Death in a White Tie

Mrs Halcut-Hackett said she thought Bach was marvellous.

‘Do tell me,’ said Lord Robert with his engaging air of enjoying a gossip. ‘I’ve just run into a feller whose face looked as familiar as anything, but I can’t place him. Feller over there talking to the girl in red.’

He saw patches of rouge on her cheeks suddenly start up in hard isolation and he thought: ‘That’s shaken her, poor thing.’

She said: ‘Do you mean Captain Maurice Withers?’

‘Maybe. The name don’t strike a chord, though. I’ve got a shocking memory. Better be getting along. May I look out for you on Thursday? Thank you so much. Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye, dear Lord Robert,’ said Mrs Halcut-Hackett.

He edged his way out and was waiting patiently for his hat and umbrella when someone at his elbow said:

‘Hullo, Uncle Bunch, are you going home?’

Lord Robert turned slowly and saw his nephew.

‘What? Oh, it’s you, Donald! Yes, I am! Taking a cab. Want a lift?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Donald.

Lord Robert looked over his glasses at his nephew and remarked that he seemed rather agitated. He thought: ‘What the deuce is the matter with everybody?’ but he only said: ‘Come along, then,’ and together they went out into the street. Lord Robert held up his umbrella and a taxi drew in to the kerb.

‘’Evening, m’lord,’ said the driver.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ said Lord Robert. ‘’Evening. We’re going home.’

‘Two hundred Cheyne Walk. Very good, m’lord,’ wheezed the driver. He was a goggle-eyed, grey-haired, mottle-faced taximan with an air of good-humoured truculence about him. He slammed the door on them, jerked down the lever of his meter, and started up his engine.

‘Everybody knows you, Uncle Bunch,’ said Donald in a voice that was not quite natural. ‘Even the casual taxi-driver.’

‘This feller cruises about in our part of the world,’ said Lord Robert. He twisted himself round in his seat and again looked at his nephew over the top of his glasses. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘I—well—nothing. I mean, why do you think anything’s up?’

‘Now then,’ said Lord Robert. ‘No jiggery-pokery. What’s up?’

‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ answered Donald, kicking the turned-up seat in front of him, ‘I did rather want a word with you. I—I’m in a bit of a tight corner, Uncle Bunch.’

‘Money?’ asked his uncle.

‘How did you guess?’

‘Don’t be an ass, my boy. What is it?’

‘I—well, I was wondering if you would mind—I mean, I know I’ve been a bit extravagant. I’m damn sorry it’s happened. I suppose I’ve been a fool but I’m simply draped in sackcloth and steeped in ashes. Never again!’

‘Come, come, come,’ said Lord Robert crisply. ‘What is it? Gambling?’

‘Well—yes. With a slight hint of riotous living. Gambling mostly.’

‘Racing? Cards?’

‘A bit, but actually I dropped the worst packet at roulette.’

‘Good Gad!’ exclaimed Lord Robert with surprising violence. ‘Where the devil do you play roulette?’

‘Well, actually it was at a house out at Leatherhead. It belongs to a man who was at that party. Some people I know took me there. It turned out to be a rather enterprising sort of gamble with a roulette-table and six fellows doing croupier. All in order, you know. I mean it’s not run for anything but fun naturally, and Captain Withers simply takes on the bank—’

‘Who?’

‘The person’s name is Withers.’

‘When was this party?’

‘Oh, a week or so ago. They have them fairly regularly. I paid all right, but—but it just about cleaned me up. I had the most amazing bad luck, actually. Would you believe it, there was a run of seventeen against me on the even chances? Bad. Very bad,’ said Donald with an unconvincing return to his lighter manner. ‘Disastrous, in fact.’

‘You’re shying about,’ said Lord Robert. ‘What’s the real trouble?’

‘One of my cheques has been returned R/D. I’m bust.’

‘I paid your Oxford debts and started you off with five hundred as a yearly allowance. Are you telling me you’ve gone through five hundred since you came down?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Donald. ‘Yes.’

‘Your mother gives you four pounds a week, don’t she?’

‘Yes.’

Lord Robert suddenly whisked out a notebook.

‘How much was this returned cheque?’

‘Fifty quid. Awful, isn’t it?’ He glanced at his uncle’s profile and saw that his lips were pursed in a soundless whistle. Donald decided that it was not as bad as he had feared and said more hopefully: ‘Isn’t it a bore?’

Lord Robert, his pencil poised, said: ‘Who was it made out to?’

‘To Wits—Withers—everyone calls him Wits. You see, I had a side bet with him.’

Lord Robert wrote, turned, and looked over his spectacles at his nephew.

‘I’ll send Withers a cheque tonight,’ he said.

‘Thank you so much, Uncle Bunch.’

‘What’s the address?’

‘Shackleton House, Leatherhead. He’s got a flat in town but the Leatherhead address is all right.’