The headmaster, too, had grown edgy. Time was running out and his capture of the evening, the illustrious Mr Hive, had not yet been given a cue. Mr Clay felt like an impressario whose leading tenor was being kept off the boards by lack of a work permit.
But Mr Scorpe’s tendentious recital rolled at last to an end. Before he could slip in an encore, a tall youth with an incipient moustache hastily expressed interest in auctioneering and Mr Hideaway took over. He told several stories of his trade in a fruity, quick-fire voice and with a wealth of market-place rhetoric. They were climaxed by a tale of a farm labourer from Gosby Vale who had bartered for a motorcycle his wife and five pounds of kidney beans.
To Purbright, the story was already familiar. He had heard it, indeed, as a complaint from the man who had parted with the motorcycle. “You’d think the mean bugger’d ’ve put ’em in a bag,” he had said of the beans.
The headmaster, who had made a mental note not to invite Mr Hideaway again, looked at his watch. It was ten past nine. He hoped no one would now ask anything about timber mills or accountancy: that Barnstaple person looked the sort to meander on for hours without getting a proper answer out. He stole a glance at his prize guest—then primped his mouth in dismay.
Mr Hive was fast asleep.
The boy Rawlings had made the same observation. He raised his hand.
“Please, sir, do you think the gentleman from London could tell us something about employment prospects in his own line of business—whatever that is, sir?”
“Thank you, Rawlings.” Blast the boy! A born troublemaker, if ever there was one, “Ah, Mr Hive...”
For several seconds, every boy in the room watched the contented sleep-mask. Like certain magistrates, and all judges, Mr Hive had the art of quitting consciousness gracefully. He did not loll. He did not snore. His eyes were closed, certainly, but in that placid manner one associates with listening to music or enjoying the scent of flowers.
“Um, ah, Mr Hive...”
There brushed past the sleeper’s elegant, full-fashioned moustache a light sigh.
The headmaster tried to catch the eye of Mr O’Toole by making discreet little pecking gestures in the air with finger and thumb. Eventually, O’Toole got the message. He grinned and rammed his elbow into Mr Hive. “Hey, sailor! You’re wanted on deck!”
Hive’s reaction was as dramatic as any of the audience could have wished. It was also—in Mr Clay’s view, at any rate—quite inexplicable.
The man reared to his feet and stood leaning slightly forward and sideways with hands raised to the level of his face, one above the other. As he squinted between the hands, one eye dosed, he cried: “Watch the birdie, dear lady! You, too, sir. And no embarrassment, I beg!”
The boys laughed. Some clapped as well. Mr Hive lowered his arms. He looked mildly surprised.
“What did I tell you,” remarked the boy who had diagnosed intoxication. His neighbour slipped him a toffee in tribute.
Mr Clay waited for the excitement to subside. The shrewder side of his intelligence had already grasped the simple cause of Mr Hive’s curious behaviour. It urged him to bring the proceedings to a close there and then in a firm and dignified manner. But Mr Clay was a proud and, in certain respects, a daring man.
He forced as broad a smile as the tightness of his skin would allow. “I see that Mr Hive would have us believe that it was in the photographic field that he achieved his reputation. Ah, but we know—do we not?—that one does not receive official citation for taking snapshots!”
Hive laughed so heartily at this that he had difficulty in keeping his balance. It was only the timely aid of Mr Barnstaple, who reached up and grabbed his arm, that prevented his falling from the dais.
He stopped laughing and stared thoughtfully at Mr Barnstaple’s hand. Then he looked at the boys, at Inspector Purbright and Mr Hideaway, at Mr Clay. He frowned and bent close to the ear of Mr O’Toole.
“Who are all those boys?” he whispered.
“What boys?”
“Boys. Bundles of boys...My God, it isn’t a choir, is it?”
There stirred suddenly in Mr O’Toole some sympathetic instinct, a sort of drinker’s loyalty. He breathed rapid explanation: “School—speeches—usual guff—you—Now!” and with a heave under Hive’s elbow set him in a more or less perpendicular pose.
Mr Hive was so grateful for enlightenment concerning what was immediately expected of him that he pushed from his mind the still unsolved riddle of how he had come to wake up in a school, of all places. He would puzzle that out later; it was probably something to do with The Case. One thing was sure—and he smiled wryly at the thought—there was always some new demand on a detective’s versatility.
“Boys!...No (a roguishly wagged finger)—Gentlemen! When your headmaster (a bow to Purbright) was kind enough to ask me to come along and present your prizes today, do you know the first thing I said to him? The very first thing I said? You don’t. No. Never mind. (An up-brushing of Mr Hive’s moustache with splayed fingers.) You see, in the game of...Ah. Now, then. Now. There’s one thing that’s all...All-important, this thing. When your headmaster was kind enough to ask me to come along he said in the game of life. No no no—I said. Me. Winning not the main thing. These prizes, you see. Some people don’t want. Get ’em. Don’t want ’em. More’n they bargain for. When your headmaster...no, said that. (Another rummage in the moustache.) People with prizes didn’t want in the game of life—sent for me. Hive, they said...Important people, mind. Oooo, very important. Rubbed shoulders with aristocracy. (A sly, lop-sided smirk.) Not just shoulders either. Never mind that. Hive, they said, don’t want it—sick of it—want another one. For crysake get rid. And that was it, gentlemen. Tokens of appreciation to show. (Groping into his watch pocket.) Oh, and beautiful memories. Tell you one when your headmaster kind enough to ask. Tell you one. Ever seen a birthmark...know what birthmark is?—course you do. ...Ever seen a birthmark exactly same shape as Statue fliberty, torch an’ all? Haven’t, have you? Not torch an’ all. I have, though. In the game of life...no, not game, profession. Profession. I’ll tell you kind enough to ask. On Lady Felicity Hoop’s left buttock. (A squinting search of memory.) No. As you were. Right buttock. Right, yes—torch an’ all. Lovely woman. Dead now.”
Mr Hive bowed his head, as if to inaugurate a two minutes’ silence.
The headmaster seized his chance. He hastened round to the front of the demonstration bench, commanded the nearest boy to open the door and told the assembly to file out quietly.
As the boys shuffled from the room, they glanced secretively and with awe at the figure of Mr Hive, who, oblivious of their departure, still swayed in silent tribute to the late Lady Felicity.
One boy hung back. It was Wagstaff. He climbed on to the platform and made his way to Mr Booker.
“Please, sir, may I have my transistor back now, sir?”
“Transistor? What transistor, boy?”