Читать книгу The Inevitable Millionaires - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 4

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It is probable that George Henry had never admired his brother more than at the moment when he made this bold pronouncement. The 'Milan' was known by name to both of them and represented all the things which they had hitherto studiously avoided in life. Needless to say, neither of them had ever crossed its portals.

"We shall need money," he observed in an awed tone.

"That we must at once arrange," was the firm reply. "We must make it a habit now to carry money with us. One can never tell when the opportunity for expenditure may arise."

They left their place of business, George Henry collecting himself sufficiently to observe, with a sigh, that Harold's stool, which had been temporarily occupied during the morning, was again vacant. A few minutes later the swing doors of a neighbouring bank were pushed open, and the brothers entered. They were neither of them of commanding presence, their attire was ordinary, their bearing unassuming. Nevertheless, the atmosphere of the bank for the next few minutes can only be described as resembling one velvety purr. A cashier hurried from the back regions to greet them with a welcoming smile. The commissionaire raised his hat a whole foot away from his head. The manager himself waved his hand from behind the curtains of his private office and embarked upon a desperate struggle to get rid of an importunate client, who desired to increase his overdraft. Meanwhile, Stephen produced a cheque book from his pocket, carefully filled in the counterfoil first, and, in a reasonable space of time, handed across the counter a cheque for a thousand pounds.

"In tens and twenties, if you please," he directed.

The cashier received the cheque with an unctuous smile, drew a glass receptacle filled with water to his side, wetted his forefinger, and commenced the business of counting.

"Five hundred pounds in tens, Mr. Underwood, and five hundred in twenties," he remarked urbanely a few minutes later, as he pushed the two little piles of notes across the counter. "Wonderfully mild weather we are having."

"Extraordinary for the time of the year," Stephen agreed.

"Quite remarkable," George Henry echoed.

Then there was a brief silence. The brothers had produced very similar brown morocco pocketbooks and were absorbed in the task of dividing the money. Finally this was accomplished and they turned to leave the bank, after a further exchange of civilities. Before they reached the door, however, they were overtaken by the bank manager, who had got rid of his client.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" he exclaimed cheerfully. "I'll walk along with you to Prosser's. You've left us a little money to be going on with, I hope."

Neither brother replied to the time-honoured joke. They exchanged glances, and George Henry nodded slightly. It was Stephen who accepted the onus of disclosure.

"We are not going to Prosser's this morning, Mr. Lawford," he announced deliberately.

"Not this morning," George Henry echoed.

Mr. Lawford stopped short upon the pavement. His appearance indicated shock.

"Not going—to Prosser's?" he faltered. "God bless my soul!"

He glanced feverishly at the date upon the newspaper which he was carrying. It was Tuesday, beyond a doubt—a common, ordinary week-day. Reassured, he sought for enlightenment.

"You are both all right, eh?" he asked anxiously.

"Perfectly," George Henry assured him.

"The fact is," Stephen announced, with an elaborate air of unconcern, "we are lunching in the West End."

"Having just a snack at the 'Milan'," George Henry put in airily.

"God bless my soul!" Mr. Lawford murmured again, thereby displaying a pitiful lack of originality in his emotional outlets. "Ah!—a customer, perhaps?" he added, seizing eagerly upon a possible explanation. "I thought you always left that sort of thing to Mr. Hanworth?"

"We do," Stephen acquiesced. "If you are going to Prosser's, perhaps you will be good enough to tell William not to reserve our places to-day."

Mr. Lawford had found himself. He understood that any further expression of astonishment would be out of place.

"Certainly! Certainly!" he agreed. "You haven't forgotten that this is boiled beef and dumplings day?" he added jocularly. "Well, well, good morning! Prosser's won't seem itself, without you."

The brothers hailed a taxicab, and Stephen gave the address. There was a brief silence after they had started on their pilgrimage westwards.

"Mr. Lawford seemed quite surprised," George Henry observed presently.

"Unreasonably so, I thought," Stephen assented severely. "Mr. Lawford is a man of the world. He should realize that one's movements are subject to—er—derangement."

George Henry coughed.

"Except on holidays," he ventured, "and the week when you had a bilious attack, we have lunched at Prosser's, at the same table, every day for eleven years."

Stephen frowned.

"It is too long," he declared. "I am very glad that Mr. Duncan thought the time had arrived to send on our dear father's letter. If we are not careful, we shall get groovey. We must make changes—in other directions as well, perhaps. We must not get into a rut."

George Henry shivered a little with excitement as he listened to his brother's bold words. The taxicab driver leaned backwards and addressed them through the window.

"Café Parisien or restaurant?" he inquired.

