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It wasn’t, of course, that he didn’t trust her implicitly. Nevertheless . . .

Ronnie went in to lunch.

4 NOTICEABLE BEHAVIOUR OF RONALD FISH

I

If you go up Beeston Street in the south-western postal division of London and follow the pavement on the right-hand side, you come to a blind alley called Hayling Court. If you enter the first building on the left of this blind alley and mount a flight of stairs, you find yourself facing a door, on the ground-glass of which is the legend: ARGUS

ENQUIRY

AGENCY

LTD

and below it, to one side, the smaller legend

P. FROBISHER PILBEAM, MGR

And if, at about the hour when Ronnie Fish had stepped into his two-seater in the garage of Blandings Castle, you had opened this door and gone in and succeeded in convincing the gentlemanly office-boy that yours was a
bonafide
visit, having nothing to do with the sale of life insurance, proprietary medicines or handsomely bound sets of Dumas, you would have been admitted to the august presence of the Mgr himself. P. Frobisher Pilbeam was seated at his desk, reading a telegram which had arrived during his absence at lunch.

This is peculiarly an age of young men starting out in business for themselves; of rare, unfettered spirits chafing at the bonds of employment and refusing to spend their lives working forty-eight weeks in the year for a salary. Quite early in his career Pilbeam had seen where the big money lay, and decided to go after it.

As editor of that celebrated weekly scandal-sheet,
Society Spice,
Percy Pilbeam had had exceptional opportunities of discovering in good time the true bent of his genius: with the result that, after three years of nosing out people’s discreditable secrets on behalf of the Mammoth Publishing Company, his employers, he had come to the conclusion that a man of his gifts would be doing far better for himself nosing out such secrets on his own behalf. Considerably to the indignation of Lord Tilbury, the Mammoth’s guiding spirit, he had borrowed some capital, handed in his portfolio, and was now in an extremely agreeable financial position.

The telegram over which he sat brooding with wrinkled forehead was just the sort of telegram an Enquiry agent ought to have been delighted to receive, being thoroughly cryptic and consequently a pleasing challenge to his astuteness as a detective, but Percy Pilbeam, in his ten minutes’ acquaintance with it, had come to dislike it heartily. He preferred his telegrams easier.

It ran as follows:

Be sure send best man investigate big robbery.

It was unsigned.

What made the thing particularly annoying was that it was so tantalizing. A big robbery probably meant jewels, with a correspondingly big fee attached to their recovery. But you cannot scour England at random, asking people if they have had a big robbery in their neighbourhood.

Reluctantly, he gave the problem up; and, producing a pocket mirror, began with the aid of a pen nib to curl his small and revolting moustache. His thoughts had drifted now to Sue. They were not altogether sunny thoughts, for the difficulty of making Sue’s acquaintance was beginning to irk Percy Pilbeam. He had written her notes. He had sent her flowers. And nothing had happened. She ignored the notes, and what she did with the flowers he did not know. She certainly never thanked him for them.

Brooding upon these matters, he was interrupted by the opening of the door. The gentlemanly office-boy entered. Pilbeam looked up, annoyed.

‘How many times have I told you not to come in here without knocking?’ he asked sternly.

The office-boy reflected.

‘Seven,’ he replied.

‘What would you have done if I had been in conference with an important client?’

‘Gone out again,’ said the office-boy. Working in a Private Enquiry Agency, you drop into the knack of solving problems.

‘Well, go out now.’

‘Very good, sir. I merely wished to say that, while you were absent at lunch, a gentleman called.’

‘Eh? Who was he?’

The office-boy, who liked atmosphere, and hoped some day to be promoted to the company of Mr Murphy and Mr Jones, the two active assistants who had their lair on the ground floor, thought for a moment of saying that, beyond the obvious facts that the caller was a Freemason, left-handed, a vegetarian and a traveller in the East, he had made no deductions from his appearance. He perceived, however, that his employer was not in the vein for that sort of thing.

‘A Mr Carmody, sir. Mr Hugo Carmody.’

‘Ah!’ Pilbeam displayed interest. ‘Did he say he would call again?’

‘He mentioned the possibility, sir.’

‘Well, if he does, inform Mr Murphy and tell him to be ready when I ring.’

