The Rev. Septimus Cunliffe took the chair at the forty-eighth meeting
of the Problem Club. The problem which Leonard, the astute
head-waiter, had set the members to solve during the preceding month
was simply the discovery of his own identity; and competitors were
debarred from communicating with Leonard himself or from employing
detectives in its solution.
Mr Cunliffe, with a pardonable enjoyment of his own excellent
elocution, read out the terms of the problem in tones that almost made
it a drama. And the few introductory remarks that usually fell from
the chairman became in his case almost an address. True, the occasion
furnished him with some excuse.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘with this meeting the Problem Club brings to a
close the fourth year of its existence. The idea of the club, as I
dare say most of you are aware, originated in the imaginative brain of
Lord Herngill, and of the original members there are still three left
us—Sir Charles Bunford, Major Byles, and Mr Matthews. The eccentric
nobleman who was our founder did not himself long remain a member.
Broken in health and, as I understand, suffering from private
disappointments, he relinquished his clubs and retired altogether from
society. He spent the remainder of his days on his Yorkshire estate,
shut out from the world and even denying himself the companionship of
old friends. It was only a few months ago that his death was announced
in the newspapers. A somewhat gloomy subject, gentlemen, but it seemed
to me fitting that on this occasion we should recall with gratitude
the name of our founder.
‘Now for the first two years of the club’s existence the monthly
problem was always provided by the member whose duty it would be to
adjudicate on it. But during the second year it was found that this
did not work well. Some of the members had not sufficient readiness of
invention. Others did not show sufficient discretion. Our minutes of
that period show some problems, I grieve to say, that can only be
described as scandalous. Under these circumstances a member, Mr
Barstairs, since dead, was deputed to find for us some able and
trustworthy person who, for a small honorarium, would act as our
setter of problems. At the next meeting he announced that he had
selected Leonard, who had then just become head-waiter here.
‘The selection of a head-waiter for the purpose seemed to some of
us—certainly to myself—fantastic, more especially as Barstairs offered
no explanation at all. But, we must admit, fantasy plays some part in
the spirit of the club, and no formal objection was raised. Time has
shown that Barstairs had reason in his fantasy. Leonard has given us
every satisfaction. Whoever he may be, I think that we are agreed on
one point—that he possesses qualities unusual in a head-waiter.
‘In fact, gentlemen, the news that I am about to give you will, I am
sure, be received with regret. I have a letter from Leonard in which
he tells me that after eleven to-night he will cease to be in the
service of the hotel, and will no longer be available as our
problem-setter. He offers, if it would be any convenience to us, to
name a successor whose ability and discretion he can guarantee
absolutely. I may add that it is a very properly-expressed and
respectful letter.
‘The appointment of a successor may, I think, be considered later. Let
us now proceed to the adjudication of the current competition. I
confess that if I personally had to find out who Leonard is, I should
not, under the conditions imposed, know how to begin. However, I have
great confidence in the ingenuity of the ten members before me—there
would have been eleven but for Harding Pope’s resignation.’
The chairman’s confidence was misplaced. Every member had made an
attempt to solve the problem, but every one had failed. Several of
them had hit on the expedient of following Leonard when he left the
hotel. The Hon. James Feldane, for example, had hit on it, and
recounted his failure.
‘I lay up in a taxi a few yards from the door of this place, where I
could get a good view. Presently out came Leonard, and I might very
easily have missed him, for I was expecting him to bob up from the
basement, and he came out of the main entrance. He was well turned
out, and looked rather less like a head-waiter than I do myself. He
called up a taxi and got in. Off he went, and off I went after him, my
driver having been instructed. We drove, as near as I can guess, for
about umpty-ump hours. I know I began to wonder if my cigarettes would
last out the trip. Then my cab slowed down to a crawl, and I looked
cautiously from the window. Leonard’s cab had stopped in front of a
mouldy-looking place with big gilt letters on it. He overpaid his
cabman—I heard the words, “Thank you,” distinctly—ran up the steps,
rang a bell, and entered. I got out.
‘“Cabby,” I said, “where are we? Is this the hereafter?”
‘“No, sir,” he said. “Looks like it, but it’s really Brixton.”
‘The big gilt letters informed me that Leonard had entered the
Beaulieu Temperance Hotel. I pushed the push, and the door was half
opened to me by an Italian waiter with the darkest eyes and hands I
ever saw. I could catch a glimpse of a small hall furnished with a
good deal of dust and a stand for hats and coats. I spotted Leonard’s
excellent hat and overcoat thereon. The waiter looked at me
suspiciously. I got right on to the point at once.
‘“I want,” I said, “the name and address of the gentleman who came in
here just now, and I’ll pay a sovereign for it.”
‘He seemed to understand the argument. In a minute he was back with
the name and address and the information that the gentleman was
stopping there for only one night. He got his sovereign. The name he
gave was Leonard, and the address was the address of this hotel. I may
have been more annoyed in the course of my life, but I doubt it. So I
made the weary journey back again, had a light supper of one whisky
and soda, and went to bed.’
