William_the Dictator Page 11
“No, it’s not,” said William. “It’s black wood. It’s eb’ny.”
“It can’t be. Who’s ever heard of an eb’ny tree?” said Ginger.
“Go on, then. Show it us,” said Henry.
“How can I?” said William testily. “It’s in Robert’s bedroom, an’ he’d make an awful fuss if I took you in.”
“Who gave it him?”
“That girl at The Lilacs. Sheila What’s-her-name.”
“Barron,” supplied Henry.
“Yes, that’s it. Sheila Barron. They’ve only jus’ gone to live there.”
“I know,” said Ginger sorrowfully. The Lilacs, like most empty houses in the neighbourhood, had been a happy hunting-ground for the Outlaws before Mr. Barron and his family had moved into it. “D’you remember how we used to get in at that window over the v’randah roof, an’ play highwaymen up an’ down the staircases?”
“We got jolly good at climbin’ up that v’randah an’ openin’ that window with a penknife,” added Henry, in wistful, reminiscent vein.
“I bet burglars have a jolly fine time, getting into empty houses, an’ such like,” said William. “I’ve often thought I’d have a try when I’m grown up. That, or bein’ a detective. I never can make up my mind which have the most fun, burglars or detectives.”
The Outlaws, however, had discussed this subject so often that there was nothing left to say about it, so they returned to the ebony hair-brush.
“Why did she give him a hair-brush?” said Douglas. “I’d be jolly mad if anyone gave me a hair-brush for a birthday present.”
“He wanted it,” said William. He spoke sadly, as one deploring the degeneracy of a fellow creature. “He’s batty, but they’re all batty that way, are grown-ups. The things they give each other for presents make me sick! Hair-brushes an’ ties an’ handkerchiefs an’ such like! Why, my mother asked my father to give her a set of saucepans for a Christmas present last year! Saucepans!”
“Did Robert ask this girl to give him a hair-brush?”
“Not ’zactly, but he saw her father’s once, when he was there, an’ he said what a fine one it was, an’ so now she’s sent him one jus’ like it for a birthday present. She’s batty, too. They’re all batty. An’ now he’s goin’ about all cock-a-hoop jus’ ’cause he’s got a rotten ole eb’ny hair-brush. I gave him a jolly good whistle, what I’d made myself, an’ he hardly said ‘thank you’. I took it back after I’d given it him. I’d meant to do that, anyway,” he admitted, “but if he’d been decent about it, I’d have let him have it a bit longer.”
“I bet this eb’ny’s really jet, or somethin’ painted over black,” said Ginger, returning to their original discussion. “I’ve never heard of an’ eb’ny tree.”
“Well, you’ve not heard of everythin’, have you?” retorted William.
“No, but I’ve jolly well heard of most things,” said Ginger with spirit. “I bet there’s not much I’ve not heard of.”
“Well, you’d not heard of this eb’ny, had you?”
“No, an’ that’s why I don’t think there is such a thing. I bet you heard wrong. I bet it was em’rald or something like that.”
“’Course it couldn’t be. Em’rald’s green.”
“I bet it’s em’rald painted over black, then.”
“I bet it isn’t.”
“I bet it is.”
“I bet it isn’t.”
“I bet it is.”
The argument, having reached the point at which it could apparently go on for ever, Henry intervened.
“Well, bring it,” he said, “an’ then we can see what it is.”
“How can I?” demanded William again. “He’s mad on it. When he’s not brushin’ his hair with it, he’s standin’ an lookin’ at it with a soppy sort of smile. Seems to think no one’s ever had an eb’ny hair-brush before.”
“An’ I bet they’ve not,” said Ginger darkly.
“All right,” said William, stung by his friends’ incredulity. “I’ll jolly well bring it. You wait an’ see if it’s anythin’ painted over black. It’s eb’ny, I tell you. I’ll wait for a day when he’s goin’ out, an’ I’ll bring it along an’ show you. Jus’ fancy you never havin’ heard of eb’ny!”
“Well, anyway, if there is such a thing,” said Ginger, “an’ I bet there isn’t, I jolly well bet you’d never heard of it till your brother got this hair-brush.”