George Henry was, by accident of places, the recipient of this inquiry. Vaguely excited by his brother's words, he was all for adventure. The Café Parisien sounded foreign and mysterious. His voice almost shook as he replied:

"The Café, driver."

He leaned back in his seat with the air of one who has performed a great deed. Stephen smiled approvingly.

"The Café Parisien sounds most attractive," he admitted. "This, I suppose, is it."

The taxicab had turned into the 'Milan' courtyard, and pulled up outside the glass-covered portico on the left-hand side. A liveried servant opened the door. Gorgeous persons in silk coats and knee breeches relieved them of their hats and umbrellas in a little lobby crowded with a most distinctly cosmopolitan throng. It was, perhaps, not altogether to be wondered at that, when the brothers pushed open the swing doors and stood upon the threshold of the restaurant, they were conscious of a certain sense of confusion. The room was full, and there was no one to recognize in them new and important patrons. They missed the obsequious approach of the head waiter at Prosser's, the respectful greetings of City men to whom their name was holy, the urbane smile of the frock-coated manager himself. At Prosser's, too, the feminine element was entirely absent—here it was insistent and amazing. A dark-eyed Frenchwoman, wearing a military widow's veil, carrying a small dog under her arm, and displaying more ankle and leg than either Stephen or George Henry had seen for a great many years, enveloped them in a little cloud of perfume and pushed past with a muttered—"Pardon, messieurs!" And at every table. The brothers exchanged doubtful glances. George Henry coughed.

"These young ladies seem rather young to be lunching in a public restaurant," he murmured.

"They are, perhaps, older than they seem," Stephen replied, with an air of wisdom.

It was at this precise moment that Providence intervened on behalf of the newcomers. The High Priest of the Café, gazing around him for a means of escape from an undesirable but persistent client, saw them blocking the way. His necessity invested their presence with a new significance. He bore down upon them like a whirlwind. His bow and smile were such as were usually reserved for patrons of the highest distinction.

"We should like some luncheon," Stephen confided. "We have been recommended here by a friend."

Monsieur Louis, recovering from the shock of this somewhat quaint introduction, looked around the place long and searchingly. He would have been glad to have found a retired table for these unusual but opportune patrons. The place, however, was packed.

"If you could wait for a quarter of an hour, gentlemen," he ventured.

The faces of the two brothers fell simultaneously. It was obvious that the suggestion was unwelcome.

"We are used to lunching punctually at a quarter-past one," George Henry explained. "My brother's digestion——"

"There is a table here," Stephen interrupted, pointing to one just inside the door.

The maître d'hôtel hesitated. It was true that he had the table in question at his disposal, for it had only that morning been given up by a regular patron who had returned to America. It was one of the most desirable in the room, and he had been reserving it as a bon bouche for some especial client. Like all great men, however, confronted with a crisis, he made up his mind quickly. With a shrug of the shoulders he withdrew the "Reserved" card from its place, and invited his new patrons to be seated.

"It was reserved," he explained, "but no matter. And for lunch?"

Stephen took up the menu and George Henry looked over his shoulder. The result was chaos and distress. Once again, however, the pioneer of this enterprise was equal to the occasion.

"We do not understand the French language," Stephen observed simply, laying down the carte. "What joints have you ready?—or we should be glad to try the dish of the house."

The lips of Monsieur Louis twitched. It was the affair of a moment, however.

"Allow me to serve the table d'hôte luncheon," he suggested. "And to drink?"

"A little Perrier water with lemon in it," Stephen replied. "Afterwards, two glasses of port."

Monsieur Louis made his escape, and paused for a moment by his desk to recover himself before he plunged once more into the fray. The brothers were served with their luncheon and enjoyed it. They vied with one another in their praise of everything that was set before them. Each was anxious to proclaim the experiment a success.

"A most delicious omelette," Stephen declared.

"Those little things in small dishes were most savoury," George Henry proclaimed.

"And the thin steak—entrecôte minute, they called it," his brother continued, "had a most agreeable flavour. I sometimes wonder——"

Stephen paused to take another sip of his port, and proceeded with vinous confidence.

"I sometimes wonder whether Mrs. Hassall is quite as good a cook as she used to be."

"It is melancholy to have to contemplate a change," George Henry sighed, "but her cutlets last night were floating in grease."

"We will give her a fair chance," Stephen decided Jesuitically. "We will dine here one night and compare the result."

George Henry shook with excitement.

"We should have to wear evening dress," he murmured.

"We are provided in that respect," Stephen reminded him, with dignity. "I remember thinking last year, at the dinner to Mr. Ferguson, how well your dress coat looked."

"It is eighteen years old!"

"I see no reason why a dress coat should not last for a lifetime. It is a garment for use on rare occasions, George Henry!"

