“The fact is, Bertie,” said Bingo, “we think this man with the beard is at the bottom of all this business[161]. I was walking late last night through Pounceby Gardens[162], where Uncle Mortimer lives, and as I was passing the house, a fellow came hurrying down the steps. Probably he had just been shoving the letter in at the front door. I noticed that he had a beard. I didn’t think any more of it, however, until this morning, when Uncle Mortimer showed me the letter he had received and told me about the chap in the park. I’m going to make inquiries[163].”
“The police should be informed,” said Lord Bittlesham.
“No,” said young Bingo firmly, “not now. It would bother me. Don’t you worry, Uncle; I think I can track this fellow down. You leave it all to me. I’ll pop you into a taxi now, and go and talk it over with Bertie.”
“You’re a good boy, Richard,” said old Bittlesham, and we put him in a cab. I turned and looked young Bingo in the eyeball.
“Did you send that letter?” I said.
“Of course! You ought to have seen it, Bertie! One of the best threatening letters I ever wrote.”
“But where’s the sense of it?”
“Bertie, my lad,” said Bingo, taking me earnestly by the coat-sleeve, “I had an excellent reason[164]. Look here!” He waved a bit of paper in front of my eyes.
“Great Lord!” It was a cheque—an absolute cheque for fifty pounds, signed Bittlesham, to the order of R. Little. “What’s that for?”
“Expenses,’ said Bingo. “You don’t suppose an investigation like this can be carried on for nothing, do you? I shall proceed to the bank. Later I shall go to put the entire sum on Ocean Breeze. What you want in situations of this kind, Bertie, is tact. If I had gone to my uncle and asked him for fifty pounds, would I have got it? No! But using tact—Oh! By the way, what do you think of Charlotte?”
“Well—er—”
“I know, old man, I know. Don’t try to find words. She left you speechless, eh? That’s the effect she has on everybody. Well, I leave you here. Oh, before we part—Butt! What of Butt?”
“I must say I’ve seen cheerier souls.”
“To hell with him, Bertie. Charlotte is coming to the Zoo with me this afternoon. Alone. And later to the cinema. That looks like the beginning of the end, eh? Well, my friend, if you’ve nothing better to do this morning, you might buy me a wedding present.”
I lost sight of Bingo after that. I left messages a couple of times at the club, asking him to ring me up, but they didn’t have any effect. I thought that he was too busy to respond. The Sons of the Red Dawn also passed out of my life, though Jeeves told me he had met Comrade Butt one evening and had a brief chat with him.
“Mr Little won him, sir,” said Jeeves.
“Bad news, Jeeves; bad news.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then Goodwood came along, and I put on the best suit.
To make the long story short, you see, what happened was that Ocean Breeze (curse him!) finished absolutely nowhere for the Cup. Believe me, nowhere.
I had wandered out of the paddock to forget it, when I saw old Bittlesham: and he looked so purple, and his eyes were standing out of his head at such an angle, that I simply shook his hand in silence.
“I understand,” I said. “How much did you drop?”
“Drop?”
“On Ocean Breeze.”
“I did not bet on Ocean Breeze.”
“What! You owned the favourite for the Cup, and didn’t back it!”
“I never bet on horse-racing. It is against my principles. I am told that the animal did not win the contest.”
“Did not win! But if you haven’t dropped a penny over the race, why are you looking so sad?”
“That fellow is here!”
“What fellow?”
“That bearded man.”
I suddenly remembered that Bingo had told me he would be at Goodwood.
“He is making an inflammatory speech at this very moment, specifically directed at me. Come! Where that crowd is. Look! Listen!”
Young Bingo lost his money; that’s why he drew a pitiful picture of a working man’s home. He showed us the working man, believing every word he read in the papers about Ocean Breeze’s form; depriving his wife and children of food in order to bet; robbing the baby’s money-box to take some coins; and finally losing everything. It was impressive. I could see old Rowbotham nodding his head gently, while poor old Butt glowered at the speaker with jealousy.
“But what does Lord Bittlesham care,” shouted Bingo, “if the poor working man loses his hard-earned savings? I tell you, friends and comrades, you may talk, and you may argue and you may cheer, but what you need is Action! Action! The world won’t be a good place for honest men to live in till the blood of Lord Bittlesham and his kind flows down the gutters of Park Lane!”
Roars of approval from the audience was heard. Old Bittlesham ran to a large, sad policeman who was watching it, and told him something. The policeman smiled gently, but did nothing; and old Bittlesham came back to me.
“It’s monstrous! The man definitely threatens my personal safety, and that policeman declines to interfere. He said it was just talk! Talk! It’s monstrous!”
“Absolutely,” I said.
Comrade Butt had taken the centre of the stage now. He had a voice like the Last Trump[165], and you could hear every word he said, but somehow he was not very popular. I suppose the fact was he was too impersonal, if that’s the word I want. After Bingo’s speech the audience had started to heckle the poor blighter, when he stopped in the middle of a sentence, and I saw that he was staring at old Bittlesham.
“Get away,” shouted someone.
“Ah,” Comrade Butt yelled, “you may mock, comrades; you may jeer and sneer; and you may scoff; but let me tell you that the working movement is spreading every day and every hour. Yes, even amongst the so-called upper classes it’s spreading. Perhaps you’ll believe me when I tell you that here, today, on this very spot, we have one of our most earnest workers, the nephew of that Lord Bittlesham whose name you were abusing just a moment ago.”
And he had reached out a hand and grabbed the beard. Old Bittlesham was amazed.
I’m bound to say that in this crisis young Bingo acted with decision and character. He grabbed Comrade Butt by the neck and try to twist his head off. But before he could get any results the sad policeman had caught him, and the next minute he was going with Bingo in his right hand and Comrade Butt in his left.
“Let me pass, sir, please,” he said, civilly, because old Bittlesham was blocking the gangway.
“Eh?” said old Bittlesham, still dazed.
On the day after I had got back from Goodwood I was lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, when I noticed Jeeves.
“Oh, hallo,” I said. “Yes?”
“Mr Little called earlier in the morning, sir.”
“Oh what? Did he tell you about what happened?”
“Yes, sir. It was in connection with that that he wished to see you. He wants to retire to the country and remain there for some while.”
“Sensible. Jeeves,” I said.
“Sir?”
“But how did Comrade Butt knew who he was?”
Jeeves coughed.
“There, sir, I fear I may be guilty.”
“You? How?”
“I may carelessly have disclosed Mr Little’s identity to Mr Butt when I had a conversation with him.”
I sat up.
“What?”
“Indeed, sir. I am also responsible for the breaking off of relations between Mr Little and the young lady who came to tea here.”
I sat up again.
“Do you mean to say it’s off?”
“Completely, sir. The young lady’s father, I am informed by Mr Little, now regards him as a spy and a deceiver.”
“Jeeves!” I said.