Hot Water (7 page)

There was something about her – he had noticed it even when she had been very properly ticking him off – which had seemed to speak – perfectly platonically – to the depths of his soul. A kindred spirit, if there ever was one, and the thought that she was madly throwing herself away on a fellow like Blair Eggleston rather saddened him. Not that it mattered to him, personally, of course, but he felt it was a pity.

'Hello!' he said with marked good-will.

'Oh, Mr Franklyn!'

It became evident to Packy that something had occurred to induce in this girl an overwhelming excitement. She was gurgling and bubbling and squeaking. So much so that he felt impelled to utter a kindly protest.

'Pull yourself together, chump,' he urged. 'I can't hear a word.'

'But I'm telling you.'

'I dare say. But do it slower.'

'Can you hear now?'

'Yes.'

'Well, listen.'

There was a gulp at the other end of the wire. Jane was apparently going through some process of self-mastery.

'Are you listening?'

'I am.'

'Well – oh, darn it, where shall I begin? Do you remember, when you were cutting Father's hair, something he said about a letter?'

'I didn't miss a word. He had decided not to make Mr Gedge Ambassador to France, and he had written to Mrs Gedge telling her so.'

'That's right.' There was a pause. 'Gosh, I'm all jellied with excitement.'

An idea occurred to Packy, He remembered that Mrs Gedge had interrupted Blair Eggleston's interview with the Senator by announcing herself on the telephone.

'Did she call and sock your father with her umbrella?'

'No, no, no! Nothing like that. Listen! I'd better go back to the beginning. Father wrote this letter to Mrs Gedge.'

'Right.'

'But – this is the point – he didn't. I mean – by the same mail he happened to be writing to his bootlegger in New York, kicking about the overcharges in his last bill.... Yes, his
bootlegger.
... And what did he do but get the envelopes mixed up, so that Mrs Gedge got the bootlegger's letter and Mrs Gedge's letter is now on its way to New York.'

'Good heavens! Not really?'

Packy was stunned. There came upon him a feeling of respectful awe as he contemplated Senator Ambrose Opal, that intrepid man who, with a million Drys on his voting-list, dared to order his private life so moistly. It was, he felt, the spirit of... well, he could not say exactly what it was the spirit of, but it was most certainly the spirit of something. He would have liked to pat Senator Opal on the back and tell him he had misjudged him.

'Have you got all that?' enquired Jane anxiously.

'Every syllable.'

'Well, listen. When I got to the suite, Mrs Gedge had just left, and I've never seen Father a brighter purple. And I must say, poor darling, he had every right to look as purple as he liked. Because, I mean, picture his embarrassment.'

'I do.'

'He told me the whole thing. Mrs Gedge says she is going to hold him up. If he doesn't make Mr Gedge Ambassador to France, she swears she will give his letter to the papers and the whole nation will know that he employs a bootlegger. And that will be his absolute finish politically, because, you see, his whole position rests on the fact that he is a Dry leader, and if this letter is printed in the papers he will be sunk. There are millions of people who have always voted for Father because they believed he was strict lemonade, and if they knew of this they would simply tie a can to him. So that's what Father's up against, and maybe you'll say it isn't plenty.'

'It's quite enough,' agreed Packy. 'Yes, I should say "plenty" is about the right word.'

Squeakings broke out once more at the other end of the wire.

'Stop it!' said Packy.

'Stop what?'

'Stop going on like a basketful of puppies.'

'Was I?'

'You were.'

'Well, I'm excited.'

'So am I. But hark how beautifully I articulate.'

'Well, listen.'

There was a pause. Stern self-discipline seemed to be in progress once more.

'This is the interesting part,' said Jane, becoming calmer.

'It can't be more interesting than Act One.'

'Yes, it is. You see, when Father told me all this, I suddenly saw that here was where I got the chance to put in a little smooth work. It took a bit of doing, as you would understand if you had seen Father standing there with his face bright mauve and telling me all the things he would like to do to Mrs Gedge, which included skinning and poisoning her soup. I mean, you sort of got the impression that he'd had already about as much as he could endure. But I thought of Blair and how much I loved him and I shut my eyes and came through. I told him that I was secretly engaged to a wonderful man, only he hadn't any money.'

