We mused for awhile on what lay before us, and I remember thinking that present conditions, even with Spode and Madeline and Florence on the premises, suited one better. From this to thinking of Uncle Tom was but a step. It seemed to me that the poor old buster must be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Even a single guest is sometimes too much for him.
‘How,’ I asked, ‘is Uncle Tom bearing up under this invasion of his cabin?’
She stared incredibly or rather incredulously.
‘Did you expect to find him here playing his banjo? My poor halfwitted child, he was off to the south of France the moment he learned that danger threatened. I had a picture postcard from him yesterday. He’s having a wonderful time and wishes I was there.’
‘And don’t you mind all these blighters overrunning the place?’
‘I would prefer it if they went elsewhere, but I treat them with saintly forbearance because I feel it’s all helping Ginger.’
‘How do things look in that direction?’
‘An even bet, I would say. The slightest thing might turn the scale. He and his opponent are having a debate in a day or two, and a good deal, you might say everything, depends on that.
‘ ‘Who’s the opponent?’
‘Local talent. A barrister.’
‘Jeeves says Market Snodsbury is very straittaced, and if the electors found out about Ginger’s past they would heave him out without even handing him his hat.’
‘Has he a past?’
‘I wouldn’t call it that. Pure routine, I’d describe it as. In the days before he fell under Florence’s spell he was rather apt to get slung out of restaurants for throwing eggs at the electric fan, and he seldom escaped unjugged on Boat Race night for pinching policemen’s helmets. Would that lose him votes?’
‘Lose him votes? If it was brought to Market Snodsbury’s attention, I doubt if he would get a single one. That sort of thing might be overlooked in the cities of the plain, but not in Market Snodsbury. So for heaven’s sake don’t go babbling about it to everyone you meet.’
‘My dear old ancestor, am I likely to? ‘
‘Very likely, I should say. You know how fat your head is.’
I would have what-d’you-call-it-ed this slur, and with vehemence, but the adjective she had used reminded me that we had been talking all this time and I hadn’t enquired about the camera chap.
‘By the way,’ I said, ‘Who would a fat fellow be?’
‘Someone fond of starchy foods who had omitted to watch his calories, I imagine. What on earth, if anything, are you talking about?’
I saw that my question had been too abrupt. I hastened to clarify it.
‘Strolling in the grounds and messuages just now I encountered an obese bird in a Panama hat with a pink ribbon, and I was wondering who he was and how he came to be staying here. He didn’t look the sort of bloke for whom you would be putting out mats with “Welcome” on them. He gave me the impression of being a thug of the first order.’
My words seemed to have touched a chord. Rising nimbly, she went to the door and opened it, then to the french window and looked out, plainly in order to ascertain that nobody — except me, of course — was listening. Spies in spy stories do the same kind of thing when about to make communications which are for your ears only.
‘I suppose I’d better tell you about him,’ she said.
I intimated that I would be an attentive audience.
‘That’s L. P. Runkle, and I want you to exercise your charm on him, such as it is. He has to be conciliated and sucked up to.’
‘Why, is he someone special?’
‘You bet he’s someone special. He’s a big financier, Runkle’s Enterprises. Loaded with money.’
It seemed to me that these words could have but one significance.
‘You’re hoping to touch him? ‘
‘Such is indeed my aim. But not for myself. I want to get a round sum out of him for Tuppy Glossop.’
Her allusion was to the nephew of Sir Roderick Glossop, the well-known nerve specialist and looney doctor, once a source of horror and concern to Bertram but now one of my leading pals. He calls me Bertie, I call him Roddy. Tuppy, too, is one of my immediate circle of buddies, in spite of the fact that he once betted me I couldn’t swing myself from end to end of the swimming bath at the Drones, and when I came to the last ring I found he had looped it back, giving me no option but to drop into the water in faultless evening dress. This had been like a dagger in the bosom for a considerable period, but eventually Time the great healer had ironed things out and I had forgiven him. He has been betrothed to Aunt Dahlia’s daughter Angela for ages, and I had never been able to understand why they hadn’t got around to letting the wedding bells get cracking. I had been expecting every day for ever so long to be called on to weigh in with the silver fish-slice, but the summons never came.