And when Frank called on him again at his office, Lord Ottercove was
lying on the sofa, covered by a luxurious Eastern rug, the telephone on
the floor by his side and two electric radiators turned full on to him,
dictating to a lady stenographer discreetly seated on the edge of a
chair beside him. He looked enquiringly at Frank as if to ask: “Now
isn’t that good enough copy for you?”
Frank looked hot and more than usually perplexed and embarrassed. He
had experienced some difficulty in getting dressed for dinner. He had
broken his collar stud, then torn his collar. He found the shirt studs
would not go through the shirt front button holes, while the new collar
stud would not keep open. He discovered that he had no clean tie and
that the waistcoats, except for one which had no buckle at the back,
were all in the wash, and the one without the buckle had, moreover,
shrunk so much that he could not get the buttons through it. He lost his
temper and his hat, and then, unable to secure a taxi, dashed off to the
nearest Underground station and stepped into the wrong train. Emerging
at the other end, he trod on to some slippery nastiness on the pavement
and nearly broke his neck. He realised that he was over two hours late
for dinner and he felt deeply distressed and unhappy. Lord Ottercove, on
the other hand, looked harassed. Perhaps the news of the dining-room
suite had reached him. Or perhaps he thought Frank wasn’t drawing nearly
enough. But whenever now he met Lord Ottercove, Frank read a meaning
into his look. Lord Ottercove looked sad, dubious, alarmed; or was
trying not to look dubious, alarmed or sad. The uncertainty of Lord
Ottercove’s reactions to the scale of Frank’s financial manipulations
began to tell on the latter’s nerves. “As much as you need,” Lord
Ottercove had said. But his needs had grown with his wants, and alarmed
him. And he was as much pained by the thought of exceeding Lord
Ottercove’s generosity (Lord Ottercove’s watchful generosity) as he was
by the possibility of erring quite needlessly on the side of financial
timidity and reluctance to use his good fortune. There was no kind of
security in this arrangement, and suddenly he felt he couldn’t stand it.
It was already in his throat. “I want to ask you to--”
“I’ve had a man in here just now playing”--Lord Ottercove pointed at the
piano--“Rimsky-Korsakoff. That lovely bit from his opera.... Oh, what’s
the name? It’s on my lips....”
“I want to ask you to turn off that financial arrangement,” Frank said.
“It’s too upsetting. I--”
Lord Ottercove pressed the bell button.
“Stop that banking arrangement Mr. Dickin has with me,” he said as Mrs.
Hannibal entered the room.
Frank gasped.
Mrs. Hannibal made a shorthand note of it and retired.
“It’s on my lips,” said Lord Ottercove. “I know the opera well. Lord!
now what is the name?” He pulled out his watch and looked up at Frank.
“I know I am late. An evening of misadventures culminating” (he was
going to say “in your stopping my principal source of income,” but
pulled up in time) “in my nearly breaking my neck as I stepped on to
some slippery nastiness on the pavement.” His sense of social injustice
provoked by Lord Ottercove’s action, who, after depriving him of the
principal means to a comfortable existence, remained lying on the sofa
calmly stroking his pekingese, vented itself through a side outlet.
“Confound these dogs and their owners! They should be made to respect
the integrity of pavements. Pavements were made for men, not for dogs.
But in this country it’s all topsy-turvy. If I were the Prime Minister
of England I should exterminate the breed.”
Lord Ottercove suddenly jumped off the sofa and, without a word, went
over to the octangular table in the middle of the room and made a note.
Then, rising, “I will act on your suggestion,” he said.
“What? exterminate the breed of dogs?”
“Not I. The Prime Minister.”
“Hardly a popular task you are giving him?”
“Give him just enough rope to hang himself on,” said Lord Ottercove. He
rang the bell, ordered a journalist to write an obituary article on a
world-famous novelist about to be operated upon for appendicitis, and
instructed a reporter to spend all night outside the house of a man
remanded on bail on the chance of his committing suicide; then leaned
back and said: “As you are too late for dinner I am taking you to-night
to sup at the Kiss-Lick Club.”
