Part 7

‘“I’d like to try it, but it’s impossible. That butler has known me for the last two years, and he has only seen you four or five times in the afternoon. How could he be taken in?”

‘“He has always seen you in dark and chastened clothing, such as it is your custom to wear. He has always seen me with a gray bowler, a light suit, white spats, and a distinctive necktie. He expects to see me to-morrow afternoon, because I borrowed an umbrella there to-day, and said I would bring it back then. All you have to do is to wear my clothes, and hand in that umbrella. He will expect to see me. He will actually see my clothes on a man of about my figure. The hall at the Hammonds’ house is rather dark, and you will have the sun behind you. It’s quite certain the man will be mistaken.”

‘It was tried and happened as I had foretold. The butler addressed Fraser as Sir Charles.’

‘But how did you manage about the photograph?’

‘That was done by means of a bet. Old Mitten is a great believer in system, and has his own infallible method for cataloguing photographic negatives so that a mistake is impossible. I chaffed him about it and told him that I would cause him to enter two lots of negatives wrongly. I offered to bet a sovereign on it and he accepted with avidity. I then settled with Fraser what we would do. Fraser booked an appointment with the photographer for the morning that I left for London, and I booked another for myself in the afternoon, the appointments being made by post. I kept Fraser’s appointment just before I left for the station, and Fraser kept mine in the afternoon after he had finished with Hammond’s butler. Mitten found out what had been done, of course, catalogued the negatives correctly, and has collected his sovereign. But I understand that he has not informed his employer, on the ground that the employer dislikes larks. The entries in the appointment book remain as they were. So that it is on record that I was photographed in the afternoon, though the photographic negatives entered under my name are really those taken from me in the morning.’

‘This,’ said the chairman, ‘is the most elaborate attempt we have had. Nobody else claims to have been seen in two places at the same time. I do not say that the evidence is perfect, but then the evidence of an alibi must always have a hole in it somewhere. Does anybody claim to have beaten it? Nobody? Then I have no hesitation in deciding in Sir Charles’s favour, and I congratulate him on the distinction—which, so far, has been held by Mr Pusely-Smythe alone—of winning the prize on two successive occasions.’

The next problem was now read out. It was entitled ‘The Threepenny Problem,’ and ran as follows: ‘It is required to offer a half-crown for a threepenny bus-fare, and to receive the change wholly in threepenny bits. No gift or promise of a gift may be made to the conductor to induce him to give the change in this form.’

‘That’s the easiest we’ve ever had,’ grumbled Major Byles. ‘So, of course, it’s my turn to be in the chair, and I can’t compete.’

No. X.

The Threepenny Problem

‘Childs-play,’ said Major Byles, ‘that’s what this problem is. It is required to offer a half-crown for a threepenny bus-fare, and to receive the change wholly in threepenny-bits. And you’re not allowed to give the conductor anything or promise him anything as an inducement to let you have the nine threepennies. It’s my belief that you’d only have to ask in a civil way, and any conductor would do it for you. A more obliging set of men than the London bus-conductors couldn’t be found, except, perhaps, the London police. I don’t call it a problem at all. You’ll all win, of course, and that will mean a comfortable tenner for every member of the club except myself—just because I’m stuck up here in the chair. It’s scandalous.’ He snipped the end of a cigar ferociously, and lit it as if he took pleasure in its destruction—which, indeed, may have been the case. ‘However, I must do my duty, and I’ll call on my reverend friend, Mr Cunliffe, to tell us what he has done about it.’

‘My story is a sad one,’ said the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe. ‘It leads me to believe that our chairman has over-estimated the amiability of the conductors and underestimated the difficulty of the problem. I gave a half-crown for a threepenny fare, and told the man that it would be a great kindness if he could let me have my change in threepenny pieces. He never said a word, but handed me a florin and three coppers.

‘“Did you hear what I asked you?” I said to him.

‘“Oh, yes,” he said, “I heard. If you want all them threepennies, you’d better get them out of the blanky offertory-bag next Sunday!”’

‘Extraordinary,’ said the chairman. ‘Something must have occurred to ruffle the man’s temper. Did you find any difficulty, Bunford?’

