The Seven Dials mystery
or Abrameier--something quite impossible."
"Oh! quite," agreed Bundle.
"Well, Babe St. Maur is pretty smart. And she's got muscles. She was
one of the eight girls who made the living bridge--"
"Bill," said Bundle desperately, "I went to see Jimmy Thesiger
yesterday morning."
"Good old Jimmy," said Bill. "Well, as I was telling you, Babe's
pretty smart. You've got to be nowadays. She can put it over on most
theatrical people. If you want to live, be high-handed, that's what
Babe says. And mind you, she's the goods all right. She can act--it's
marvellous how that girl can act. She'd not much chance in 'Damn Your
Eyes'--just swamped in a pack of good-looking girls. I said why not try
the legitimate stage--you know, Mrs. Tanqueray--that sort of stuff--but
Babe just laughed--"
"Have you seen Jimmy at all?"
"Saw him this morning. Let me see, where was I? Oh, yes, I hadn't
got to the rumpus yet. And mind you it was jealousy--sheer, spiteful
jealousy. The other girl wasn't a patch on Babe for looks and she knew
it. So she went behind her back--"
Bundle resigned herself to the inevitable and heard the whole story
of the unfortunate circumstances which had led up to Babe St. Maur's
summary disappearance from the cast of "Damn Your Eyes." It took a long
time. When Bill finally paused for breath and sympathy, Bundle said:
"You're quite right, Bill, it's a rotten shame. There must be a lot of
jealousy about--"
"The whole theatrical world's rotten with it."
"It must be. Did Jimmy say anything to you about coming down to the
Abbey next week?"
For the first time, Bill gave his attention to what Bundle was saying.
"He was full of a long rigmarole he wanted me to stuff Codders with.
About wanting to stand in the Conservative interest. But you know,
Bundle, it's too damned risky."
"Stuff," said Bundle. "If George _does_ find him out, he won't blame
you. You'll just have been taken in, that's all."
"That's not it at all," said Bill. "I mean it's too damned risky for
Jimmy. Before he knows where he is, he'll be parked down somewhere like
Tooting West, pledged to kiss babies and make speeches. You don't know
how thorough Codders is and how frightfully energetic."
"Well, we'll have to risk that," said Bundle. "Jimmy can take care of
himself all right."
"You don't know Codders," repeated Bill.
"Who's coming to this party, Bill? Is it anything very special?"
"Only the usual sort of muck. Mrs. Macatta for one."
"The M.P.?"
"Yes, you know, always going off the deep end about Welfare and Pure
Milk and Save the Children. Think of poor Jimmy being talked to by her."
"Never mind Jimmy. Go on telling me."
"Then there's a Hungarian, what they call a Young Hungarian. Countess
something unpronounceable. She's all right."
He swallowed as though embarrassed and Bundle observed that he was
crumbling his bread nervously.
"Young and beautiful?" she inquired delicately.
"Oh! rather."
"I didn't know George went in for female beauty much."
"Oh! he doesn't. She runs baby feeding in Buda Pesth--something like
that. Naturally she and Mrs. Macatta want to get together."
"Who else?"
"Sir Stanley Digby--"
"The Air Minister?"
"Yes. And his secretary, Terence O'Rourke. He's rather a lad, by
the way--or used to be in his flying days. Then there's a perfectly
poisonous German chap called Herr Eberhard. I don't know who he is, but
we're all making the hell of a fuss about him. I've been twice told off
to take him out to lunch, and I can tell you, Bundle, it was no joke.
He's not like the Embassy chaps, who are all very decent. This man
sucks in soup and eats peas with a knife. Not only that, but the brute
is always biting his finger-nails--positively gnaws at them."
"Pretty foul."
"Isn't it? I believe he invents things--something of the kind. Well,
that's all. Oh! yes, Sir Oswald Coote."
"And Lady Coote?"
"Yes, I believe she's coming too."
Bundle sat lost in thought for some minutes. Bill's list was
suggestive, but she hadn't time to think out various possibilities just
now. She must get on to the next point.
"Bill?" she said. "What's all this about Seven Dials?"
Bill at once looked horribly embarrassed. He blinked and avoided her
glance.
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
"Nonsense," said Bundle. "I was told you know all about it."
"About what?"
This was rather a poser. Bundle shifted her ground.
"I don't see what you want to be so secretive for," she complained.
"Nothing to be secretive about. Nobody goes there much now. It was only
a craze."
This sounded puzzling.
"One gets so out of things when one is away," said Bundle in a sad
voice.
"Oh! you haven't missed much," said Bill. "Everyone went there just to
say they had been. It was boring really, and, my God, you _can_ get
tired of fried fish."
"Where did everyone go?"
"To the Seven Dials Club, of course," said Bill, staring. "Wasn't that
what you were asking about?"
"I didn't know it by that name," said Bundle.
"Used to be a slummy sort of district round about Tottenham Court Road
way. It's all pulled down and cleaned up now. But the Seven Dials Club
keeps to the old atmosphere. Fried fish and chips. General squalor.
Kind of East End stunt, but awfully handy to get at after a show."
"It's a night club, I suppose," said Bundle. "Dancing and all that?"
"That's it. Awfully mixed crowd. Not a posh affair. Artists, you know,
and all sorts of odd women and a sprinkling of our lot. They say quite
a lot of things, but I think that that's all bunkum myself, just said
to make the place go."
"Good," said Bundle. "We'll go there to-night."
"Oh! I shouldn't do that," said Bill. His embarrassment had returned.