“Are you really?”
Lord Ottercove began taking off his boots. Frank watched him, and was
moved. There is something moving in seeing a great newspaper magnate and
owner of several score million pounds removing his boots like any other
citizen of the Western portion of the British Empire. One cannot assist
at such a spectacle without an inward feeling that this should not be
so. It should not be so, when a somebody-and-nobody in the Eastern part
of the same empire has his sandals removed for him by servile wives or
servants. And yet, resent it as you may, there was something fine,
unquestionably right and noble, in seeing Lord Ottercove remove his
boots, in a quick, breezy manner as though he thought this the most
natural thing in the world.
And he did more than remove his boots. He disappeared into the bathroom
and returned from there in his vest and pants--just as any other man
might do--and yet still looking the part, still the unchallenged
proprietor and director of the _Daily Runner_. He slipped into pumps and
a boiled shirt prepared for him by his valet Gilbert, into the black
braided trousers, tacked on the stiff white collar--so tortuous a task
for most men--quite effortlessly, and presently was tying his white
bow-tie. And now he emerged in an exquisite tailcoat, spruce and tight
like a glove.
In the historic lift they descended to the ground and stepped into the
great motor, Mimi, the decadent and undogly pekingese, with them. A
crowd of _Daily Runner_ hands had gathered at the corner of the
building, and Lord Ottercove touched his hat with his forefinger on the
chance of their having saluted him. “They’re awfully disappointed, I
guess, that I am not emerging from that office with a woman.” The huge
propellered car ran swiftly and imperiously down the deserted Fleet
Street and, suddenly, spread out wings in front and behind and left the
ground, clearing the roofs of Fleet-street houses, flying
Piccadilly-ward. Frank gasped with surprise.
“You didn’t expect that, now did you?” said Lord Ottercove.
“I did not.”
“This is, in fact, the first model of a ‘Winged Chariot’ to reach this
country. But I guess I won’t be long the only one to have a chariot.”
“Winged chariots!” mused Frank. “If, in addition, we could have winged
love, a winged life, I would not refuse eternity at that.”
“If you had the refusal of it!” grunted Lord Ottercove, from the depth
of the car, hatless as usual.
“You talk like a publisher,” Frank laughed; and presently asked: “Do you
believe in immortality, Lord Ottercove?”
“Not a bit of it!”
“As Lord Balfour once said, ‘If there is no life after this, then life
is a miserable joke. And whose joke?’”
“When did he say that and to whom?”
“He is reported by Lady Oxford to have said it to her.”
Lord Ottercove took out a pocket-book and pencil and made a note in it.
For a while he looked pensive.
“You are thinking--?” Frank said.
“Of Rimsky-Korsakoff’s opera. What the hell is the name?”
“After love, music is the best thing in the world.”
“Love,” said Lord Ottercove, “is an inconvenience.”
“You mean sexual love?”
“No, love. Sexual love is a nuisance.”
Waiters were falling prostrate before Lord Ottercove at the Kiss-Lick
Club and (in a manner of exaggeration) were committing hari-kari before
him. But he gathered them round him and said: “Can any of you tell me
the name of Rimsky-Korsakoff’s famous opera?”
They couldn’t.
He called the head waiter: who couldn’t. He called the manager; the
director and his sleeping partner; they summoned the bandmaster, who
returned to his band and conferred with the musicians and came back,
shrugging his shoulders. Lord Ottercove looked sad and perplexed. “There
is no solution,” he said at last, “but to get hold of Rimsky-Korsakoff
in Leningrad or Moscow.”
“He is dead,” said Frank.
