presented to the winner. The loud speaker broadcast ‘God Save the King’,
and a cheerful ‘Good-bye, everybody.’ The tail of the queue outside the
dining tent were respectfully informed that no more luncheons could be
served. The barmaids in the refreshment tent said, ‘All glasses, ladies
and gentlemen, please.’ The motor ambulances began a final round of the
track to pick up survivors. Then Adam and Miles and Archie Schwert went
to look for their car.
Darkness fell during the drive back. It took an hour to reach the town.
Adam and Miles and Archie Schwert did not talk much. The effect of their
drinks had now entered on that secondary stage, vividly described in
temperance handbooks, when the momentary illusion of well-being and
exhilaration gives place to melancholy, indigestion and moral decay.
Adam tried to concentrate his thoughts upon his sudden wealth, but they
seemed unable to adhere to this high pinnacle, and as often as he
impelled them up, slithered back helplessly to his present physical
discomfort.
The sluggish procession in which they were moving led them eventually to
the centre of the town and the soberly illuminated front of the Imperial
Hotel. A torrential flow of wet and hungry motor enthusiasts swept and
eddied about the revolving doors.
‘I shall die if I don’t eat something soon,’ said Miles. ‘Let’s leave
Agatha until we’ve had a meal.’
But the manager of the ‘Imperial’ was unimpressed by numbers or
necessity and manfully upheld the integrity of British hotel-keeping.
Tea, he explained, was served daily in the Palm Court, with orchestra on
Thursdays and Sundays, between the hours of four and six. A _table
d’hôte_ dinner was served in the dining-room from seven-thirty until
nine o’clock. An _à la carte_ dinner was also served in the grill room
at the same time. It was now twenty minutes past six. If the gentlemen
cared to return in an hour and ten minutes he would do his best to
accommodate them, but he could not promise to reserve a table. Things
were busy that day. There had been motor races in the neighbourhood, he
explained.
The commissionaire was more helpful, and told them that there was a
tea-shop restaurant called the Café Royal a little way down the High
Street, next to the Cinema. He seemed, however, to have given the same
advice to all comers, for the Café Royal was crowded and overflowing.
Every one was being thoroughly cross, but only the most sarcastic and
overbearing were given tables, and only the gross and outrageous were
given food. Adam and Miles and Archie Schwert then tried two more
tea-shops, one kept by ‘ladies’ and called ‘The Honest Injun’, a
workmen’s dining-room and a fried-fish shop. Eventually they bought a
bag of mixed biscuits at a co-operative store, which they ate in the
Palm Court of the ‘Imperial’, maintaining a moody silence.
It was now after seven, and Adam remembered his appointment in the
American bar. There, too, inevitably, was a dense crowd. Some of the
‘Speed Kings’ themselves had appeared, pink from their baths, wearing
dinner-jackets and stiff white shirts, each in his circle of admirers.
Adam struggled to the bar.
‘Have you seen a drunk Major in here anywhere?’ he asked.
The barmaid sniffed. ‘I should think not, indeed,’ she said. ‘And I
shouldn’t serve him if he _did_ come in. I don’t have people of that
description in _my_ bar. _The very idea._’
‘Well, perhaps he’s not drunk now. But have you seen a stout, red-faced
man, with a single eyeglass and a turned-up moustache?’
‘Well, there _was_ some one like that not so long ago. Are you a friend
of his?’
‘I want to see him badly.’
‘Well, all I can say is I wish you’d try and look after him and don’t
bring him in here again. Going on something awful he was. Broke two
glasses and got very quarrelsome with the other gentlemen. He had three
or four pound notes in his hand. Kept waving them about and saying,
“D’you know what? I met a mutt to-day. I owe him thirty-five thousand
pounds and he lent me a fiver.” Well, that’s not the way to talk before
strangers, is it? He went out ten minutes ago. I was glad to see the
back of him, I can tell you.’
‘Did he say that—about having met a mutt?’
