CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MAINLY ABOUT TROUSERS
THE meeting between Amy and Mrs. Molloy had taken place owing to the resolve of the latter to search the small conservatory which stood outside the back door. She had told Soapy that she thought the missing bonds might be hidden there. They were not, but Amy was. The conservatory was a favourite sleeping porch of Amy’s, and thither she had repaired on discovering that her frolicsome overtures to Hash had been taken in the wrong spirit.
Mrs. Molloy’s feelings, on groping about in the dark and suddenly poking her hand into the cavernous mouth of the largest dog she had ever encountered, have perhaps been sufficiently indicated by the description of her subsequent movements. Iron-nerved woman though she was, this was too much for her.
The single scream which she emitted, previous to saving her breath for the race for life, penetrated only faintly to where Mr. Molloy sat taking a rest on the sofa in the drawing-room. He heard it, but it had no message for him. He was feeling a little better now, and his ganglions, though not having ceased to vibrate with uncomfortable rapidity, were beginning to simmer down. He decided that he would give himself another couple of minutes of repose.
It was toward the middle of the second minute that the door opened quietly and Sam came in. He stood looking at the recumbent Mr. Molloy for a moment.
“Comfortable?” he said.
Soapy shot off the sofa with a sort of gurgling whoop. Of all the disturbing events of that afternoon, this one had got more surely in amongst his nerve centres than any other. He had not heard the door open, and Sam’s voice had been the first intimation that he was no longer alone.
“I’m afraid I startled you,” said Sam.
The exigencies of a difficult profession had made Soapy Molloy a quick thinker. Frequently in the course of a busy life he had found himself in positions where a split second was all that was allowed him for forming a complete plan of action. His trained mind answered to the present emergency like a machine.
“You certainly did startle me,” he said bluffly, in his best Thomas G. Gunn manner. “You startled the daylights out of me. So here you are at last, Mr. Shotter.”
“Yes, here I am.”
“I have been waiting quite some little time. I’m afraid you caught me on the point of going to sleep.”
He chuckled, as a man will when the laugh is on him.
“I should imagine,” said Sam, “that it would take a smart man to catch you asleep.”
Mr. Molloy chuckled again.
“Just what the boys used to say of me in Denver City.” He paused and looked at Sam a little anxiously. “Say, you do remember me, Mr. Shotter?”
“I certainly do.”
“You remember my calling here the other day to see my old home?”
“I remember you before that—when you were in Sing Sing.”
He turned away to light the gas, and Mr. Molloy was glad of the interval for thought afforded by this action.
“Sing Sing?”
“Yes.”
“You were never there.”
“I went there to see a show, in which you took an important part. I forget what your number was.”
“And what of it?”
“Eh?”
Mr. Molloy drew himself up with considerable dignity.
“What of it?” he repeated. “What if I was for a brief period—owing to a prejudiced judge and a packed jury—in the place you mention? I decline to have the fact taken as a slur on my character. You are an American, Mr. Shotter, and you know that there is unfortunately a dark side to American politics. My fearless efforts on behalf of the party of reform and progress brought me into open hostility with a gang of unscrupulous men, who did not hesitate to have me arrested on a trumped-up charge and——”
“All this,” said Sam, “would go a lot stronger with me if I hadn’t found you burgling my house.”
It would have been difficult to say whether the expression that swept over Mr. Molloy’s fine face was more largely indignation or amazement.
“Burgling your house? Are you insane? I called here in the hope of seeing you, was informed that you were not at home, and was invited by your manservant, a most civil fellow, to await your return. Burgling your house, indeed! If I were, would you have found me lying on the sofa?”
“Hash let you in?”
Such was the magnetic quality of the personality of one who had often sold large blocks of shares in nonexistent oil wells to Scotchmen, that Sam was beginning in spite of himself to be doubtful.
“If Hash is the name of your manservant, most certainly he let me in. He admitted me by the front door in the perfectly normal and conventional manner customary when gentlemen pay calls.”
“Where is Hash?”
“Why ask me?”
Sam went to the door. The generous indignation of his visitor had caused him to waver, but it had not altogether convinced him.
“Hash!” he called.
“He appears to be out.”
“Hash!”
“Gone for a walk, no doubt.”
“Hash!” shouted Sam.
From the regions below there came an answering cry.
“Hi! Help!”
It had been a long and arduous task for Hash Todhunter to expel from his mouth the duster which Soapy Molloy had rammed into it with such earnest care, but he had accomplished it at last, and his voice sounded to Mr. Molloy like a knell.
“He appears to be in, after all,” he said feebly.
Sam had turned and was regarding him fixedly, and Soapy noted with a sinking heart the athletic set of his shoulders and the large muscularity of his hands. “Haul off and bust him one!” his wife’s gentle voice seemed to whisper in his ear; but eying Sam, he knew that any such project was but a Utopian dream. Sam had the unmistakable look of one who, if busted, would infallibly bust in return and bust disintegratingly.
“You tied him up, I suppose,” said Sam, with a menacing calm.
Soapy said nothing. There is a time for words and a time for silence.
