CHAPTER III THE HUNDRED-POUND NOTE
Uncle Simon awoke consumed by thirst, but without a headache; a good constitution and years of regular life had given him a large balance to draw upon.
Mudd was in the room arranging things; he had just drawn up the blind.
"Who's that?" asked Simon.
"Mudd," replied the other.
Mudd's tout ensemble as a new sort of hotel servant seemed to please Simon, and he accepted him at once as he accepted everything that pleased him.
"Give me that water-bottle," said Simon.
Mudd gave it. Simon half-drained it and handed it back. The draught seemed to act on him like the elixir vitæ.
"What are you doing with those clothes?" said he.
"Oh, just folding them," said Mudd.
"Well, just leave them alone," replied the other. "Is there any money in the pockets?"
"These aren't what you wore last night," said Mudd; "there was two pounds ten in the pockets of what you had on. Here it is, on the mantel."
"Good," said Simon.
"Have you any more money anywhere about?" asked Mudd.
Now Simon, spendthrift in front of pleasure and heedless of money as the wind, in front of Mudd seemed cautious and a bit suspicious. It was as though his subliminal mind recognised in Mudd restraint and guardianship and common sense.
"Not a halfpenny," said he. "Give me that two pounds ten."
Mudd, alarmed at the vigour of the other, put the money on the little table by the bed.
Simon was at once placated.
"Now put me out some clothes," said he. He seemed to have accepted Mudd now as a personal servant—hired when? Heaven knows when; details like that were nothing to Simon.
Mudd, marvelling and sorrowing, put out a suit of blue serge, a blue tie, a shirt and other things of silk. There was a bathroom, off the bedroom, and, the things put out, Simon arose and wandered into the bathroom, and Mudd, taking his seat on a chair, listened to him tubbing and splashing—whistling, too, evidently in the gayest spirits, spirits portending another perfect day.
"Lead him," had said Oppenshaw. Why, Mudd already was being led. There was something about Simon, despite his irresponsibility and good humour, that would not brook a halter even if the halter were of silk. Mudd recognised that. And the money! What had become of the money? The locked portmanteau might contain it, but where was the key?
Mudd did not even know whether his unhappy master had recognised him or not, and he dared not ask, fearing complications. But he knew that Simon had accepted him as a servant, and that knowledge had to suffice.
If Simon had refused him, and turned him out, that would have been a tragedy indeed.
Simon, re-entering the bedroom, bath towel in hand, began to dress, Mudd handing things which Simon took as though half oblivious of the presence of the other. He seemed engaged in some happy vein of thought.
Dressed and smart, but unshaved, though scarcely showing the fact, Simon took the two pounds ten and put it in his pocket, then he looked at Mudd. His expression had changed somewhat; he seemed working out some problem in his mind.
"That will do," said he; "I won't want you any more for a few minutes. I want to arrange things. You can go down and come back in a few minutes."
Mudd hesitated. Then he went.
He heard Simon lock the door. He went into an adjoining corridor and walked up and down, dumbly praying that Mr. Robert would come—confused, agitated, wondering.... Suppose Simon wanted to be alone to cut his throat! The horror of this thought was dispelled by the recollection that there were no razors about; also by the remembered cheerfulness of the other. But why did he want to be alone?
Two minutes passed, three, five—then the intrigued one, making for the closed door, turned the handle. The door was unlocked, and Simon, standing in the middle of the room, was himself again.
"I've got a message I want you to take," said Simon.
Ten minutes later Mr. Robert Ravenshaw, entering the Charing Cross Hotel, found Mudd with his hat on, waiting for him.
"Thank the Lord you've come, Mr. Robert!" said Mudd.
"What's the matter now?" asked Bobby. "Where is he?"
"He's having breakfast," said Mudd.
"Well, that's sensible, anyhow. Cheer up, Mudd; why, you look as if you'd swallowed a funeral."
"It's the money," said Mudd. Then he burst out, "He told me to go from the room and come back in a minit. Out I went, and he locked the door. Back I came; there was he standing. 'Mudd,' said he, 'I've got a message for you to take. I want you to take a bunch of flowers to a lady.' Me!"
"Yes?" said Bobby.
"To a lady!"