‘Didn’t stop saying it the whole time he was in here—most monotonous.’
But as Adam left the bar he saw the Major coming out of the gentlemen’s
lavatory. He was walking very deliberately, and stared at Adam with a
glazed and vacant eye.
‘Hi!’ cried Adam. ‘Hi!’
‘Cheerio,’ said the drunk Major distantly.
‘I say,’ said Adam. ‘What about my thirty-five thousand pounds?’
The drunk Major stopped and adjusted his monocle.
‘Thirty-five thousand and five pounds,’ he said. ‘What about them?’
‘Well, where are they?’
‘They’re safe enough. National and Provincial Union Bank of England,
Limited. A perfectly sound and upright company. I’d trust them with more
than that if I had it. I’d trust them with a million, old boy, honest I
would. One of those fine old companies, you know. They don’t make
companies like that now. I’d trust that bank with my wife and
kiddies. . . . You mustn’t think I’d put your money into anything that
wasn’t straight, old boy. You ought to know me well enough for
that. . . .’
‘No, of course not. It’s terribly kind of you to have looked after
it—you said you’d give me a cheque this evening. Don’t you remember?’
The drunk Major looked at him craftily. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That’s another
matter. I told _some one_ I’d give him a cheque. But how am I to know it
was you? . . . I’ve got to be careful, you know. Suppose you were just a
crook dressed up. I don’t say you are, mind, but supposing. Where’ld I
be then? You have to look at both sides of a case like this.’
‘Oh, God. . . . I’ve got two friends here who’ll swear to you I’m Adam
Symes. Will that do?’
‘Might be a gang. Besides _I_ don’t know that the name of the chap who
gave me the thousand _was_ Adam what-d’you-call-it at all. Only your
word for it. I’ll tell you what,’ said the Major, sitting down in a deep
armchair, ‘I’ll sleep on it. Just forty winks. I’ll let you know my
decision when I wake up. Don’t think me suspicious, old boy, but I’ve
got to be careful . . . other chap’s money, you know . . .’ And he fell
asleep.
Adam struggled through the crowd to the Palm Court, where he had left
Miles and Archie. News of No. 13 had just come through. The car had been
found piled up on the market cross of a large village about fifteen
miles away (doing irreparable damage to a monument already scheduled for
preservation by the Office of Works). But there was no sign of Miss
Runcible.
‘I suppose we ought to do something about it,’ said Miles. ‘This is the
most miserable day I ever spent. Did you get your fortune?’
‘The Major was too drunk to recognize me. He’s just gone to sleep.’
‘_Well._’
‘We must go to this beastly village and look for Agatha.’
‘I can’t leave my Major. He’ll probably wake up soon and give the
fortune to the first person he sees.’
‘Let’s just go and shake him until he gives us the fortune now,’ said
Miles.
But this was impracticable, for when they reached the chair where Adam
had left him, the drunk Major was gone.
The hall porter remembered him going out quite clearly. He had pressed a
pound into his hand, saving, ‘Met-a-mutt-to-day,’ and taken a taxi to
the station.
‘D’you know,’ said Adam. ‘I don’t believe that I’m ever going to get
that fortune.’
‘Well, I don’t see that you’ve very much to complain of,’ said Archie.
‘You’re no worse off than you were. _I’ve_ lost a fiver and five bottles
of champagne.’
‘That’s true,’ said Adam, a little consoled.
They got into the car and drove through the rain to the village where
the Plunket-Bowse had been found. There it stood, still smoking and
partially recognizable, surrounded by admiring villagers. A constable in
a waterproof cape was doing his best to preserve it intact from the
raids of souvenir hunters who were collecting the smaller fragments.
No one seemed to have witnessed the disaster. The younger members of the
community were all at the races, while the elders were engaged in their
afternoon naps. One thought he had heard a crash.
