“Tim—”
“And, especially, pouring out those bottles of brandy and champagne just to make sure there was nothing else in them! We’ll sue! Oh, we’ll sue! We’ll make sure that Griddesby—”
“Griggsby. Tim — listen—”
“Whatever! We’ll make him sorry he was ever born! And—”
“Tim, listen—” Simpson said sadly.
But Timothy Briggs, once started on a crusade, was not easily put off. Fortunately, the two men were on the open upper deck of a two-decker, so that the breeze carried away a good bit of the vituperation.
“And that Grimsby saying that the A.C. of Scotland Yard had given him the tip himself! And then when he finally gets this Winterblast on the blower, the man never heard of you or me or even of this Grumley! I wouldn’t be surprised if he never even heard of Heathrow Airport! Oh, they haven’t heard the last of this, believe me!”
“Tim—”
“And get that long look off your face!” Briggs went on fiercely, studying Simpson critically. “I said we’ll sue and we will. We’ll get back the cost of every bottle, at today’s market for the top brands, believe me! Plus damages. God knows how many years went off my life when I watched that — that — whatever his name is — pour our brandy down the sink! We’ll collect, don’t worry, every penny, so don’t look so God-’elp-us! The world hasn’t come to an end!”
“Tim,” Simpson said dolefully, “for us, maybe it has.” He held out the newspaper story folded to the story of their financial disaster. Simpson had held the bad news back during their session with James J. Griggsby, feeling that Briggs had enough to cope with at that moment without adding to his grief. But Briggs could not be kept in the dark forever.
“What’s this?” Briggs asked suspiciously, and took the paper. His eyes took in the head of the story and then skipped quickly to the body. When he finally looked up from the article, he did not — as Simpson had feared he might — try to take out his frustration by attempting to rip one of the bus seats out by its roots. Instead the usually pugnacious Briggs looked slightly dazed. “We’re broke!”
“It looks that way,” Simpson said sadly.
“No more brandy—”
“No.”
“No more champagne—”
“No.”
“Back to beer—”
“No. I mean, yes.”
“Back to cucumber sandwiches—”
“Yes.”
“Back to watercress salads—”
“Yes.”
“No more Corona-Corona cigars for you—”
“Yes. I mean, no.” Simpson contemplated the stub of his last Corona-Corona and then with a sigh tucked it back into his pocket. He tried to smile, to put the best face possible on it. “Still, we had a few good months of it, didn’t we, Tim?”
“Blaggedy blam the bloggelly blodgedy few good months!” Briggs said brutally, and suddenly thought of something else. “Does Billy-Boy know, do you suppose?”
“He gave me the paper.”
“Oh—”
The totality of the tragedy weighed so heavily upon them that it was only by accident that Simpson looked up in time to see they were almost at Swan’s Park and their destination. He tapped Briggs on the shoulder and the two climbed down from the bus, carrying their bags, and made their way slowly to their club. Here they left their luggage in the care of the hall porter and walked into the lounge, expecting to see Carruthers, but their niche in the northeast corner was deserted, and from the lack of even a beer mug on the side table it was evident their friend had not yet made his appearance.
“Strange—” Simpson said, and frowned down at his shorter companion.
“Maybe he didn’t feel like drinking beer,” Briggs said bitterly. “Maybe he just went home.”
“I’ll just give him a buzz,” Simpson said, and disappeared in the direction of the telephones. When he came back his long face was even longer. “His landlady said he hasn’t shown up.”
“Odd,” Briggs said, and suddenly looked worried. “You don’t suppose—?”
“What?”
“Well,” Briggs said slowly, “if Billy-Boy knows the bad news, who can tell how it might strike him? And you know the bus from the airport comes fairly close to the river in a few places—”
“No!” Simpson looked horrified at the suggestion. “Billy-Boy? Never! No,” he said bravely, “something’s come up, is all. We’ll hear from him, you’ll see. All we can do is wait,” and he led the way to their alcove to begin the vigil with beer and biscuits and the remains of his last Corona-Corona. But they both knew the northeast corner of the lounge would seem awfully empty until Billy-Boy Carruthers once more joined them.
Chapter 6
At the hour when Clifford Simpson was sadly lighting up the stub of his last good cigar, and when he and Briggs were sitting down disconsolately to their beer and biscuits, Billy-Boy Carruthers was also feeling a bit peckish. While it is true that in the course of his long and rather checkered career Billy-Boy had often been reduced to surviving on cucumber sandwiches and watercress salads, it was rare, indeed, when he had actually completely missed a meal of some sort. The only time he could remember occurred when he was returning from Great Mickle and the train stalled between Great Mickle and Little Modicum, with neither motive power nor dining facilities, for a matter of six hours. He had gone to Great Mickle to research his novel The Mickle Monster Murders, and while even its author only vaguely recalled the details of the plot, the foodless afternoon had never left his memory. At the moment he was beginning to remember it again.
“I say,” he said to Harold, who had just returned from putting their guest’s bag in the large bedroom adjoining the ample kitchen, “what does one do for sustenance in this establishment?”
“Huh?” Harold asked.
“Food,” Carruthers said, elaborating. “Bread and butter, or even margarine; meat and potatoes; cabbages and kings without the kings. Things of that general nature.”
“Oh!” Harold said, getting the picture. He waved an expansive hand around. “We got lots of food in the joint, and I ain’t a bad cook, if I say so myself. Worked in the kitchen at Sing Sing and Joliet, and even at the big Q, and we got a lot better stuff than the garbage I had to work with in them joints.”
“Excellent!” Carruthers said. “And exactly when do we eat?”
“Oh. I’ll get some supper started as soon as Clare gets back. Don’t worry, pops,” Harold said reassuringly, “you won’t starve here. Maybe it won’t be no frogs’ livers or whatever you rich guys are used to, but it won’t be no poison, neither.” An idea struck him; he was not completely insensitive to the social mores of his host country. “Say, pops, in the meantime, how’s about I make you a nice cup of tea?”
Carruthers had been about to ask the large man to please stop calling him pops, when a more important thought interjected itself in his brain. He nodded at Harold pleasantly.
“Tea should do nicely with the sumptuous repast you undoubtedly will produce at the proper time,” he said agreeably, “but what about something first?”
“First?” Harold was puzzled. Apparently there was something about the tea custom he had missed, because he thought all Englishmen drank tea first, last, and always. If they didn’t, he wondered what Clare was going to do with all the tea he had bought.
“Something libatory,” Carruthers explained patiently, “on the order of an apéritif. But not, of course, a cocktail. Something more manly, like brandy, for example, with champagne for a chaser.”