"'Where's the flowers?' said I, wishing to head him off. 'You're to go and buy them,' said he. 'I have no money,' said I, wishing to head him off. 'Hang money!' said he, and he puts his hand in his pocket and out he brings a hundred-pound note and a ten-pound note. And he had only two pounds ten when I left him. He's got the money in that portmanteau, that I'm sure, and he got me out of the room to get it."
"Evidently," said Bobby.
"'Here's ten pounds,' said he; 'get the best bunch of flowers money can buy and tell the lady I'm coming to see her later on in the day.'
"'What lady?' said I, wishing to head him off.
"'This is the address,' said he, and goes to the writing-table and writes it out."
He handed Bobby a sheet of the hotel paper. Simon's handwriting was on it, and a name and address supplied by that memory of his which clung so tenaciously to all things pleasant.
"Miss Rossignol, 10, Duke Street, Leicester Square."
Bobby whistled.
"Did I ever dream I'd see this day?" mourned Mudd. "Me! Sent on a message like that, by him!"
"This is a complication," said Bobby. "I say, Mudd, he must have been busy yesterday—upon my soul——"
"Question is, what am I to do?" said Mudd. "I'm goin' to take no flowers to hussies."
Bobby thought deeply for a moment.
"Did he recognise you this morning?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Mudd, "but he made no bones. I don't believe he remembered me right, but he made no bones."
"Well, Mudd, you'd better just swallow your feelings and take those flowers, for if you don't, and he finds out, he may fire you. Where would we be then? Besides, he's to be humoured, so the doctor said, didn't he?"
"Shall I send for the doctor right off, sir?" asked Mudd, clutching at a forlorn hope.
"The doctor can't stop him from fooling after girls," said Bobby, "unless the doctor could put him away in a lunatic asylum; and he can't, can he, seeing he says he's not mad? Besides, there's the slur, and the thing would be sure to leak out. No, Mudd, just swallow your feelings and trot off and get those flowers, and, meanwhile, I'll do what I can to divert his mind. And see here, Mudd, you might just see what that girl is like."
"Shall I tell her he's off his head and that maybe she'll have the law on her if she goes on fooling with him?" suggested Mudd.
"No," said the more worldly-wise Bobby; "if she's the wrong sort that would only make her more keen. She'd say to herself, 'Here's a queer old chap with money, half off his nut, and not under restraint; let's make hay before they lock him up.' If she's the right sort it doesn't matter; he's safe, and, right sort or wrong sort, if he found you'd been interfering he might send you about your business. No, Mudd, there's nothing to be done but get the flowers and leave them, and see the lady if possible, and make notes about her. Say as little as possible."
"He told me to tell her he'd call later in the day."
"Leave that to me," said Bobby. "And now, off with you."
CHAPTER IV THE HUNDRED-POUND NOTE—continued
Mudd departed and Bobby made for the coffee-room.
He entered and looked around. A good many people were breakfasting in the big room, the ordinary English breakfast crowd at a big hotel; family parties, lone men and lone women, some reading letters, some papers, and all, somehow, with an air of divorcement from home.
Simon was there, seated at a little table on the right and enjoying himself. Now, and in his right mind, Simon gave Bobby another shock. Could it be possible that this pleasant-faced, jovial-looking gentleman, so well-dressed and à la mode, was Uncle Simon? What an improvement! So it seemed at first glance.
Simon looked up from his sausages—he was having sausages, saw Bobby—and with his unfailing memory of pleasant things, even dimly seen, recognised him as the man of last night.
"Hullo," said Simon, as the other came up to the table, "there you are again. Had breakfast?"
"No," said Bobby. "I'll sit here if I may." He drew a chair to the second place that was laid and took his seat.
"Have sausages," said Simon. "Nothing beats sausages."
Bobby ordered sausages, though he would have preferred anything else. He didn't want to argue.
"Nothing beats sausages," said Uncle Simon again.
Bobby concurred.
Then the conversation languished, just as it may between two old friends or boon companions who have no need to keep up talk.
"Feeling all right this morning?" ventured Bobby.
"Never felt better in my life," replied the other. "Never felt better in my life. How did you manage to get home?"
"Oh, I got home all right."
Simon scarcely seemed to hear this comforting declaration; scrambled eggs had been placed before him.