‘I failed absolutely,’ said Sir Charles Bunford. ‘No doubt I made a mistake in putting my request during the busy hour of the morning. The conductor looked resigned but sardonic.

‘“Want it all in threepennies, do you?” he said. “Would you like them of any particular year?”

‘I said that the date was immaterial. Any year would do.

‘“That’s all right,” he said. “Then you can wait for next year’s.” And he gave me a shilling, a sixpence, and ninepence in what is generally described at the inquest as bronze.’

‘Of course,’ said the chairman, ‘it was a mistake to bother the man when he was busy. And a little tact is wanted. If I’d been in for this competition myself I shouldn’t just have asked for my change in threepennies, I should have given some plausible reason for wanting it.’

‘With great respect, sir,’ said Mr Quillian, ‘I must differ from you. I had the same idea and tried it. I told the conductor that I had a bet that I would get my change entirely in threepennies. I thought it would appeal to his sporting instinct. All he said was, “You’ve lost, then,” and gave me the change without as much as one threepenny in it. Seemed rather pleased about it, too.’

‘I’d much the same experience,’ said Dr Alden. ‘As I gave the man my half-crown I mentioned that I was a collector of threepenny bits, and asked him if he could help me. He gave me two shillings and three pennies.

‘“Well,” he said, “if you like to step off at the Bank of England and ask the Chief Cashier to give you threepennies for that little lot, you can mention my name.”’

‘It’s quite possible,’ said the chairman, ‘that those conductors had not got the threepennies to give you. I go for days sometimes without as much as seeing a threepenny bit. It really looks as if the problem presented more difficulties than I had at first supposed. Did you manage to surmount them, Mr Matthews?’

‘Can’t say I did, though I took a lot of trouble about it. There’s no two ways about it—if you put an unreasonable request to a complete stranger, whether he’s a bus-conductor or anything else, you’re likely to be sat on and not to get what you want either. I picked a bus in the slack time, running nearly empty, with a good-natured-looking conductor. I chatted with him for five minutes, and got him friendly disposed towards me, before I even mentioned threepennies. Then I asked him if he got many of them. He said he took enough of them to fill a pint-pot some days and he wished he didn’t. They were finicky things to handle and easy dropped. Well, that was a very good start. I gave him a half-crown for my threepenny ticket and told him that I would be glad to take as many threepenny bits off his hands as he liked to give me. Said I wanted them for a young nephew of mine. The man was quite willing, and if anybody had offered me twenty pounds just then for my chance of winning the prize to-night I’d have refused it. If anybody would give me twenty pence for the same chance at the present moment I’d jump at it. The trouble came in just as the chairman has indicated. The man looked through his silver and did his best for me, but one solitary threepenny was all he could raise. I got that one, of course, but one is not nine. It was just rotten bad luck. He said that nineteen days in twenty he could have given me a dozen of them, but he supposed it had to happen so.’

‘You call that bad luck?’ said the Hon. James Feldane gloomily. ‘Not half as bitter as mine.’

‘We’ll have the story of your failure, Jimmy,’ said the chairman.

‘Failure’s nothing. I’ve failed before and shall do again. It’s what happened afterwards that worries me. All the same, I don’t know that I should have failed if I had simply trusted to my own judgment, but the woman looked so smart and brainy that I let myself be influenced, though she was really talking clotted nonsense.’

‘You’re getting on too quickly,’ said the chairman. ‘To what woman do you refer?’

‘How should I know? I haven’t an idea what her name is. She was one of a pack of hens that I found cackling in my sister’s drawing-room. They were discussing their maids and how to manage them, same as women have always done since the year one. The brainy-looking one said that when she had a reasonable order to give a maid, she always put it in the form of a request; but if she had an unreasonable request to make to a maid, she always put it in the form of an order. She said that this always bluffed the maid out. I thought there might be something in that bit of wisdom. If you give an order in an ordinary way, as if it were a matter of course, it may get taken in that spirit. Anyway, I thought I’d try it with the bus-conductor. I gave him my half-crown, and said in my light and casual way. “Threepenny ticket. And give me my change in threepenny bits.”