"I tell you it's played out. Nobody goes there now."
"Well, we're going."
"You wouldn't care for it, Bundle. You wouldn't really."
"You're going to take me to the Seven Dials Club and nowhere else,
Bill. And I should like to know why you are so unwilling?"
"I? Unwilling?"
"Painfully so. What's the guilty secret?"
"Guilty secret?"
"Don't keep repeating what I say. You do it to give yourself time."
"I don't," said Bill indignantly. "It's only--"
"Well? I know there's something. You never can conceal anything."
"I've got nothing to conceal. It's only--"
"Well?"
"It's a long story--You see, I took Babe St. Maur there one night--"
"Oh! Babe St. Maur again."
"Why not?"
"I didn't know it was about her--" said Bundle, stifling a yawn.
"As I say, I took Babe there. She rather fancied a lobster. I had a
lobster under my arm--"
The story went on--When the lobster had been finally dismembered in
a struggle between Bill and a fellow who was a rank outsider, Bundle
brought her attention back to him.
"I see," she said. "And there was a row?"
"Yes, but it was _my_ lobster. I'd bought it and paid for it. I had a
perfect right--"
"Oh! you had, you had," said Bundle hastily. "But I'm sure that's all
forgotten now. And I don't care for lobsters anyway. So let's go."
"We may be raided by the police. There's a room upstairs where they
play baccarat."
"Father will have to come out and bail me out, that's all. Come on,
Bill."
Bill still seemed rather reluctant, but Bundle was adamant, and they
were soon speeding to their destination in a taxi.
The place, when they got to it, was much as she imagined it would be.
It was a tall house in a narrow street, 14 Hunstanton Street; she noted
the number.
A man whose face was strangely familiar opened the door. She thought he
started slightly when he saw her, but he greeted Bill with respectful
recognition. He was a tall man, with fair hair, a rather weak, anaemic
face and slightly shifty eyes. Bundle puzzled to herself where she
could have seen him before.
Bill had recovered his equilibrium now and quite enjoyed doing showman.
They danced in the cellar, which was very full of smoke--so much so
that you saw everyone through a blue haze. The smell of fried fish was
almost overpowering.
On the wall were rough charcoal sketches, some of them executed with
real talent. The company was extremely mixed. There were portly
foreigners, opulent Jewesses, a sprinkling of the really smart, and
several ladies belonging to the oldest profession in the world.
Soon Bill led Bundle upstairs. There the weak-faced man was on guard,
watching all those admitted to the gambling room with a lynx eye.
Suddenly recognition came to Bundle.
"Of course," she said. "How stupid of me. It's Alfred, who used to be
second footman at Chimneys. How are you, Alfred?"
"Nicely, thank you, your ladyship."
"When did you leave Chimneys, Alfred? Was it long before we got back?"
"It was about a month ago, m'lady. I got a chance of bettering myself,
and it seemed a pity not to take it."
"I suppose they pay you very well here," remarked Bundle.
"Very fair, m'lady."
Bundle passed in. It seemed to her that in this room the real life
of the club was exposed. The stakes were high, she saw that at
once, and the people gathered round the two tables were of the true
type--hawk-eyed, haggard, with the gambling fever in their blood.
She and Bill stayed there for about half an hour. Then Bill grew
restive.
"Let's get out of this place, Bundle, and go on dancing."
Bundle agreed. There was nothing to be seen here. They went down again.
They danced for another half hour, had fish and chips, and then Bundle
declared herself ready to go home.
"But it's so early," Bill protested.
"No, it isn't. Not really. And, anyway, I've got a long day in front of
me to-morrow."
"What are you going to do?"
"That depends," said Bundle mysteriously. "But I can tell you this,
Bill, the grass is not going to grow under my feet."
"It never does," said Mr. Eversleigh.
CHAPTER XII
INQUIRIES AT CHIMNEYS
Bundle's temperament was certainly not inherited from her father,
whose prevailing characteristic was a wholly amiable inertia. As Bill
Eversleigh had very justly remarked, the grass never did grow under
Bundle's feet.
On the morning following her dinner with Bill, Bundle woke full of
energy. She had three distinct plans which she meant to put into
operation that day, and she realized that she was going to be slightly
hampered by the limits of time and space.
Fortunately she did not suffer from the affliction of Gerry Wade,
Ronny Devereux and Jimmy Thesiger--that of not being able to get up in
the morning. Sir Oswald Coote himself would have had no fault to find
with her on the score of early rising. At half-past eight Bundle had
breakfasted and was on her way to Chimneys in the Hispano.
Her father seemed mildly pleased to see her.
"I never know when you're going to turn up," he said. "But this will
save me ringing up, which I hate. Colonel Melrose was here yesterday
about the inquest."
Colonel Melrose was Chief Constable of the county, and an old friend of
Lord Caterham.
"You mean the inquest on Ronny Devereux? When is it to be?"
"To-morrow. Twelve o'clock. Melrose will call for you. Having found the
body, you'll have to give evidence, but he said you needn't be at all
alarmed."
"Why on earth should I be alarmed?"
"Well, you know," said Lord Caterham apologetically, "Melrose is a bit
old-fashioned."
"Twelve o'clock," said Bundle. "Good. I shall be here, if I'm still
alive."
"Have you any reason to anticipate not being alive?"
"One never knows," said Bundle. "The strain of modern life--as the
newspapers say."
"Which reminds me that George Lomax asked me to come over to the Abbey
next week. I refused, of course."
"Quite right," said Bundle. "We don't want you mixed up in any funny
business."