The office-boy retired, and Pilbeam returned to his thoughts of Sue. He was quite certain now that he did not like her attitude. Her attitude wounded him. Another thing he deplored was the reluctance of stage-door keepers to reveal the private addresses of the personnel of the company. Really, there seemed to be no way of getting to know the girl at all.

Eight respectful knocks sounded on the door. The office-boy, though occasionally forgetful, was conscientious. He had restored the average.

‘Well?’

‘Mr Carmody to see you, sir.’

Pilbeam once more relegated Sue to the hinterland of his mind. Business was business.

‘Show him in.’

‘This way, sir,’ said the office-boy with a graceful courtliness which, even taking into account the fact that he suffered from adenoids, had an old-world flavour, and Hugo sauntered across the threshold.

Hugo felt, and was looking, quietly happy. He seemed to bring the sunshine with him.

Nobody could have been more wholeheartedly attached than he to Blandings Castle and the society of his Millicent, but he was finding London, revisited, singularly attractive.

‘And this, if I mistake not, Watson, is our client now,’ said Hugo genially.

Such was his feeling of universal benevolence that he embraced with his good-will even the repellent-looking young man who had risen from the desk. Percy Pilbeam’s eyes were too small and too close together and he marcelled his hair in a manner distressing to right-thinking people, but to-day he had to be lumped in with the rest of the species as a man and a brother, so Hugo bestowed a dazzling smile upon him. He still thought Pilbeam should not have been wearing pimples with a red tie. One or the other if he liked.

But not both. Nevertheless he smiled upon him.

‘Fine day,’ he said.

‘Quite,’ said Pilbeam.

‘Very jolly, the smell of the asphalt and carbonic gas.’

‘Quite.’

‘Some people might call London a shade on the stuffy side on an afternoon like this. But not Hugo Carmody.’

‘No?’

‘No. H. Carmody finds it just what the doctor ordered.’ He sat down. ‘Well, sleuth,’ he said, ‘to business. I called before lunch, but you were out.’

Yes.’

‘But here I am again. And I suppose you want to know what I’ve come about?’

‘When you’re ready to get round to it,’ said Pilbeam patiently.

Hugo stretched his long legs comfortably.

‘Well, I know you detective blokes always want a fellow to begin at the beginning and omit no detail, for there is no saying how important some seemingly trivial fact may be.

Omitting birth and early education then, I am at the moment private secretary to Lord Emsworth, at Blandings Castle, in Shropshire. And,’ said Hugo, ‘I maintain, a jolly good secretary. Others may think differently, but that is my view.’

‘Blandings Castle?’

A thought had struck the proprietor of the Argus Enquiry Agency. He fumbled in his desk and produced the mysterious telegram. Yes, as he had fancied, it had been handed in at a place called Market Blandings.

‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked, pushing it across the desk.

Hugo glanced at the document.

‘The old boy must have sent that after I left,’ he said. ‘The absence of signature is, no doubt, due to mental stress. Lord Emsworth is greatly perturbed. A-twitter. Shaken to the core, you might say.’

About this robbery?’

‘Exactly. It has got right in amongst him.’

Pilbeam reached for pen and paper. There was a stern, set, bloodhound sort of look in his eyes.

‘Kindly give me the details.’

Hugo pondered a moment.

‘It was a dark and stormy night . . . No, I’m a liar. The moon was riding serenely in the sky . . .’

‘This big robbery? Tell me about it.’

Hugo raised his eyebrows.

‘Big?’

‘The telegram says “big”.’

‘These telegraph-operators will try to make sense. You can’t stop them editing. The word should be “pig”. Lord Emsworth’s pig has been stolen!’

‘Pig!’ cried Percy Pilbeam.

Hugo looked at him a little anxiously.

‘You know what a pig is, surely? If not, I’m afraid there is a good deal of tedious spade work ahead of us.’

The roseate dreams which the proprietor of the Argus had had of missing jewels broke like bubbles. He was deeply affronted. A man of few ideals, the one deep love of his life was for this Enquiry Agency which he had created and nursed to prosperity through all the dangers and vicissitudes which beset Enquiry Agencies in their infancy. And the thought of being expected to apply its complex machinery to a search for lost pigs cut him, as Millicent had predicted, to the quick.

‘Does Lord Emsworth seriously suppose that I have time to waste looking for stolen pigs?’ he demanded shrilly. ‘I never heard such nonsense in my life.’