Sam looked at him in some perplexity. He had begun to see that he was faced with the rather delicate problem of how to be in two places at the same time. He must, of course, at once go down to the kitchen and release Hash. But if he did that, would not this marauder immediately escape by the front door? And if he took him down with him to the kitchen, the probability was that he would escape by the back door. While if he merely left him in this room and locked the door, he would proceed at once to depart by the window.
It was a nice problem, but all problems are capable of solution. Sam solved this one in a spasm of pure inspiration. He pointed a menacing finger at Soapy.
“Take off those trousers!” he said.
Soapy gaped. The intellectual pressure of the conversation had become too much for him.
“Trousers?” he faltered.
“Trousers. You know perfectly well what trousers are,” said Sam, “and it’s no good pretending you don’t. Take them off!”
“Take off my trousers?”
“Good Lord!” said Sam with sudden petulance. “What’s the matter with the man. You do it every night, don’t you? You do it when you take a Turkish bath, don’t you? Where’s the difficulty? Peel them off and don’t waste time.”
“But——”
“Listen!” said Sam. “If those trousers are not delivered to me f. o. b. in thirty seconds, I’ll bust you one!”
He had them in eighteen.
“Now,” said Sam, “I think you’ll find it a little difficult to get away.”
He gathered up the garments, draped them over his arm and went down to the kitchen.
Love is the master passion. It had come to Hash Todhunter late, but, like measles, the more violent for the delay. A natural inclination to go upstairs and rend his recent aggressor limb from limb faded before the more imperious urge to dash across to San Rafael and see Claire. It was the first thing of which he spoke when Sam, with the aid of a carving knife, had cut his bonds.
“Are you hurt, Hash?”
“No, ’e only ’it me on the ’ead. I got to see ’er, Sam.”
“Claire?”
“Ah! The pore little angel, crying ’er ruddy eyes out. The gentleman was saying all about it.”
“What gentleman?”
“A gentleman come to the back door and told that perisher all about how the pore little thing was howling and weeping and all, thinking ’e was me.”
“Have you had a quarrel with Claire?”
“We ’ad words. I got to see ’er.”
“You shall. Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk. Why shouldn’t I walk?”
“Come along then.”
In spite of his assurance, however, Hash found his cramped limbs hard to steer. Sam had to lend an arm, and their progress was slow.
“Sam,” said Hash, after a pause which had been intended primarily for massage, but which had plainly been accompanied by thought, “do you know anything about getting married?”
“Only that it is an excellent thing to do.”
“I mean, ’ow quick can a feller get married?”
“Like a flash, I believe. At any rate, if he goes to a registrar’s.”
“I’m going to a registrar’s then. I’ve ’ad enough of these what I might call misunderstandings.”
“Brave words, Hash! How are the legs?”
“The legs are all right. It’s her mother I’m thinking of.”
“You always seem to be thinking of her mother. Are you quite sure you’ve picked the right one of the family?”
Hash had halted again, and his face was that of a man whose soul was a battlefield.
“Sam, ’er mother wants to come and live with us when we’re married.”
“Well, why not?”
“Ah, you ain’t seen her, Sam! She’s got a hooked nose and an eye like one of these animal trainers. Still——”
The battle appeared to be resumed once more.
“Oh, well!” said Hash. He mused for a while. “You’ve got to look at it all round, you know.”
“Exactly.”
“And there’s this to think of: She says she’ll buy a pub for us.”
“Pubs are pubs,” agreed Sam.
“I’ve always wanted to have a pub of my own.”
“Then I shouldn’t hesitate.”
Hash suddenly saw the poetic side of the vision.
“Won’t my little Clara look a treat standing behind a bar, serving the drinks and singing out, ‘Time, gentlemen, please!’ Can’t you see her scraping the froth off the mugs?”
He fell into a rapt silence, and said no more while Sam escorted him through the back door of San Rafael and led him into the kitchen.
There, rightly considering that the sacred scene of re-union was not for his eyes, Sam turned away. Gently depositing the nether garments of Mr. Molloy on the table, he left them together and made his way to the drawing-room.
The first thing he heard as he opened the door was Kay’s voice.
“I don’t care,” she was saying. “I simply don’t believe it.”
He went in and discovered that she was addressing her uncle, Mr. Wrenn, and the white-bearded Mr. Cornelius. They were standing together by the mantelpiece, their attitude the sheepish and browbeaten one of men who have been rash enough to argue with a woman. Mr. Wrenn was fiddling with his tie, and Mr. Cornelius looked like a druid who is having a little unpleasantness with the widow of the deceased.
Sam’s entrance was the signal for an awkward silence.
“Hullo, Mr. Wrenn,” said Sam. “Good evening, Mr. Cornelius.”
Mr. Wrenn looked at Mr. Cornelius. Mr. Cornelius looked at Mr. Wrenn.
“Say something,” said Mr. Cornelius’ eye to Mr. Wrenn. “You are her uncle.”
“You say something,” retorted Mr. Wrenn’s eye to Mr. Cornelius. “You have a white beard.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been such a time,” said Sam to Kay. “I have had a little domestic trouble. I found a gentleman burgling my house.”
“What?”
“There had been a lady there, too, but she was leaving as I arrived.”
