Scruffy - A Diversion (3 page)

He went sniffing through the dressing-table, opened a bottle of expensive scent and drank the contents, spilled powder and got it all over his face and up his nose, bringing on a sneezing fit. The ticking of an ormolu bedroom clock annoyed him, so he stopped it the only way he knew how—by pounding it on the floor until its innards came out.

He then turned his attention to the cupboards, which he opened. The clothing that disturbed him either by its texture or colour he rendered into strips, but for some reason fell in love with a pair of the Surveyor’s checked golfing trousers. These he flung over his shoulder and went to the window just as the Surveyor’s wife, returning from shopping with her baskets laden, looked up to see a brown-furred, white-faced fiend from hell with her husband’s golfing trousers wrapped around his neck staring at her.

The scream she emitted was heard at the dockyards a mile away.

Scruffy retired from the scene the same way he had come—up the rain spout and over the roofs—still bearing the trousers.

Shaking, the Surveyor’s wife went into the house and called the Colonial Secretary’s secretary and dusted him off on the subject of the famous Rock apes. The buck then passed from one telephone to another until it ended in the lap of the Colonial Secretary himself, who said bitterly to his assistant, “When you can get through to Brigadier Gaskell, call me—and don’t stop trying until you do.”

There was not a great deal left of Scruffy’s happy morning on the town. As time was getting short and he liked to be back up on the hill and into his favourite olive tree for his siesta before midday, he went through three flower-beds, disrupted education at the Grammar School by giving a performance of gymnastics and acrobatics on the flying rings and other playground equipment, then having thoroughly digested his meal, went off and relieved himself in a fresh-water catchment, where he was observed by the Chief Water Engineer, whose life was wrapped up in providing adequate and sanitary water for the people and the garrison of Gibraltar. Next to the Governor, Colonial Secretary and Military Commander, his job was the most important on the post, and the rocket he loosed at the C.R.A. when he got through to him really finished the job of boiling over the Brigadier.

Since all of his telephone lines were tied up and apparently would remain so until the ape on the loose left town, the Brigadier summoned his Staff Captain and snarled, “Get over to Old Queen’s Gate H.Q. and find young Bailey. I want him brought here immediately.” Unspoken but implicit in the glare of the Brigadier’s eyes and the choleric crimson of his countenance was the phrase, “Dead or alive.”

2
The Brigadier is not Amused

T
he Brigadier was a tall, florid man, whose mouth beneath a short military moustache was set in lines of permanent exasperation engendered by having to deal with young officers and rankers sent out these days who were simply not a patch on what soldiers had been in his own youth.

His life had been dedicated to the service of the guns of the Royal Artillery, but now that he had reached General Officer status and Brigade Command he was not sure to what purpose. He had during his career dutifully blown up and dismembered an adequate number of human beings designated as enemies but whom he had never seen since the range was rarely less than 2,000 yards: he had himself suffered punctures of his hide. On his chest the fruit salad of ribbons contained the requisite decorations testifying to his courage and understanding of comportment consistent with the furthering of a military career. He was a thoroughly conscientious officer who had become set in the routine of trying to get on with things with men he considered inadequate for the job and administering his command with as little trouble as possible.

Trouble was what Brigadier Gaskell hated, personal trouble, military trouble, trouble with superiors, trouble with inferiors, trouble at home, trouble on the post, and above all trouble with politicians, civil servants and civilians. Trouble was what he had on his hands now, trouble which would have repercussions quite possibly in the office of the Colonial Secretary, the Governor, Whitehall, and—one never knew—might even spark a nasty-minded question or two in Parliament, and which could have been avoided if a young nitwit of a Captain delegated to do the job had discharged his duties properly and kept his filthy beasts up at Queen’s Gate and Middle Hill where they belonged, instead of pestering him with requests for cages, sprays, concrete floorings, increase in food allowances and other damned coddlings of the foul creatures.

Well, young Bailey was for it now, and Brigadier Gaskell, who had somewhat more imagination than usually associated with a soldier, relished the state that Captain Bailey would be in as Captain Quennel, his Staff Captain, marched him over to receive his chewing up. He would know that he was for the daddy of all rockets.

