Lord Tilbury. It seemed to him that the job in hand might have been
created to order for young Pilbeam.
Among the numerous publications which had their being in Tilbury House
was that popular weekly, _Society Spice_, a paper devoted to the
exploitation of the shadier side of London life and edited by one whom
the proprietor of the Mammoth had long looked on as the brightest and
most promising of his young men--Percy Pilbeam, to wit, as enterprising
a human ferret as ever wrote a Things-We-Want-to-Know-Don’t-You-Know
paragraph. Young Pilbeam would handle this business as it should be
handled.
It was the sort of commission which he had undertaken before and carried
through with complete success, reflected Lord Tilbury, recalling how
only a few months back Percy Pilbeam, in order to obtain material for
his paper, had gone for three weeks as valet to one of the smart
set--the happy conclusion of the venture being that admirable
Country-House Cesspools series which had done so much for the rural
circulation of _Society Spice_.
His hand was on the buzzer to summon this eager young spirit, when a
disturbing thought occurred to him, and instead of sending for Pilbeam,
he sent for Sam Shotter.
“Ah, Shotter, I--ah---- Do you happen to know young Pilbeam?” said His
Lordship.
“The editor of _Society Spice_?”
“Exactly.”
“I know him by sight.”
“You know him by sight, eh? Ah? You know him, eh? Exactly. Quite so. I
was only wondering. A charming young fellow. You should cultivate his
acquaintance. That is all, Shotter.”
Sam, with a passing suspicion that the strain of conducting a great
business had been too much for his employer, returned to his work; and
Lord Tilbury, walking with bent brows to the window, stood looking out,
once more deep in thought.
The fact that Sam was acquainted with Pilbeam was just one of those
little accidents which so often upset the brilliantly conceived plans of
great generals, and it left His Lordship at something of a loss. Pilbeam
was a man he could have trusted in a delicate affair like this, and now
that he was ruled out, where else was an adequate agent to be found?
It was at this point in his meditations that his eyes, roving
restlessly, were suddenly attracted by a sign on a window immediately
opposite:
THE TILBURY DETECTIVE AGENCY, LTD.
J. Sheringham Adair, Mgr.
Large and Efficient Staff
Such was the sign, and Lord Tilbury read and re-read it with bulging
eyes. It thrilled him like a direct answer to prayer.
A moment later he had seized his hat, and without pausing to wait for
the lift, was leaping down the stairs like some chamois of the Alps that
bounds from crag to crag. He reached the lobby and, at a rate of speed
almost dangerous in a man of his build and sedentary habits, whizzed
across the street.
§ 2
Although, with the single exception of a woman who had lost her
Pekingese dog, there had never yet been a client on the premises of the
Tilbury Detective Agency, it was Chimp Twist’s practice to repair daily
to his office and remain there for an hour or two every afternoon. If
questioned, he would have replied that he might just as well be there as
anywhere; and he felt, moreover, that it looked well for him to be seen
going in and out--a theory which was supported by the fact that only a
couple of days back the policeman on the beat had touched his helmet to
him. To have policemen touching themselves on the helmet instead of him
on the shoulder was a novel and agreeable experience to Chimp.
This afternoon he was sitting, as usual, with the solitaire pack laid
out on the table before him, but his mind was not on the game. He was
musing on Soapy Molloy’s story of his failure to persuade Sam to
evacuate Mon Repos.
To an extent, this failure had complicated matters; and yet there was a
bright side. To have walked in and collected the late Edward Finglass’
legacy without let or hindrance would have been agreeable; but, on the
other hand, it would have involved sharing with Soapy and his bride;
and Chimp was by nature one of those men who, when there is money about,
instinctively dislike seeing even a portion of it get away from them. It
seemed to him that a man of his admitted ingenuity might very well
evolve some scheme by which the Molloy family could be successfully
excluded from all participation in the treasure.
It only required a little thought, felt Chimp; and he was still thinking
when a confused noise without announced the arrival of Lord Tilbury.
The opening of the door was followed by a silence. Lord Tilbury was not
built for speed, and the rapidity with which he had crossed the street
and mounted four flights of stairs had left him in a condition where he
was able only to sink into a chair and pant like a spent seal. As for
Chimp, he was too deeply moved to speak. Even when lying back in a chair
and saying “Woof!” Lord Tilbury still retained the unmistakable look of
one to whom bank managers grovel, and the sudden apparition of such a
man affected him like a miracle. He felt as if he had been fishing idly
for minnows and landed a tarpon.
Being, however, a man of resource, he soon recovered himself. Placing a
foot on a button beneath the table, he caused a sharp ringing to pervade
the office.