“A lady!”
“Well, let us call her a young female party.”
Kay swung round on Mr. Wrenn, her eyes gleaming with the light that shines only in the eyes of girls who are entitled to say “I told you so!” to elderly relatives. Mr. Wrenn avoided her gaze. Mr. Cornelius plucked at his beard and registered astonishment.
“Burgling your house? What for?”
“That’s what’s puzzling me. These two people seem extraordinarily interested in Mon Repos. They called some days ago and wanted to buy the place, and now I find them burgling it.”
“Good heavens!” cried Mr. Cornelius. “I wonder! Can it be possible?”
“I shouldn’t wonder. It might,” said Sam. “What?”
“Do you remember my telling you, Mr. Shotter, when you came to me about the lease of the house that a well-known criminal had once lived there?”
“Yes.”
“A man named Finglass. Do you remember Finglass, Wrenn?”
“No; he must have been before my time.”
“How long have you been here?”
“About three years and a half.”
“Ah, then it was before your time. This man robbed the New Asiatic Bank of something like four hundred thousand pounds’ worth of securities. He was never caught, and presumably fled the country. You will find the whole story in my history of Valley Fields. Can it be possible that Finglass hid the bonds in Mon Repos and was unable to get back there and remove them?”
“You said it!” cried Sam enthusiastically.
“It would account for the anxiety of these people to obtain access to the house.”
“Why, of course!” said Kay.
“It sounds extremely likely,” said Mr. Wrenn.
“Was the man tall and thin, with a strong cast in the left eye?”
“No; a square-faced sort of fellow.”
“Then it would not be Finglass himself. No doubt some other criminal, some associate of his, who had learned from him that the bonds were hidden in the house. I wish I had my history here,” said Mr. Cornelius. “Several pages of it are devoted to Finglass.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Sam, “go and get it.”
“Shall I?”
“Yes, do.”
“Very well. Will you come with me, Wrenn?”
“Certainly he will,” said Sam warmly. “Mr. Wrenn would like a breath of fresh air.”
With considerable satisfaction he heard the front door close on the non-essential members of the party.
“What an extraordinary thing!” said Kay.
“Yes,” said Sam, drawing his chair closer. “The aspect of the affair that strikes me——”
“What became of the man?”
“He’s all right. I left him in the drawing-room.”
“But he’ll escape.”
“Oh, no.”
“Why not?”
“Well, he won’t.”
“But all he’s got to do is walk out of the door.”
“Yes, but he won’t do it.” Sam drew his chair still closer. “I was saying that the aspect of the affair that strikes me most forcibly is that now I shall be in a position to marry and do it properly.”
“Are you thinking of marrying someone?”
“I think of nothing else. Well, now, to look into this. The bank will probably give a ten per cent reward for the return of the stuff. Even five per cent would be a nice little sum. That fixes the financial end of the thing. So now——”
“You seem very certain that you will find this money.”
“Oh, I shall find it, have no fear. If it’s there——”
“Yes, but perhaps it isn’t.”
“I feel sure that it is. So now let’s make our plans. We will buy a farm somewhere, don’t you think?”
“I have no objection to your buying a farm.”
“I said we. We will buy a farm, and there settle down and live to a ripe old age on milk, honey and the produce of the soil. You will wear a gingham gown, I shall grow a beard. We will keep dogs, pigeons, cats, sheep, fowls, horses, cows, and a tortoise to keep in the garden. Good for the snails,” explained Sam.
“Bad for them, I should think. Are you fond of tortoises?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Not very.”
“Then,” said Sam magnanimously, “we will waive the tortoise.”
“It sounds like a forgotten sport of the past—Waving the Tortoise.”
“To resume. We decide on the farm. Right! Now where is it to be? You are a Wiltshire girl, so no doubt will prefer that county. I can’t afford to buy back Midways for you, I’m afraid, unless on second thoughts I decide to stick to the entire proceeds instead of handing them back to the bank—we shall have to talk that over later—but isn’t there some old greystone, honeysuckle-covered place in the famous Braddock estates?”
“Good heavens!”
“What’s the matter?”
“You said you had left that man in your drawing-room.”
“Well?”
“I’ve suddenly remembered that I sent Willoughby over to Mon Repos ten minutes ago to find out why you were so long. He’s probably being murdered.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so. To go back to what I was saying——”
“You must go and see at once.”
“Do you really think it’s necessary?”
“Of course it is.”
“Oh, very well.”
Sam rose reluctantly. Life, he felt with considerable peevishness, was one long round of interruptions. He went round to the door of Mon Repos and let himself in with his key. A rumble of voices proceeding from the drawing-room greeted him as he entered. He banged the door, and a moment later Mr. Braddock came out, looking a little flustered.
“Oh, there you are, Sam! I was just coming round to fetch you.”
“Anything wrong?”
“It depends on what you call wrong.” Mr. Braddock closed the drawing-room door carefully. “You know Lord Tilbury?”
“Of course I know Lord Tilbury.”
“Well, he’s in there,” said Willoughby Braddock, jerking an awed thumb toward the drawing-room, “and he hasn’t got any trousers on.”