Bobby, in sudden contemplation of a month of this business, almost forgot his sausages. The true horror of Uncle Simon appeared to him now for the first time. You see, he knew all the facts of the case. An ordinary person, unknowing, would have accepted Simon as all right, but it seemed to Bobby, now, that it would have been much better if his companion had been decently and honestly mad, less uncanny. He was obviously sane, though a bit divorced from things; obviously sane, and eating scrambled eggs after sausages with the abandon of a schoolboy on a holiday after a long term at a cheap school; sane, and enjoying himself after a night like that—yet he was Simon Pettigrew.
Then he noticed that Simon's eyes were constantly travelling, despite the scrambled eggs, in a given direction. A pretty young girl was breakfasting with a family party a little way off—that was the direction.
There was a mother, a father, something that looked like an uncle, what appeared to be an aunt, and what appeared to be May dressed in a washing silk blouse and plain skirt.
November was glancing at May.
Bobby remembered Miss Rossignol and felt a bit comforted; then he began to feel uncomfortable: the aunt was looking fixedly at Simon. His admiration had evidently been noted by Watchfulness; then the uncle seemed to take notice.
Bobby, blushing, tried to make conversation, and only got replies. Then, to his relief, the family, having finished breakfast, withdrew, and Simon became himself again, cheerful and burning for the pleasures of the day before him, the pleasures to be got from London, money, and youth.
His conversation told this, and that he desired to include Bobby in the scheme of things, and the young man could not help remembering Thackeray's little story of how, coming up to London, he met a young Oxford man in the railway carriage, a young man half-tipsy with the prospect of a day in town and a "tear round"—with the prospect, nothing more.
"What are you going to do now?" asked Bobby, as the other rose from the table.
"Shaved," said Simon; "come along and get shaved; can't go about like this."
Bobby was already shaved, but he followed the other outside to a barber's and sat reading a Daily Mirror and waiting whilst Simon was operated on. The latter, having been shaved, had his hair brushed and trimmed, and all the time during these processes the barber spake in this wise, Simon turning the monologue to a duologue.
"Yes, sir, glorious weather, isn't it? London's pretty full, too, for the time of year—fuller than I've seen for a long time. Ever tried face massage, sir? Most comforting. Can be applied by yourself. Can sell you a complete outfit, Parker's face cream and all, two pound ten. Thank you, sir. Staying in the Charing Cross 'Otel? I'll have it sent to your room. Yes, sir, the 'otel is full. There's a deal of money being spent in London, sir. Raise your chin, sir, a leetle more. Ever try a Gillette razor, sir? Useful should you wish to shave in a 'urry; beautiful plated. This is it, sir—one guinea—shines like silver, don't it? Thank you, sir, I'll send it up with the other. Yes, sir, it's most convenient havin' a barber's close to the 'otel. I supply most of the 'otel people with toilet rekisites. 'Air's a little thin on the top, sir; didn't mean no offence, sir, maybe it's the light. Dry, that's what it is; it's the 'ot weather. Now, I'd recommend Coolers' Lotion followed after application by Goulard's Brillantine. Oh, Lord, no, sir! Them brillantines is no use. Goulard's is the only real; costs a bit more, but then, cheap brillantine is rewin. Thank you, sir. And how are you off for 'air brushes, sir? There's a pair of bargains in that show-case—travellers' samples—I can let you have, silver-plated, as good as you'll get in London and 'arf the price. Shine, don't they? And feel the bristles—real 'og. Thank you, sir. Two ten—one one—one four—two ten—and a shillin' for the 'air cut and shave. No, sir, I can't change an 'undred-pound note. A ten? Yes, I can manage a ten. Thank you, sir."
Seven pounds and sixpence for a hair-cut and shave—with accompaniments. Bobby, tongue-tied and aghast, rose up.
"'Air cut, sir?" asked the barber.
"No, thanks," replied Bobby.
Simon, having glanced at himself in the mirror, picked up his straw hat and walking-stick, and taking the arm of his companion, out they walked.
"Where are you going?" asked Bobby.
"Anywhere," replied the other; "I want to get some change."
"Why, you've got change!"
Simon unlinked, and in the face of the Strand and the passers-by produced from his pocket two hundred-pound notes, three or four one-pound notes, and a ten-pound note; searching in his pockets to see what gold he had, he dropped a hundred-pound note, which Bobby quickly recovered.
"Mind!" said Bobby. "You'll have those notes snatched."
"That's all right," said Simon.
He replaced the money in his pocket, and his companion breathed again.
