Twelve Days: the Ninth

[avevale_intelligencer]

NINE

For Tig. What can I say? She gave me a list.

"I dunno wot you was finkin' of, cock." Magersfontein Lugg, huge and melancholic, surveyed the contents of Mr Albert Campion's wardrobe with a bleared and lugubrious gaze. "Wot're we goin' to eat for the rest of the monf, that's wot I should like to know?"

Mr Campion, beside him—an observer, standing behind them, would have seen something rather like a human representation of the number ten—sighed in exasperation. "I've told you already, Lugg," he said, "they're not mine. I'm just looking after them for a friend."

"Ho, a friend, is it?" Lugg was scornful. "An' when this friend skips orf to sunny Sarf America, an' the bill comes in to Bottle Street, marked for the attention of Mister Halbert Campion, or wotever name you're usin' that week, wot'll you say then?" He felt of the fabric of one of the sleeves, and shook his head. "Nine of 'em. Nine. An' not even good 'uns neither. Look at that cut. Definitely not the article."

Campion looked at him. "Since when did you become an expert?" he said. "You've been gossiping with that Jeeves character again, haven't you?"

Several of Lugg's chins came up. "Mister Jeeves," he said haughtily, "'as been kind enough to hacquaint me with some vallyble tips on sartorial helegance as practised by gentlemen of quality—like wot you orter be, if everyone 'ad their rights, and if you didn't go mixin' with lower-class types."

"Like you, you mean?"

The barb struck home. Lugg fixed Campion with a reproachful stare. "Uncalled for," he said sorrowfully. "A fine thanks I get from you for tryin' to better meself. To 'aul you kickin' and screamin' up the social scale. An' wot 'appens? As soon as I makes some progress, orf you go again, dabblin' in murder an' blackmail an' hespionage an' Gawd knows wot, and before you knows it, bang, we're back in the ole gutter. It makes me want to weep, reelly it does." And to his horror, Mr Campion fancied he saw in the bloodshot eye of his old friend and knave a genuine tear. He hastened to make amends.

"They won't be here long," he said quickly. "And I promise you nobody will expect us to pay for them. That's been handled."

"'Andled," Lugg muttered. "I reckon you been 'andled, is wot. Still, you can't say as 'ow I didn't try to warn yer." He turned and lumbered away in the direction of the kitchen. "There's some pickled 'erring left if yer 'ungry."

Left to himself, Campion surveyed the suits. Lugg was right, he reflected; they really were of shockingly poor quality. Still, that would be all to the good; and after all, they had had to be got up in a tremendous hurry. Presumably those who were to wear them would be grateful enough...

The doorbell cut short his meditations. He looked at his watch. Precisely on time. He heard Lugg's ponderous tread as he went to answer the door. It opened, and a voice greeted Lugg affably enough and inquired whether Mr Campion was at home. Mr Campion waited, and Lugg appeared in the doorway.

"It's for you, cock," he said. "I'm orf. Comparisons," he added, "is odorous."

Mr Campion emerged from the bedroom, to see a man in his fifties, trimly yet solidly built with greying hair and a soldierly bearing, in the act of removing his bowler hat. From the kitchen emerged the sounds of energetic washing up.

"Ah, good afternoon, your—I should say, Mr Campion," said the man deferentially. "I take it the...garments...are ready?"

Mr Campion assented gratefully, and went to fetch them, draping them over his arm. When he came back, the soldierly man was unrolling a stout canvas bag into which he pushed the suits, one after the other. "I am informed," he said, a little strainedly, "that a certain amount of creasing will only add to the effect for which we are striving. While I understand the principle behind the suggestion..." He stopped, evidently feeling that he had overstepped some mark. "Thank you very much, sir," he said. "My employer will be in touch at the earliest possible juncture to inform you of the outcome of the affair." He hefted the bag in his left hand, touching his forehead with the other. "Good afternoon to you."

"Good afternoon," Campion said, handing him his bowler. A moment later he was gone, and a few minutes after that, from the street below, came the sound of a powerful motor car starting up.

"'As 'e gorn?" Lugg appeared on cue, like a weather-house man, wiping his hands on his apron. "You might of warned me it was 'im wot was comin'. I dunno why, but 'im and me, we just don't seem to 'it it orf. Not like Mister Jeeves. 'E ain't got," Lugg pronounced, "the common touch, like wot Mister Jeeves 'as. Mister Jeeves—"

"Just you shut up about Mister Jeeves for a minute," Campion said equably. "You make me sick with your snobbery."

"Ah well, way o' the world, ain't it, cocky?" Lugg was relaxing, once more in his element. "Just 'cos you ain't got no more social graces than a halley cat, don't mean the rest of us gotter pretend like there ain't no clawss distinction no more. Anyway," he said with finality, "as I see we're rid of the hincubus of them there 'orrible schmutter wot you got landed wiv, I reckon we might push the boat out an' 'ave a cuppa char. Comin'?"

Mr Campion assented, and followed his tormentor into the kitchen.

Later that evening, the phone rang, and Mr Campion answered it.

"What-ho, old thing," said the voice in his ear. "I thought you might like to know everything went off swimmingly at our end. Nine distinguished lady members of a prominent European corps de ballet are now wingin' their way to America, havin' slipped out of the theatre disguised as particularly ill-dressed gentlemen of the press. They asked me to convey their most heartfelt thanks."

"You didn't tell them—?"

"Rest, rest, perturbéd spirit. Your name did not enter into the affair at any point. I merely told them that a friend of mine was arrangin' appropriate togs, courtesy of a friend of his who used to be a tailor at His Majesty's pleasure. They said to say thanks awfully, and all that, don't you know. And so I do. Those of us who can see which way the wind is blowin' over there—and there are damned few of us—well, the way I see it, we've jolly well got to do all we can before the balloon goes up. It'll be a sight harder afterwards."

"It was nothing," Campion admitted, with some truth. "Glad to help."

"Good egg. Well, must push on, what? I say, do give my regards to Amanda."

"I will," Campion said. "And tell Harriet I adored her last book."

"Consider it done. Oh, and," the voice became conspiratorial, "not a word to the ladies, eh? They get so confoundedly shirty if they think we've been fraternisin'."

"My lips are sealed," Campion assured him. "Till the next time, then?"

"A rivederci, old bean," the voice said, and the connection was broken.

Campion paused as he replaced the receiver, smiled reminiscently to himself, and then picked up the telephone again and dialled his wife's number.

Comments

[pbristow]

Oh, I love it! =:o>

Never particularly got into either character/series, myself, but I recognise them right enough. =:o}