CHAPTER 10 Preparations for an Accident

A week later Bobby had joined Badger in London. He had received several enigmatical communications from Frankie, most in such an illegible scrawl that he was quite unable to do more than guess at their meaning. However, their general purport seemed to be that Frankie had a plan and that he (Bobby) was to do nothing until he heard from her. This was as well, for Bobby would certainly have had no leisure to do anything, since the unlucky Badger had already succeeded in embroiling himself and his business in every way ingenuity could suggest, and Bobby was kept busy disentangling the extraordinary mess his friend seemed to have got into.

Meanwhile, the young man remained very strictly on his guard. The effect of eight grains of morphia was to render their taker extremely suspicious of food and drink and had also induced him to bring to London a Service revolver, the possession of which was extremely irksome to him.

He was just beginning to feel that the whole thing had been an extravagant nightmare when Frankie's Bentley roared down the Mews and drew up outside the garage. Bobby, in greasestained overalls, came out to receive it. Frankie was at the wheel and beside her sat a rather gloomy-looking young man.

'Hullo, Bobby,' said Frankie. 'This is George Arbuthnot.

He's a doctor, and we shall need him.' Bobby winced slightly as he and George Arbuthnot made faint recognitions of each other's presence.

'Are you sure we're going to need a doctor?' he asked.

'Aren't you being a bit pessimistic?' 'I didn't mean we should need him in that way,' said Frankie. 'I need him for a scheme that I've got on. Look here, is there anywhere we can go and talk?' Bobby looked round him.

'Well, there's my bedroom,' he said doubtfully.

'Excellent,' said Frankie.

She got out of the car and she and George Arbuthnot followed Bobby up some outside steps and into a microscopic bedroom.

'I don't know,' said Bobby, looking round dubiously, 'if there's anywhere to sit.' There was not. The only chair was loaded with, apparently, the whole of Bobby's wardrobe.

'The bed will do,' said Frankie.

She plumped down on it. George Arbuthnot did the same and the bed groaned protestingly.

'I've got everything planned out,' said Frankie. 'To begin with, we want a car. One of yours will do.' 'Do you mean you want to buy one of our cars?' Yes.' 'That's really very nice of you, Frankie,' said Bobby, with warm appreciation. 'But you needn't. I really do draw the line at sticking my friends.' 'You've got it all wrong,' said Frankie. 'It isn't like that at all.

I know what you mean - it's like buying perfectly appalling clothes and hats from one's friends who are just starting in business. A nuisance, but it's got to be done. But this isn't like that at all. I really need a car.' 'What about the Bentley?' 'The Bentley's no good.' 'You're mad,' said Bobby.

'No, I'm not. The Bentley's no good for what I want it for.' 'What's that?' 'Smashing it up.' Bobby groaned and put a hand to his head.

'I don't seem very well this morning.' George Arbuthnot spoke for the first time. His voice was deep and melancholy.

'She means,' he said, 'that's she going to have an accident.' 'How does she know?' said Bobby wildly.

Frankie gave an exasperated sigh.

'Somehow or other,' she said, 'we seem to have started wrong. Now just listen quietly, Bobby, and try and take in what I'm going to say. I know your brains are practically negligible, but you ought to be able to understand if you really concentrate.' She paused, then resumed.

'I am on the trail of Bassingtonffrench.' 'Hear, hear.' 'Bassington-ffrench - our particular Bassington-ffrench lives at Merroway Court at the village of Staverley in Hampshire. Merroway Court belongs to BassingtonfTrench's brother, and our Bassington-ffrench lives there with his brother and his wife.' 'Who's wife?' 'The brother's wife, of course. That isn't the point. The point is how are you or I or both of us is going to worm ourselves into the household. I've been down and reconnoitred the ground. Staverley's a mere village. Strangers arriving there to stay would stick out a mile. It would be the sort of thing that simply isn't done. So I've evolved a plan. This is what is going to happen: Lady Frances Derwent, driving her car more recklessly than well, crashes into the wall near the gates of Merroway Court. Complete wreckage of the car, less complete wreckage of Lady Frances, who is carried to the house, suffering from concussion and shock and must emphatically not be moved.' 'Who says so?' 'George. Now you see where George comes in. We can't risk a strange doctor saying there is nothing the matter with me. Or perhaps some officious person might pick up my prostrate form and take it to some local hospital. No, what happens is this: George is passing, also in a car (you'd better sell us a second one), sees the accident, leaps out and takes charge. “I am a doctor. Stand back, everybody” (That is, if there is anybody to stand back). “We must take her into that house what is it, Merroway Court? That will do. I must be able to make a thorough examination.” I am carried to the best spare room, the Bassington-ffrenches either sympathetic or bitterly resisting, but in any case, George will overbear them. George makes his examination and emerges with his verdict. Happily, it is not as serious as he thought. No bones broken, but danger of concussion. I must on no account be moved for two or three days. After that, I shall be able to return to London.