Almost the exact words which all the other Hawkshaws used. Finding you not at home,’

explained Hugo, ‘I spent the morning going round to other Agencies. I think I visited six in all, and every one of them took the attitude you do.’

‘I am not surprised.’

‘Nevertheless, it seemed to me that they, like you, lacked vision. This pig, you see, is a prize pig. Don’t picture to yourself something with a kink in its tail sporting idly in the mud. Imagine, rather, a favourite daughter kidnapped from her ancestral home. This is heavy stuff, I assure you. Restore the animal in time for the Agricultural Show, and you may ask of Lord Ems-worth what you will, even unto half his kingdom.’

Percy Pilbeam rose. He had heard enough.

‘I will not trouble Lord Emsworth. The Argus Enquiry Agency . . .’

‘. . . does not detect pigs? I feared as much. Well, well, so be it. And now,’ said Hugo, affably, ‘may I take advantage of the beautiful friendship which has sprung up between us to use your telephone?’

Without waiting for permission – for which, indeed, he would have had to wait some time – he drew the instrument to him and gave a number. He then began to chat again.

‘You seem a knowledgeable sort ofbloke,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you can tell me where the village swains go these days when they want to dance upon the green? I have been absent for some little time from the centre of the vortex, and I have become as a child in these matters. What is the best that London has to offer to ayoung man with his blood up and the vine leaves more or less in his hair?’

Pilbeam was a man of business. He had no wish to converse with this client who had disappointed him and wounded his finest feelings, but it so happened that he had recently bought shares in a rising restaurant.

‘Mario’s,’ he replied promptly. ‘It’s the only place.’

Hugo sighed. Once he had dreamed that the answer to a question like that would have been ‘The Hot Spot’. But where was the Hot Spot now? Gone like the flowers that wither in the first frost. The lion and the lizard kept the courts where Jamshyd gloried and – after hours, unfortunately, which had started all the trouble – drank deep. Ah well, life was pretty complex.

A voice from the other end of the wire broke in on his reverie. He recognized it as that of the porter of the block of flats where Sue had her tiny abode.

‘Hullo? Bashford? Mr Carmody speaking. Will you make a long arm and haul Miss Brown to the instrument. Eh? Miss Sue Brown, of course. No other Browns are any use to me whatsoever. Right ho, I’ll wait.’

The astute detective never permits himself to exhibit emotion. Pilbeam turned his start of surprise into a grave, distrait nod, as if he were thinking out deep problems. He took up his pen and drew three crosses and a squiggle on the blotting-paper. He was glad that no gentlemanly instinct had urged him to leave his visitor alone to do his telephoning.

‘Mario’s, eh?’ said Hugo. ‘What’s the band like?’

‘It’s Leopold’s.’

‘Good enough for me,’ said Hugo with enthusiasm. He hummed a bar or two, and slid his feet dreamily about the carpet. ‘I’m shockingly out of practice, dash it. Well, that’s that.

Touching this other matter, you’re sure you won’t come to Blandings?’

‘Quite.’

‘Niceplace. Gravel soil, spreading views, well laid-out pleasure grounds, Company’s own water . . . I would strongly advise you to bring your magnifying-glass and spend the summer. However, if you really feel . . . Sue! Hullo-ullo-ullo! This is Hugo. Yes, just up in town for the night on a mission of extraordinary secrecy and delicacy which I am not empowered to reveal. Speaking from the Argus Enquiry Agency, by courtesy of proprietor. I was wondering if you would care to come out and help me restore my lost youth, starting at about eight-thirty. Eh?’

A silence had fallen at the other end of the wire. What was happening was that in the hall of the block of flats Sue’s conscience was fighting a grim battle against heavy odds.

Ranged in opposition to it were her loneliness, her love of dancing and her desire once more to see Hugo, who, though he was not a man one could take seriously, always cheered her up and made her laugh. And she had been needing a laugh for days.

Hugo thought he had been cut off.

‘Hullo-ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo-ullo!’ he barked peevishly.

‘Don’t yodel like that,’ said Sue. ‘You’ve nearly made me deaf.’

‘Sorry, dear heart. I thought the machine had conked. Well, how do you react? Is it a bet?’

‘I do want to see you again,’ said Sue, hesitatingly.

‘You shall. In person. Clean shirt, white waistcoat, the Carmody studs, and everything.’