'Did you mention that he was at present acting as your father's valet?'

'No. I thought it wouldn't be wise.'

'Quite right.'

'That sort of thing wants breaking gently.'

'Very gently.'

'So I simply told him I was engaged to a wonderful man, and I said, "Suppose I manage somehow to get back this letter from Mrs Gedge will you consent to our marriage?" And Father said that if I got that letter back I could marry the iceman if I wanted to and he would come and dance at the wedding.'

'Fair enough.'

'So that's how things stand at present. Mrs Gedge won't be back at St Rocque for a few days, but we're all going over to-morrow, as arranged. When she arrives, we can start doing something.'

'What?'

'Well, whatever we can think of.'

'Have you thought of anything yet?'

'No.'

'Have you told all this to Eggleston?'

'Of course.'

'What does he think of it?'

There was a shade of hesitation in Jane's voice.

'Well, he seems interested. But the trouble with Blair is that, having this great brain of his, he's rather a little too much the artistic, dreamy type, and what one really needs in a situation like this is a man of action and resource. I mean, when I asked Blair if he had any proposition to put forward that might lead to bringing home the bacon, he just tugged at his moustache and looked goofy and said he hadn't. However, he's going to start thinking, so something may break any moment. And I hope to goodness it does, because apart from being sorry for poor Father and wanting to get him out of a spot, how splendid it would be if Blair and I did this wonderful thing for him and Father said "Bless you, my children!" Gosh darn it, I should be the happiest girl in the world. Well, good-bye, Mr Franklyn, I must rush. I'm supposed to be dressing for dinner. Only I thought you would like to know all about what's happened. Good-bye.'

There was a click. Jane had hung up.

For several minutes after he had finished listening to this story, so vibrant with a young girl's hopes and fears, Packy remained standing at the telephone, staring before him. His appearance was that of a man in a trance. Pins could have been stuck into him and he would scarcely have observed them.

Then, abruptly, a sort of whinnying groan escaped him. If he had chafed before at the prospect of being cooped up in London, he chafed more than ever now. He felt as he had sometimes felt at prize-fights when a wall of uprising citizenry suddenly intruded itself between him and the ring at some sensationally vital moment.

He burned with baffled exasperation. Here he was, tied to this one-horse town, this London, miles away from all this tense human drama, and it made him feel like a caged skylark. The demon of discontent which had been troubling him became of a sudden more vigorous and active than ever. He was a young man who hated to be out of things, and Jane's communication had shown him that the living, pulsating centre of things was the Château Blissac, St Rocque, Brittany.

But Beatrice had told him to stay in London. And Beatrice's word was law.

And yet...

Suddenly he emerged from his trance. His bearing was the set, resolute bearing of one who has made a great decision.

Beatrice, when she had told him to remain in London and go to concerts, could not, he felt, have foreseen that a situation like this would arise. Briefly, what it amounted to was that he had been offered the chance of helping to bring happiness to two young hearts. Would she have him refuse it?

Absurd.

Besides, hadn't she given him strict instructions to stick around Blair Eggleston like a poultice? Undoubtedly. And the only way to hitch up with Blair Eggleston was to go to St Rocque.

The whole tone of Jane's remarks had shown him how sorely his presence would be needed there. Even Jane, who loved him, had not failed to realize what a total bust her betrothed was going to be in the crisis which had arisen. All that was chivalrous in Packy revolted at the thought of the poor child having to lean on so weak a reed.

Blair Eggleston might be highly skilled at imitating horses' hoofs and the like, but of what avail would this accomplishment be in a situation like the present one? It was ridiculous to suppose that the determination of a woman like Mrs Gedge could ever be broken down by such means. If Blair Eggleston were to stand in front of Mrs Gedge by the hour, doing imitation glass-crashes or rubbing two coco-nuts together to create the illusion of distant thunder, she would simply laugh at him.

No! What was required, as Jane had pointed out, was a man of action and resource.

He took up the magazine and read once more the advertisement of the Auxiliary Yawl,
Flying Cloud.
He noted the address of the agents responsible for her chartering. He went to the writing-table and began to compose a careful letter to Beatrice, informing her that, feeling a little run down and in need of a change, he had decided after all to take a short vacation. He proposed, accordingly, to start at once for the quaint Breton town of St Rocque, because there he would have a chance of learning a little French, and you never knew when French might not come in useful. Every man, wrote Packy, ought to know at least one language besides his own.

