Part 5

‘I lay up in a taxi a few yards from the door of this place, where I could get a good view. Presently out came Leonard, and I might very easily have missed him, for I was expecting him to bob up from the basement, and he came out of the main entrance. He was well turned out, and looked rather less like a head-waiter than I do myself. He called up a taxi and got in. Off he went, and off I went after him, my driver having been instructed. We drove, as near as I can guess, for about umpty-ump hours. I know I began to wonder if my cigarettes would last out the trip. Then my cab slowed down to a crawl, and I looked cautiously from the window. Leonard’s cab had stopped in front of a mouldy-looking place with big gilt letters on it. He overpaid his cabman—I heard the words, “Thank you,” distinctly—ran up the steps, rang a bell, and entered. I got out.

‘“Cabby,” I said, “where are we? Is this the hereafter?”

‘“No, sir,” he said. “Looks like it, but it’s really Brixton.”

‘The big gilt letters informed me that Leonard had entered the Beaulieu Temperance Hotel. I pushed the push, and the door was half opened to me by an Italian waiter with the darkest eyes and hands I ever saw. I could catch a glimpse of a small hall furnished with a good deal of dust and a stand for hats and coats. I spotted Leonard’s excellent hat and overcoat thereon. The waiter looked at me suspiciously. I got right on to the point at once.

‘“I want,” I said, “the name and address of the gentleman who came in here just now, and I’ll pay a sovereign for it.”

‘He seemed to understand the argument. In a minute he was back with the name and address and the information that the gentleman was stopping there for only one night. He got his sovereign. The name he gave was Leonard, and the address was the address of this hotel. I may have been more annoyed in the course of my life, but I doubt it. So I made the weary journey back again, had a light supper of one whisky and soda, and went to bed.’

Mr Matthews had followed Leonard on foot to the Ritz. Mr Quillian had tracked him to a desperate hostelry in the far north of London. Major Byles had pursued him to an hotel in Wimbledon. They ascertained that he spent a night at each one of these three places, but they added nothing else to their knowledge of him.

Sir Charles Bunford had been no more successful, but he had a curious story to tell. He had met Leonard by chance in St James’s Street one night at half-past eleven. There was nothing in Leonard’s dress or bearing that suggested anything less than complete independence. Sir Charles felt certain that he himself had not been recognised, turned, and followed him.

‘He led me,’ Sir Charles recounted, ‘up through the squares to Oxford Street, where he turned west. Just then there came shuffling along in the gutter towards us a street-vendor with a tray of little toys slung from his shoulders. He gave me the impression of an old man. Leonard and he both stopped. I also stopped, making a pretence of lighting a cigarette. They were both in the full light of a street lamp, and I had a close view of them. Leonard picked up from the tray a little monkey of blue plush mounted on a pin. Deliberately and without a smile he stuck the monkey in the gutter-merchant’s battered bowler. Then he took out his notecase, produced a fiver, and spread it on the tray, and walked on. During this curious incident neither of the men spoke. As you may imagine, I tackled the street-vendor at once.

‘“You’re in luck,” I said. “Did you know that customer?”

‘He folded his fiver and slipped it into an inner pocket. He looked at me shrewdly, and I noticed that his eyes were young. His voice when he spoke was quite young. And it was the voice of an educated man too.

‘“Which of us,” he said, “can say that he knows the other—or even that he knows himself?”

‘“Come,” I said. “I think you can tell me what I want to know. And two fivers are better than one.”

‘“That is so—to some people at some times—but not to Mr William Bunting, the editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_, at this time. I will wish you good-night, Sir Charles.”

‘And he walked off briskly without a trace of the old slouch. How he knew my name I can’t tell you, for certainly Leonard, even if he knew I was following, never said a word to him. The man left me staggered. I rushed off again after Leonard, but I had lost him. That is all I have to tell, and I have given you the facts accurately as they happened. I was both sane and sober at the time—but if you doubt that, upon my word I can’t be surprised.’

The failure was general. Dr Alden had interviewed the proprietor of the hotel, who was most courteous, but, in the doctor’s opinion, lied in his profession of ignorance. Mr Pusely-Smythe got hold of one of the other waiters who appeared perfectly willing to betray anybody on the most moderate terms, but, unfortunately, had no information to impart.

‘Well,’ said the chairman, ‘I must decide that the problem has not been solved. The prize for it not being awarded, the prize for the next competition is doubled. We have now to obtain the solution of the problem from the wily Leonard himself, and at the same time he is required to show us that the problem was possible of solution by us. It is now twenty to eleven and presumably Leonard leaves this hotel at eleven; so we have not much time to spare. If you, Mr Quillian, will unlock the doors and ring the bell, I will tell the waiter that we should be glad to see Leonard for a few minutes.’