Inquiries at the railway station, however, disclosed that a young lady,
much dishevelled in appearance, and wearing some kind of band on her
arm, had appeared in the booking office early that afternoon and asked
where she was. On being told, she said, well, she wished she wasn’t,
because some one had left an enormous stone spanner in the middle of the
road. She admitted feeling rather odd. The station-master had asked her
if she would like to come in and sit down and offered to get her some
brandy. She said, ‘No, no more brandy,’ and bought a first-class ticket
to London. She had left on the 3.25 train.
‘So that’s all right,’ said Archie.
Then they left the village and presently found an hotel on the Great
North Road, where they dined and spent the night. They reached London by
luncheon time next day, and learned that Miss Runcible had been found
early that morning staring fixedly at a model engine in the central hall
at Euston Station. In answer to some gentle questions, she replied that
to the best of her knowledge she had no name, pointing to the brassard
on her arm, as if in confirmation of this fact. She had come in a motor
car, she explained, which would not stop. It was full of bugs which she
had tried to kill with drops of face lotion. One of them threw a
spanner. There had been a stone thing in the way. They shouldn’t put up
symbols like that in the middle of the road, should they, or should
they?
So they conveyed her to a nursing home in Wimpole Street and kept her
for some time in a darkened room.
_Chapter Eleven_
Adam rang up Nina.
‘Darling, I’ve been so happy about your telegram. Is it really true?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘The Major _is_ bogus?’
‘Yes.’
‘You haven’t got any money?’
‘No.’
‘We aren’t going to be married to-day?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’
‘Well?’
‘I said, I see.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, that’s all, Adam.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m sorry, too. Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye, Nina.’
Later Nina rang up Adam.
‘Darling, is that you? I’ve got something rather awful to tell you.’
‘Yes?’
‘You’ll be furious.’
‘Well?’
‘I’m engaged to be married.’
‘Who to?’
‘I hardly think I can tell you.’
‘Who?’
‘Adam, you won’t be beastly about it, will you?’
‘Who is it?’
‘Ginger.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Well, I am. That’s all there is to it.’
‘You’re going to marry Ginger?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see.’
‘Well?’
‘I said, I see.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, that’s all, Nina.’
‘When shall I see you?’
‘I don’t want ever to see you again.’
‘I see.’
‘Well?’
‘I said, I see.’
‘Well, good-bye.’
‘Good-bye. . . . I’m sorry, Adam.’
_Chapter Twelve_
Ten days later Adam bought some flowers at the corner of Wigmore Street
and went to call on Miss Runcible at her nursing home. He was shown
first into the matron’s room. She had numerous photographs in silver
frames and a very nasty fox terrier. She smoked a cigarette in a greedy
way, making slight sucking noises.
‘Just taking a moment off in my den,’ she explained. ‘Down, Spot, down.
But I can see you’re fond of dogs,’ she added, as Adam gave Spot a
half-hearted pat on the head. ‘So you want to see Miss Runcible? Well, I
ought to warn you first that she must have no kind of excitement
whatever. She’s had a severe shock. Are you a relation, may I ask?’
‘No, only a friend.’
‘A very _special_ friend, perhaps, eh?’ said the Matron archly. ‘Never
mind, I’ll spare your blushes. Just you run up and see her. But not more
than five minutes, mind, or you’ll have me on your tracks.’
There was a reek of ether on the stairs which reminded Adam of the times
when, waiting to take her to luncheon, he had sat on Nina’s bed while
she did her face. (She invariably made him turn his back until it was
over, having a keen sense of modesty about this one part of her toilet,
in curious contrast to some girls, who would die rather than be seen in
their underclothes, and yet openly flaunt unpainted faces in front of
anyone.)
It hurt Adam deeply to think much about Nina.
Outside Miss Runcible’s door hung a very interesting chart which showed
the fluctuations of her temperature and pulse and many other curious
details of her progress. He studied this with pleasure until a nurse,
carrying a tray of highly polished surgical instruments, gave him such a
look that he felt obliged to turn away.
Miss Runcible lay in a high, narrow bed in a darkened room.
