Plum Pie (20 page)

"And not a hope of catching the fellow," said Mr. Schnellenhamer.

I pointed out that the paper said that the police had a clue, and he snorted contemptuously.

"Police!"

"At your service," said a voice, and turning I saw what I thought for a moment was General De Gaulle. Then I realized that he was some inches shorter than the General and had a yard or so less nose. But not even General De Gaulle could have looked sterner and more intimidating. "Sergeant Brichoux of the Monaco police force," he said. "I have come to see a Mr. Mulliner, who I understand is a member of your entourage."

This surprised me. I was also surprised that he should be speaking English so fluently, but the explanation soon occurred to me. A sergeant of police in a place like Monte Carlo, constantly having to question international spies, heavily veiled adventuresses and the like, would soon pick it up.

"I am Mr. Mulliner," I said.

"Mr. George Mulliner?"

"Oh, George? No, he is my nephew. You want to see him?"

"I do."

"Why?" asked Mr. Schnellenhamer.

"In connection with last night's assault on Mr. Glutz. The police have reason to believe that he can assist them in their enquiries."

"How?"

"They would like him to explain how his wallet came to be lying on the spot where Mr. Glutz was attacked. One feels, does one not, that the fact is significant. Can I see him, if you please?" said Sergeant Brichoux, and a sailor was despatched to find George. He returned with the information that he did not appear to be on board.

"Probably gone for a stroll ashore," said Mr. Schnellenhamer.

"Then with your permission," said the sergeant, looking more sinister than ever, "I will await his return."

"And I'll go and look for him," I said.

It was imperative, I felt, that George be intercepted and warned of what was waiting for him on the yacht. It was, of course, absurd to suppose that he had been associated in any way with last night's outrage, but if his wallet had been discovered on the scene of the crime, it was obvious that he would have a good deal of explaining to do. As I saw it, he was in the position the hero is always getting into in novels of suspense—forced by circumstances, though innocent, into the role of Suspect Number One and having a thoroughly sticky time till everything comes right in the last chapter.

It was on a bench near the harbour that I found him. He was sitting with his head between his hands, probably feeling that if he let go of it it would come in half, for when I spoke his name and he looked up, it was plain to see that he was in the grip of a severe hangover. I am told by those who know that there are six varieties of hangover—the Broken Compass, the Sewing Machine, the Comet, the Atomic, the Cement Mixer and the Gremlin Boogie, and his aspect suggested that he had got them all.

I was not really surprised. He had told me after dinner on the previous night that he was just off to call on his trustee and collect his inheritance, and it was natural to suppose that after doing so he would celebrate. But when I asked him if this was so. he uttered one of those hollow rasping laughs that are so unpleasant.

"Celebrate!" he said. "No, I wasn't celebrating. Shall I tell you what happened last night? I want to Bassinger's hotel and gave my name and asked if he was in, and they told me tie had checked out a week or two ago and had left a letter for me. I took the letter. I opened it. I read it. And having read it...Have you ever been slapped in the eye with a wet fish?"

"Oddly enough, no."

"I was once when I got into an argument with an angler down at Santa Monica, and the sensation now was very similar. For this letter, this billet doux from that offspring of unmarried parents P. P. Bassinger, informed me that he had been gambling for years with the trust money and was deeply sorry to say that there was now no trust. It had gone. So, he added, had he. By the time I read this, he said, he would be in one of those broadminded South American countries where they don't believe in extradition. He apologised profusely, but places the blame on some man he had met in a bar who had given him an infallible system for winning at the tables. And why my godmother gave the trusteeship to someone living in Monte Carlo within easy walking distance of the Casino we shall never know. Just asking for it is the way it looks to me."

My heart bled for him. By no stretch of optimism could I regard this as his lucky day. All this and Sergeant Brichoux, too. There was a quaver in my voice as I spoke.

"My poor boy! "

"Poor is right."

"It must have been a terrible shock."

"It was."

"What did you do?"

"What would you have done? I went out and got pie-eyed. And here's a funny thing. I had the most extraordinary nightmare. Do you ever have nightmares?"

