“Lord Balcairn,” said Lord Metroland, “will you kindly leave my house immediately?”
“Is this young man called Chatterbox or is he not? … Upon my soul, I believe you’re all crazy.”
“Oh yes, I’m going,” said Simon. “You didn’t think I was going to go back to the party like this, did you?—or did you?” Indeed, he looked very odd with little patches of black hair still adhering to parts of his chin and cheeks.
“Lord Monomark is here this evening. I shall certainly inform him of your behaviour …”
“He writes for the papers,” Father Rothschild tried to explain to the Prime Minister.
“Well, damn it, so do I, but I don’t wear a false beard and call myself Chatterbox. … I simply do not understand what has happened. … Where are those detectives? … Will no one explain? … You treat me like a child,” he said. It was all like one of those Cabinet meetings, when they all talked about something he didn’t understand and paid no attention to him.
Father Rothschild led him away, and attempted with almost humiliating patience and tact to make clear to him some of the complexities of modern journalism.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” the Prime Minister kept saying. “It’s all humbug. You’re keeping something back. … Chatterbox, indeed.”
Simon Balcairn was given his hat and coat and shown to the door. The crowd round the awning had dispersed. It was still raining. He walked back to his little flat in Bourdon Street. The rain washed a few of the remaining locks from his face; it dripped down his collar.
They were washing a car outside his front door; he crept between it and his dustbin, fitted his latchkey in the lock and went upstairs. His flat was like Chez Espinosa—all oilcloth and Lalique glass; there were some enterprising photographs by David Lennox, a gramophone (on the instalment system) and numberless cards of invitation on the mantelpiece. His bath towel was where he had left it on his bed.
Simon went to the ice box in the kitchen and chipped off some ice. Then he made himself a cocktail. Then he went to the telephone.
“Central ten thousand …” he said. “… give me Mrs. Brace. Hullo, this is Balcairn.”
“Well … gotcher story?”
“Oh yes, I’ve got my story, only this isn’t gossip, it’s news—front page. You’ll have to fill up the Chatterbox page on Espinosa’s.”
“Hell!”
“Wait till you see the story. … Hullo, give me news, will you. … This is Balcairn. Put on one of the boys to take this down, will you? … ready? All right.”
At his glass-topped table, sipping his cocktail, Simon Balcairn dictated his last story.
“Scenes of wild religious enthusiasm, comma, reminiscent of a negro camp-meeting in Southern America, comma, broke out in the heart of Mayfair yesterday evening at the party given for the famous American Revivalist Mrs. Ape by the Viscountess Metroland, formerly the Hon. Mrs. Beste-Chetwynd, at her historic mansion, Pastmaster House, stop. The magnificent ballroom can never have enshrined a more brilliant assembly …
”
It was his swan-song. Lie after monstrous lie bubbled up in his brain.
“ … The Hon. Agatha Runcible joined Mrs. Ape among the orchids and led the singing, tears coursing down her face …
”
Excitement spread at the Excess office. The machines were stopped. The night staff of reporters, slightly tipsy, as always at that hour, stood over the stenographer as he typed. The compositors snatched the sheets of copy as they came. The subeditors began ruthlessly cutting and scrapping; they suppressed important political announcements, garbled the evidence at a murder trial, reduced the dramatic criticism to one caustic paragraph, to make room for Simon’s story.
It came through “hot and strong, as nice as mother makes it,” as one of them remarked.
“Little Lord Fauntleroy’s on a good thing at last,” said another.
“What-ho,” said a third appreciatively.
“ … barely had Lady Everyman finished before the Countess of Throbbing rose to confess her sins, and in a voice broken with emotion disclosed the hitherto unverified details of the parentage of the present Earl. …
”
“Tell Mr. Edwardes to look up photographs of all three of ’em,” said the assistant news editor.
“ … The Marquess of Vanburgh shaken by sobs of contrition. … Mrs. Panrast, singing feverishly. … Lady Anchorage with downcast eyes.
”
“ … The Archbishop of Canterbury, who up to now had remained unmoved by the general emotion, then testified that at Eton in the ’eighties he and Sir James Brown …
”
“ … the Duchess of Stayle next threw down her emerald and diamond tiara, crying ‘a Guilt Offering,’ an example which was quickly followed by the Countess of Circumference and Lady Brown, until a veritable rain of precious stones fell on to the parquet flooring, heirlooms of priceless value rolling among Tecla pearls and Chanel diamonds. A blank cheque fluttered from the hands of the Maharajah of Pukkapore …
”
It made over two columns, and when Simon finally rang off, after receiving the congratulations of his colleagues, he was for the first time in his journalistic experience perfectly happy about his work. He finished the watery dregs of the cocktail shaker and went into the kitchen. He shut the door and the window and opened the door of the gas oven. Inside it was very black and dirty and smelled of meat. He spread a sheet of newspaper on the lowest tray and lay down, resting his head on it. Then he noticed that by some mischance he had chosen Vanburgh’s gossip-page in the Morning Despatch. He put in another sheet. (There were crumbs on the floor.) Then he turned on the gas. It came surprisingly with a loud roar; the wind of it stirred his hair and the remaining particles of his beard. At first he held his breath. Then he thought that was silly and gave a sniff. The sniff made him cough, and coughing made him breathe, and breathing made him feel very ill; but soon he fell into a coma and presently died.
So the last Earl of