Mr Matthews had followed Leonard on foot to the Ritz. Mr Quillian had
tracked him to a desperate hostelry in the far north of London. Major
Byles had pursued him to an hotel in Wimbledon. They ascertained that
he spent a night at each one of these three places, but they added
nothing else to their knowledge of him.
Sir Charles Bunford had been no more successful, but he had a curious
story to tell. He had met Leonard by chance in St James’s Street one
night at half-past eleven. There was nothing in Leonard’s dress or
bearing that suggested anything less than complete independence. Sir
Charles felt certain that he himself had not been recognised, turned,
and followed him.
‘He led me,’ Sir Charles recounted, ‘up through the squares to Oxford
Street, where he turned west. Just then there came shuffling along in
the gutter towards us a street-vendor with a tray of little toys slung
from his shoulders. He gave me the impression of an old man. Leonard
and he both stopped. I also stopped, making a pretence of lighting a
cigarette. They were both in the full light of a street lamp, and I
had a close view of them. Leonard picked up from the tray a little
monkey of blue plush mounted on a pin. Deliberately and without a
smile he stuck the monkey in the gutter-merchant’s battered bowler.
Then he took out his notecase, produced a fiver, and spread it on the
tray, and walked on. During this curious incident neither of the men
spoke. As you may imagine, I tackled the street-vendor at once.
‘“You’re in luck,” I said. “Did you know that customer?”
‘He folded his fiver and slipped it into an inner pocket. He looked at
me shrewdly, and I noticed that his eyes were young. His voice when he
spoke was quite young. And it was the voice of an educated man too.
‘“Which of us,” he said, “can say that he knows the other—or even that
he knows himself?”
‘“Come,” I said. “I think you can tell me what I want to know. And two
fivers are better than one.”
‘“That is so—to some people at some times—but not to Mr William
Bunting, the editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_, at this time. I will
wish you good-night, Sir Charles.”
‘And he walked off briskly without a trace of the old slouch. How he
knew my name I can’t tell you, for certainly Leonard, even if he knew
I was following, never said a word to him. The man left me staggered.
I rushed off again after Leonard, but I had lost him. That is all I
have to tell, and I have given you the facts accurately as they
happened. I was both sane and sober at the time—but if you doubt that,
upon my word I can’t be surprised.’
The failure was general. Dr Alden had interviewed the proprietor of
the hotel, who was most courteous, but, in the doctor’s opinion, lied
in his profession of ignorance. Mr Pusely-Smythe got hold of one of
the other waiters who appeared perfectly willing to betray anybody on
the most moderate terms, but, unfortunately, had no information to
impart.
‘Well,’ said the chairman, ‘I must decide that the problem has not
been solved. The prize for it not being awarded, the prize for the
next competition is doubled. We have now to obtain the solution of the
problem from the wily Leonard himself, and at the same time he is
required to show us that the problem was possible of solution by us.
It is now twenty to eleven and presumably Leonard leaves this hotel at
eleven; so we have not much time to spare. If you, Mr Quillian, will
unlock the doors and ring the bell, I will tell the waiter that we
should be glad to see Leonard for a few minutes.’
But it was Leonard himself who answered the bell. He was a tall young
man of good figure. He had not the stereotyped version of good looks,
but his face was pleasing and full of humour and intelligence. He
carried himself well. His dress was unsuited to the occasion, for he
wore a well-cut lounge-suit of dark-blue cloth, and his brown, laced
boots suggested a product of Bond Street intended for use in the
country. There was no trace of a waiter about him. His manner was
easy, confident without being assuming, and marked just by that touch
of restraint that a man might show on first introduction to a number
of his equals.
‘Well, Leonard,’ said the chairman, ‘we were on the point of sending
for you. Your problem has beaten us. Can you show us how we might have
solved it, and provide us with the solution?’
‘Certainly,’ said Leonard. ‘I’d rather expected that I should be
wanted.’
‘Good. Now sit down, won’t you? We’re all quite informal here.’
‘Thanks,’ said Leonard. It seemed to be tacitly and generally accepted
that he had become a guest of the club. Dr Alden proffered his
cigar-case; Jimmy brought him a whisky-and-soda.
‘I think I ought to begin,’ said Leonard, ‘by apologising to you for
having given you all such a lot of trouble—more especially as it was
quite intentional on my part.’
‘Part of the game,’ said Major Byles. ‘That’s all right. No apologies
needed.’
‘Thanks very much. At any rate I can apologise for these clothes. The
fact is that I’m going North by the midnight train from Euston, and so
I changed. And now let me show one or two ways in which the problem
could have been solved. Some of you followed me when I took a taxi to
an outlying hotel, and subsequently made applications at the hotel.