‘He didn’t say anything. He just glared at me. If he had said anything it would probably have scorched the top off the bus. He gave me my change—with never a threepenny bit in it—and then glared some more. He’d got rather a good glare. Broke up my nerves, anyhow. At the next corner I hopped off.

‘Now mark the sequel. A little later I owed a taxi eightpence, gave the man a half-crown and waited for my change. “Sorry, sir,” said the man, “but I shall have to give you six threepenny bits. I’ve got no other silver.”

‘And that’s the way things happen. When you want a thing you can’t get it, and when you don’t want it it’s chucked at you.’

‘Well, really,’ said the chairman, without a blush, ‘as I foresaw, this turns out to be a very difficult problem. No interruptions, please. I know that I did not actually say that it was very difficult, but it was in my mind. It looked easy, as I pointed out in my opening remarks, but nobody knows better than I do that appearances are often deceptive. I shall call upon our great expert and prize-winner, Mr Pusely-Smythe. I am confident that he will have realised the difficulties and taken his measures accordingly.’

Mr Pusely-Smythe smiled grimly and sardonically. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, ‘for your kind words. I do not want to brag, but I gave this problem my very earnest consideration, and I do think that I realised some at least of the difficulties before me. I saw, firstly, that it was possible and even probable that the conductor might not have nine threepenny-bits to give me. Now some company-promoters have found out that the best way to get gold out of a gold-mine is to start by putting a little gold into it. I adopted that principle. I selected a certain bus on a certain route. I arranged that on the journey just before I made my appearance no fewer than twelve passengers would pay their fares with threepenny-bits. It only required a little organisation. If you tell a human boy or even a human girl to take your threepenny bit, pay a penny bus fare with it, and keep the change, you get willing service without any troublesome demand for explanations. Secondly, I had to have a story to tell the conductor that would induce him to oblige me. I was prepared to tell him that a friend had promised me that if I could collect a thousand threepenny-bits for the London Hospital, he would add double that amount to it.

‘I notice, sir, an unworthy expression of suspicion on the face of my learned friend Mr Quillian. My story for the conductor was not only plausible—it was actually true. I was the man who had made that promise to myself. (If I am not my own friend, who is?) Further, I was so absolutely certain of success that I remitted the sum in question, thirty-two pounds ten shillings, to the hospital and have a receipt for it. When I deducted the thirty-two pounds ten shillings expenditure from the hundred and ten pounds prize, I calculated that it would still leave a living wage for myself. Well, that was the position. I saw that there were two main difficulties in this problem, and I had arranged to meet both of them.’

‘Quite so,’ said the chairman. ‘As I’ve always said, these things need to be worked out in a clear-minded and systematic way. And the result was all right?’

Pusely-Smythe’s smile was more sardonic than ever. ‘Much depends on the point of view; it was all right from some points of view. Punctually at the time I had fixed I took my seat on the top of the bus I had selected. About a minute later the conductor came up to collect the fares. I felt for my half-crown. I had not got any half-crown. I had no money on me whatever. I had inadvertently left my money at home. There was nobody on the bus to whom I could apply for temporary assistance. Well, there was no help for it. The conductor was weary, but firm. He told me to hop off the bus and not to try it on again. I hopped. It may have been all right from the point of view of the other competitors, but from my own point of view it was less satisfactory. And it only shows, as we all know, that you may lose your game by missing a perfectly easy shot.’

Mr Wildersley, A.R.A., had demanded threepennies from a conductor on the ground that he was collecting them. The conductor had replied that he was there to take the fares, not to supply private museums. Mr Austin had met a most obliging conductor, who, however, had no threepennies in his possession. Lord Herngill and Mr Hesseltine had only contemptuous refusals to record.

This, of course, happened before the war. In times when the gentler, kindlier, and more refined sex has charge of our public vehicles, the problem might prove easy of solution.

‘Well,’ the chairman began, ‘it looks as if the whole lot of you duffers had failed.’ Here the secretary, Lord Herngill, whispered a few warning words in his ear, and the chairman nodded assent.