'And then George departs and it's up to me to ingratiate myself with the household.' 'And where do I come in?' 'You don't.' 'But look here ' 'My dear child, do remember that Bassingtonffrench knows you. He doesn't know me from Adam. And I'm in a frightfully strong position, because I've got a title. You see how useful that is. I'm not just a stray young woman gaining admission to the house for mysterious purposes. I am an earl's daughter and therefore highly respectable. And George is a real doctor and everything is quite above suspicion.' 'Oh! I suppose it's all right,' said Bobby unhappily.

'It's a remarkably well-planned scheme, I think,' said Frankie with pride.

'And I don't do anything at all?' asked Bobby.

He still felt injured - much like a dog who has been unexpectedly deprived of a bone. This, he felt, was his own particular crime, and now he was being ousted.

'Of course you do, darling. You grow a moustache.' 'Oh! I grow a moustache, do I?' 'Yes. How long will it take?' 'Two or three weeks, I expect.' 'Heavens! I'd no idea it was such a slow process. Can't you speed it up?' 'No. Why can't I wear a false one?' 'They always look so false and they twist or come off or smell of spirit gum. Wait a minute, though, I believe there is a kind you can get stuck on hair by hair, so to speak, that absolutely defies detection. I expect a theatrical wigmaker would do it for you.' 'He'd probably think I was trying to escape from justice.' 'It doesn't matter what he thinks.' 'Once I've got the moustache, what do I do?' 'Put on a chauffeur's uniform and drive the Bentley down to Staverley.' 'Oh, I see.' Bobby brightened.

'You see my idea is this,' said Frankie: 'Nobody looks at a chauffeur in the way they look at a person. In any case, Bassington-ffrench only saw you for a minute or two and he must have been too rattled wondering if he could change the photograph in time to look at you much. You were just a young golfing ass to him. It isn't like the Caymans who sat opposite you and talked to you and who were deliberately trying to sum you up. I'd bet anything that seeing you in chauffeur's uniform, Bassington-ffrench wouldn't recognize you even without the moustache. He might just possibly think that your face reminded him of somebody - no more than that. And with the moustache it ought to be perfectly safe. Now tell me, what do you think of the plan?' Bobby turned it over in his mind.

'To tell you the truth, Frankie,' he said generously, 'I think it's pretty good.' 'In that case,' said Frankie briskly. 'Let's go and buy some cars. I say, I think George has broken your bed.' 'It doesn't matter,' said Bobby hospitably. 'It was never a particularly good bed.' They descended to the garage, where a nervous-looking young man with a curious lack of chin and an agreeable smile greeted them with a vague 'Haw, haw, haw!' His general appearance was slightly marred by the fact that his eyes had a distinct disinclination to look in the same direction.

'Hullo, Badger,' said Bobby. 'You remember Frankie, don't you^' Badger clearly didn't, but he said, 'Haw, haw, haw!' again in an amiable manner.

'Last time I saw you,' said Frankie, 'you were head downward in the mud and we had to pull you out by the legs.' 'No, not really?' said Badger. 'Why, that m-m-must have been Ww-w-wales.' 'Quite right,' said Frankie. 'It was.' 'I always was a p-p-putrid r-r-r-rider,' said Badger. 'I s-s-sstill am,' he added mournfully.

'Frankie wants to buy a car,' said Bobby.

'Two cars,' said Frankie. 'George has got to have one, too.

He's crashed his at the moment.' 'We can hire him one,' said Bobby.

'Well, come and look at what we've got in s-s-stock,' said Badger.

'They look very smart,' said Frankie, dazzled by lurid hues of scarlet and apple-green.

'They look all right,' said Bobby darkly.

'That's r-r-r-remarkably good value in a ss-second-hand Chrysler,' said Badger.

'No, not that one,' said Bobby. 'Whatever she buys has got to go at least forty miles.' Badger cast his partner a look of reproach.

'The Standard is pretty much on its last legs,' mused Bobby.

'But I think it would just get you there. The Essex is a bit too good for the job. She'll go at least two hundred before breaking down.' 'All right,' said Frankie. 'I'll have the Standard.' Badger drew his colleague a little aside.

'W-w-what do you think about p-p-price?' he murmured.

'Don't want to s-s-stick a friend of yours too much. Tt-t-ten pounds?' 'Ten pounds is all right,' said Frankie, entering the discussion.

'I'll pay for it now.' 'Who is she really?' asked Badger in a loud whisper.

Bobby whispered back.

'F-f-f-first time I ever knew anyone with a t-t-t-title who c-c-could pay cash,' said Badger with respect.

Bobby followed the other two out to the Bentley.

'When is this business going to take place?' he demanded.

'The sooner the better,' said Frankie. 'We thought tomorrow afternoon.' 'Look here, can't I be there? I'll put on a beard if you like.' 'Certainly not,' said Frankie. 'A beard would probably ruin everything by falling off at the wrong moment. But I don't see why you shouldn't be a motor-cyclist - with a lot of cap and goggles. What do you think, George?' George Arbuthnot spoke for the second time: 'All right,' he said, 'the more the merrier.' His voice was even more melancholy than before.