XX
How Bredon Spent the Evening
Bredon had undoubtedly secured the best occupation for the evening. For two whole days he had missed the feeling of cards between his hands, and now he returned with a great hunger to his favourite pastime. True, the circumstances were not ideal. It was thoughtless of Leyland to have insisted on his sitting so close to the window; there was, fortunately, a window-seat, but not generous enough in its proportions to secure a convenient layout of the cards. The rows, instead of lying flat, had to climb over downs and gullies in the faded chintz; the result was an occasional avalanche, and a corresponding loss of temper. In an ideal world, Bredon reflected, you would have a large building like a racquet-court to play patience in, and you would wheel yourself up and down between the rows in an invalid’s chair.
There was a soft rustle at the door, and Angela came in. “Oo, I’ve been feeling so nice and stealthy,” she said. “Mr. Eames and I crept back down the lane like burglars. It was better than a cinema, I can tell you! We dodged round the privet-hedge, and came in through the back of Mrs. Davis’s kitchen. And I thought the back stairs would never stop creaking. Did you hear me coming up?”
“I can’t say I did. But you see, I was otherwise engaged. To a man like Brinkman, on the alert for every noise, your progress probably sounded like a charge of cavalry. You’re sure you shut the door properly? I need hardly say that a sudden draught would be a disaster to all my best hopes. A little knitting is indicated for you, Angela, to steady the mind.”
“Don’t you talk too much. If Brinky came out and saw your lips moving it might worry him. Remember, you’re supposed to be alone in the room. Though indeed he probably regards you as potty by now in any case, so it wouldn’t surprise him to see you talking to yourself. Words cannot depict the shame I have felt this evening at having such a lazy husband. Talk of Nero fiddling while Rome was burning!”
“Say rather, Drake insisting on finishing his game of bowls. Or was it William Tell? I forget. Anyhow, this is the fine old British spirit. What’s the word? Not undaunted—imperturbable, that’s what I mean. The myrmidons of Scotland Yard bustle to and fro outside; the great detective sits calmly within, with all the strings in his hands. My nets begin to close tighter round them, Watson. Dash it all, I believe Pulteney’s let me down. Where’s his other two of spades?”
“I don’t want to be unpleasant, but you will perhaps allow me to remind you that you are supposed to be on the lookout. If Brinky comes out in front, you are to report to me. And how are you to see him, if you will go scavenging about under the window-seat like that?”
“Well, you’ll jolly well have to find my two of spades, then, while I keep an eye on the street. Fair division of labour. Watchman, what of the night? There’s going to be a jolly fine thunderstorm. Did you see that flash? I deduce that there will shortly be a slight roll of thunder. There, what did I tell you?”
“It’s not so much the innate laziness of the man,” murmured Angela, as if to herself, “it’s his self-sufficiency! Here’s your beastly two of spades; don’t lose it again. You ought to have the cards tied round your neck with a piece of string. I say, aren’t you excited? Do you think Brinky will show fight when they nab him in the garage?”
“Don’t fluster me. I wish to be secluded from the world. Here before me lies a very pretty problem, represented by two hundred and eight pieces of pasteboard. Behind that, in the dim background of my half-awake consciousness, lies a very pretty problem in detection. It is my boast that I can do both at once. But how am I to do either if women will chatter at me?”
“Passengers are requested not to speak to the man at the wheel. All right, Aunty, go on with your silly game. I’m going to knit. It doesn’t feel quite womanly to knit, somehow, with a thing like you in the room.”
There was silence for a while, as Bredon sat over his cards, with an occasional glance at the street below him. There is said to be a man who has invented a Chinese typewriter; and since (they tell us) every word in the Chinese language has its own symbol—the fault of Confucius, for not thinking of letters—the machine is said to be of the size and shape of a vast organ, and the typist runs to and fro, pulling out a stop here, pressing down a pedal there, in a whirl of activity. Not otherwise did Bredon appear when he saw the possibilities of a particular gambit in his patience; then he would sit for a while lost in thought, puzzling out combinations for the future. Below him, the street lay in an unearthly half-darkness. Lamps should