He opened the letter again to add a postscript to the effect that there was probably a picture gallery in St Rocque. Then, sealing and stamping the envelope, he wrote to the agents for the Auxiliary Yawl,
Flying Cloud,
announcing his intention of calling upon them first thing in the morning.

I
N
the days when St Rocque was merely a fishing village, there was built in its harbour a small stone jetty. To it the fishermen tied their boats and on it they spread their nets to dry in the sun. You do not see many nets there nowadays, for the descendants of those fishermen have for the most part given up their ancient trade, finding it more profitable to hire their craft out to summer visitors. Two days after Packy Franklyn had set out on his voyage, a willowy young man with a pleasant face marred at the moment by a slight pallor was standing on the jetty steps endeavouring with the assistance of a voluble son of the sea in high boots and a blue jersey to climb into a small and unsafe-looking row-boat.

The Vicomte de Blissac, on arriving in his native town, had immediately registered at the Hotel des Etrangers. This, seeing that he was expected as a guest at the Château, may seem curious, but he had his reasons. To-day was the day of the Festival of the Saint, and he did not propose to miss it. It was his plan to revel to-night in a manner befitting this important occasion and only on the morrow to present himself at the home of his ancestors – and even then only if he felt considerably better than he expected to feel.

And if his host and hostess, the Monsieur and Madame Gedge, should grow concerned at his absence – why, that, felt the Vicomte who, as this chronicle has already hinted, took a light-hearted view of life and its problems, was unfortunate but could not be helped.

His motives for embarking on this water jaunt may be explained quite simply Although Mr Gedge's statement that the Vicomte de Blissac was never sober had been an exaggeration – for he was frequently sober, sometimes for hours at a time – it is undoubtedly true that he had a distinct bias towards the festive. And, becoming acquainted with some agreeable strangers at the hotel on the previous evening, he had found one thing leading to another and so on far into the night. This morning he had woken feeling a little under the weather, and it had seemed to him that a row in the fresh air might act as a pick-me-up.

And the theory was proving itself correct. As he splashed his way vigorously about the harbour, he was growing conscious of a marked improvement.

It was a lovely morning, with a keen breeze whipping the water and turning the little bay to a lagoon of jewels in the sun. White boats lay at anchor everywhere, and gulls wheeled and cried under the blue sky. And so restored was the Vicomte by this time that the uproar of these birds, which at first had given him a shooting pain across the temples, began now to seem almost musical.

Exhilarated, he rested on his oars and looked about him. And, looking, he perceived that he had come within a few feet of ramming an Auxiliary Yawl, bearing on its side the name
Flying Cloud.
He backed a yard or two, and it was at this moment that he observed, leaning over the side of the vessel, a man who smoked a pipe. And with the utmost pleasure and surprise he recognized his old friend, Packy Franklyn.

He waved effusively. Packy took no notice. He waved again. Packy appeared not to be aware of his existence.

The fact was, Packy had come on deck to think, and he was doing it with such intensity that he had no eye for wavers.

The bright, crusading spirit which had taken Packy Franklyn to the shores of Brittany had become, by the time he dropped anchor in the harbour of St Rocque, a little dimmed. He was still as full of zeal as ever, but as he washed up the dishes after his simple morning meal he had to admit to himself that if anyone were to ask him just what he proposed to do now that he had got here they would stump him badly.

As far as he could figure things out at even date, he would be able to offer Jane Opal at this critical point in her life little but brotherly sympathy and understanding. In order to accomplish anything practical on her behalf, it was obvious that he would somehow have to get into the Châeau, and not even eggs and bacon and coffee had given him the slightest hint as to how this was to be done. Unless some pretty striking ideas on the subject were to present themselves shortly, his ranking as a helper of damsels in distress would, he perceived, be even lower than that of Blair Eggleston.

However, there was still a hope. He had not yet smoked the after-breakfast pipe which, as everybody knows, can often prove a source of the subtlest inspiration. Lighting this pipe, he went on deck and, leaning over the side, told his brain to go to it and see what it had got.