"What is it, Stephen?"

"The youth at the table opposite, with the exceedingly well-favoured young lady. It seems to me—yes, it is Harold!"

The recognition appeared to be mutual. The fashionably dressed young man indicated arose, muttered something to his companion, and somewhat sheepishly approached the table at which his uncles were seated. He wore a black lounge suit with a thin white stripe running through it, a white flannel collar with a long, carefully arranged tie. His hair was brushed sleekly back, and a monocle dangled from a cord around his neck. His coat curved in at the waist exactly as the coats of all the other young men. The sight of him, and the consciousness of their relationship, seemed to bring the brothers into more definite touch with their surroundings. They welcomed their nephew, therefore, with unexpected cordiality.

"This is indeed a surprise, Harold," Stephen declared.

"Mutual, what?" the young man rejoined nervously. "What price Prosser's, eh?"

"We are seeking a change," George Henry remarked. "It is our first visit here."

"Tophole grub," the young man murmured, with a sidelong glance back towards his table.

"We have lunched excellently," Stephen admitted. "We are pleased with the place. How is your mother, Harold?"

"A1. She is down at Bournemouth for a few days."

The uncles tactfully avoided any reference to a possible connection between that fact and Harold's luncheon companion. Stephen became suddenly inspired.

"Since you appear to be accustomed to the ways of this place, Harold," he said, "you can possibly advise us upon the subject of the remuneration ordinarily tendered to the waiter. At Prosser's——"

"Ten per cent. of the bill," Harold interrupted. "Same everywhere at these places."

Stephen smiled a well-pleased smile and nodded understandingly at George Henry.

"That is easy to calculate," he remarked. "And, Harold?"

The young man, who was becoming more at his ease under the influence of this unexpected geniality, assumed an air of interest.

"The head waiter with the dark moustache, coming up the room now, was very civil to us on our arrival. Would it be in order if we were to tender him also some recognition—say, a shilling?"

Harold glanced behind and his face was transformed by a beatific grin.

"Monsieur Louis?" he exclaimed. "Lord love us, Uncle Stephen! A shilling! My hat!"

Stephen's forehead was puckered and he became instantly contrite. Obviously he had been on the point of a faux pas.

"Advise us, if you please, Harold," he begged simply. "We wish to do the correct thing."

"Monsieur Louis," Harold explained, with bated breath, "is a pedagogue, a mandarin, a—er—the big bug of the place. He gets about two thousand a year salary, and commission. You could send him a cheque for fifty pounds at Christmas time, perhaps, or give him a sure Stock Exchange tip, or make him a present of that pearl pin you are wearing. But to offer him money—a shilling! Phew!"

The young man seemed suddenly wordless. His uncles were both humble and penitent.

"We are very much obliged to you, Harold," Stephen acknowledged. "You have probably saved us from committing a grave mistake."

"One moment," George Henry intervened, as Harold showed signs of backing away. "Our curiosity has been somewhat excited by the—er—dissimilarity between the faces of the young ladies who seem present here in such large numbers and their attire. They seem mostly to be still in short skirts, but to have an older appearance, so far as regards their features and deportment. One hears that at boarding-school nowadays——"

"Fluff," the young man interrupted laconically. "It's a great place for it."

"Fluff," George Henry repeated gravely.

"I am afraid," Stephen admitted with amiable candour, as he toyed with his last drop of port, "that the phrase conveys nothing to us."

"Chorus girls," Harold explained patiently—"young actresses and cinema débutantes, what? Those short skirts are all the go now. Fetching, too, ain't they, with white silk stockings and black patent shoes?"

"And the young lady who is your companion?" George Henry inquired diffidently.

"Oh, she is on the musical comedy stage. Jolly nice girl and clever, too. Blanche Whitney, her name is. She's looking out for some guy to finance her. So long!"

The young man departed, and his uncles exchanged somewhat furtive glances. Stephen cleared his throat.

"It is very good-natured of Harold, no doubt," he declared. "The lives of these poor girls who are forced to work for their living are doubtless dull and strenuous, and a little change may be desirable. But I cannot think that he is quite wise in entertaining this young lady for luncheon in the middle of a business day. I am afraid that Amelia would disapprove."

George Henry coughed. He had the air, somehow, of sympathizing with his recalcitrant nephew.

"We must remember," he said, "that we are, to a certain extent, in what is termed Bohemia. Until we appreciate the conditions a little better, perhaps, we had—er—we should be wiser not to worry Amelia."

"I quite agree," his brother assented, unfolding the bill which had just been brought to him. "Amelia would doubtless wonder at our own presence here."

