“All right. Come on round to Slinker’s. He’s throwing a party.”
“I’m sick of Slinker’s parties. I say, Tod, let’s go and gatecrash something really virtuous. Who’s the stickiest old cat in London that’s got anything on?”
“Dunno.”
“Tell you what. We’ll scoop up Slinker’s party and go round and look for striped awnings, and crash the first thing we see.”
“Right-ho! I’m on.”
Half an hour later, a noisy gang, squashed into five cars and a taxi, were whooping through the quieter squares of the West End. Even today, a few strongholds of the grimly aristocratic are left in Mayfair, and Dian, leaning from the open window of the leading car, presently gave tongue before a tall, old-fashioned house, whose entrance was adorned with a striped awning, a crimson carpet and an array of hothouse plants in tubs upon the steps.
“Whoopee! Hit it up, boys! Here’s something! Whose is it?”
“My God!” said Slinger Braithwaite. “We’ve hit the bull, all right. It’s Denver ’s place.”
“You won’t get in there,” said Milligan. “The Duchess of Denver is heaven’s prize frozen-face. Look at the chucker-out in the doorway. Better try something easier.”
“Easier be damned. We said the first we came to, and this is the first. No ratting, darlings.”
“Well, look here,” said Milligan, “we’d better try the back entrance. There’s a gate into the garden round the other side, opening on the car-park. We’ve more chance there.”
From the other side, the assault turned out to be easy enough. The cars were parked in a back street, and on approaching the garden gate, they found it wide open, displaying a marquee, in which supper was being held. A bunch of guests came out just as they arrived, while, almost on their heels, two large cars drove up and disgorged a large party of people.
“Blow being announced,” said an immaculate person, “we’ll just barge right in and dodge the Ambassadors.”
“Freddy, you can’t.”
“Can’t I? You watch me.” Freddy tucked his partner’s arm firmly under his own and marched with determination up to the gate. “We’re certain to barge into old Peter or somebody in the garden.”
Dian nipped Milligan’s arm, and the pair of them fell in behind the new arrivals. The gate was passed-but a footman just inside presented an unexpected obstacle.
“Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Arbuthnot,” said the immaculate gentleman. “And party,” he added, waving a vague hand behind him.
“Well, we’re in, anyhow,” exulted Dian.
Helen, Duchess of Denver, looked round with satisfaction upon her party. It was all going very nicely indeed. The Ambassador and his wife had expressed delight at the quality of the wine. The band was good, the refreshments more than adequate. A tone of mellow decorum pervaded the atmosphere. Her own dress, she thought, became her, although her mother-in-law, the Dowager Duchess, had said something rather acid about her spine. But then, the Dowager was always a little tiresome and incalculable. One must be fashionable, though one would not, of course, be vulgarly immodest. Helen considered that she was showing the exact number of vertebrae that the occasion demanded. One less would be incorrect; one more would be over-modern. She thanked Providence that at forty-five she still kept her figure-as indeed, she did, having been remarkably flat on both aspects the whole of her life.
She was just raising a well-earned glass of champagne to her lips when she paused, and set it down again. Something was wrong. She glanced hurriedly round for her husband. He was not there, but a few paces off an elegant black back and smooth, straw-coloured head of hair announced the presence of her brother-in-law, Wimsey. Hastily excusing herself to Lady Mendip, with whom she had been discussing the latest enormities of the Government, she edged her way through the crowd and caught Wimsey’s arm.
“Peter! Look over there. Who are those people?”
Wimsey turned and stared in the direction pointed by the Duchess’ fan.
“Good God, Helen! You’ve caught a pair of ripe ones this time! That’s the de Momerie girl and her tame dope-merchant.”
The Duchess shuddered.
“How horrible! Disgusting woman! How in the world did they get in?… Do you know them?”
“Not officially, no.”
“Thank goodness! I was afraid you’d let them in. I never know what you’re going to do next; you know so many impossible people.”
“Not guilty this time, Helen.”
“Ask Bracket how he came to let them in.”
“I fly,” said Wimsey, “to obey your behest.”
He finished the drink he had in his hand, and set off in a leisurely manner in pursuit of the footman. Presently he returned.
“Bracket says they came with Freddy Arbuthnot.”
“Find Freddy.”
The Hon. Freddy Arbuthnot, when found, denied all knowledge of the intruders. “But there was a bit of a scrum at the gate, you know,” he admitted, ingenuously, “and I daresay they barged in with the crowd. The de Momerie girl, eh, what? Where is she? I must have a look at her. Hot stuff and all that, what?”
“You will do nothing of the sort, Freddy. Where in the world is Gerald? Not here. He never is when he’s wanted. You’ll have to go and turn them out, Peter.”
Wimsey, who had had time for a careful calculation, asked nothing better.
“I will turn them out,” he announced, “like one John Smith. Where are they?”
The Duchess, who had kept a glassy eye upon them, waved a stern hand in the direction of the terrace. Wimsey ambled off amiably.
“Forgive me, dear Lady Mendip,” said the Duchess, returning to her guest. “I had a little commission to give to my brother-in-law.”
Up the dimly-lit terrace steps went Wimsey. The shadow of a tall pillar-rose fell across his face and chequered his white shirt-front with dancing black; and as he went he whistled softly: “Tom, Tom, the piper’s son.”
Dian de Momerie clutched Milligan’s arm as she turned.
Wimsey stopped whistling.
“Er-good evening,” he said, “excuse me. Miss de Momerie, I think.”
“Harlequin!” cried Dian.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Harlequin. So here you are. I’ve got you this time. And I’m going to see your face properly if I die for it.”
“I’m afraid there is some mistake,” said Wimsey.
Milligan thought it time to interfere.
“Ah!” said he, “the mysterious stranger. I think it’s time you and I had a word, young man. May I ask why you have been tagging round after this lady in a mountebank get-up?”
“I fear,” said Wimsey, more elaborately, “that you are labouring under a misapprehension, sir, whoever you are. I have been dispatched by the Duchess on a-forgive me-somewhat distasteful errand. She regrets that she has not the honour of this lady’s acquaintance, nor, sir, of yours, and wishes me to ask you by whose invitation you are here.”
Dian laughed, rather noisily.
“You do it marvellously, darling,” she said. “We gate-crashed on the dear old bird-same as you did, I expect.”
“So the Duchess inferred,” replied Wimsey. “I am sorry. I’m afraid I must ask you to leave at once.”
“That’s pretty good,” said Milligan, insolently. “I’m afraid it won’t work. It may be a fact that we weren’t invited here, but we aren’t going to turn out for a nameless acrobat who’s afraid to show his face.”
“You must be mistaking me for a friend of yours,” said Wimsey. “Allow me.” He stepped across to the nearest pillar and pressed a switch, flooding that end of the terrace with light. “My name is Peter Wimsey; I am Denver ’s brother, and my face-such as it is, is entirely at your service.”
He fixed his monocle in his eye and stared unpleasantly at Milligan.
“But aren’t you my Harlequin?” protested Dian. “Don’t be such an ass-I know you are. I know your voice perfectly well-and your mouth and chin. Besides, you were whistling that tune.”