A nurse was crocheting at her side when Adam entered. She rose, dropping
a few odds and ends from her lap, and said, ‘There’s someone come to see
you, dear. Now remember you aren’t to talk much,’ She took the flowers
from Adam’s hand, said, ‘Look, what lovelies. Aren’t you a lucky girl?’
and left the room with them. She returned a moment later carrying them
in a jug of water. ‘There, the thirsties,’ she said. ‘Don’t they love to
get back to the nice cool water?’
Then she went out again.
‘Darling,’ said a faint voice from the bed, ‘I can’t really see who it
is. Would it be awful to draw the curtains?’
Adam crossed the room and let in the light of the grey December
afternoon.
‘My dear, how blind-making. There are some cocktail things in the
wardrobe. Do make a big one. The nurses love them so. It’s such a nice
nursing home this, Adam, only all the nurses are starved, and there’s a
breath-taking young man next door who keeps putting his head in and
asking how I am. _He_ fell out of an _aeroplane_, which is rather grand,
don’t you think?’
‘How are you feeling, Agatha?’
‘Well, rather odd, to tell you the truth. . . . How’s Nina?’
‘She’s got engaged to be married—haven’t you heard?’
‘My dear, the nurses are interested in no one but Princess Elizabeth. Do
tell me.’
‘A young man called Ginger.’
‘_Well?_’
‘Don’t you remember him? He came on with us after the airship party.’
‘Not the one who was sick?’
‘No, the other.’
‘I don’t remember . . . does Nina call him Ginger?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘He asked her to.’
‘_Well?_’
‘She used to play with him when they were children. So she’s going to
marry him.’
‘My dear, isn’t that rather sad-making for you?’
‘I’m desperate about it. I’m thinking of committing suicide, like
Simon.’
‘Don’t do that, darling . . . did Simon commit suicide?’
‘My dear, you know he did. The night all those libel actions started.’
‘Oh, _that_ Simon. I thought you meant _Simon_.’
‘Who’s Simon?’
‘The young man who fell out of the aeroplane. The nurses call him Simple
Simon because it’s affected his brains . . . but, Adam I _am_ sorry
about Nina. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. As soon as I’m well again we’ll
make Mary Mouse give a lovely party to cheer you up.’
‘Haven’t you heard about Mary?’
‘No, what?’
‘She went off to Monte Carlo with the Maharajah of Pukkapore.’
‘_My dear_, aren’t the Mice furious?’
‘She’s just receiving religious instruction before her official
reception as a royal concubine. Then they’re going to India.’
‘How people are _disappearing_, Adam. Did you get that money from the
drunk Major?’
‘No, he disappeared too.’
‘D’you know, all that time when I was dotty I had the most awful dreams.
I thought we were all driving round and round in a motor race and none
of us could stop, and there was an enormous audience composed entirely
of gossip writers and gate-crashers and Archie Schwert and people like
that, all shouting to us at once to go faster, and car after car kept
crashing until I was left all alone driving and driving—and then I used
to crash and wake up.’
Then the door opened, and Miles came popping in.
‘Agatha, Adam, my dears. The _time_ I’ve had trying to get in. I can’t
tell you how bogus they were downstairs. First I said I was Lord Chasm,
and that wasn’t any good; and I said I was one of the doctors, and that
wasn’t any good; and I said I was your young man, and _that_ wasn’t any
good; and I said I was a gossip writer, and they let me up at once and
said I wasn’t to excite you, but would I put a piece in my paper about
their nursing home. _How_ are you, Aggie darling? I brought up some new
records.’
‘You are angelic. Do let’s try them. There’s a gramophone under the
bed.’
‘There’s a whole lot more people coming to see you to-day. I saw them
all at luncheon at Margot’s. Johnny Hoop and Van and Archie Schwert. I
wonder if they’ll all manage to get in.’
They got in.
So soon there was quite a party, and Simon appeared from next door in a
very gay dressing-gown, and they played the new records and Miss
Runcible moved her bandaged limbs under the bedclothes in negro rhythm.