But it was Leonard himself who answered the bell. He was a tall young man of good figure. He had not the stereotyped version of good looks, but his face was pleasing and full of humour and intelligence. He carried himself well. His dress was unsuited to the occasion, for he wore a well-cut lounge-suit of dark-blue cloth, and his brown, laced boots suggested a product of Bond Street intended for use in the country. There was no trace of a waiter about him. His manner was easy, confident without being assuming, and marked just by that touch of restraint that a man might show on first introduction to a number of his equals.

‘Well, Leonard,’ said the chairman, ‘we were on the point of sending for you. Your problem has beaten us. Can you show us how we might have solved it, and provide us with the solution?’

‘Certainly,’ said Leonard. ‘I’d rather expected that I should be wanted.’

‘Good. Now sit down, won’t you? We’re all quite informal here.’

‘Thanks,’ said Leonard. It seemed to be tacitly and generally accepted that he had become a guest of the club. Dr Alden proffered his cigar-case; Jimmy brought him a whisky-and-soda.

‘I think I ought to begin,’ said Leonard, ‘by apologising to you for having given you all such a lot of trouble—more especially as it was quite intentional on my part.’

‘Part of the game,’ said Major Byles. ‘That’s all right. No apologies needed.’

‘Thanks very much. At any rate I can apologise for these clothes. The fact is that I’m going North by the midnight train from Euston, and so I changed. And now let me show one or two ways in which the problem could have been solved. Some of you followed me when I took a taxi to an outlying hotel, and subsequently made applications at the hotel. If, instead of doing this, you had hailed the taxi that I had just left, you would in each case have found inside it an addressed envelope giving you the information you required. When Mr Feldane went for that very long drive to Brixton, I intentionally left my hat and coat in the hall of the alleged hotel for a few minutes. He examined the waiter; if he had examined the inside of my hat he would have found a certain clue. Sir Charles very nearly caught me. That night I left the hotel much earlier than usual, and had satisfied myself that nobody was waiting for me outside. I was on my way to a house in Audley Street where I was not known as the head-waiter at this hotel, and my identity would probably have been discovered; and it was necessary I should go to that house. At the top of St James’s Street I found that Sir Charles was after me. But I had taken a precaution. A friend of mine was stationed in Oxford Street, masquerading as a vender of penny plush monkeys; I found him and we went through a little eccentric pantomime together that had been prearranged. As had been expected, Sir Charles stopped to make inquiries from him. And while that was happening I made my escape.’

‘One moment,’ said Sir Charles. ‘How on earth did he know who I was? You never spoke to him?’

‘No, I never spoke. And he did not know who you were. He did not know that you were Sir Charles Bunford, and does not know it now. He knew that he could address you as Sir Charles, and he knew that from the fact that I stuck the monkey in his hat. It was a prearranged code. If Major Byles had been following me, I should have stuck the monkey in my friend’s right sleeve. He would then have addressed him as Major, though he would not have known his name. If Mr Wildersley had been after me, the monkey would have gone into the left sleeve; my friend would have known by that sign that he was an artist, but would have known no more than that. Similarly, in other cases, he would always have appeared to have known, but would not have known really.’

‘Leonard,’ said the chairman, ‘in my opinion you have shown both skill and discretion, and a good sporting spirit besides. I decide that your problem was fair. And now will you solve it for us?’

‘Very good. I must give you some abbreviated family history. My grandfather had two sons, both of whom disappointed him, though in different ways. My uncle was a man of extreme avarice; my father, the younger of the two, was a gambler. Both my parents died before I was five years old, and I—the only child—passed into the charge of my grandfather.

‘My grandfather placed me with the family of an intimate friend of his, who was also the senior partner in the firm of solicitors who acted for him, a Mr Barstairs. Barstairs had married a Frenchwoman. French was the language generally spoken in their house, and most of my early years were spent abroad. I went through a public-school and Cambridge without any particular disgrace or distinction. So far, my grandfather had kept me well supplied with money; in fact, at Cambridge I had not spent my allowance. But I had never seen my grandfather. I wrote to him four times a year, and his replies were always witty and entertaining. I took everything for granted in the way that boys do.

‘On my twenty-first birthday I had a letter from my grandfather to the effect that as an experiment he wished me to make my own living in any way I liked for a period of some years. When that period was over, or sooner if he died before then, I was to be no longer under that necessity. Mr Barstairs, who had not been consulted, was indignant about that letter, but I did not resent it myself.

