Berry and Co Part 48

"What is it, Boy?"

I laid a finger upon my lips.

"There's somebody downstairs. Wake Berry."

Slowly her husband rolled on to his left side and regarded me with one eye.

"What," he said, "is the meaning of this intrusion?"

"Don't be a fool," I whispered. "The house is being burgled."

"Gurgled?"

"Burgled, you fool."

"No such word," said Berry. "What you mean is 'burglariously rifled.'

And then you're wrong. Why, there's n.o.bby."

I could have stamped with vexation.

My sister took up the cudgels.

"Don't lie there," she said. "Get up and see."

"What?" said her husband.

"What's going on."

Berry swallowed before replying. Then--

"How many are there?" he demanded.

"You poisonous idiot," I hissed, "I tell you----"

"Naughty temper," said Berry. "I admit I'm in the wrong but there you are. You see, it all comes of not wearing rings. If I did, I should have remembered that a wire came from Jonah just before dinner--it's in my dinner-jacket--saying he was coming up late to-night with Harry, and that if the latter couldn't get in at the Club, he should bring him on here. He had the decency to add 'Don't sit up.'"

Daphne and I exchanged glances of withering contempt.

"And where," said my sister, "is Harry going to sleep?"

Her husband settled himself contentedly.

"That," he said drowsily, "is what's worrying me."

"Outrageous," said Daphne. Then she turned to me. "It's too late to do anything now. Will you go down and explain? Perhaps he can manage in the library. Unless Jonah likes to give up his bed."

"I'll do what I can," I said, taking a cigarette from the box by her side.

"Oh, and do ask if it's true about Evelyn."

"Right oh. I'll tell you as I come back."

"I forbid you," murmured her husband, "to re-enter this room."

I kissed my sister, lobbed a novel on to my brother-in-law's back, and withdrew before he had time to retaliate. Then I stepped barefoot downstairs, to perform my mission.

With the collapse of the excitement, n.o.bby's suspicion shrank into curiosity, his muscles relaxed, and he stopped quivering. So infectious a thing is perturbation.

The door of the library was ajar, and the thin strip of light which issued was enough to guide me across the hall. The parquet was cold to the touch, and I began to regret that I had not returned for my slippers.

As I pushed the door open--

"I say, Jonah," I said, "that fool Berry----"

It was with something of a shock that I found myself looking directly along the barrel of a .45 automatic pistol, which a stout gentleman, wearing a green mask, white kid gloves, and immaculate evening-dress, was pointing immediately at my nose.

"There now," he purred. "I was going to say, 'Hands up.' Just like that.

'Hands up.' It's so romantic. But I hadn't expected the dog. Suppose you put your right hand up."

I shook my head.

"I want that for my cigarette," I said.

For a moment we stood looking at one another. Then my fat _vis-a-vis_ began to shake with laughter.

"You know," he gurgled, "this is most irregular. It's enough to make Jack Sheppard turn in his grave. It is really. However.... As an inveterate smoker, I feel for you. So we'll have a compromise." He nodded towards an armchair which stood by the window. "You go and sit down in that extremely comfortable armchair--sit well back--and we won't say any more about the hands."

As he spoke, he stepped forward. n.o.bby received him with a venomous growl, and to my amazement the fellow immediately caressed him.

"Dogs always take to me," he added. "I'm sure I don't know why, but it's a great help."

To my mortification, the Sealyham proved to be no exception to the rule.

I could feel his tail going.

As in a dream, I crossed to the chair and sat down. As I moved, the pistol moved also.

"I hate pointing this thing at you," said the late speaker. "It's so suggestive. If you'd care to give me your word, you know.... Between gentlemen...."

"I make no promises," I snapped.

The other sighed.

"Perhaps you're right," he said. "Lean well back, please.... That's better."

The consummate impudence of the rogue intensified the atmosphere of unreality, which was most distracting. Doggedly my bewildered brain was labouring in the midst of a litter of fiction, which had suddenly changed into truth. The impossible had come to pa.s.s. The cracksman of the novel had come to life, and I was reluctantly witnessing, in comparative comfort and at my own expense, an actual exhibition of felony enriched with all the spices which the cupboard of Sensation contains.

The monstrous audacity of the proceedings, and the business-like way in which they were conducted, were almost stupefying.