Bobby had borrowed five pounds from Tozer in view of possibilities.
"Look here," said he, "what's the good of staying in London a glorious day like this? Let's go somewhere quiet and enjoy ourselves—Richmond or Greenwich or somewhere. I'll pay expenses and you need not bother about change."
"No, you won't," said Simon. "You're going to have some fun along with me. What's the matter with London?"
Bobby couldn't say.
Renouncing the idea of the country, without any other idea to replace it except to keep his companion walking and away from shops and bars and girls, he let himself be led. They were making back towards Charing Cross. At the Bureau de Change Simon went in, the idea of changing a hundred-pound note pursuing him. He wanted elbow-room for enjoyment, but the Bureau refused to make change. The note was all right; perhaps it was Simon that was the doubtful quantity. He had quite a little quarrel over the matter and came out arm-in-arm with his companion and flushed.
"Come along," said Bobby, a new idea striking him. "We'll get change somewhere."
From Charing Cross, through Cockspur Street, then through Pall Mall and up St. James's Street they went, stopping at every likely and unlikely place to find change. Engaged so, Simon at least was not spending money or taking refreshment. They tried at shipping offices, at insurance offices, at gun-shops and tailors, till the weary Bobby began to loathe the business, began to feel that both he and his companion were under suspicion and almost that the business they were on was doubtful.
Simon, however, seemed to pursue it with zest and, now, without anger. It seemed to Bobby as though he enjoyed being refused, as it gave him another chance of entering another shop and showing that he had a hundred-pound note to change—a horrible foolish satisfaction that put a new edge to the affair. Simon was swanking.
"Look here,", said the unfortunate, at last, "wasn't there a girl you told me of last night you wanted to send flowers to? Let's go and get them; then we can have a drink somewhere."
"She'll wait," said Simon. "Besides, I've sent them. Come on."
"Very well," said Bobby, in desperation. "I believe I know a place where you can get your note changed; it's close by."
They reached a cigar merchant's. It was the cigar merchants and moneylenders that had often stood him in good stead. "Wait for me," said Bobby, and he went in. Behind the counter was a gentleman recalling Prince Florizel of Bohemia.
"Good morning, Mr. Ravenshaw," said this individual.
"Good morning, Alvarez," replied Bobby. "I haven't called about that little account I owe you though—but cheer up. I've got you a new customer—he wants a note changed."
"What sort of note?" asked Alvarez.
"A hundred-pound note; can you do it?"
"If the note's all right."
"Lord bless me, yes! I can vouch for that and for him; only he's strange to London. He's got heaps of money, too, but you must promise not to rook him too much over cigars, for he's a relative of mine."
"Where is he?" asked Alvarez.
"Outside."
"Well, bring him in."
Bobby went out. Uncle Simon was gone. Gone as though he had never been, swallowed up in the passing crowd, fascinated away by heaven knows what, and with all those bank-notes in his pocket. He might have got into a sudden taxi or boarded an omnibus, or vanished up Sackville Street or Albemarle Street; any passing fancy or sudden temptation would have been sufficient.
Bobby, hurrying towards St. James's Street to have a look down it, stopped a policeman.
"Have you seen an old gentleman—I mean a youngish-looking gentleman—in a straw hat?" asked Bobby. "I've lost him." Scarcely waiting for the inevitable reply, he hurried on, feeling that the constable must have thought him mad.
St. James's Street showed nothing of Simon. He was turning back when, half-blind to everything but the object of his search, he almost ran into the arms of Julia Delyse. She was carrying a parcel that looked like a manuscript.
"Why, Bobby, what is the matter with you?" asked Julia.
"I'm looking for someone," said Bobby distractedly. "I've lost a relative of mine."
"I wish it were one of mine," said Julia. "What sort of relative?"
"An oldish man in a straw hat. Walk down a bit; you look that side of the street and I'll watch this; he may have gone into a shop—and I must get hold of him."
He walked rapidly on, and Julia, sucked for a moment into this whirlpool of an Uncle Simon that had already engulfed Mudd, Bobby, and the good name of the firm of Pettigrew, toiled beside him till they came nearly to the Park railings.
"He's gone," said Bobby, stopping suddenly dead. "It's no use; he's gone."
"Well, you'll find him again," said Julia hopefully. "Relatives always turn up."