‘What assets had I to offer an employer? My classical degree would have entitled me to teach in a school—a truly awful profession to my mind. I spoke two Continental languages well and a third passably. I had an unusual knowledge of wines and cuisine for a man of my age. (Mr Matthews will remember that Barstairs was an epicure.) I had seen a good deal of hotel life at home and abroad. I took counsel with Mr Hance, the proprietor of this hotel, who was known to me. After some training at an hotel in Paris I became the night head-waiter here, using my first name, Leonard, as my surname. My grandfather and Mr Barstairs alone were taken into my secret. It is to the latter that I owe the pleasure of having served a club of which I should be proud one day to become a member, if that were possible. I saw life from a novel and interesting angle. I had my mornings free for poetry, to which I am devoted. I was quite satisfied.

‘There is little more to add. In the year that I came here my uncle died unmarried. Three months ago my grandfather also died, and I——’

‘Pardon me,’ said Sir Charles, ‘but I have been watching your face carefully, and I think I see a family likeness or the trace of one. All that you have said would confirm it. I think you are the grandson of the founder of this club, and in that case you are the sixth Baron Herngill.’

‘That is correct. I remained here for these months while some legal matters were completed, and to oblige Hance, for I consider that he did me a good turn. I leave for Enthwaite to-night. And now, gentlemen, since time presses, may I mention that I have a successor to myself to propose to you, if you have made no other arrangements? He would act on the same terms as I have done. I will answer for his ability and discretion. He is, like myself, a poet. He is also the editor of an obscure weekly publication called _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_. If you choose him I have here his first problem to deliver to the chairman. His name is William Bunting. With your permission I will retire for a few minutes while you consider this.’

When he had gone out it was found that every member of the Problem Club had formed the same idea. On his return to the room Lord Herngill was informed that Mr Bunting had been appointed, and also that Lord Herngill had been proposed by the chairman, seconded by Sir Charles Bunford, and unanimously elected a member of the Problem Club.

No. VII.

The Shakespearean Problem

The failure of the members to discover the identity of Leonard—the last problem that he had set them—meant that at the forty-ninth meeting the prize was doubled, and a cheque for two hundred and twenty pounds awaited the lucky winner. Leonard, formerly known as a capable head-waiter and an astute setter of problems, had revealed himself as the grandson and heir of the Lord Herngill who had founded the club, and had been elected to membership. He had described himself further as a poet. He had now travelled up from Yorkshire for the express purpose of attending the first meeting after his election, and the dinner with which the proceedings opened showed him, as had been expected, a charming, accomplished, and quite amusing companion.

Young Hesseltine and the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe were, respectively, chairman and secretary for the evening. The chairman, equipped with a bound copy of Shakespeare, and certain other forms of refreshment, read out the terms of the competition. They were longer than usual, and ran as follows:—

‘Members are required, in the course of conversation, to make undetected quotations from Shakespeare, and to detect and challenge the quotations which are made by other members.

‘The score is two for making an undetected quotation, and one for detecting and challenging a quotation made by another. The highest score wins. If any member challenges as a quotation from Shakespeare words which are not a quotation from that author, he will have one deducted from his score. Any member with a score of minus three is out of the game.

‘The method of challenging will be by raising one hand, when the chairman will temporarily arrest proceedings and investigate. Where several members raise their hands simultaneously, all will score the detection, or be penalised for the failure, as the case may be. Otherwise, only the first hand up can score or be penalised.

‘A quotation must consist of more than four words, or it will not rank as a quotation. The words must be given in their correct order, but otherwise any attempt may be made to disguise the quotation. Any member who has made an undetected quotation should notify it to the chairman at the earliest opportunity, while it is still fresh in the memory.

‘Detection, to be valid, should be made immediately—say, within twenty seconds of the utterance of the quotation.

‘The chairman will stop the competition when in his opinion all members have had a fair and full chance of speaking, and on all disputed points his ruling is absolute.’

‘Yes,’ said the chairman, when he had read out the above, ‘our new problem-setter, the mysterious editor of _The Pig-Keepers’ Friend_, seems to be rather a lengthy beggar. More like a round game than a problem, to my mind. I can imagine literary circles playing it on winter evenings. However, I think we’ve most of us got the hang of it. There’s double the usual amount of boodle in the jack-pot, but all the same I’m not sorry to be debarred from competing. I had a good deal of Shakespeare boosted into me by schoolmasters when I was a boy, but I fear that it ain’t stuck to me. Well, it’s all up to the high-brows to-night. And I’ll call on our old friend Leonard, who’s our new member, Lord Herngill, to start the ball rolling, and our padre to keep the score as directed.’