“Excuse me,” he said, politely but with a busy man’s curtness, as he
took up the telephone. “Yes? Yes? Yes, this is the Tilbury Detective
Agency.... Scotland Yard? Right, I’ll hold the wire.”
He placed a hand over the transmitter and turned to Lord Tilbury with a
little rueful grimace.
“Always bothering me,” he said.
“Woof!” said Lord Tilbury.
Mr. Twist renewed his attention to the telephone.
“Hullo!... Sir John? Good afternoon.... Yes.... Yes.... We are doing our
best, Sir John. We are always anxious to oblige headquarters.... Yes....
Yes.... Very well, Sir John. Good-bye.”
He replaced the receiver and was at Lord Tilbury’s disposal.
“If the Yard would get rid of their antiquated system and give more
scope to men of brains,” he said, not bitterly but with a touch of
annoyance, “they would not always have to be appealing to us to help
them out. Did you know that a man cannot be a detective at Scotland Yard
unless he is over a certain height?”
“You surprise me,” said Lord Tilbury, who was now feeling better.
“Five-foot-nine, I believe it is. Could there be an absurder
regulation?”
“It sounds ridiculous.”
“And is,” said Chimp severely. “I am five-foot-seven myself. Wilbraham
and Donahue, the best men on my staff, are an inch and half an inch
shorter. You cannot gauge brains by height.”
“No, indeed,” said Lord Tilbury, who was five-feet-six. “Look at
Napoleon! And Nelson!”
“Exactly,” said Chimp. “Battling Nelson. A very good case in point. And
Tom Sharkey was a short man too.... Well, what was it you wished to
consult me about, Mr.---- I have not your name.”
Lord Tilbury hesitated.
“I take it that I may rely on your complete discretion, Mr. Adair?”
“Nothing that you tell me in this room will go any farther,” said Chimp,
with dignity.
“I am Lord Tilbury,” said His Lordship, looking like a man unveiling a
statue of himself.
“The proprietor of the joint across the way?”
“Exactly,” said Lord Tilbury a little shortly.
He had expected his name to cause more emotion, and he did not like
hearing the Mammoth Publishing Company described as “the joint across
the way.”
He would have been gratified had he known that his companion had
experienced considerable emotion and that it was only by a strong effort
that he had contrived to conceal it. He might have been less pleased if
he had been aware that Chimp was confidently expecting him to reveal
some disgraceful secret which would act as the foundation for future
blackmail. For although, in establishing his detective agency, Chimp
Twist had been animated chiefly by the desire to conceal his more
important movements, he had never lost sight of the fact that there are
possibilities in such an institution.
“And what can I do for you, Lord Tilbury?” he asked, putting his finger
tips together.
His Lordship bent closer.
“I want a man watched.”
Once again his companion was barely able to conceal his elation. This
sounded exceptionally promising. Though only an imitation private
detective, Chimp Twist had a genuine private detective’s soul. He could
imagine but one reason why men should want men watched.
“A boy on the staff of Tilbury House.”
“Ah!” said Chimp, more convinced than ever. “Good-looking fellow, I
suppose?”
Lord Tilbury considered. He had never had occasion to form an opinion of
Sam’s looks.
“Yes,” he said.
“One of these lounge lizards, eh? One of these parlour tarantulas? I
know the sort--know ’em well. One of these slithery young-feller-me-lads
with educated feet and shiny hair. And when did the dirty work start?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“When did you first suspect this young man of alienating Lady Tilbury’s
affections?”
“Lady Tilbury? I don’t understand you. I am a widower.”
“Eh? Then what’s this fellow done?” said Chimp, feeling at sea again.
Lord Tilbury coughed.
“I had better tell you the whole position. This boy is the nephew of a
business acquaintance of mine in America, with whom I am in the process
of conducting some very delicate negotiations. He, the boy, is over here
at the moment, working on my staff, and I am, you will understand,
practically responsible to his uncle for his behaviour. That is to say,
should he do anything of which his uncle might disapprove, the blame
will fall on me, and these negotiations--these very delicate
negotiations--will undoubtedly be broken off. My American acquaintance
is a peculiar man, you understand.”
“Well?”
“Well, I have just discovered that the boy is conducting a clandestine
love affair with a girl of humble circumstances who resides in the
suburb.”
“A tooting tooti-frooti,” translated Chimp, nodding. “I see.”
“A what?” asked Lord Tilbury, a little blankly.
“A belle of Balham--Bertha from Brixton.”
“She lives at Valley Fields. And this boy Shotter has taken the house
next door to her. I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” said Chimp in a thick voice.