It had got nothing whatever. He urged it to try again. And it was at this point that he received the first intimation that his friend the Vicomte had come back into his life. Unable to attract Packy's attention in a sitting posture it had occurred to the Vicomte that better results might be obtained were he to stand up.

It was a most unfortunate move. A professional acrobat might have stood and waved in a St Rocque pleasure-boat without disaster, but the Vicomte had not had the early training necessary for the task. A sudden lurch sent him staggering sideways, and from there to the water was an easy step. He went in like a performing seal.

From a dozen neighbouring boats there rose immediately a babble of alarm. The French are an emotional race. When they see drama unfolding itself before their eyes, they do not treat it with well-bred silence. They scream and shout and jump and hop. The interpretation which Packy first placed on the uproar was that quite a number of murders must have broken out simultaneously in the vicinity. It was only a few moments later that, happening to glance down at the water, he observed floating in it a human form. And, scanning this form more closely, he recognized it as that of the Vicomte de Blissac.

'Hello, there,' he said.

He found nothing to surprise him in the spectacle. He had known that the Vicomte was in St Rocque, and as for his being in the middle of the harbour in a double-breasted suit of mauve cloth cut snugly about the shoulders, there was nothing particularly odd about that. Eighteen months ago, Packy had only just restrained him from taking a dip in one of New York's better-known fountains in full dress clothes.

It was with gratification, accordingly, rather than astonishment that he leaned over the side and greeted him.

'Hello, there, Veek,' he said. 'How's the boy?'

The boy at the moment of the enquiry was not doing any too well. A wave had caught him unawares, and he now disappeared beneath the surface with a slight gargling sound. When he rose again, it was so evident that he was a poor swimmer that Packy realized that he had got to do something immediately.

Many men in Packy's position would have shrunk from diving in to the rescue, fully clad. Packy was one of them. He was fond of the Vicomte, but not to the extent of ruining a nearly new flannel suit in his interests. However, the spirit of Auld Lang Syne was sufficiently strong in him to cause him to climb into the dinghy, and in a few minutes he had gaffed the poor bit of flotsam and brought it safely aboard.

The affecting reunion which should have taken place at this point had to be deferred owing to the necessity of retrieving the wrecked boat. Boats cost money in St Rocque. It was some little time before Packy returned. When he did so, he found that the Vicomte had not been idle in his absence. He had removed his wet clothes and donned a raincoat, had tracked down the whisky bottle, apparently purely by scent, and was now drinking a medicinal dram against a possible cold in the head.

To his host's enquiries he replied reassuringly.

'I'm all right, my old Packy. Quite O.C. Absolutely O.C.'

An education at Eton and subsequent travel in both Great Britain and the United States had given the Vicomte de Blissac a considerable fluency in the English tongue but not a perfect command of it. He belonged to the school of thought which holds that if you talk quick the words will take care of themselves. This was one of his simpler efforts, and Packy interpreted his meaning without difficulty. He regarded him fondly, as men will a friend dramatically restored to them, and they fell into pleasant conversation.

'I didn't know you were coming to St Rocque, Packy. You said nothing when we meet at Waterloo.'

'I didn't know myself then.'

'What do you do here?'

Packy was guarded. There are some missions too secret to reveal even to an old friend.

'Oh, I'm just pottering around. Tell me, Veek, what happened to you?'

'I fell overboard.'

'No, I mean eighteen months ago. You suddenly disappeared from New York without a word. Did they deport you?'

'Oh, no. My mamma send a cable that I should go out West to Colorado. I left New York to arrive there. It was a great wrench.'

'You were sorry to go?'

'No, I liked going. I had fun.'

'Then why was it a great wrench?'

'Because it was. A great cattle-wrench.'

'I get you,' said Packy. 'Your habit of dropping into Yiddish is a little confusing at times, but I get you. What made your mamma send you there?'

'She hear that I have been making whoopee, and she think I needing a rest-cure. Always my mamma is think I needing rest-cures. That is why I go now to stay with these Gedges at the Château. They are rich Americans who have taken the Château, and I bet you, my Packy, my mamma has make them pay through the nostrils.'