“Really!” Lord Ottercove shook his head. “ ... betrayed again ...” he
muttered. He ate gloomily for a time, and watching him Frank wondered
how even the rich in this world could not evade the anguish of thwarted
longings! The two men ate in silence. When the meal was drawing to its
close, Lord Ottercove looked up at Frank. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I
will telegraph the name to you to-morrow morning.”
“You are very kind,” said Frank. “You cannot imagine how that relieves
me.”
“Now this,” said Lord Ottercove more cheerily, “is instructive for you
to see as a novelist. A real Michael Arlen atmosphere!”
“Ah!”
Frank did not tell Ottercove that he had already been to the Kiss-Lick
with Eva a few nights before. He perceived that Ottercove liked to
astonish him, and so he adopted the attitude of a newly-fledged chicken
and to everything that was pointed out to him he said: “Ah!”
“Do you see that young man over there sitting at the side of my niece?”
said the host. “Now it is my turn to continue your serial. That is
Raymond Kerr.”
“Raymond Kerr!”
“Raymond Kerr.”
“Raymond Kerr! Her favourite boy? The one she used always to talk of.
‘Raymond has my eyes.’ Raymond this. Raymond that.”
“There is only one Raymond. And there is Chris de Jones.”
“I know him.”
“But you don’t know that the two are related.”
“How related?”
“Quite spontaneously. Chris is his dad--his ‘Papa.’”
“It never occurred to me! Yet, of course. There is a sort of
resemblance.”
“A very marked resemblance.”
“Though Raymond is good-looking.”
“His mother’s boy.”
“And de Jones looks saintly but hideous.”
“He looks the part. A man with a mission. An ominous mission. Wait and
he will tell you that he is the new Messiah. He came out with it once
under chloroform; said his mission was to blow us all up.”
“I think,” said Frank, “that it is quite conceivable that the end of the
world might come about in some such casual way. A fanatic like that....
Suppose he blows up the earth instead of increasing the crop?”
“I wish he did,” said Ottercove.
“Is he mad?”
“Mad as a hatter! But a genius.”
“Of the untried,” said Frank.
Lord Ottercove looked at him first circumspectly, then quizzically.
“Hullo, hullo, Mr. Kerr!”
“How do you do, Lord Ottercove.”
“This is Mr. Dickin, the novelist, you know him?”
Mr. Kerr, an extremely foolish-looking man, fixed a suspicious pair of
eyes on Frank. “How do you do?”
“And you are happy on your farm in Ireland?”
Mr. Kerr took Lord Ottercove by the arm to where Lady de Jones and
Raymond were sitting amorously together, and said in a significant
undertone:
“This is my revenge.”
Then, as significantly, he walked away.
Lord Ottercove took Frank Dickin by the arm and led him towards Eleonor
and Raymond Kerr. “This,” he observed, “is really getting to be more and
more of a Michael Arlen atmosphere, of great help to you as a novelist,
I daresay.--Well, Eleonor, how are you? Hullo, Raymond. Enjoying your
fame as a prospective co-respondent, what? Some men win battles and get
fame; others write lyrics; others, again, well--do as you do. This is
Mr. Dickin, the novelist. You know my niece? Kerr, do you know Mr.
Dickin? You don’t? But he knows all about you. You will see that he does
as soon as you read his serial. Eleonor, how is your divorce getting
on?”
“I expect it will be all right, Uncle Rex, but the difficulty is you
never know just when it will be over, and with the baby coming....” She
looked at Dickin fearlessly. She was a modern woman.
“Yes,” said her uncle, “you cannot time these things.”
“The divorce?”
“I mean the baby.”
“The baby is a deliberate protest on my part against Chris’s deserting
me for Raymond’s mother.”
“Quite. I appreciate your motive. But you should have timed him for a
little later. As it is, the baby will land between two stools. And as
for Chris, he is at present more interested in Raymond’s sister than
Raymond’s mother.”
“I cannot have the baby landing between two stools. Chris must
acknowledge the baby as his son. It’s bad enough that Raymond has been
tricked by him out of his heritage, and, as Raymond’s son, the baby is a
de Jones by blood, and ought to have the name, too. Mr. Dickin, you are
a psychologist. Don’t you think I am right?”
