Part 12

‘Well, there you are,’ said the Major. ‘D’you know I’ve been chasing you all over London. What have you been doing with yourself all this time?’

‘I’ve been staying at Lottie’s.’

‘Well, she said she’d never heard of you. You see, I don’t mind admitting I’d had a few too many that night, and to tell you the truth I woke up with things all rather a blur. Well then I found a thousand pounds in my pocket, and it all came back to me. There’d been a cove at Lottie’s who gave me a thousand pounds to put on Indian Runner. Well, as far as I knew, Indian Runner was no good. I didn’t want to lose your money for you, but the devil of it was I didn’t know you from Adam.’ (‘I think that’s a perfect joke,’ said Miss Runcible.) ‘And apparently Lottie didn’t either. You’d have thought it was easy enough to trace the sort of chap who deals out thousands of pounds to total strangers, but I couldn’t find one fingerprint.’

‘Do you mean,’ said Adam, a sudden delirious hope rising in his heart, ‘that you’ve still got my thousand?’

‘Not so fast,’ said the Major. ‘I’m spinning this yarn. Well, on the day of the race I didn’t know what to do. One half of me said, keep the thousand. The chap’s bound to turn up some time, and it’s his business to do his own punting—the other half said, put it on the favourite for him and give him a run for his money.’

‘So you put it on the favourite?’ Adam’s heart felt like lead again.

‘No, I didn’t. In the end I said, well, the young chap must be frightfully rich. If he likes to throwaway his money, it’s none of my business, so I planked it all on Indian Runner for you.’

‘You mean . . .’

‘I mean I’ve got the nice little packet of thirty-five thou. waiting until you condescend to call for it.’

‘Good heavens . . . look here, have a drink, won’t you?’

‘That’s a thing I never refuse.’

‘Archie, lend me some money until I get this fortune.’

‘How much?’

‘Enough to buy five bottles of champagne.’

‘Yes, if you can get them.’

The barmaid had a case of champagne at the back of the tent. (‘People often feel queer through watching the cars go by so fast—ladies especially,’ she explained.) So they took a bottle each and sat on the side of the hill and drank to Adam’s prosperity.

‘Hullo, everybody,’ said the loud speaker. ‘Car No. 28, the Italian Omega, driven by Captain Marino, has just completed the course in twelve minutes one second, lapping at an average speed of 78·3 miles per hour. This is the fastest time yet recorded.’

A burst of applause greeted this announcement, but Adam said, ‘I’ve rather lost interest in this race.’

‘Look here, old boy,’ the Major said when they were well settled down, ‘I’m rather in a hole. Makes me feel an awful ass, saying so, but the truth is I got my note-case pinched in the crowd. Of course, I’ve got plenty of small change to see me back to the hotel and they’ll take a cheque of mine there, naturally, but the fact is I was keen to make a few bets with some chaps I hardly know. I wonder, old boy, could you possibly lend me a fiver? I can give it to you at the same time as I hand over the thirty-five thousand.’

‘Why, of course,’ said Adam. ‘Archie, lend me a fiver, can you?’

‘Awfully good of you,’ said the Major, tucking the notes into his hip pocket. ‘Would it be all the same if you made it a tenner while we’re about it?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Archie, with a touch of coldness. ‘I’ve only just got enough to get home with.’

‘That’s all right, old boy, _I_ understand. Not another word. . . . Well, here’s to us all.’

‘I was on the course at the November Handicap,’ said Adam. ‘I thought I saw you.’

‘It would have saved a lot of fuss if we’d met, wouldn’t it? Still, all’s well that end’s well.’

‘What an _angelic_ man your Major is,’ said Miss Runcible.

When they had finished their champagne, the Major—now indisputably drunk—rose to go.

‘Look here, old boy,’ he said. ‘I must be toddling along now. Got to see some chaps. Thanks no end for the binge. So jolly having met you all again. Bye-bye, little lady.’

‘When shall we meet again?’ said Adam.

‘Any time, old boy. Tickled to death to see you any time you care to drop in. Always a pew and a drink for old friends. So long everybody.’

‘But couldn’t I come and see you soon? About the money, you know.’

‘Sooner the better, old boy. Though I don’t know what you mean about money.’

‘My thirty-five thousand.’

‘Why, yes, to be sure. Fancy my forgetting that. I tell you what. You roll along to-night to the Imperial and I’ll give it to you then. Jolly glad to get it off my chest. Seven o’clock at the American bar—or a little before.’

‘Let’s go back and look at the motor cars,’ said Archie.

They went down the hill feeling buoyant and detached (as one should if one drinks a great deal before luncheon). When they reached the pits they decided they were hungry. It seemed too far to climb up to the dining tent, so they ate as much of the mechanic’s lunch as Miss Runcible’s cigarette had spared. Then a mishap happened to No. 13. It drew into the side uncertainly, with the mechanic holding the steering wheel. A spanner, he told them, thrown from Marino’s car as they were passing him under the railway bridge, had hit Miles’ friend on the shoulder. The mechanic helped him get out, and supported him to the Red Cross tent. ‘May as well scratch,’ he said. ‘He won’t be good for anything more this afternoon. It’s asking for trouble having a No. 13.’ Miles went to help his friend, leaving Miss Runcible and Adam and Archie staring rather stupidly at their motor car. Archie hiccoughed slightly as he ate the mechanic’s apple.