Packy, who had been sitting on the side of the boat, rose as if he had just discovered the woodwork to be red-hot. A thrill of elation passed through him, coupled with a strong vote of censure on that inefficient brain of his. Odd, he felt, that the human brain when tackling a problem always has that curious tendency to overlook the obvious solution.

Until now, this matter of getting into the Château had seemed to him a straight issue between himself and these unknown Gedges. How, he had asked himself, was he to establish connection with these Gedges and induce them to invite him to the house? And all the while there was the old Veek right on the spot, in a position to get as many of his friends invited as he pleased.

'Are you at the Château now?'

'Not yet. I go soon... perhaps.'

'Perhaps?'

'Well, you never know, my Packy. If the Festival is so good as always it has been, maybe I do not arrive for days and days.'

'What Festival?'

The Vicomte waved a hand shorewards. The little town was gay with flags and bunting, and even at this early hour care-free noises had begun to make themselves heard.

'To-day is the Festival of the Saint. St Rocque, you understand. It is his anniversary which is being celebrated. Just one of those dam' silly binges where the populace cuts loose and steps on the gas,' explained the Vicomte, genially tolerant of the recreations of the lower orders, 'but not bad. Quite good fun. I broke almost my neck last year, jumping over a table.'

Packy was not interested in the Festival of the Saint.

'Look here, Veek,' he said urgently. 'Be a sport. Get me invited to the Château, will you? I can't explain, but I have a particular reason for wanting to spend a few days there.'

The Vicomte smiled indulgently.

'Aha! The beautiful Miss Opal, yes?'

Packy was annoyed. Jane Opal, except as a mere acquaintance to whom he wished to do a good turn, was nothing to him. It was intensely irritating to have to listen to such nonsense.

'Nothing of the kind. I happen to be engaged to be married.'

'To Miss Opal?'

'Not
to Miss Opal. I introduced you to my
fiancée
at Waterloo.'

'Was that
your fiancée?
That very lovely girl?'

'Yes.'

'And yet you come all this way to see Miss Opal?'

Reluctantly, Packy abandoned the idea of beating his friend over the head with a belaying-pin. He must, he felt, be tactful.

'Well, never mind, never mind. The point is, can you get me into the Château?'

'Alas, no.'

'Why not?'

'My old Packy, what you ask is impossible. By the time I arrive at the Château, I shall be in very wrong with these Gedges and what I say will not go. They expect me arriving yesterday, and most likely I do not turn upwards till the day after to-morrow, if even then. This will annoy these Gedges confoundedly. They will be sicker than mud. You understand?'

Packy was unwilling to accept defeat.

'All the same...'

'No,' said the Vicomte definitely, 'it cannot be done. So far from inviting my friends to the Château, I shall be extremely fortunate if I do not myself become kicked out. I have met these Gedges never, but my mamma tells me they are very upright, respectable
bourgeois,
and you would not believe, my Packy, how much not liked by upright, respectable
bourgeois
I can grow in quite a short space of time. It will be a case of "'allo, Monsieur le Vicomte, come in. Good-bye, Monsieur le Vicomte, get out," and I shall be back once more in my good little hotel.'

Packy argued no further. He was depressed, but he could see the force of the other's reasoning. The Vicomte might be good company, but he was not a good social sponsor. Search, he realized, must be made elsewhere for means of entry to the Château Blissac.

'And now,' said the Vicomte, dismissing the unprofitable theme, let us forget these Gedges and the Château, and we will speak of the Festival. This Festival is good fun, Packy. Do you remember how in New York once you take me to a fete of artists at Webster 'All?'

Packy nodded austerely. He recalled the episode, but it was one which in his capacity of a steady young fellow engaged to a girl of ideals he preferred to forget.

'Well, it is like that, something, only bigger much. It is our great fancy costume carnival, you understand. The whole town goes cuckoo. Everybody puts on funny clothes and becomes pie-eyed.'

Packy shivered prudishly. He was aware, of course, that there were still people in the world who disgraced themselves in the manner described, but it was not nice to have to hear about them.

'What great good fortune that you should arriving on this particular day, my Packy, and that we should so happily have met. We will whoop it up.'

St Anthony might have equalled Packy's stare, but only on one of his best days.