‘Yes,’ he resumed, ‘it may look to you duffers as if the whole lot of you had failed, but of course that would be wrong. Nobody has succeeded in getting nine threepennies in change. But in that case the nearest approximation to that number wins. Mr Matthews got one threepenny, and conformed to the conditions. Nobody else even got one. Therefore I declare Mr Matthews to be the winner, and the club cheque for one hundred and ten pounds will be drawn to his order.’

Jimmy Feldane confided his private sorrows to his friend Hesseltine. ‘I don’t mind old Matthews winning. He’s a genial old bird, and what he don’t know about the noble art of dining ain’t worth worrying over. But there is just one thing that makes me want to kick myself round and round this room till I get giddy. When Matthews told us his yarn, he said he’d take twenty pence for his chance of the prize. I ought to have been on to it in a flash, if not sooner. One-and-eight for a sporting chance of a hundred and ten pounds is good enough. The more I think of it, the more I see that I ought not to be allowed out except in charge of a nursemaid.’

‘Oh, we all missed that chance,’ said Hesseltine. ‘Maybe a little drink might do us some good.’

While they were taking the medicine indicated, the chairman read out the problem which was to employ them during the following month. The fantastic editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_ had entitled it, ‘The Q-Loan Problem,’ and its terms were as follows:—

‘It is required in three days to borrow as many things as possible, the name of each thing to begin with the letter Q. Nothing counts for the competition if its name is on the list of more than one member. No money may be given or promised in respect of any loan.’

‘And to-morrow morning, bright and early,’ said Jimmy, ‘I’m off to the Zoo in a taxi to see if I can’t borrow their quagga.’

No. XI.

The Q-Loan Problem

The problem which came up for adjudication on this occasion was as follows:—

‘It is required in three days to borrow as many things as possible, the name of each thing to begin with the letter Q. Nothing counts for the competition if its name is on the list of more than one member. No money may be given or promised in respect of any loan.’

‘I’ve arranged this,’ said Mr Austin, who was the chairman for the evening, ‘so as to avoid any overstrain for myself. I shall call on that notorious painter and decorator, Mr Wildersley, to begin with his list. When he has finished he will call on somebody else. The second man in his turn will name the third, and so on. If anything is read out by another member which is also down on your own list, hold up your hand. The secretary will keep the score. That leaves me absolutely nothing to do until it is time to announce the winner, and I shall probably go to sleep. So don’t make any disturbing noises, please. You can begin now, Wildersley.’

‘My score is six,’ said Wildersley, ‘unless some of you selfish men have had the same ideas as I have. On my first day I borrowed two things—one of which people seem to show hesitation about lending, while the other was a thing that very few people have got to lend nowadays. In fact, I borrowed a quid and a quill-pen.’

Many hands went up.

‘This is painful and surprising,’ said Wildersley, ‘and reduces my score to four. On the second day I visited a female relative, said that I had a cold coming on, and had no difficulty in borrowing some quinine and a quilt.’

But a show of hands indicated that others had found it equally easy.

‘That brings me down to two, but the last two are good. I doubt if any other member could have thought of them, or could have borrowed them in any case. But I happen to know a painter who has got whole wardrobes full of costumes—uses them for his alleged pictures. From him I borrowed, firstly, a queue.’

‘I appeal to the chairman,’ said Jimmy Feldane confidently. ‘That word is spelled with a K.’

‘No,’ said the chairman. ‘You are probably thinking of the Gardens of the same name.’

‘In any case it’s the thing they have outside the pit entrance, and you can’t borrow it.’

‘That will be for Mr Wildersley to explain.’

‘I did not borrow a crowd outside a pit entrance,’ said Wildersley. ‘But I did borrow the tie of a wig, which is another meaning of the word. That’s one to me, anyhow. And I also borrowed a quoif.’

‘Surely, sir,’ said Mr Quillian, ‘that word is spelled with a C?’

The chairman consulted a useful work of reference, and announced that the word was spelled in both ways.

‘May we have your authority for that statement?’

‘Standard dictionary.’

‘And will you define a standard dictionary for the purposes of this competition?’

