“Not at all,” said Milligan. “I am much obliged to you for the warning, and so, I am sure, is Miss de Momerie.”
“Of course, I’m frightfully glad to know all about it,” said Dian. “Your cousin sounds a perfect lamb. I like ’ em dangerous. Pompous people are too terribly moribund, aren’t they?”
Wimsey bowed.
“My dear lady, your choice of friends is entirely at your own discretion.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I got the impression that the Duchess wasn’t too fearfully anxious to have both arms round my neck.”
“Ah! the Duchess-no. There, I fear, all the discretion is on the other side, what? Which reminds me-”
“Quite right,” said Milligan. “We have trespassed on your hospitality too long. We must really apologize and remove ourselves. By the way, there were some other members of our party-”
“I expect my sister-in-law will have dealt with them by now,” said Wimsey with a grin. “If not, I will make a point of seeing them and telling them that you have gone on to-where shall I say?”
Dian gave her own address.
“You’d better come round and have a drink, too,” she suggested.
“Alas!” said Wimsey, “duty and all that sort of thing, what? Can’t leave my sister-in-law in the lurch, greatly as I should enjoy the entertainment.” He rang the bell. “You will excuse me now, I trust. I must see to our other guests. Porlock, show this lady and gentleman out.”
He returned to the garden by way of the terrace, whistling a passage of Bach, as was his way when pleased.
“Nun gehn wir wo der Tudelsack, der Tudel, tudel, tudel, tudel, tudelsack…”
“I wonder, was the fly too big and gaudy? Will he rise to it? We shall see.”
“My dear Peter,” said the Duchess, fretfully, “what a terrible time you have been. Please go and fetch Mme. de Framboise-Douillet an ice. And tell your brother I want him.”
Chapter XII. Surprising Acquisition of a Junior Reporter
Very early one morning, a junior reporter on the Morning Star, of no importance to anybody except himself and his widowed mother, walked out of that great newspaper’s palatial new offices and into the affairs of Chief-Inspector Parker. This nonentity’s name was Hector Puncheon, and he was in Fleet Street at that time because a fire had broken out the previous night in a large City warehouse, destroying a great deal of valuable property and involving the spectacular escapes of three night watchmen and a cat from the roofs of the adjacent buildings. Hector Puncheon, summoned to the scene for the excellent reason that he had lodgings in the West Central district and could be transported to the scene of action in a comparatively brief time, had written a short stop-press notice of the disaster for the early country editions, a longer and more exciting account for the London edition, and then a still longer and more detailed report, complete with the night-watchmen’s and eye-witnesses’ Stories and a personal interview with the cat, for the early editions of the Evening Comet, twin-organ to the Morning Star and housed in the same building.
After completing all this toil, he was wakeful and hungry. He sought an all-night restaurant in Fleet Street, accustomed to catering for the untimely needs of pressmen, and, having previously armed himself with a copy of the Morning Star as it poured out damp from the machines, sat down to a 3 a.m. breakfast of grilled sausages, coffee and rolls.
He ate with leisurely zest, pleased with himself and his good fortune, and persuaded that not even the most distinguished of the senior men could have turned in a column more full of snap, pep and human interest than his own. The interview with the cat had been particularly full of appeal. The animal was, it seemed, an illustrious rat-catcher, with many famous deeds to her credit. Not only that, but she had been the first to notice the smell of fire and had, by her anguished and intelligent mewings, attracted the attention of night-watchman number one, who had been in the act of brewing himself a cup of tea when the outbreak took place. Thirdly, the cat, an ugly black-and-white creature with a spotted face, was about to become a mother for the tenth time, and Hector Puncheon by a brilliant inspiration had secured the reversion of the expected family for the Morning Star, so that half a dozen or so fortunate readers might, by applying to their favourite paper and enclosing a small donation for the Animals’ Hospital, become the happy owners of kittens with a prenatal reputation and a magnificent rat-catching pedigree. Hector Puncheon felt that he had done well. He had been alert and courageous, offering the night-watchman ten shillings on his own responsibility the very moment the big idea occurred to him, and the night-editor had okayed the stunt and even remarked that it would do quite well.
Filled with sausages and contentment, Hector Puncheon lingered over his paper, reading the Special Friday Feature with approval and appreciating the political cartoon. At length, he folded the sheet, stuffed it in his pocket, tipped the waiter extravagantly with sixpence and emerged into Fleet Street.
The morning was fine, though chilly, and he felt that after his night’s labours, a little walk would do him good. He strolled happily along, past the Griffin at Temple Bar and the Law Courts and the churches of St. Clement Danes and St. Mary-le-Strand, and made his way up Kingsway. It was only when he got to the turning into Great Queen Street that he became aware of something lacking in an otherwise satisfactory universe. Great Queen Street led into Long Acre; off Long Acre lay Covent Garden; already the vans and lorries laden with fruit and flowers were rumbling in from all over the country and rumbling out again. Already the porters were unloading their stout sacks, huge crates, round baskets, frail punnets and long flat boxes filled with living scent and colour, sweating and grumbling over their labours as though their exquisite burdens were so much fish or pig-iron. And for the benefit of these men the pubs would be open, for Covent Garden interprets the London licensing regulations to suit its own topsy-turvy hours of labour. Hector Puncheon had had a successful night and had celebrated his success with sausages and coffee; but there are, dash it all! more suitable methods of celebration.
Hector Puncheon, swinging blithely along in his serviceable grey flannel bags and tweed jacket, covered by an old burberry, suddenly realized that he owned the world, including all the beer in Covent Garden Market. He turned into Great Queen Street, traversed half the length of Long Acre, dodged under the nose of a van horse at the entrance to the Underground Station, and set his face towards the market, picking his way cheerfully between the boxes and baskets and carts and straw that littered the pavement. Humming a lively tune, he turned in through the swing doors of the White Swan.
Although it was only a quarter past four, the Swan was already doing a brisk trade. Hector Puncheon edged his way up to the bar between two enormous carters and waited modestly for the landlord to finish serving his habitual customers before calling attention to himself. A lively discussion was going on about the merits of a dog named Forked Lightning. Hector, always ready to pick up a hint about anything that was, or might conceivably be turned into news, pulled his early Morning Star from his pocket and pretended to read it, while keeping his ears open.