Last of all, Nina came in looking quite lovely and very ill.
‘Nina, I hear you’re engaged.’
‘Yes, it’s very lucky. My papa has just put all his money into a cinema
film and lost it all.’
‘My dear, it doesn’t matter at all. My papa lost all his twice. It
doesn’t make a bit of difference. That’s just one of the things one has
to learn about losing all one’s money. . . . Is it true that you really
call him Ginger?’
‘Well, yes, only, Agatha, please don’t be unkind about it.’
And the gramophone was playing the song which the black man sang at the
Café de la Paix.
Then the nurse came in.
‘Well, you are noisy ones, and no mistake,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what
the matron would say if she were here.’
‘Have a chocolate, sister?’
‘_Ooh, chocs!_’
Adam made another cocktail.
Miles sat on Miss Runcible’s bed and took up the telephone and began
dictating some paragraphs about the nursing home.
‘What it is to have a friend in the Press,’ said the nurse.
Adam brought her a cocktail. ‘Shall I?’ she said. ‘I hope you haven’t
made it too strong. Suppose it goes to my head? What would the patients
think if their sister came in tiddly. Well, if you’re _sure_ it won’t
hurt me, thanks.’
‘_. . . Yesterday I visited the Hon. Agatha Runcible comma Lord Chasm’s
lovely daughter comma at the Wimpole Street nursing home where she is
recovering from the effects of the motor accident recently described in
this column stop Miss Runcible was entertaining quite a large party
which included . . ._’
Adam, handing round cocktails, came to Nina.
‘I thought we were never going to meet each other again.’
‘We were obviously bound to, weren’t we?’
‘Agatha’s looking better than I expected, isn’t she? What an amusing
nursing home.’
‘Nina, I must see you again. Come back to Lottie’s this evening and have
dinner with me.’
‘No.’
‘_Please._’
‘No. Ginger wouldn’t like it.’
‘Nina, you aren’t in love with him?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Are you in love with me?’
‘I don’t know . . . I was once.’
‘Nina, I’m absolutely miserable not seeing you. Do come and dine with me
to-night. What can be the harm in that?’
‘My dear, I know exactly what it will mean.’
‘Well, why not?’
‘You see, Ginger’s not like us really about that sort of thing. He’d be
furious.’
‘Well, what about me? Surely I have first claim?’
‘Darling, don’t _bully_. Besides, I used to play with Ginger as a child.
His hair was a very pretty colour then.’
‘_. . . Mr “Johnny” Hoop, whose memoirs are to be published next month,
told me that he intends to devote his time to painting in future, and is
going to Paris to study in the spring. He is to be taken into the studio
of . . ._’
‘For the last time, Nina . . .’
‘Well, I suppose I must.’
‘_Angel!_’
‘I believe you knew I was going to.’
‘_. . . Miss Nina Blount, whose engagement to Mr “Ginger” Littlejohn,
the well-known polo player. . . . Mr Schwert . . ._’
‘If only you were as rich as Ginger, Adam, or only half as rich. Or if
only you had any money at all.’
‘Well,’ said the Matron, appearing suddenly. ‘Whoever heard of cocktails
and a gramophone in a concussion case? Sister Briggs, pull down those
curtains at once. Out you go, the whole lot of you. Why, I’ve known
cases die with less.’
Indeed, Miss Runcible was already showing signs of strain. She was
sitting bolt upright in bed, smiling deliriously, and bowing her
bandaged head to imaginary visitors.
‘_Darling_,’ she said. ‘How _too_ divine . . . _how_ are you? . . . and
how are _you_? . . . how angelic of you all to come . . . only you must
be careful not to fall out at the corners . . . ooh, just missed it.
There goes that nasty Italian car . . . I wish I knew which thing was
which in this car . . . darling, do try and drive more straight, my
sweet, you were nearly into me then. . . . Faster . . .’