William replied to this by a scornful “Huh!” and they turned to more engrossing topics, such as the possibility of navigating the pond in an old wash-tub, which Ginger had found derelict, and a clothes prop, and the purely hypothetical question of whether a bite from a cow that had been bitten by a bull that had been bitten by a horse that had been bitten by a donkey that had been bitten by a mad dog would give one hydrophobia.
The next day it turned out that Robert was going to spend the afternoon with a friend, and William decided to seize the opportunity, and take the ebony hair-brush from his bedroom, and show it to the Outlaws. The scheme worked quite well. He waited till Robert had set off for the bus, then crept quietly into his bedroom, took the ebony hair-brush from its place of honour on the dressing-table, hid it under his coat, and hurried down to the old barn. He found the Outlaws already convinced, for Henry had made enquiries and brought full particulars.
“Eb’ny is a wood.”
“Well, I said it was, di’n’t I?” said William triumphantly.
“An’ it comes from China. An’ it breaks jolly easy. My aunt said she once had a walkin’ stick of it, an’ it broke clean in two.”
“Well, anyway, here it is,” said William, bringing the brush from under his coat.
They examined it with interest.
“It’s eb’ny,” said Henry, assuming the air of an expert, on the strength of his aunt’s walking-stick. “Yes, it’s eb’ny, all right.”
“Di’n’t I tell you it was?” said William.
“Yes, it’s eb’ny,” agreed the others. “S’black wood, all right.”
William felt his honour to be vindicated by this general admission, and the subject of ebony—not, they felt, a particularly interesting one at the best of times—was dropped.
The hair-brush itself, however, continued to interest them. They brushed their hair with it in turn, till each assumed quite a well-groomed appearance.
“Yes, it’s a jolly good one,” each gave as his verdict.
“I won’t bother takin’ it back jus’ yet,” said William. “Robert won’t be back till after tea. We’ll put it in Ginger’s bedroom to keep it safe, an’ I’ll take it with me when I go home.”
The Outlaws were going to spend the afternoon playing in the wood and then to have tea at Ginger’s. The afternoon passed satisfactorily. They tracked and retracked each other through the undergrowth. They made a fire without attracting the keeper’s attention, and cooked a mixture of cold sausage, blancmange, plum tart, and marmalade, that Ginger had succeeded in abstracting from his larder. They returned to Ginger’s and ate an enormous tea, then besieged each other, in turn, in the green-house, and broke two panes of glass.
Then suddenly William remembered the hair-brush.
“Gosh!” he said. “I nearly forgot it. I’d better be takin’ it back now. He was goin’ to be home soon after tea.”
He got the brush from Ginger’s bedroom, and set off jauntily along the road. William always found a journey along a straight road rather dull, and had to introduce some diversion in order to enliven it. The diversion he introduced on this occasion was that of balancing the hair-brush on his head. It needed, of course, a certain amount of care and due regard to balance. He was delighted with his success. It only fell off once or twice. He renounced his prospective careers of burglar and detective for that of acrobat. He even managed to put on a slight swagger, and still retain the hair-brush on his head. The road led along by the river and reached the point where stepping-stones crossed the river at a shallow spot. William looked at it longingly. To cross the step
ping stones balancing the hair-brush on his head would be a splendid feat. He’d be able to boast about it to the Outlaws, afterwards. And it wouldn’t really be much more difficult than walking along the road.