Thus the C.R.A. was totally unprepared for the bustling, eager entrance of this officer, the engaging and friendly innocence of his blue eyes, and the unsettling expression of pleasure and enthusiasm on his countenance. He had under his arm a large manilla file, apparently filled with documents, and as he came through the door his fingers were already delving into it and bringing forth typewritten sheets and other pages covered with what appeared to be rough drawings and figures.

So startled was the Brigadier by this breezy and whirlwind entrance, when his imagination had promised him a pale and shaking creature standing craven and trembling on the carpet, that he failed immediately to touch off the blast as he had intended, with the crash of his fist on to his desk and a shout of, “God damn it, Bailey—once and for all . . . !!!”

Instead he took the Captain’s crisply delivered salute and remained seated behind his desk staring open-mouthed and unbelieving, listening to him say: “It’s frightfully decent of you to give me this time, sir. I know how busy you are, but I’ve got everything in shape, I think, so that you can practically take it in at a glance . . .”

The papers were out of the file and spread on the desk before him, and in spite of what was pent up inside, the Brigadier could not help but find his fire-and-brimstone-shouting glance momentarily distracted to them, so that at one instant he found himself staring at what seemed to be a drawing of a large and primitive bear trap, the next at a list of names—“Joyce, Mary, Helen, Phyllis, Peter, Albert, Harold, Marjorie, Daisy, Penelope, Oswald, Jeremiah”—then again more drawings which looked like refrigerator coils, and other sheets drawn up most intriguingly in the form recognized as used for genealogies and lines of descent from ancient families.

Staff Captain Quennel found himself staring down at the papers too, thus unwittingly drawing upon himself the explosion the C.R.A. had been saving up for the Captain.

“What the devil are you standing there gazing at, Quennel?” he shouted, causing the Staff Captain to pale beneath his tan.

Tim, who had produced a pencil, now pointed with it to one of the drawings and said, “I think probably my trap, sir. The way it works, sir, is—you put the banana here, with a nylon thread attached to it.”

The Brigadier was beginning to recover his lost poise and said with a cold and repressed menace, “Captain Bailey, do you realize—?”

“I know it isn’t exactly sporting, sir,” Captain Bailey continued, “but he picks up the banana, pulling the thread which is tied to this support here, dragging it out from under—down comes the cage, and there you are.”

“CAPTAIN BAILEY!” At last the C.R.A. had gathered his forces for the shout he had meant to emit at the very first. “Do you realize why I have sent for you?”

Tim did, and wondered how long he could continue to conceal the fact from the Brigadier. It had worked well so far, and was quite probably worth another try, but he also knew that there was such a thing as goading a man beyond the limits of containment. He said, “Yes, sir—to go over the things that need to be done for the apes.”

Brigadier Gaskell’s fists clenched and unclenched. Then he said, “Do you see that telephone, Captain Bailey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know that that telephone has been ringing constantly for the last two hours?”

“No, sir.”

“Well it has. And during those two hours I have been compelled to listen to a list of complaints of depredations by a filthy brute that is supposed to be your responsibility to keep under control—gardens torn up, orange trees knocked down, gutters demolished, roofs torn off houses, the Surveyor’s trousers—” There was a slight movement on the part of the Staff Captain, and the Brigadier’s fury was again distracted to that unfortunate young man. “Captain Quennel,” he said icily, “if you laugh, you may consider your military career at an end.” He returned to Tim. “—homes invaded, catchments fouled—I’m surprised there’s anything of the town left standing.”

Tim’s voice suddenly went low and was filled with sympathy. He said, “I know, sir—and that’s not all.”

“W-what?” The Brigadier here found his mind and senses reeling. “W-what’s not all?”

“Of what’s happened,” Tim explained. “It started earlier up at the Queen’s Gate car park. Gunner Lovejoy is bringing down the list of claims, but I’ve heard some of them, and I don’t anticipate too much trouble. The chap who had his camera and binoculars smashed had obviously been teasing the animal. I think we can deal with him, sir. As for the child that was bitten—”

“Child that was bitten?
” repeated the Brigadier in tones of mingled fury, despair and disbelief.