‘That’s all right, Miss Runcible, that’s all right. You mustn’t get
excited,’ said the Matron. ‘Sister Briggs, run for the ice-pack
quickly.’
‘All friends here,’ said Miss Runcible, smiling radiantly.
‘Faster. . . . Faster . . . it’ll stop all right when the time comes
. . .’
That evening Miss Runcible’s temperature went rocketing up the chart in
a way which aroused great interest throughout the nursing home. Sister
Briggs, over her evening cup of cocoa, said she would be sorry to lose
that case. Such a nice bright girl—but terribly excitable.
At Shepheard’s Hotel Lottie said to Adam:
‘That chap’s been in here again after you.’
‘What chap, Lottie?’
‘How do I know what chap? Same chap as before.’
‘You never told me about a chap.’
‘Didn’t I dear? Well, I meant to.’
‘What did he want?’
‘I don’t know—something about money. Dun, I expect. Says he is coming
back to-morrow.’
‘Well, tell him I’ve gone to Manchester.’
‘That’s right, dear. . . . What about a glass of wine?’
Later that evening Nina said: ‘You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself
very much to-night.’
‘Sorry, am I being a bore?’
‘I think I shall go home.’
‘Yes.’
‘Adam, darling, what’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know. . . . Nina, do you ever feel that things simply can’t go
on much longer?’
‘What d’you mean by things—us or everything?’
‘Everything.’
‘No—I wish I did.’
‘I dare say you’re right . . . what are you looking for?’
‘Clothes.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, Adam, what _do_ you want . . . you’re too impossible this evening.’
‘Don’t let’s talk any more, Nina, d’you mind?’
Later he said: ‘I’d give anything in the world for something different.’
‘Different from me or different from everything?’
‘Different from everything . . . only I’ve got nothing . . . what’s the
good of talking?’
‘Oh, Adam, my dearest . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Nothing.’
When Adam came down next morning Lottie was having her morning glass of
champagne in the parlour.
‘So your little bird’s flown, has she? Sit down and have a glass of
wine. That dun’s been in again. I told him you was in Manchester.’
‘Splendid.’
‘Seemed rather shirty about it. Said he’d go and look for you.’
‘Better still.’
Then something happened which Adam had been dreading or days. Lottie
suddenly said:
‘And that reminds me. What about _my_ little bill?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Adam, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask for it. Have it made out
and sent up to me some time, will you?’
‘I’ve got it here. Bless you, what a lot you seem to have drunk.’
‘Yes, I do, don’t I? Are you sure some of this champagne wasn’t the
Judge’s?’
‘Well, it may have been,’ admitted Lottie. ‘We get a bit muddled with
the books now and then.’
‘Well, thank you so much, I’ll send you down a cheque for this.’
‘No, dear,’ said Lottie. ‘Suppose you write it down here. Here’s the
pen, here’s the ink, and here’s a blank cheque book.’
(Bills are delivered infrequently and irregularly at Lottie’s, but when
they come, there is no getting away from them.) Adam wrote out a cheque
for seventy-eight pounds sixteen shillings.
‘And twopence for the cheque,’ said Lottie.
_And twopence_, Adam added.
‘There’s a dear,’ said Lottie, blotting the cheque and locking it away
in a drawer. ‘Why, look who’s turned up. If it isn’t Mr Thingummy.’
It was Ginger.
‘Good morning, Mrs Crump,’ he said rather stiffly.
‘Come and sit down and have a glass of wine, dear. Why I knew you before
you were born.’
‘Hullo, Ginger,’ said Adam.
‘Look here, Symes,’ said Ginger, looking in an embarrassed manner at the
glass of champagne which had been put into his hand, ‘I want to speak to
you. Perhaps we can go somewhere where we shan’t be disturbed.’
‘Bless you, boys, I won’t disturb you,’ said Lottie. ‘Just you have a
nice talk. I’ve got lots to see to.’
She left the parlour, and soon her voice could be heard raised in anger
against the Italian waiter.
‘Well?’ said Adam.