old Gerry makes himself out to be.'
They all stared at him. There was a serious look on Ronny's face.
'Jimmy,' he said, 'you've got brains.'
'A second Pongo,' said Bill encouragingly.
'Well, it just occurred to me, that's all,' said Jimmy, defending himself.
'Oh! don't let's all be subtle,' cried Socks. 'What are we to do about these clocks?'
'Here's Pongo coming back again. Let's ask him,' suggested Jimmy.
Pongo, urged to bring his great brain to bear upon the matter, gave his decision.
'Wait till he's gone to bed and got to sleep. Then enter the room very quietly and put the clocks down on the floor.'
'Little Pongo's right again,' said Jimmy. 'On the word one all pack clocks, and then we'll go downstairs and disarm suspicion.'
Bridge was still proceeding – with a slight difference. Sir Oswald was now playing with his wife and was conscientiously pointing out to her the mistakes she had made during the play of each hand. Lady Coote accepted reproof good-humouredly, and with a complete lack of any real interest. She reiterated, not once, but many times:
'I see, dear. It's so kind of you to tell me.'
And she continued to make exactly the same errors.
At intervals, Gerald Wade said to Pongo:
'Well played, partner, jolly well played.'
Bill Eversleigh was making calculations with Ronny Devereux.
'Say he goes to bed about twelve – what do you think we ought to give him – about an hour?'
He yawned.
'Curious thing – three in the morning is my usual time for bye-bye, but tonight, just because I know we've got to sit up a bit, I'd give anything to be a mother's boy and turn in right away.'
Everyone agreed that they felt the same.
'My dear Maria,' rose the voice of Sir Oswald in mild irritation, 'I have told you over and over again not to hesitate when you are wondering whether to finesse or not. You give the whole table information.'
Lady Coote had a very good answer to this – namely that as Sir Oswald was dummy, he had no right to comment on the play of the hand. But she did not make it. Instead she smiled kindly, leaned her ample chest well forward over the table, and gazed firmly into Gerald Wade's hand where he sat on her right.
Her anxieties lulled to rest by perceiving the queen, she played the knave and took the trick and proceeded to lay down her cards.
'Four tricks and the rubber,' she announced. 'I think I was very lucky to get four tricks there.'
'Lucky,' murmured Gerald Wade, as he pushed back his chair and came over to the fireside to join the others. 'Lucky, she calls it. That woman wants watching.'
Lady Coote was gathering up notes and silver.
'I know I'm not a good player,' she announced in a mournful tone which nevertheless held an undercurrent of pleasure in it. 'But I'm really very lucky at the game.'
'You'll never be a bridge player, Maria,' said Sir Oswald.
'No, dear,' said Lady Coote. 'I know I shan't. You're always telling me so. And I do try so hard.'
'She does,' said Gerald Wade sotto voce. 'There's no subterfuge about it. She'd put her head right down on your shoulder if she couldn't see into your hand any other way.'
'I know you try,' said Sir Oswald. 'It's just that you haven't any card sense.'
'I know, dear,' said Lady Coote. 'That's what you're always telling me. And you owe me another ten shillings, Oswald.'
'Do I?' Sir Oswald looked surprised.
'Yes. Seventeen hundred – eight pounds ten. You've only given me eight pounds.'
'Dear me,' said Sir Oswald. 'My mistake.'
Lady Coote smiled at him sadly and took up the extra ten shilling note. She was very fond of her husband, but she had no intention of allowing him to cheat her out of ten shillings.
Sir Oswald moved over to a side table and became hospitable with whisky and soda. It was half past twelve when general goodnights were said.
Ronny Devereux, who had the room next door to Gerald Wade's was told off to report progress. At a quarter to two he crept round tapping at doors. The party, pyjamaed and dressing-gowned, assembled with various scuffles and giggles and low whispers.
'His light went out about twenty minutes ago,' reported Ronny in a hoarse whisper. 'I thought he'd never put it out. I opened the door just now and peeped in, and he seems sound off. What about it?'
Once more the clocks were solemnly assembled. Then another difficulty arose.
'We can't all go barging in. Make no end of a row. One person's got to do it and the others can hand him the whatnots from the door.'
Hot discussion then arose as to the proper person to be selected.
The three girls were rejected on the grounds that they would giggle. Bill Eversleigh was rejected on the grounds of his height, weight and heavy tread, also for his general clumsiness, which latter clause he fiercely denied. Jimmy Thesiger and Ronny Devereux were considered possibles, but in the end an overwhelming majority decided in favour of Rupert Bateman.
'Pongo's the lad,' agreed Jimmy.
'Anyway, he walks like a cat – always did. And then, if Gerry should waken up, Pongo will be able to think of some rotten silly thing to say to him. You know, something plausible that'll calm him down and not rouse his suspicions.'
'Something subtle,' suggested the girl Socks thoughtfully.
'Exactly,' said Jimmy.
Pongo performed his job neatly and efficiently. Cautiously opening the bedroom door, he disappeared into the darkness inside bearing the two largest clocks. In a minute or two he reappeared on the threshold and two more were handed to him and then again twice more. Finally he emerged. Everyone held their breath and listened. The rhythmical breathing of Gerald Wade could still be heard, but drowned, smothered and buried beneath the triumphant, impassioned ticking of Mr. Murgatroyd's eight alarm clocks.
Chapter 3
THE JOKE THAT FAILED
' Twelve o'clock ,' said Socks despairingly.
The joke – as a joke – had not gone off any too well. The alarm clocks, on the other hand, had performed their part. They had gone off – with a vigour and йlan that could hardly have been surpassed and which had sent Ronny Devereux leaping out of bed with a confused idea that the day of judgment had come. If such had been the effect in the room next door, what must it have been at close quarters? Ronny hurried out in the passage and applied his ear to the crack of the door.
He expected profanity – expected it confidently and with intelligent anticipation. But he heard nothing at all. That is to say, he heard nothing of what he expected. The clocks were ticking all right – ticking in a loud, arrogant, exasperating manner. And presently another went off, ringing with a crude, deafening note that would have aroused acute irritation in a deaf man.
There was no doubt about it; the clocks had performed their part faithfully. They did all and more than Mr. Murgatroyd had claimed for them. But apparently they had met their match in Gerald Wade.
The syndicate was inclined to be despondent about it.
'The lad isn't human,' grumbled Jimmy Thesiger.
'Probably thought he heard the telephone in the distance and rolled over and went to sleep again,' suggested Helen (or possibly Nancy).