He wouldn’t go right across the river, of course. He’d just step across to the first stone to show that he could do it. He made his way down to the river (the brush fell off as he crossed the stile, but that, he decided, didn’t count), then stood on the bank, the brush carefully balanced on his head. He stepped on to the first stone without mishap. The empty banks had vanished, and a packed and wildly-cheering multitude had taken their place. He was a world-famous acrobat, performing dizzy feats of daring—feats never before performed within the memory of man. He passed on to the second step, and stood erect, the ebony hair-brush still secure on his head. The cheers were redoubled. He stepped across to the third stone. The cheering became a deafening roar. Instinctively, be bowed slightly in response and—the hair-brush fell into the water. Instantly, the cheering multitudes vanished and the world-famous acrobat became a rather frightened small boy, who had dropped his brother’s new ebony hair-brush into the river. The water was not deep, and it was easy enough to recover the hair-brush and to dry the handle. But the bristles were soaked, and no amount of rubbing with William’s already sodden handkerchief seemed to make them any drier. The church dock struck five. Robert might be home any minute now. That he should find the precious hair-brush in this state was unthinkable. And suddenly William remembered that, in her letter, Sheila had said that the hair-brush was “just like Daddy’s”. If only Daddy’s could be substituted for Robert’s till Robert’s was dry . . . But Mr Barron was away with the rest of the family. And then another memory occurred to him. He remembered Robert’s saying that, when he had admired her father’s ebony hair-brush, Sheila had said: “Oh, he’s got a much grander one in his dressing-case, but Mummy makes him keep that for going away.”
Robert had been much impressed by this evidence of the vastness and magnificence of the Barrons’ possessions, but William, beyond thinking it all very silly, had paid little attention to it. Now, however, his thoughts turned to it gratefully. If Mr. Barron used his dressing-case hair-brush when he was away, the ebony one just like Robert’s might still be on his dressing-table. If the window over the verandah hadn’t had a new catch put on to it, William could open it easily with a penknife, as he used to when the house was empty. If he could put it in Robert’s bedroom in the place of Robert’s, till Robert’s was dry, all would be well. Mr Barron’s would be duly replaced the next day, and the vengeance of an enraged Robert, which William knew by experience could be highly unpleasant, would be averted.
If the plan was to be tried (and William had already decided that it was to be tried), there was no time to be lost, so he set off at once across the fields to the Barrons’ house. He entered the garden cautiously, and there met with a slight setback, for the Barrons’ gardener (a bad-tempered little man whom William disliked intensely), advanced upon him threateningly, “What you doing of here?” he snarled. “You git out or I’ll half murder you.”
William was accustomed to bad-tempered gardeners (as a class they seemed to run to an embittered outlook on life), but he had never before come across one with a temper quite as vicious as the Barrons’ gardener. All gardeners, of course, told you that they’d half murder you if they got hold of you, but the Barrons’ gardener really seemed to mean it.
William hastily withdrew, but hung about outside the gate, awaiting his opportunity. To his relief, the gardener set off almost at once from the side gate and made his way across the fields towards the village. William entered the garden again, climbed up on to the verandah roof, and slipped back the catch of the window. The catch slid back easily and naturally, as if welcoming an old friend into his familiar haunts. He pushed up the window. The room was evidently Mr. Barron’s dressing-room, and there, on a low chest of drawers, which he could reach without even putting his foot into the room, was the ebony hair-brush—exactly like the one he had dropped into the river. He resisted the temptation to explore farther, put the hair-brush into his pocket, closed the window, swarmed down the verandah pillar, and ran all the way home. Robert had not yet returned. He crept up to his bedroom, and put the hair-brush on the dressing-table. It looked a little dusty, so he took out his handkerchief and wiped it all over. As he closed the door behind him, he heard the sound of Robert’s voice in the hall below and gave a gasp of relief. It had been a near thing.
The next day he waited till Robert had gone out, then replaced his own hair-brush, now quite dry and presentable. The next step was to return Mr. Barron’s hairbrush to The Lilacs. William was beginning to feel somewhat nervous of ebony hair-brushes. They fell into rivers on little or no provocation, and hadn’t Henry’s aunt’s walking-stick snapped clean in two? An accident with Mr. Barron’s hair-brush might lead to exposure of the whole plot, and Robert’s vengeance, even though he’d got his precious brush back safe and sound, would be terrible.
William took it up gingerly by the bristles, wrapped it in his handkerchief, slipped it into his pocket, made his way to The Lilacs, and replaced it without accident on Mr. Barron’s dressing-table, holding it again by the bristles. And that, of course, as far as William was concerned, was the end of the incident. He had, in fact, completely forgotten it by the end of the month when the Barrons came back.
