He handed it to her with a distinct twinkle in his eye.
“You give it to me,” said Bundle, “because you know it’s not going to be the slightest use to me. Do you want me to leave the whole thing alone?”
“I should prefer it,” said Battle. “You see—if you go messing around all these places—well, it’s going to give us a lot of trouble.”
“Looking after me, you mean?”
“Looking after you, Lady Eileen.”
Bundle had risen to her feet. Now she stood undecided. So far the honours lay with Superintendent Battle. Then she remembered one slight incident, and she based her last appeal upon it.
“I said just now that an amateur could do some things which a professional couldn’t. You didn’t contradict me. That’s because you’re an honest man, Superintendent Battle. You knew I was right.”
“Go on,” said Battle quickly.
“At Chimneys you let me help. Won’t you let me help now?”
Battle seemed to be turning the thing over in his mind. Emboldened by his silence, Bundle continued.
“You know pretty well what I’m like, Superintendent Battle. I butt into things. I’m a Nosy Parker. I don’t want to get in your way or to try and do things that you’re doing and can do a great deal better. But if there’s a chance for an amateur, let me have it.”
Again there was a pause, and then Superintendent Battle said quietly:
“You couldn’t have spoken fairer than you have done, Lady Eileen. But I’m just going to say this to you. What you propose is dangerous. And when I say dangerous, I mean dangerous.”
“I’ve grasped that,” said Bundle. “I’m not a fool.”
“No,” said Superintendent Battle. “Never knew a young lady who was less so. What I’ll do for you, Lady Eileen, is this. I’ll just give you one little hint. And I’m doing it because I never have thought much of the motto ‘Safety First.’ In my opinion all the people who spend their lives avoiding being run over by buses had much better be run over and put safely out of the way. They’re no good.”
This remarkable utterance issuing from the conventional lips of Superintendent Battle quite took Bundle’s breath away.
“What was that hint you were going to give me?” she asked at last.
“You know Mr. Eversleigh, don’t you?”
“Know Bill? Why, of course, But what—?”
“I think Mr. Bill Eversleigh will be able to tell you all you want to know about Seven Dials.”
“Bill knows about it? Bill?”
“I didn’t say that. Not at all. But I think, being a quick-witted young lady, you’ll get what you want from him.
“And now,” said Superintendent Battle firmly, “I’m not going to say another word.”
Eleven
DINNER WITH BILL
Bundle set out to keep her appointment with Bill on the following evening full of expectation.
Bill greeted her with every sign of elation.
“Bill really is rather nice,” thought Bundle to herself. “Just like a large, clumsy dog that wags its tail when it’s pleased to see you.”
The large dog was uttering short staccato yelps of comment and information.
“You look tremendously fit, Bundle. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to see you. I’ve ordered oysters—you do like oysters, don’t you? And how’s everything? What did you want to go mouldering about abroad so long? Were you having a very gay time?”
“No, deadly,” said Bundle. “Perfectly foul. Old diseased colonels creeping about in the sun, and active, wizened spinsters running libraries and churches.”
“Give me England,” said Bill. “I bar this foreign business—except Switzerland. Switzerland’s all right. I’m thinking of going this Christmas. Why don’t you come along?”
“I’ll think about it,” said Bundle. “What have you been doing with yourself lately, Bill?”
It was an incautious query. Bundle had merely made it out of politeness and as a preliminary to introducing her own topics of conversation. It was, however, the opening for which Bill had been waiting.
“That’s just what I’ve been wanting to tell you about. You’re brainy, Bundle, and I want your advice. You know that musical show, ‘Damn Your Eyes?’ ”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you about one of the dirtiest pieces of work imaginable. My God! the theatrical crowd. There’s a girl—a Yankee girl—a perfect stunner—”
Bundle’s heart sank. The grievances of Bill’s lady friends were always interminable—they went on and on and there was no stemming them.
“This girl, Babe St. Maur her name is—”
“I wonder how she got her name?” said Bundle sarcastically.
Bill replied literally.
“She got it out of Who’s Who. Opened it and jabbed her finger down on a page without looking. Pretty nifty, eh? Her real name’s Goldschmidt 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 East, 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 the 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 fingernails—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.”