‘For the purposes of this competition a standard dictionary is any dictionary that was published subsequently to the eighteenth century and cost more than fivepence-halfpenny originally.’

‘It doesn’t much matter really, for as the word is also on my own list neither Wildersley nor I can score it.’

‘You might have said that before,’ said the chairman. ‘It looks as if you were giving me trouble on purpose.’

And it is quite possible that his surmise was correct. The Problem Club does not allow its chairman to sleep when on duty. Sir Charles Bunford requested him to state what Mr Wildersley’s score was; and it may not have been from inadvertence that Wildersley neglected to name his successor and left it to the chairman to do so. He called upon Dr Alden.

‘Well,’ said the Doctor, ‘I had borrowed quinine, of course, but that has been ruled out. I also borrowed some quassia from the same man. No hands up? I think I score one for quassia, if the chairman admits it.’

The chairman consulted his dictionary and said that quassia appeared to be all right. He was immediately asked by Mr Pusely-Smythe if he could inform the members whether quassia was a summer drink or an intermittent fever.

‘At the present moment,’ said Mr Austin severely, ‘I am giving my most eager and concentrated attention to the conscientious discharge of my arduous duties. I cannot be interrupted by purely frivolous questions. Dr Alden will proceed.’

‘I further borrowed a quadrant and a thermometer.’

‘I fear,’ said the chairman, ‘that I must rule that the word thermometer does not begin with the letter Q.’

‘Your rapid grasp of these fine points, sir, impels my admiration. But with great respect I would point out that this thermometer contained mercury, and therefore in borrowing the thermometer I borrowed quicksilver. My remaining loans consisted of a quarto and a quotation.’

But other members had borrowed both a quarto and a quotation. Dr Alden was accordingly left with a score of three.

Major Byles, who came next, had done better. In the course of a morning stroll with a neighbouring landowner over his property, he had borrowed some weird things. His list consisted of a quarry, a quicksand, some quickset, quitch-grass, and quick-lime. And as none of these things had been borrowed by any other member he scored five. But he did not seem entirely happy about it.

‘The trouble with these problems,’ he said, ‘is that one has to do absolutely idiotic things, and consequently one is likely to be thought an absolute idiot. I did the best I could. I invented quite a plausible story about a geological friend to account for the quarry and the quicksand. But I believe that my neighbour goes about saying that poor old Byles is far from well, and tapping his forehead to indicate the nature of my complaint. It’s most unpleasant. Still, five ain’t such a bad score. How did you get on with that quagga, Jimmy?’

‘Nothing doing,’ said Jimmy. ‘I went to the Zoo, just as I said I would. But, if you ask me, the whole place is rotten with red tape and officialism. They wouldn’t lend me the blessed quagga, though I promised them I’d return it in five minutes. Said it was not customary to lend out the animals, and a lot of silly talk like that. Quite obstinate about it, too. I’d got Hesseltine there to take a snapshot of me shepherding the quagga in the wilds of Regent’s Park, and it simply meant our valuable time thrown away. Also, it appeared that quaggas are out of print and they’d not got one.

‘But quite apart from that I’m not claiming to have won. I’ve only got two things down on my list that have not been claimed so far. The first was the queen of spades from a pack of cards, and the second is the four kings from the same pack. I don’t spell the word king with a Q, but the four of them are a quatorse, at piquet. But a score of two’s no use, and I shall probably be described on my tombstone as brainy but unfortunate. Meanwhile I notice a sunny smile on the face of our padre, as if he were a prize-winner. He might tell us how he did it.’

The Rev. Septimus Cunliffe had certainly been energetic and industrious. To start with he had called upon an old friend of his, a man of some learning, with an interest in music and a fair library. Here he had no difficulty in borrowing Quixote, Quivedo, Quintillian, Quain, and some quadrilles, quartets, and quintets. He engaged his host in a discussion as to the precise meaning of a quip, a quirk, and a quiddity, persuaded him to write down an instance of each, and borrowed the instances. He borrowed a quatrain of his host’s composition, and twenty-four sheets of notepaper, which make a quire.