"Oh, he's sure to turn up," said the other, "and that's what I'm dreading—it's the way he'll turn up that's bothering me."
"I could understand you better if I knew what you meant," said Julia. "Let's walk back; this is out of my direction."
They turned.
Despite his perplexity and annoyance, Bobby could not suppress a feeling of relief at having done with the business for a moment; all the same, he was really distressed. The craving for counsel and companionship in thought seized him.
"Julia, can you keep a secret?" asked he.
"Tight," said Julia.
"Well, it's my uncle."
"You've lost?"
"Yes; and he's got his pockets full of hundred-pound bank-notes—and he's no more fit to be trusted with them than a child."
"What a delightful uncle!"
"Don't laugh; it's serious."
"He's not mad, is he?"
"No, that's the worst of it. He's got one of these beastly new diseases—I don't know what it is, but as far as I can make out it's as if he'd got young again without remembering what he is."
"How interesting!"
"Yes, you would find him very interesting if you had anything to do with him; but, seriously, something has to be done. There's the family name and there's his business." He explained the case of Simon as well as he could.
Julia did not seem in the least shocked.
"But I think it's beautiful," she broke out. "Strange—but in a way beautiful and pathetic. Oh, if only a few more people could do the same—become young, do foolish things instead of this eternal grind of common sense, hard business, and everything that ruins the world!"
Bobby tried to imagine the world with an increased population of the brand of Uncle Simon, and failed.
"I know," he said, "but it will be the ruin of his business and reputation. Abstractly, I don't deny there's something to be said for it, but in the concrete it don't work. Do think, and let's try to find a way out."
"I'm thinking," said Julia.
Then, after a pause:
"You must get him away from London."
"That was my idea, but he won't go, not even to Richmond for a few hours. He won't leave London."
"There's a place in Wessex I know," said Julia, "where there's a charming little hotel. I was down there for a week in May. You might take him there."
"We'd never get him into the train."
"Take him in a car."
"Might do that," said Bobby. "What's the name of it?"
"Upton-on-Hill; and I'll tell you what, I'll go down with you, if you like, and help to watch him. I'd like to study him."
"I'll think of it," said Bobby hurriedly. The affair of Uncle Simon was taking a new turn; like Fate, it was trying to force him into closer contact with Julia. Craving for someone to help him to think, he had welded himself to Julia with this family secret for solder. The idea of a little hotel in the country with Julia, ever ready for embracements and passionate scenes, the knowledge that he was almost half-engaged to her, the instinct that she would suck him into cosy corners and arbours—all this frankly frightened him. He was beginning to recognise that Julia was quite light and almost brilliant in the street when love-making was impossible, but impossibly heavy and dull, though mesmeric, when alone with him with her head on his shoulder. And away in the distance of his mind a deformed sort of common sense was telling him that if once Julia got a good long clutch on him she would marry him; he would pass from whirlpool to whirlpool of cosy corner and arbour over the rapids of marriage with Julia clinging to him.
"I'll think of it," said he. "What's its name?"
"The Rose Hotel, Upton-on-Hill—think of Upton Sinclair. It's a jolly little place, and such a nice landlord; we'd have a jolly time, Bobby. Bobby, have you forgotten yesterday?"
"No," said Bobby, from his heart.
"I didn't sleep a wink last night," said the lady of the red hair. "Did you?"
"Scarcely."
"Do you know," said she, "this is almost like Fate. It gives us a chance to meet under the same roof quite properly since your uncle is there—not that I care a button for the world, but still, there are the proprieties, aren't there?"
"There are."
"Wait for me," said she. "I want to go into my publishers' with this manuscript."
They had reached a fashionable publishers' office that had the appearance of a bank premises. In she went, returning in a moment empty-handed.
"Now I'm free," said she; "free for a month. What are you doing to-day?"
"I'll be looking for Uncle Simon," he replied. "I must rush back to the Charing Cross Hotel, and after that—I must go on hunting. I'll see you to-morrow, Julia."
"Are you staying at the Charing Cross?"
"No, I'm staying at B12, the Albany, with a man called Tozer."
"I wish we could have had the day together. Well, to-morrow, then."
"To-morrow," said Bobby.
He put her into a taxi and she gave the address of a female literary club, then when the taxi had driven away he returned to the Charing Cross Hotel.
There he found Mudd, who had just returned.