"Sometimes."

"Bad ones?"

"Occasionally."

"I'll bet they aren't as bad as the one I had. I dreamed that I had done a murder. And that dream is still lingering with me. I keep seeing myself engaged in a terrific brawl with someone and laying him out. It's a most unpleasant sensation. Why are you looking at me like a sheep with something on its mind?"

I had to tell him.

"It wasn't a nightmare, George."

He seemed annoyed.

"Don't be an ass. Do you think I don't know a nightmare when I see one?"

"I repeat, it was no nightmare."

He looked at me incredulously, his jaw beginning to droop like a badly set soufflé.

"You don't mean it actually happened?"

"I fear so. The papers have featured it."

"I really slugged somebody?"

"Not just somebody. The president of a motion picture corporation, which makes your offence virtually
lese majeste
."

"Then how very fortunate," said George, looking on the bright side after a moment of intense thought, "that nobody can possibly know it was me. That certainly takes a weight off my mind. You're still goggling at me like a careworn sheep. Why is that?"

"I was thinking what a pity it was that you should have dropped your wallet—containing your name and address—on the spot of the crime."

"Did I do that?"

"You did."

"Hell's bells!"

"Hell's bells is correct. There's a sergeant of police on board the yacht now, waiting for your return. He has reason to believe that you can assist him in his enquiries."

"Death and despair!"

"You may well say so. There is only one thing to be done. You must escape while there is yet time. Get over the frontier into Italy."

"But my passport's on the yacht."

"I could bring it to you."

"You'd never find it."

"Then I don't know what to suggest. Of course, you might---"

"That's no good."

"Or you could"

"That's no good, either. No," said George, "this is the end, I'm a rat in a trap. I'm for it. Well-meaning, not to be blamed, the victim of the sort of accident that might have happened to anyone when lit up as I was lit, but nevertheless for it. That's Life. You come to Monte Carlo to collect a large fortune, all pepped up with the thought that at last you're going to be able to say No to old Schnellenhamer, and what do you get? No fortune, a headache, and to top it all off the guillotine or whatever they have in these parts. That's Life, I repeat. Just a bowl of cherries. You can't win."

Twin! I uttered a cry, electrified.

"I have it, George! "

"Well?"

"You want to get on the yacht."

"Well?"

"To secure your passport."

"Well?"

"Then go there."

He gave me a reproachful look.

"If," he said, "you think this is the sort of stuff to spring on a man with a morning head who is extremely worried because the bloodhounds of the law are sniffing on his trail and he's liable to be guillotined at any moment, I am afraid I cannot agree with you. On your own showing that yacht is congested with sergeants of police, polishing the handcuffs and waiting eagerly for my return. I'd look pretty silly sauntering in and saying 'Well, boys, here I am'. Or don't you think so?"

"I omitted to mention that you would say you were Alfred."

He blinked.

"Alfred?"

"Yes."

"My brother Alfred?"

"Your twin brother Alfred," I said, emphasising the second word in the sentence, and I saw the light of intelligence creep slowly into his haggard face. "I will go there ahead of you and sow the good seed by telling them that you have a twin brother who is your exact double. Then you make your appearance. Have no fear that your story will not be believed. Alfred is at this moment in Monte Carlo, performing nightly in the revue at the Casino and is, I imagine, a familiar figure in local circles. He is probably known to the police—not, I need scarcely say, in any derogatory sense but because they have caught his act and may even have been asked by him to take a card—
any
card— and memorise it before returning it to the pack, his aim being to produce it later from the inside of a lemon. There will be no question of the innocent deception failing to succeed. Once on board it will be a simple matter to make some excuse to go below. An urgent need for bicarbonate of soda suggests itself. And once below you can find your passport, say a few graceful words of farewell and leave."

"But suppose Schnellenhamer asks me to do conjuring tricks?"