“I thought you spoke.”
“No.” Chimp swallowed feverishly. “Did you say Shotter?”
“Shotter.”
“Taken a house in Valley Fields?”
“Yes. In Burberry Road. Mon Repos is the name.”
“Ah!” said Chimp, expelling a deep breath.
“You see the position? All that can be done at present is to institute a
close watch on the boy. It may be that I have allowed myself to become
unduly alarmed. Possibly he does not contemplate so serious a step as
marriage with this young woman. Nevertheless, I should be decidedly
relieved if I felt that there was someone in his house watching his
movements and making daily reports to me.”
“I’ll take this case,” said Chimp.
“Good! You will put a competent man on it?”
“I wouldn’t trust it to one of my staff, not even Wilbraham or Donahue.
I’ll take it on myself.”
“That is very good of you, Mr. Adair.”
“A pleasure,” said Chimp.
“And now arises a difficult point. How do you propose to make your entry
into young Shotter’s household?”
“Easy as pie. Odd-job man.”
“Odd-job man?”
“They always want odd-job men down in the suburbs. Fellows who’ll do the
dirty work that the help kick at. Listen here, you tell this young man
that I’m a fellow that once worked for you and ask him to engage me as a
personal favour. That’ll cinch it. He won’t like to refuse the
boss--what I mean.”
“True,” said Lord Tilbury. “True. But it will necessitate something in
the nature of a change of costumes,” he went on, looking at the other’s
shining tweeds.
“Don’t you fret. I’ll dress the part.”
“And what name would you suggest taking? Not your own, of course?”
“I’ve always called myself Twist before.”
“Twist? Excellent! Then suppose you come to my office in half an hour’s
time.”
“Sure!”
“I am much obliged, Mr. Adair.”
“Not at all,” said Chimp handsomely. “Not a-tall! Don’t mention it. Only
too pleased.”
§ 3
Sam, when the summons came for him to go to his employer’s office, was
reading with no small complacency a little thing of his own in the issue
of Pyke’s _Home Companion_ which would be on the bookstalls next
morning. It was signed Aunt Ysobel, and it gave some most admirable
counsel to Worried (Upper Sydenham) who had noticed of late a growing
coldness toward her on the part of her betrothed.
He had just finished reading this, marvelling, as authors will when they
see their work in print, at the purity of his style and the soundness of
his reasoning, when the telephone rang and he learned that Lord Tilbury
desired his presence. He hastened to the holy of holies and found there
not only His Lordship but a little man with a waxed moustache, to which
he took an instant dislike.
“Ah, Shotter,” said Lord Tilbury.
There was a pause. Lord Tilbury, one hand resting on the back of his
chair, the fingers of the other in the fold of his waistcoat, stood
looking like a Victorian uncle being photographed. The little man
fingered the waxed moustache. And Sam glanced from Lord Tilbury to the
moustache inquiringly and with distaste. He had never seen a moustache
he disliked more.
“Ah, Shotter,” said Lord Tilbury, “this is a man named Twist, who was at
one time in my employment.”
“Odd-job man,” interpolated the waxed-moustached one.
“As odd-job man,” said Lord Tilbury.
“Ah?” said Sam.
“He is now out of work.”
Sam, looking at Mr. Twist, considered that this spoke well for the
rugged good sense of the employers of London.
“I have nothing to offer him myself,” continued Lord Tilbury, “so it
occurred to me that you might possibly have room for him in your new
house.”
“Me?” said Sam.
“I should take it as a personal favour to myself if you would engage
Twist. I naturally dislike the idea of an old and--er--faithful employee
of mine being out of work.”
Mr. Twist’s foresight was justified. Put in this way, the request was
one that Sam found it difficult to refuse.
“Oh, well, in that case----”
“Excellent! No doubt you will find plenty of little things for him to do
about your house and garden.”
“He can wash the dog,” said Sam, inspired. The question of the bathing
of Amy was rapidly thrusting itself into the forefront of the domestic
politics of Mon Repos.
“Exactly! And chop wood and run errands and what not.”
“There’s just one thing,” said Sam, who had been eying his new assistant
with growing aversion. “That moustache must come off.”
“What?” cried Chimp, stricken to the core.
“Right off at the roots,” said Sam sternly. “I will not have a thing
like that about the place, attracting the moths.”
Lord Tilbury sighed. He found this young man’s eccentricities
increasingly hard to bear. With that sad wistfulness which the Greeks
called _pathos_ and the Romans _desiderium_, he thought of the happy
days, only a few weeks back, when he had been a peaceful, care-free man,
ignorant of Sam’s very existence. He had had his troubles then, no
doubt; but how small and trivial they seemed now.
