would mean, of course . . . hang it all, what
would that mean? Ah! That’s more like it.” The patience lay all round
him, forgotten for the moment; his eyes sparkled, his hands gripped
the arms of his chair.
When Angela came back from the telephone, she was astonished at the
change that had come over her husband. He was standing on the fender
with his back to the empty grate, swinging himself to and fro while he
carolled a snatch from an out-of-date musical repertoire:
“All the girls began to cry, ‘Hi, hi, hi, Mister Mackay,
Take us with you when you fly back to the Isle of Skye,’”
were the actual words that greeted her entrance.
“Miles, dear,” she expostulated, “whatever’s the matter? Have you got
it out?”
“What, the patience? No, I don’t think the patience is coming out just
yet. But I’ve got a very strong suspicion that our little detective
mystery is coming out. As you are up, I wonder if it would be
troubling you too much to ask you to step down to Mrs. Davis and ask
her if she ever cut any sandwiches for Mr. Brinkman?”
“My poor, poor dear!” said Angela; but she went. She knew the signs of
a victory in her husband’s erratic deportment. He was still crooning
softly to himself when she came back with her message.
“Mrs. Davis says that she doesn’t remember ever to have cut any
‘sangwiches,’ not for Mr. Brinkman she didn’t. Mr. Pulteney, now, he
often takes a nice ‘sangwich’ with him when he goes out fishing. Not
that she always makes them herself, because the girl cuts as nice a
‘sangwich’ as you’d wish to see. But Mr. Brinkman he didn’t order any
‘sangwiches,’ not all this week he hasn’t. That’s all the message. At
least, I came away at that point.”
“Good! The case progresses. Let me call your attention to this
singular absence of ‘sangwich’-cutting on the part of Mrs. Davis.
Angela, I’m right on the track of the beastly thing, and you mustn’t
disturb me.”
“Have you really worked it all out?”
“No, not quite all; but I’m in the sort of stage where the great
detective says, ‘Good God, what a blind bat I have been!’ As a matter
of fact, I don’t think I’ve been a blind bat at all. On the contrary,
I think it’s dashed clever of me to have got hold of the thing now.
It’s more than you have.”
“Miles, you’re not to be odious. Tell me all about it, and I’ll see
what I think of you.”
“Who was it laughed at me for staying at home and playing patience
while other people did the work? No, you shan’t hear about it; besides
I haven’t fitted it all together yet.”
“Well, anyhow, you might tell me whether you’ve won the forty quid or
lost it.”
“Not a word shall you get out of me at present.”
“Then I’ll make Mr. Leyland arrest you and torture you with
thumb-screws. By the way, I wonder what Mr. Leyland’s doing? Brinky
must have got to the garage by now, and I should have thought he would
have brought him straight back here.”
“The garage? Oh, yes. At least, wait a minute. . . . Of course, now I
come to think of it, there’s no real reason to suppose that Brinkman
meant to take the car out at all.”