"Most unlikely. He is not one of those men who are avid for entertainment. It is his aim in life to avoid it. He has told me that it is the motion picture magnate's cross that everybody he meets starts acting at him m the hope of getting on the payroll He says that on a good morning; in Hollywood he has some-times been acted at by a secretary, two book agents, a life insurance man, a masseur, the man with the benzedrine, the studio watchman, a shoe shine boy and a barber, all before lunch. No need to worry about him wanting you to entertain him."

"But what would be Alfred's reason for coming aboard?"

"Simple. He has heard that Mr. Schnellenhamer has arrived. Ii would be in the Society jottings column. He knows that I am with Mr. Schnellenhamer"

"How?"

"I told him so when I met him yesterday. So he has come to see me."

The light of intelligence had now spread over George's face from ear to ear. He chuckled hoarsely.

"Do you know, I really believe it would work."

"Of course it will work. It can't fail. I'll go now and start paving the way. And as your raiment is somewhat disordered, you had better get a change of clothes, and a shave and a wash and brush-up would not hurt. Here is some money," I said, and with an encouraging pat on the back I left him.

Brichoux was still at his post when I reached the yacht, inflexible determination written on every line of his unattractive face. Mr. Schnellenhamer sat beside him looking as if he were feeling that what the world needed to make it a sweeter and better place was a complete absence of police sergeants. He had never been fond of policemen since one of them, while giving him a parking ticket, had recited Hamlet's To be or not to be speech to give him some idea of what he could do in a dramatic role. I proceeded to my mission without delay.

"Any sign of my nephew?" I asked.

"None," said the sergeant.

"He has not been back?"

"He has not."

"Very odd."

"Very suspicious."

An idea struck me.

"I wonder if by any chance he has gone to see his brother."

"Has he a brother?"

"Yes. They are twins. His name is Alfred. You have probably seen him, sergeant. He is playing in the revue at the Casino. Does a conjuring act."

"The Great Alfredo?"

"That is his stage name. You have witnessed his performance?"

"I have."

"Amazing the resemblance between him and George. Even I can hardly tell them apart. Same face, same figure, same way of walking, same coloured hair and eyes. When you meet George, you will be astounded at the resemblance."

"I am looking forward to meeting Mr. George Mulliner."

"Well, Alfred will probably be here this morning to have a chat with me, for he is bound to have read in the paper that I am Mr. Schnellenhamer's guest. “Ah, here he comes now," I said, as George appeared on the gangway. "Ah, Alfred."

"Hullo, uncle."

"So you found your way here?"

"That's right."

"My host, Mr. Schnellenhamer."

"How do you do?"

"And Sergeant Brichoux of the Monaco police."

"How do you do? Good morning, Mr. Schnellenhamer, I have been wanting very much to meet you. This is a great pleasure."

I was proud of George. I had been expecting a show of at least some nervousness on his part, for the task he had undertaken was a stem one, but I could see no trace of it. He seemed completely at his ease, and he continued to address himself to Mr. Schnellenhamer without so much as a tremor in his voice.

"I have a proposition I would like to put up to you in connection with your forthcoming Bible epic Solomon And The Queen Of Sheba. You have probably realised for yourself that the trouble with all these ancient history super-pictures is that they lack comedy. Colossal scenery, battle sequences of ten thousand a side, more semi-nude dancing girls than you could shake a stick at, but where are the belly laughs? Take Cleopatra. Was there anything funny in that? Not a thing. And what occurred to me the moment I read your advance publicity was that what Solomon And The Queen Of Sheba needs, if it is really to gross grosses, is a comedy conjuror, and I decided to offer my services. You can scarcely require to be told how admirably an act like mine would fit into the scheme of things. There is nothing like a conjuror to keep a monarch amused through the long winter evenings, and King Solomon is bound to have had one at his court. So what happens? The Queen of Sheba arrives. The magnificence of her surroundings stuns her. 'The half was not told unto me' she says. 'You like my little place?' says the King. 'Well, it's a home. But wait, you ain't seen nothing yet. Send for the Great Alfredo.' And on I come. 'Well, folks,' I say, 'a funny thing happened to me on my way to the throne room,' and then I tell a story and then a few gags and then I go into my routine, and I would like just to run through it now. For my first trick…"