Stephen with great care added up the items of his bill, calculated the ten per cent., and received the waiter's bow and thanks.

"I think, George Henry," he declared, with an air of satisfaction, "that we have made a move in the right direction. The cost of our luncheon was enormous—fully three times as much as the charges at Prosser's."

"Capital!" was his brother's cheerful comment.

"At the same time," Stephen reminded him, "it will take a great many lunches to help us to any real extent towards our object."

"I fear," George Henry sighed, a little hypocritically, "that we must look upon this change in the whereabouts of our midday meal as the first step towards changes all round."

"You are right," Stephen agreed. "You are very right indeed."

The room now was overhung with a faint cloud of cigarette smoke. The hum of conversation had grown louder, a general air of relaxation prevailed. George Henry found himself glancing often at a couple of fair-haired young ladies who were lunching at an adjacent table. He was conscious of a peculiar elevation of spirits, a sense of suppressed excitement, pleasurable but most unusual. He found himself suddenly interested in his age. After all, he was still on the right side of fifty.

"One misses, perhaps, the exchange of a few remarks with Mr. Ferguson and our other friends," Stephen reflected, a little wistfully.

"In time," George Henry surmised, looking innocently up at the ceiling, "we may perhaps make acquaintances here."

"Quite possible, quite possible," his brother assented. "I think, if you are ready, we might now take our departure. We have the export accounts to go through this afternoon, you know."

They rose, George Henry with much reluctance. It was absurd, of course, but the nearer of the two fair young ladies had certainly glanced more than once lately in his direction. He straightened his tie, stood up and wished that he were a little taller. Monsieur Louis, passing down the room, paused before their table.

"The luncheon all right, I hope, gentlemen?" he inquired, with one of his famous bows.

A cold shiver passed down Stephen's spine at the reflection that a short time ago he had actually contemplated offering this august being a shilling. He remembered that it was his nephew who had saved him—the boy should never lose by it! Then inspiration came. He would atone for the unoffered insult.

"The luncheon was excellent," he replied. "My brother and I would like you to accept this little offering," he added, drawing his pearl pin from his tie. "We should like this table reserved for us every morning, except on Saturdays and Sundays, at one-fifteen, and for dinner to-night at eight o'clock. Our name is Underwood. Good morning!"

However timid their entrance to the hallowed precincts of the Café had been, the honours certainly remained with the brothers on their departure. Monsieur Louis, with the pin in the palm of his hand, was speechless. His bow was automatic, and his murmured word of thanks inaudible. He drew a little breath and straightened himself.

"Charles," he directed an adjacent maître d'hôtel, "that table is reserved for dinner to-night at eight o'clock, and every day except Saturdays and Sundays for luncheon, for those two gentlemen. Their name is Underwood."

The waiter hesitated.

"There have been a great many inquiries for it, sir," he reminded his chief.

Monsieur Louis waved him away.

"We have here," he announced, "a new order of patron. Where they come from or what they may be I do not know, but the table is theirs."

Monsieur Louis' stately progress down the room was checked by a summons from Harold Margetson. He stopped short.

"Know those two old buffers?" his young client inquired.

"Except that their name is Underwood," Louis replied, "I know nothing of them."

Harold grinned.

"They are my uncles," he declared. "And they are rolling in it. No one knows what their income is. Millionaires, I should say, both of them."

"Dollars or pounds?" the young lady by his side asked quickly.

"Pounds—good English pounds," her escort assured her. "They've got it to burn."

Miss Whitney's very beautiful eyes glistened. She became thoughtful.

"The gentlemen will lunch here every day," Louis announced. "I have promised them Mr. Higgins' table."

"By Jove, Louis!" the young man exclaimed, with a faint whistle. "They've got round you all right!"

"Your uncle is very generous," the maître d'hôtel murmured, opening his palm. "He has just given me this."

The two young people stared at the pin.

"It's worth a cool fifty," Harold muttered.

Miss Whitney's manner was no longer abstracted. She laid her hand upon her companion's.

"I must know your uncles," she declared firmly. "When did you say that they were coming again, Louis?"

"They dine to-night at eight o'clock, madam."

"So, then, shall we," she insisted. "Not a word, Harold, or we shall quarrel."

The young man grinned.

"You're as clever as paint, Blanche," he declared, "but—I don't know what they would say if they saw me here with you again."

"I'll make that all right for you," she promised. "You leave everything in my hands. All you have to do is to be here on time."

"I'm agreeable," the young man assented. "We'll dine all right, but if you think there's anything doing with those old curmudgeons of uncles of mine you're on a dead wrong 'un. Don't say I didn't warn you."

The young lady smiled.

"Nice boy," she murmured tolerantly. "You don't need to worry, anyway."