‘Well,’ said Leonard, ‘I can’t say that I am a stranger here, but I am certainly a new member, and very glad to be. Now, I told you that I was a poet, but a writer of poetry is not necessarily a reader of poetry. I can’t say whether he ought to be or not.’ He paused to relight a cigarette. ‘To be candid——’

‘I challenge,’ said Mr Cunliffe, with uplifted hand. ‘The quotation is, “To be or not to be,” rather cunningly broken up.’

‘Admitted,’ said Leonard.

‘Then,’ said the chairman, ‘the secretary will score one to himself.’

‘At the same time,’ said Leonard, ‘I should like him to score two to me. The words, “I am a stranger here,” are a quotation from _King Richard II._, Act 2, Scene iii. Northumberland speaks them. And the quotation was not recognised.’

This was verified and found correct and the score allowed. The chairman turned to the Hon. James Feldane, who was sitting—or, to be accurate, reclining—in the chair next to Leonard. ‘Go ahead, Jimmy,’ he said.

‘Very well,’ said Jimmy wearily. ‘The—er—the quality of mercy——’

Five hands went into the air together.

‘Jimmy,’ said the chairman, ‘it looks as if you were pretty considerably challenged—by five simultaneously. You, Major Byles, being one of them, will tell us why.’

‘Why?’ exclaimed the Major. ‘Because it’s one of the best-known quotations in Shakespeare. I won’t swear which play it comes from, but everybody knows it. Let’s see, how does it go? “The quality of mercy is not strained, but droppeth like the thingamy of the something-or-other.”’

‘Any defence, Jimmy?’ asked the chairman.

‘Somewhat,’ said Jimmy. ‘I said, “The quality of mercy.” I admit it. I glory in it. But that’s only four words, and it’s laid down that four words do not make a quotation.’

‘That is so. I fear that the Major, Dr Alden, our only K.C., and our two artist-members must all have a minus one recorded against them.’

‘What I was going to have said when they interrupted me was that the quality of mercy differed in some material respects from coffee that has been made with a percolator. Same thought as Shakey’s, but a different mode of expression. Five of you have now lost a life through being premature. You need to be careful. A score of minus three puts you outside of any chance of two hundred and twenty of the very best. And I’m dangerous to-night—I’m out for blood. The brindled cat winds slowly o’er the lea—anybody like to challenge that?’

Wildersley said it would make a good title for an Academy picture, but nobody asserted that it was Shakespeare—not even Jimmy.

‘You’re an unenterprising lot,’ said Jimmy disdainfully. ‘But I’ll give you one more chance. “Satiate at length, and heightened as with wine.” That’s more than four words. Any challengers?’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Charles, holding up his hand. ‘I don’t know for certain, but it’s got the flavour of the period in it. Anyway, I’d sooner lose one life than let you score a triumphant two for it.’

‘Then you’ll lose the life. It’s a quotation all right, but it happens to be a little bit that I cut out of the best end of _Paradise Lost_, by J. Milton, Esquire.’ And Jimmy leant back in his chair satisfied. He had scored nothing for himself, but he had done something to spoil the chances of six other men.

The chairman turned to Sir Charles. ‘Don’t you think that Jimmy’s an irreverent young blackguard?’ he asked.

‘Well,’ said Sir Charles, with an air of quiet dignity. ‘Jimmy is young and I am old. As we progress on life’s journey, we old men cease to expect to find universal agreement with our views. We know that our opinions are our own, but cannot be all the world’s.’ He paused and sighed. ‘A stage or two farther on, and Jimmy may come to think, as I do now, that——’ And here suddenly Sir Charles broke off and chuckled. ‘Well, I’m blest!’ he said. ‘I never expected to do it. I knew this wasn’t a little nest of Shakespeareans, but I did think that you’d spot the best-known line in Shakespeare.’

That air of pathetic dignity had merely been a bit of acting, but the acting had been so good that it had distracted the attention from the words. Otherwise members must have found in Sir Charles’s remarks the well-worn tag that ‘All the world’s a stage.’ It scored two for Sir Charles, thus putting him on the way to a win, at any rate.

A few minutes later another well-known quotation very nearly came through unscathed. Somebody, speaking of Leonard, had said, ‘Leonard, or Lord Herngill, whichever he prefers to be called.’

Leonard smilingly said that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. He admitted afterwards that he had not had the slightest intention of quoting Shakespeare. He had merely uttered a platitude because it happened to be apt, though as soon as he said it he recognised his own quotation. Unfortunately for him, the Rev. Septimus Cunliffe had also recognised it, and by challenging it added one to a score that was growing slowly but surely. He attempted no quotation himself, and never challenged unless he was sure. To put it plainly, he played for safety.