Soon an official appeared.

‘What happened here?’ he said.

‘Driver’s just been murdered,’ said Archie. ‘Spanner under the railway bridge. Marino.’

‘Well, are you going to scratch? Who’s spare driver?’

‘I don’t know. Do you, Adam? I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if they hadn’t murdered the spare driver, too.’

‘I’m spare driver,’ said Miss Runcible. ‘It’s on my arm.’

‘She’s spare driver. Look, it’s on her arm.’

‘Well, do you want to scratch?’

‘Don’t you scratch, Agatha.’

‘No, I don’t want to scratch.’

‘All right. What’s your name?’

‘Agatha. I’m the spare driver. It’s on my arm.’

‘I can see it is—all right, start off as soon as you like.’

‘Agatha,’ repeated Miss Runcible firmly as she climbed into the car. ‘It’s on my arm.’

‘I say, Agatha,’ said Adam. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘It’s on my arm,’ said Miss Runcible severely.

‘I mean, are you quite certain it’s absolutely safe?’

‘Not _absolutely_ safe, Adam. Not if they throw spanners. But I’ll go quite slowly at first until I’m used to it. Just you see. Coming too?’

‘I’ll stay and wave the flag,’ said Adam.

‘That’s right. Good-bye . . . goodness, how too stiff-scaring. . . .’

The car shot out into the middle of the road, missed a collision by a foot, swung round and disappeared with a roar up the road.

‘I say, Archie, is it all right being tight in a car, if it’s on a race course? They won’t run her in or anything?’

‘No, no, that’s all right. All tight on the race course.’

‘Sure?’

‘Sure.’

‘All of them?’

‘Absolutely every one—tight as houses.’

‘That’s all right then. Let’s go and have a drink.’

So they went up the hill again, through the Boy Scouts, to the refreshment tent.

It was not long before Miss Runcible was in the news.

‘Hullo, everybody,’ said the loud speaker. ‘No 13, the English Plunket-Bowse, driven by Miss Agatha, came into collision at Headlong Corner with No. 28, the Italian Omega car, driven by Captain Marino. No 13 righted itself and continued on the course. No. 28 overturned and has retired from the race.’

‘Well done, Agatha,’ said Archie.

A few minutes later:

‘Hullo, everybody. No. 13, the English Plunket-Bowse, driven by Miss Agatha, has just completed the course in nine minutes forty-one seconds. This constitutes a record for the course.’

Patriotic cheers broke out on all sides, and Miss Runcible’s health was widely drunk in the refreshment tent.

A few minutes later:

‘Hullo, everybody; I have to contradict the announcement recently made that No. 13, the English Plunket-Bowse, driven by Miss Agatha, had established a record for the course. The stewards have now reported that No. 13 left the road just after the level crossing and cut across country for five miles, rejoining the track at the Red Lion corner. The lap has therefore been disallowed by the judges.’

A few minutes later:

‘Hullo, everybody; No. 13, the English Plunket-Bowse car, driven by Miss Agatha, has retired from the race. It disappeared from the course some time ago, turning left instead of right at Church Corner, and was last seen proceeding south on the bye-road, apparently out of control.’

‘My dear, that’s lucky for me,’ said Miles. ‘A really good story my second day on the paper. This ought to do me good with the _Excess_—_very_ rich-making,’ and he hurried off to the post office tent—which was one of the amenities of the course—to despatch a long account of Miss Runcible’s disaster.

Adam accompanied him and sent a wire to Nina: ‘_Drunk Major in refreshment tent not bogus thirty-five thousand married to-morrow everything perfect Agatha lost love Adam._’

‘That seems quite clear,’ he said.

They went to the hospital tent after this—another amenity of the course—to see how Miles’ friend was getting on. He seemed in some pain and showed anxiety about his car.

‘I think it’s very heartless of him,’ said Adam. ‘He ought to be worried about Agatha. It only shows . . .’

‘Motor men _are_ heartless,’ said Miles, with a sigh.

Presently Captain Marino was borne in on a stretcher. He turned on his side with a deep groan and spat at Miles’ friend as he went past him. He also spat at the doctor who came to bandage him and bit one of the V.A.D.’s.

They said Captain Marino was no gentleman in the hospital tent.

There was no chance of leaving the course before the end of the race, Archie was told, and the race would not be over for at least two hours. Round and round went the stream of cars. At intervals the Boy Scouts posted a large red R against one or other of the numbers, as engine trouble or collision or Headlong Corner took its toll. A long queue stretched along the top of the hill from the door of the luncheon tent. Then it began to rain.

There was nothing for it but to go back to the bar.

At dusk the last car completed its course. The silver gilt trophy was 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?’