“I suppose Twist will shave off his moustache if you wish it,” he said
wearily.
Chancing to catch that eminent private investigator’s eye, he was
surprised to note its glazed and despairing expression. The man had the
air of one who has received a death sentence.
“Shave it?” quavered Chimp, fondling the growth tenderly. “Shave my
moustache?”
“Shave it,” said Sam firmly. “Hew it down. Raze it to the soil and sow
salt upon the foundations.”
“Very good, sir,” said Chimp lugubriously.
“That is settled then,” said Lord Tilbury, relieved. “So you will enter
Mr. Shotter’s employment immediately, Twist.”
Chimp nodded a mournful nod.
“You will find Twist thoroughly satisfactory, I am sure. He is quiet,
sober, respectful and hard-working.”
“Ah, that’s bad,” said Sam.
Lord Tilbury heaved another sigh.
CHAPTER TWENTY
TROUBLE IN THE SYNDICATE
When Chimp Twist left Tilbury House, he turned westward along the
Embankment, for he had an appointment to meet his colleagues of the
syndicate at the Lyons tea shop in Green Street, Leicester Square. The
depression which had swept over him on hearing Sam’s dreadful edict had
not lasted long. Men of Mr. Twist’s mode of life are generally
resilient. They have to be.
After all, he felt, it would be churlish of him, in the face of this
almost supernatural slice of luck, to grumble at the one crumpled rose
leaf. Besides, it would only take him about a couple of days to get away
with the treasure of Mon Repos, and then he could go into retirement and
grow his moustache again. For there is this about moustaches, as about
whiskers--though of these Mr. Twist, to do him justice, had never been
guilty--that, like truth, though crushed to the earth, they will rise. A
little patience and his moustache will rise on stepping-stones of its
dead self to higher things. Yes, when the fields were white with daisies
it would return. Pondering thus, Chimp Twist walked briskly to the end
of the Embankment, turned up Northumberland Avenue, and reaching his
destination, found Mr. and Mrs. Molloy waiting for him at a table in a
far corner.
It was quiet in the tea shop at this hour, and the tryst had been
arranged with that fact in mind. For this was in all essentials a board
meeting of the syndicate, and business men and women do not like to have
their talk interrupted by noisy strangers clamorous for food. With the
exception of a woman in a black silk dress with bugles who, incredible
as it may seem, had ordered cocoa and sparkling limado simultaneously
and was washing down a meal of Cambridge sausages and pastry with
alternate draughts of both liquids, the place was empty.
Soapy and his bride, Chimp perceived, were looking grave, even gloomy;
and in the process of crossing the room he forced his own face into an
expression in sympathy with theirs. It would not do, he realised, to
allow his joyous excitement to become manifest at what was practically a
post-mortem. For the meeting had been convened to sit upon the failure
of his recent scheme and he suspected the possibility of a vote of
censure. He therefore sat down with a heavy seriousness befitting the
occasion; and having ordered a cup of coffee, replied to his companions’
questioning glances with a sorrowful shake of the head.
“Nothing stirring,” he said.
“You haven’t doped out another scheme,” said Dolly, bending her shapely
brows in a frown.
“Not yet.”
“Then,” demanded the lady heatedly, “where does this
sixty-five-thirty-five stuff come in? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Me, too,” said Mr. Molloy with spirit. It occurred to Chimp that a
little informal discussion must have been indulged in by his colleagues
of the board previous to his arrival, for their unanimity was wonderful.
“You threw a lot of bull about being the brains of the concern,” said
Dolly accusingly, “and said that, being the brains of the concern, you
had ought to be paid highest. And now you blow in and admit that you
haven’t any more ideas than a rabbit.”
“Not so many,” said Mr. Molloy, who liked rabbits and had kept them as a
child.
Chimp stirred his coffee thoughtfully. He was meditating on what a
difference a very brief time can make in the fortunes of man. But for
that amazing incursion of Lord Tilbury, he would have been approaching
this interview in an extremely less happy frame of mind. For it was
plain that the temper of the shareholders was stormy.
“You’re quite right, Dolly,” he said humbly, “quite right. I’m not so
good as I thought I was.”
This handsome admission should have had the effect proverbially
attributed to soft words, but it served only to fan the flame.
“Then where do you get off with this sixty-five-thirty-five?”
“I don’t,” said Chimp. “I don’t, Dolly.” The man’s humility was
touching. “That’s all cold. We split fifty-fifty, that’s what we do.”
Soft words may fail, but figures never. Dolly uttered a cry that caused
the woman in the bugles to spill her cocoa, and Mr. Molloy shook as with
a palsy.
