“All wrong!” repeated Mr. Beamish.
And when Hamilton Beamish said “All wrong!” it meant “All wrong!” He was a man who thought clearly and judged boldly, without hedging or vacillation. He called a Ford a Ford.
“Wrong, sir?” faltered Mullett, when, realising that there had been no bomb-outrage after all, he was able to speak.
“Wrong. Inefficient. Too much waste motion. From the muscular exertion which you are using on that broom you are obtaining a bare sixty-three or sixty-four percent of result-value. Correct this. Adjust your methods. Have you seen a policeman about here?”
“A policeman, sir?”
Hamilton Beamish clicked his tongue in annoyance. It was waste motion, but even efficiency experts have their feelings.
“A policeman. I said a policeman and I meant a policeman.”
“Were you expecting one, sir?”
“I was and am.”
Mullett cleared his throat.
“Would he be wanting anything, sir?” he asked a little nervously.
“He wants to become a poet. And I am going to make him one.”
“A poet, sir?”
“Why not? I could make a poet out of far less promising material. I could make a poet out of two sticks and a piece of orange-peel, if they studied my booklet carefully. This fellow wrote to me, explaining his circumstances and expressing a wish to develop his higher self, and I became interested in his case and am giving him special tuition. He is coming up here today to look at the view and write a description of it in his own words. This I shall correct and criticise. A simple exercise in elementary composition.”
“I see, sir.”
“He is ten minutes late. I trust he has some satisfactory explanation. Meanwhile, where is Mr. Finch? I would like to speak to him.”
“Mr. Finch is out, sir.”
“He always seems to be out nowadays. When do you expect him back?”
“I don’t know, sir. It all depends on the young lady.”
“Mr. Finch has gone out with a young lady?”
“No, sir. Just gone to look at one.”
“To look at one?” The author of the Booklets clicked his tongue once more. “You are drivelling, Mullett. Never drivel—it is dissipation of energy.”
“It’s quite true, Mr. Beamish. He has never spoken to this young lady—only looked at her.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Well, sir, it’s like this. I’d noticed for some time past that Mr. Finch had been getting what you might call choosey about his clothes. …”
“What do you mean, choosey?”
“Particular, sir.”
“Then say particular, Mullett. Avoid jargon. Strive for the Word Beautiful. Read my booklet on Pure English. Well?”
“Particular about his clothes, sir, I noticed Mr. Finch had been getting. Twice he had started out in blue with the invisible pink twill and then suddenly stopped at the door of the elevator and gone back and changed into the dove-grey. And his ties, Mr. Beamish. There was no satisfying him. So I said to myself ‘Hot dog!’ ”
“You said what?”
“Hot dog, Mr. Beamish.”
“And why did you use this revolting expression?”
“What I meant was, sir, that I reckoned I knew what was at the bottom of all this.”
“And were you right in this reckoning?”
A coy look came into Mullett’s face.
“Yes, sir. You see, Mr. Finch’s behaviour having aroused my curiosity, I took the liberty of following him one afternoon. I followed him to Seventy-Ninth Street, East, Mr. Beamish.”
“And then?”
“He walked up and down outside one of those big houses there, and presently a young lady came out. Mr. Finch looked at her, and she passed by. Then Mr. Finch looked after her and sighed and came away. The next afternoon I again took the liberty of following him, and the same thing happened. Only this time the young lady was coming in from a ride in the Park. Mr. Finch looked at her, and she passed into the house. Mr. Finch then remained staring at the house for so long that I was obliged to go and leave him at it, having the dinner to prepare. And what I meant, sir, when I said that the duration of Mr. Finch’s absence depended on the young lady, was that he stops longer when she comes in than when she goes out. He might be back at any minute, or he might not be back till dinnertime.”
Hamilton Beamish frowned thoughtfully.
“I don’t like this, Mullett.”
“No, sir?”
“It sounds like love at first sight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you read my booklet on ‘The Marriage Sane’?”
“Well, sir, what with one thing and another and being very busy about the house. …”
“In that booklet I argue very strongly against love at first sight.”
“Do you, indeed, sir?”
“I expose it for the mere delirious folly it is. The mating of the sexes should be a reasoned process, ruled by the intellect. What sort of a young lady is this young lady?”
“Very attractive, sir.”
“Tall? Short? Large? Small?”
“Small, sir. Small and roly-poly.”
Hamilton Beamish shuddered violently.
“Don’t use that nauseating adjective! Are you trying to convey the idea that she is short and stout?”
“Oh no, sir, not stout. Just nice and plump. What I should describe as cuddly.”
“Mullett,” said Hamilton Beamish, “you will not, in my presence and while I have my strength, describe any of God’s creatures as cuddly. Where you picked it up, I cannot say, but you have the most abhorrent vocabulary I have ever encountered. … What’s the matter?”
The valet was looking past him with an expression of deep concern.
“Why are you making faces, Mullett?” Hamilton Beamish turned. “Ah, Garroway,” he said, “there you are at last. You should have been here ten minutes ago.”
A policeman had come out onto the roof.
II
The policeman touched his cap. He was a long, stringy policeman, who flowed out of his uniform at odd spots, as if Nature, setting out to make a constable, had had a good deal of material left over which it had not liked to throw away but hardly seemed able to fit neatly into the general scheme. He had large, knobby wrists of a geranium hue and just that extra four or five inches of neck which disqualify a man for high honours in a beauty competition.