If, instead of doing this, you had hailed the taxi that I had just
left, you would in each case have found inside it an addressed
envelope giving you the information you required. When Mr Feldane went
for that very long drive to Brixton, I intentionally left my hat and
coat in the hall of the alleged hotel for a few minutes. He examined
the waiter; if he had examined the inside of my hat he would have
found a certain clue. Sir Charles very nearly caught me. That night I
left the hotel much earlier than usual, and had satisfied myself that
nobody was waiting for me outside. I was on my way to a house in
Audley Street where I was not known as the head-waiter at this hotel,
and my identity would probably have been discovered; and it was
necessary I should go to that house. At the top of St James’s Street I
found that Sir Charles was after me. But I had taken a precaution. A
friend of mine was stationed in Oxford Street, masquerading as a
vender of penny plush monkeys; I found him and we went through a
little eccentric pantomime together that had been prearranged. As had
been expected, Sir Charles stopped to make inquiries from him. And
while that was happening I made my escape.’
‘One moment,’ said Sir Charles. ‘How on earth did he know who I was?
You never spoke to him?’
‘No, I never spoke. And he did not know who you were. He did not know
that you were Sir Charles Bunford, and does not know it now. He knew
that he could address you as Sir Charles, and he knew that from the
fact that I stuck the monkey in his hat. It was a prearranged code. If
Major Byles had been following me, I should have stuck the monkey in
my friend’s right sleeve. He would then have addressed him as Major,
though he would not have known his name. If Mr Wildersley had been
after me, the monkey would have gone into the left sleeve; my friend
would have known by that sign that he was an artist, but would have
known no more than that. Similarly, in other cases, he would always
have appeared to have known, but would not have known really.’
‘Leonard,’ said the chairman, ‘in my opinion you have shown both skill
and discretion, and a good sporting spirit besides. I decide that your
problem was fair. And now will you solve it for us?’
‘Very good. I must give you some abbreviated family history. My
grandfather had two sons, both of whom disappointed him, though in
different ways. My uncle was a man of extreme avarice; my father, the
younger of the two, was a gambler. Both my parents died before I was
five years old, and I—the only child—passed into the charge of my
grandfather.
‘My grandfather placed me with the family of an intimate friend of
his, who was also the senior partner in the firm of solicitors who
acted for him, a Mr Barstairs. Barstairs had married a Frenchwoman.
French was the language generally spoken in their house, and most of
my early years were spent abroad. I went through a public-school and
Cambridge without any particular disgrace or distinction. So far, my
grandfather had kept me well supplied with money; in fact, at
Cambridge I had not spent my allowance. But I had never seen my
grandfather. I wrote to him four times a year, and his replies were
always witty and entertaining. I took everything for granted in the
way that boys do.
‘On my twenty-first birthday I had a letter from my grandfather to the
effect that as an experiment he wished me to make my own living in any
way I liked for a period of some years. When that period was over, or
sooner if he died before then, I was to be no longer under that
necessity. Mr Barstairs, who had not been consulted, was indignant
about that letter, but I did not resent it myself.
‘What assets had I to offer an employer? My classical degree would
have entitled me to teach in a school—a truly awful profession to my
mind. I spoke two Continental languages well and a third passably. I
had an unusual knowledge of wines and cuisine for a man of my age. (Mr
Matthews will remember that Barstairs was an epicure.) I had seen a
good deal of hotel life at home and abroad. I took counsel with Mr
Hance, the proprietor of this hotel, who was known to me. After some
training at an hotel in Paris I became the night head-waiter here,
using my first name, Leonard, as my surname. My grandfather and Mr
Barstairs alone were taken into my secret. It is to the latter that I
owe the pleasure of having served a club of which I should be proud
one day to become a member, if that were possible. I saw life from a
novel and interesting angle. I had my mornings free for poetry, to
which I am devoted. I was quite satisfied.
‘There is little more to add. In the year that I came here my uncle
died unmarried. Three months ago my grandfather also died, and I——’
‘Pardon me,’ said Sir Charles, ‘but I have been watching your face
carefully, and I think I see a family likeness or the trace of one.
All that you have said would confirm it. I think you are the grandson
of the founder of this club, and in that case you are the sixth Baron
Herngill.’
‘That is correct. I remained here for these months while some legal
matters were completed, and to oblige Hance, for I consider that he
did me a good turn. I leave for Enthwaite to-night. And now,
gentlemen, since time presses, may I mention that I have a successor
to myself to propose to you, if you have made no other arrangements?
He would act on the same terms as I have done. I will answer for his
ability and discretion. He is, like myself, a poet. He is also the
editor of an obscure weekly publication called _The Pig-Keepers’
Friend_. If you choose him I have here his first problem to deliver to
the chairman. His name is William Bunting. With your permission I will
retire for a few minutes while you consider this.’
When he had gone out it was found that every member of the Problem
Club had formed the same idea. On his return to the room Lord Herngill
was informed that Mr Bunting had been appointed, and also that Lord
Herngill had been proposed by the chairman, seconded by Sir Charles
Bunford, and unanimously elected a member of the Problem Club.
No. VII.