“Now you’re talking,” said Dolly.
“Now,” said Mr. Molloy, “you are talking.”
“Well, that’s that,” said Chimp. “Now let’s get down to it and see what
we can do.”
“I might go to the joint again and have another talk with that guy,”
suggested Mr. Molloy.
“No sense in that,” said Chimp, somewhat perturbed. It did not at all
suit his plans to have his old friend roaming about in the neighbourhood
of Mon Repos while he was in residence.
“I don’t know so much,” said Mr. Molloy thoughtfully. “I didn’t seem to
get going quite good that last time. The fellow had me out on the
sidewalk before I could pull a real spiel. If I tried again----”
“It wouldn’t be any use,” said Chimp. “This guy Shotter told you himself
he had a special reason for staying on.”
“You don’t think he’s wise to the stuff being there?” said Dolly,
alarmed.
“No, no,” said Chimp. “Nothing like that. There’s a dame next door he’s
kind of stuck on.”
“How do you know?”
Chimp gulped. He felt like a man who discovers himself on the brink of a
precipice.
“I--I was snooping around down there and I saw ’em,” he said.
“What were you doing down there?” asked Dolly suspiciously.
“Just looking around, Dolly, just looking around.”
“Oh?”
The silence which followed was so embarrassing to a sensitive man that
Chimp swallowed his coffee hastily and rose.
“Going?” said Mr. Molloy coldly.
“Just remembered I’ve got a date.”
“When do we meet again?”
“No sense in meeting for the next day or two.”
“Why not?”
“Well, a fellow wants time to think. I’ll give you a ring.”
“You’ll be at your office to-morrow?”
“Not to-morrow.”
“Day after?”
“Maybe not the day after. I’m moving around some.”
“Where?”
“Oh, all around.”
“Doing what?”
Chimp’s self-control gave way.
“Say, what’s eating you?” he demanded. “Where do you get this stuff of
prying and poking into a man’s affairs? Can’t a fellow have a little
privacy sometimes?”
“Sure!” said Mr. Molloy. “Sure!”
“Sure!” said Mrs. Molloy. “Sure!”
“Well, good-bye,” said Chimp.
“Good-bye,” said Mr. Molloy.
“God bless you,” said Mrs. Molloy, with a little click of her teeth.
Chimp left the tea shop. It was not a dignified exit, and he was aware
of it with every step that he took. He was also aware of the eyes of his
two colleagues boring into his retreating back. Still, what did it
matter, argued Chimp Twist, even if that stiff, Soapy, and his wife had
suspicions of him? They could not know. And all he needed was a clear
day or two and they could suspect all they pleased. Nevertheless, he
regretted that unfortunate slip.
The door had hardly closed behind him when Dolly put her suspicions into
words.
“Soapy!”
“Yes, petty?”
“That bird is aiming to double-cross us.”
“You said it!”
“I wondered why he switched to that fifty-fifty proposition so smooth.
And when he let it out that he’d been snooping around down there, I
knew. He’s got some little game of his own on, that’s what he’s got.
He’s planning to try and scoop that stuff by himself and leave us flat.”
“The low hound!” said Mr. Molloy virtuously.
“We got to get action, Soapy, or we’ll be left. To think of that little
Chimp doing us dirt just goes against my better nature. How would it be
if you was to go down to-night and do some more porch climbing? Once you
were in, you could get the stuff easily. It wouldn’t be a case of
hunting around same as last time.”
“Well, sweetie,” said Mr. Molloy frankly, “I’ll tell you. I’m not so
strong for that burgling stuff. It’s not my line and I don’t like it.
It’s awful dark and lonesome in that joint at three o’clock in the
morning. All the time I was there I kep’ looking over my shoulder,
expecting old Finky’s ghost to sneak up on me and breathe down the back
of my neck.”
“Be a man, honey!”
“I’m a man all right, petty, but I’m temperamental.”
“Well, then----” said Dolly, and breaking off abruptly, plunged into
thought.
Mr. Molloy watched her fondly and hopefully. He had a great respect for
her woman’s resourcefulness, and it seemed to him from the occasional
gleam in her vivid eyes that something was doing.
“I’ve got it!”
“You have?”
“Yes, sir!”
“There is none like her, none,” Mr. Molloy’s glistening eye seemed to
say. “Give us an earful, baby,” he begged emotionally.
Dolly bent closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. The woman in the
bugles, torpid with much limado, was out of ear-shot, but a waitress was
hovering not far away.
“Listen! We got to wait till the guy Shotter is out of the house.”
“But he’s got a man. You told me that yourself.”