“You are quite right, Lady de Jones.”
“I see your point,” said her uncle. “Chris may deny the paternity of the
baby: but he cannot deny its grandparentage. So he might as well not
deny anything. And Raymond will not press his parental claims.”
“No. You see, he feels that thus he will be getting something of his own
back, if not for himself, at least for his son.”
“If it is a son.”
“I hope it is.”
“Oh, here is Chris. We’ll speak to him about it. Hullo, Chris.”
“Hello, Rex.”
“Now look here, Chris. Eleonor wants to marry Raymond. I don’t mind.
But--” (his lips moved silently) “she’s used to a great name; she’ll
feel chilly, naked, don’t you know, as plain Mrs. Raymond Kerr.”
“I’m very sorry. But what can I do? I’d gladly sell him my name. But I
know of no means to do so.”
“No--no, it’s all very simple. It’s all perfectly simple. You adopt
Raymond as your son and heir. When you die he will be Viscount de Jones,
and while you still potter about he’ll be--what will he be?”
“The Honourable Raymond Mosquito.”
“Well, that’s better than nothing. Here, Eleonor, I propose that”--his
lips moved silently--“Chris adopts Raymond straightaway. Then the
baby’ll be born a de Jones, and no need for Chris to adopt the baby.
Kills two birds with one stone.”
Raymond seemed very pleased.
“But the baby’s nearly due.”
“Oh, well, in that case, Chris, you’ll have to acknowledge it as your
own child, for, you know, it won’t fit into its proper time.”
“I don’t mind,” said Chris.
“What will he be?”
“Depends on what you call him.”
“What will you call him, Eleonor?”
“If it’s a boy, I’ll call him Robert.”
“The Honourable Robert Mosquito.”
“Now that’s all right. All perfectly in order. When can you do it?”
“What?”
“Adopt Raymond.”
“Not till after the divorce, of course.”
“Why, Chris?”
“I can’t adopt my co-respondent, can I?”
“But what nonsense, Chris!” cried Eleonor. “Raymond doesn’t come into
the divorce at all. It’s his mother who is the co-respondent, or
whatever the name happens to be.”
“I thought it was Raymond’s sister,” said Lord Ottercove.
“It was the mother at the time we started the proceedings, and let us
stick to her or we shall never get divorced,” said Eleonor irritably.
“You have no memory, Chris. You forget you are taking the blame on
yourself.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Still,” Lord Ottercove observed, “I doubt the wisdom of adopting
Raymond till after the divorce. It might prejudice the case. The
difference, as I envisage the situation, is whether Raymond is to be
Chris’s elder or younger son, and if the baby is to be born before
Raymond is adopted, Raymond will be the younger brother of the baby.”
“What! the younger brother of his own son!” Eleonor exclaimed. “I
understand nothing.”
“That’s right. The baby’ll be the elder brother of his own father. And
why not?” said her uncle.
“I’d rather,” she said, “he was what he is: the son of his father and
mother.”
“Well,” said Lord Ottercove, “it’s all very simple. It’s all perfectly
simple. All you have to do is to adopt the baby. And he will be
Raymond’s son again--The Honourable Robert Mosquito.”
“No, he won’t,” said de Jones.
“What will he be, Chris?”
“Master Robert Mosquito.”
“Well, all this will right itself,” said Lord Ottercove, “the moment
Chris dies.”
They all looked at de Jones expectantly.
“But, of course, the baby may turn out to be a girl,” he said.
“Quite conceivably she may.”
On the way home, in the taxi, Frank once more reviewed the matrimonial
situation revealed before him at the Kiss-Lick Club and found that he
could not improve on the harmony of Ottercove’s solution.
At the club he found a telegram from Eva, despatched from Dublin:
“_Wire money at once. Love. Eva._”