It was with this new determination in his mind that he visited Simon in his cabin after lunch. “Did you guess I wanted to see you?” asked Simon. “I didn’t like to drop the hint over there. He might have spotted it.”
“My dear old thing, the air was electric with your hints. What’s occurred?”
“We’ve got him,” said Simon. “Didn’t you pick it? Before lunch? Him and his pipe?”
Dikon gaped at him.
“Missed it, did you?” said Simon complacently. “And there you were sitting where you might have touched him. What beats me is why he did it. D’you reckon he’s got it so much on his mind he’s acting kind of automatically?”
“If I had the faintest idea what you were talking about, I might attempt to answer you.”
“Aren’t you conscious yet? I was sitting in here trying to dope things out when I heard it. I snooped round to the corner. All through the hooey Gaunt and Falls were spilling about Shakespeare or someone. It was the same in every detail.”
“For pity’s sake, what was the same in every detail?”
“The tapping. A long one repeated three times. Dah, dah, dah. Then five short dits. Then three shorts. Then the whole works repeated. The flashes from the cliff all over again. So what have you?”
They stared at each other. “It just doesn’t make sense,” said Dikon. “Why? Why? Why?”
“Search me.”
“Coincidence?”
“The odds against coincidence are long enough to make you dizzy. No, I reckon I’m right. It’s habit. He’s had to memorize it and he’s gone over and over it in his mind before he shot the works on Thursday night…”
“Hold on. Hold on. Whose habit?”
“Aw hell,” said Simon disgustedly. “You’re dopey. Who the heck are we talking about?”
“We’re talking about two different people,” said Dikon excitedly. “Questing had picked up that pipe just before you came on the scene. It wasn’t Questing who tapped out your blasted signal. It was Mr. Septimus Falls.”
Chapter VIII
Concert
The telephone at Wai-ata-tapu was on a party line. The Claires’ tradesmen used it, and occasional week-end trippers who rang up to give notice of their arrival. Otherwise, until Gaunt and Dikon came, it was seldom heard. The result of housing a celebrity, however, had begun to work out very much as Mr. Questing had predicted. During the first week-end, quite a spate of visitors had arrived, ostensibly for thermal divertissements, actually, so it very soon transpired, with the object of getting a close-up view of Geoffrey Gaunt. These visitors, with an air of studied nonchalance, walked up and down the verandah, delayed over their tea, and attempted to pump Huia as to the whereabouts of the celebrity. The hardier among them came provided with autograph books which passed, by way of Barbara, from Huia to Dikon and thence to Gaunt, who, to the astonishment of Mrs. Claire, cheerfully signed every one of them. He kept to his room, however, until the last of the visitors, trying not to look baffled, had lost patience and gone home. Once, but only once, Mr. Questing had succeeded in luring him onto the verandah, and on Gaunt’s discovering what he was up to had been treated to such a blast of temperament as sent him back into the house nervously biting his fingers.
On this particular Saturday afternoon, though there were no trippers, the telephone rang almost incessantly. Was it true that there was to be a concert that evening? Was Mr. Geoffrey Gaunt going to perform at it? Could one obtain tickets and, if so, were the receipts to go to the patriotic funds? So insistent did these demands become that at last Huia was dispatched over the hill for definite instructions from old Rua. She returned, laughing excitedly, with the message that everybody would be welcome.
The Maori people are a kindly and easy-going race. In temperament they are so vivid a mixture of Scottish Highlander and Irishman that to many observers the resemblance seems more than fortuitous. Except in the matter of family and tribal feuds, which they keep up with the liveliest enthusiasm, they are extremely hospitable. Rua and his people were not disturbed by the last-minute transformation into a large public gathering of what was to have been a private party between themselves and the Springs. Huia, who returned with Eru Saul and an escort of grinning youths, reported that extra benches were being hurriedly knocked up, and might they borrow some armchairs for the guests of honour?
“Py korry!” said one of the youths. “Big crowd coming, Mrs. Keeah. Very good party. Te Mayor coming too, all the time more people.”
“Now, Maui,” said Mrs. Claire gently, “why don’t you speak nicely as you did when you used to come to Sunday school?”
Huia and the youths laughed uproariously. Eru sniggered.
“Tell Rua we shall be pleased to lend the chairs. Did you say the Mayor was coming?”
“That’s right, Mrs. Keeah. We’ll be having a good party, all right.”
“No drink, I hope,” said Mrs. Claire severely, and was answered by further roars of laughter. “We don’t want Mr. Gaunt to go away thinking our boys don’t know how to behave, do we?”
“No fear,” said Maui obligingly. Eru gave an offensive laugh and Mrs. Claire looked coldly at him.
“Plenty tea for everybody,” said Maui.
“That will be very nice. Well now you may come in and get the chairs.”
“Grandfather’s compliments,” said Huia suddenly, “and he sent you this, please.”
It was a letter from old Rua, written in a style so urbane that Lord Chesterfield might have envied its felicity. It suggested that though the Maori people themselves did not venture to hope that Gaunt would come in any other capacity than that of honoured guest, yet they had been made aware of certain rumours from a pakeha source. If, in Mrs. Claire’s opinion, there was any foundation of truth in these rumours, Rua would be deeply grateful if she advised him of it, as certain preparations should be made for so distinguished a guest.
Mrs. Claire in some perturbation handed the letter over to Dikon, who took it to his employer.
“Translated,” said Dikon, “it means that they’re burning their guts out for you to perform. I’m sure, sir, you’d like me to decline in the same grand style.”
“Who said I was going to decline?” Gaunt demanded. “My compliments to this old gentleman, and I should be delighted to appear. I must decide what to give them.”
“You could fell me with a feather,” said Dikon to Barbara after early dinner. “I can’t imagine what’s come over the man. As a general rule platform performances are anathema to him. And at a little show like this!”
“Everything that’s happening’s so marvellous,” said Barbara, “that I for one can’t believe it’s true.”