“If he had used his nut and let go the teddy bear, it wouldn’t have occurred.” Tim’s voice grew confiding and conciliatory. “The whole thing wouldn’t have happened, sir, if some attention had been paid to my memo of ten days ago on the peanut situation. It all ties in with what I had to say about the shocking lack of monkey-nuts— You see, he does like his peanuts, and I think if you will consult the order issued on 28th March, 1932, by the Secretariat on behalf of the Government, you will find he is entitled to them as a part of the regular rations.”

The Brigadier at this point could do nothing more than stare helplessly.

“Now, the other part of my plan,” continued Tim—“it’s all written down and set out here—is for better control of civilian molestation and unauthorized feeding of the apes in the town. Suggested: that further signs be posted on South Port Gates, Water Port Gates, Casemates Gates, Trafalgar Cemetery, the Post Office, and the Apes’ Den, warning civilians and Army personnel against feeding and enticing the apes; increasing the amount of the fine for violations; and above all, sir, jacking up the police to do their duty and arrest violators. If the apes didn’t know they could cadge monkey-nuts from the townspeople, they’d never come down. If I were you, I’d have the Police Commissioner in, and give him a real rocket.”

The Brigadier took a long, deep breath, and then two more, since murder was not his idea of bringing to a close an honourable, if undistinguished, military career. Then he said, “Captain Bailey, am I to understand that you are presuming to offer me advice?”

“No, sir—except, of course, where the apes are concerned—”

“You know it all.”

Tim tried to look modest. “Well, sir, I have made a study of the job since I took it over a year or so ago, and I must say I’ve learned a good deal.”

Brigadier Gaskell found suddenly that his massive choler and temper had evaporated, almost as though he had held it in too long. Now that he had use for it, it was no longer there. To his Staff Captain he said, “Thank you, Captain Quennel, you may go,” and after his departure said quietly enough, “Sit down, Captain Bailey, and let’s have a word together.”

Tim stopped perspiring internally and gave a mental “Whew!” It looked as though he were about to get away with it, and he even harboured notions, now that he appeared to have talked the Brigadier out of his rage, of putting over some of the pet ideas for the comfort and happiness of his apes that he had been working on for so long.

“Bailey,” the Brigadier asked with almost an air of amiability, “do you know why I put you into the job of Officer in Charge of Apes?”

Tim was always one to repay amiability with the like. “Well, no, sir,” he said with what he hoped was an agreeable expression, “not really.”

“I selected you,” interrupted the Brigadier, and then pronounced each word of the following sentence separately, “because—I—didn’t—want—any—trouble.”

“Trouble, sir?”

“Trouble! Trouble with those seeping apes. Bailey, you may or may not realize it, but this is a military outpost of the Empire. If war comes, as it most likely will, I shall be called upon to defend it. I have things to do, Bailey. You may be too young to realize it, but the command of a Brigade of Royal Artillery is complicated and arduous. For God-knows-why the Government has seen fit to encumber me with the further responsibility of a pack of foul and undisciplined monkeys. I am to keep track of their numbers, look after their welfare, write reports, and otherwise waste my time on this pack of repulsive slobs.”

Tim thought it wise to remain silent at this point, and he did so.

“That same Government in its benevolence,” continued the Brigadier, “has seen fit to permit me to delegate authority by appointing an O.I.C., or Officer in Charge of Apes.” The Brigadier’s fists suddenly clenched again, his jaw muscles tightened, and he hissed, “That’s you, Bailey, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed, sir, and I’ve tried—”

“Who asked you to try?” the C.R.A. cut in. “Who asked you to make a career out of those filthy beasts? When I asked Old Nosey Peeb—that is to say Colonel Peebles—for a recommendation for an O.I.C. Apes I said I wanted a young chap who could be trusted to carry on in the tradition of his predecessors. ‘Right,’ said Colonel Peebles, ‘I have just the man for you, Young Bailey. Just sent to us; enthusiastic and seems to like animals. Always picking up strays of one kind or another. Good record. Doesn’t give his superiors any trouble.’ That’s why I picked you for this important job. And you know what I expect of you?”

“Well—” began Tim.