Robert went round on the evening of their return, to thank Sheila once more for her hair-brush (though he’d already written her sixteen and a half pages about it), and found the whole family in a state of great excitement.
All the silver had been stolen during their absence, and a police detective was already on the spot making enquiries. The thief had broken a pane of glass in the door that led out on to the verandah, and then put his hand in to turn the key.
“Only one clue as far as we can make out,” the detective was saying. “The thief—whoever he was—left finger-prints on the hair-brush in Mr. Barron’s dressing-room. They’re not Mr. Barron’s, anyway, or anyone else’s in the house. He evidently stood at the dressing-table and brushed his hair. They’re the marks of someone holding the brush pretty tightly, just as they’d hold it to brush their hair.”
“But surely it’s odd that the fellow should leave finger-prints there, and nowhere else,” said Mr. Barron.
“Not at all,” said the detective. “That frequently happens. Just one moment’s carelessness. He’d slipped off his gloves and put down his handkerchief or whatever he was using to eliminate finger-prints—saw the hairbrush and brushed his hair with it. Almost automatically, as you might say. A moment’s aberration. Sometimes it’s a bottle of wine. A hair-brush isn’t common, of course, but it’s the same idea. Just going to get ready to do the job, sees the hair-brush, and brushes his hair with it—or sees the bottle and has a drink from it—probably hardly realised that he was doing it—but there are his finger-prints, and the only ones he left, and if we have any luck, those are the finger-prints that’ll land the gentleman in jail.”
Robert had drawn Sheila apart from the rest, and was still pouring out incoherent thanks.
“It was marvellous of you. Simply marvellous,” he said. “I simply can’t tell you how marvellous it was. I can’t tell you what it means to me and what it will always mean to me . . .”
But Sheila was more interested in the robbery than in Robert’s hair-brush.
“Isn’t it strange,” she said, “that the only fingerprints were left on Daddy’s hair-brush? I wonder if we shall ever catch the thief. I think we shall. The detective looks awfully clever, don’t you think?”
A pang of jealousy shot through Robert’s heart, and suddenly a brilliant idea occurred to him. He’d read enough detective stories to know that it is the amateur detective, never the professional one, who brings the criminal to justice. Also, on the last page, the amateur detective is invariably rewarded for his labours by the hand of the beautiful heroine, whose father he has rescued from the c
riminal’s clutches. The stage was set, the parts assigned. Here were the hero, the heroine, the heroine’s father and the professional detective. The last, Robert knew, by his perusal of detective novels, to be a man of such crass stupidity as to be utterly negligible. Robert decided to seize his role before anyone else appropriated it. He approached the detective, who was still holding the list of stolen silver.
“Excuse me,” he said, “may I look at the list?”
The detective handed him the sheet of paper “Won’t be any good for identification purposes,” he said. “He’ll probably melt it all down.”
Robert read over the list in silence and handed it back to the detective. He must now start at once upon his task of bringing the criminal to justice. He didn’t quite know how he was going to start on it, but he knew that he was going to start on it at once. The amateur detective wasted no time. It was only the professional detective who did that, who bungled about, ignoring clues that were just under his nose. In the last book he’d read, the hero had gone out for a ride on his motor-cycle in order to get a perspective on the affair and had come back with an elaborate theory worked out in his head, that happened to be right in every detail, and that brought him a solution of the mystery and the heroine’s hand before the end of the day. He decided to do that—to go out for a ride on his motor-cycle (fortunately he had it with him) to get a perspective on the affair, and wait for the theory (correct in every detail) to occur suddenly to his mind. He assumed an air that was gay and easy and natural, yet at the same time stem and purposeful—the air of a man who would smile light-heartedly in the face of the most consummate danger, the air in fact, of the amateur detective of fiction.
He was momentarily disconcerted to find that he had left a smudge of finger-marks on the paper that the detective had handed him. He’d had trouble starting up his motor-cycle, and evidently hadn’t wiped his hands quite clean afterwards. But that was, after all, a mere detail compared with bringing the criminal to justice and winning the hand of the heroine.