“Shove everything in the trunk and wait for me,” he said with a deadly quiet to his voice. This was a Clarence that Harold had never known, a Clarence that Harold suspected could be dangerous. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
He turned and walked off without waiting for an answer. A strange buzzing sound began to form in his head, a buzzing he had not heard for years, and he knew it heralded a complete and violent loss of temper. But he also knew he had to control it, at least for the moment. He mounted the steps of the hospital as in a dream, and found himself facing an information desk with an uniformed nurse behind it. His questions and her answers seemed to him to come from two different people standing off to one side, hidden in the gloom of the vaulted entrance, speaking through echo-chambers. He saw her shake her head and had to concentrate on what she was saying, for it seemed to him that her head was still and that it was the building that had moved. It was very disconcerting. He concentrated harder.
No, the hospital had no library for records or for anything else. The university across the way had a library, of course, except it obviously would not be open at this hour. Latin? A bit, she said in a puzzled tone; why? To interpret something? If she could. Oh, this — yes, as the gentleman suspected, it was a diploma, a Cambridge diploma for something in the animal-husbandry field, or the agricultural field, she thought; she wasn’t quite certain of all the words, but in general there seemed to be little doubt that—
But she was speaking to empty space. Clarence had left and was walking a bit unsteadily down the steps of the hospital. The man, the nurse thought professionally, looked as if he could use some of the care the hospital dispensed, but soliciting custom was against the hospital rules...
Sir Percival, Carruthers, Simpson, and Briggs had, indeed, taken Clarence’s advice, and were sitting in one corner of a smoke-filled pub, enjoying — yes, actually enjoying — mugs of ale, now that Sir Percival had offered to pay for brandy and champagne. Sir Percival, while a lover of money, was none the less a most generous host; still, they did not feel it right to take advantage of him. Besides, in their unspoken thoughts, was the idea that they had better get used to ale or beer again; in fact, they knew they would be lucky to have this simple fare to fall back upon in the future.
“Ale,” Carruthers said, and considered his mug. “It’s all a matter of mental conditioning, I suppose. Liking it, I mean,” he added, and downed the contents of his mug with gusto. He tapped on the table to indicate to the serving wench his need for a refill, waited for it, and dipped his nose into it with fervor.
“I agree,” Simpson said, puffing on a tarlike bit of rope that passed for a cigar, and trying his best to savor it. “It’s all in looking at it in the proper manner. I recall a situation one of my characters got himself into — Limehouse Louie, I believe it was. Anyway, it seems he drew this ten-year sentence, and he knew that since he suffered from claustrophobia, if he didn’t condition himself to liking it, he was going to suffer. And when the ten years were up—”
“He asked to stay!” Briggs said sarcastically.
Simpson beamed at him. “You read the book!”
“What I am curious about,” Carruthers said idly, “is how far Harold and Clarence will dig before they come to the proper conclusion that they have been had.”
“Not very far,” Pugh predicted, and smiled. “Or at least I hope so for Harold’s sake, since I imagine he’ll be doing any work that is done. You see, I am a trustee of the hospital, and I was present at the inauguration of that powerhouse. Many cables and things...”
He did not explain nor did they ask him to. They were all relaxed, feeling the effects of several ales with little food in their stomachs. Briggs burped gently and frowned.
“What I am curious about,” he said, “is what Clarence’s reaction is going to be when he discovers it was all a put-on.” He looked at Pugh. “When you go back to the farm, he’s apt to be — well, irritated, to say the least.”
Pugh looked at him with faint amusement.
“And why on earth would you think I might go back to that squalid place?”
Briggs stared, confused.
“Well,” he said, “what about your twenty thousand quid? Our stock certificates are worthless, but I saw that money of yours with my own eyes. That was real lolly. That wasn’t counterfeit!”
“Heavens, no!” Pugh said, and raised his eyes ceiling-ward. “From Barclay’s? And at any rate, how could I possibly have foisted counterfeit on Clarence with him standing at my elbow when I collected it? Counting it over my shoulder as the teller shoved the stuff at me?”
“Well, then—?” Simpson asked, a puzzled expression on his horselike face.
Pugh looked from one frowning face to another and then sighed.
“If you will finish your drinks and come to my home-where I sincerely hope you will accept brandy and champagne, since we have neither beer nor ale — I shall be pleased to explain.” He raised his hand for the bill, paid it after close examination, and came to his feet. “Gentlemen—?”
Pugh paused in the foyer to glance through the evening Journal, and then followed his guests into the living room, carrying his briefcase, which he had brought from his car. He rang for the butler, gave the appropriate orders, and waited until they were carried out. Then, comfortably seated with the others, he raised his glass in a toast.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.” It was a chorused echo.
They all sipped, after which Sir Percival patted his lips, put away his handkerchief, and looked from one to the other of the three men facing him. He shook his head as if with disappointment.
“To be frank,” he said, “my feelings are hurt to have persons who I should have imagined would have respect for me, think for one moment that I would give a twister such as Clarence the correct hour, let alone twenty thousand of the best, even temporarily.” He reached over, bringing his bag to him and opening it, bringing out a package wrapped in brown paper. He opened it and inspected the contents before looking up. “Now, these stock certificates, I believe, are yours.” He handed them over to a stunned Carruthers. “This twenty thousand pounds in new notes, of course, is mine.” He placed the bundle to one side. “And the remaining forty thousand dollars that Clarence was kind enough to donate to the common cause, I suggest we divide equally, since we contributed equally to its acquisition.”
The three were staring at the money speechlessly. Pugh sighed.
“My dear chaps — you had the audacity to murder ten people, nine of them with impunity. On the S.S. Sunderland you managed to cheat at shipboard horse racing, the first time it has ever been attempted, let alone successfully, to my knowledge. You invented the game of Burmese Solitaire and used it not only to take several thousand pounds from some card cheats, but also to get me to defend you without a fee — an even rarer situation, believe me! In your day you wrote some of the most imaginative mystery novels around. Now, Carruthers conceives of this pirate-treasure ploy. Yet you do not recognize a simple switch of brown paper packages when you see it.” Pugh frowned. “Carruthers, as I said, you conceived of that pirate-treasure business. Tell me, why did you do it if not for some gain?”
Carruthers looked abashed.
“I had hoped,” he said rather shamefacedly, “that when Clarence and Harold went off to dig for pirate treasure someplace, we might — well, break into the cupboard and make off with a few bottles of...” He allowed the words to trail into silence, and then added apologetically, “We’re getting old, you know...”