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The rest of the Old Rottingfestrians limp in from six o’clock until four the next morning. They have lost 48–3 and their spirits are lower than ‘God Bless America’ on the Chinese Hit Parade. Drunk and despondent they are even worse than sloshed and sociable and I watch warily as they indulge in what are known as ‘pre-dinner drinkees’. At least there is no sign of Fatso, and his lady wife favours me with a warm smile as she comes down to supper.

‘I think he’s going to live,’ she says, giving the inside of my thigh a discreet squeeze that can only be seen by Miss Primstone and half the people in the dining room. ‘He told me they got hammered. I said “Darling, I know just how you feel”.’

‘Ye-e-es,’ I say, looking around nervously. ‘Let me find you a table.’

‘Are you going to serve me?’ They must be able to see me blushing from the other end of the room. Not without difficulty, I get her seated with my little friend who was looking at the market. Her husband has still not come back to the hotel and by the end of the meal the two birds are shooting me the kind of glances that make me wonder what they have been saying to each other.

I decide not to ask them and am popping back to my room when Miss Ruperts waylays me. She is swaying slightly and I take the opportunity offered by helping her back to her office to remove the three beer bottle tops that have become lodged in her crocheted shawl.

‘I do want to talk to young Mr Sidney,’ she says huffily. ‘He has been very naughty lately. I am convinced he is trying to avoid me.’ She is dead right there. Sid is at last coming round to my way of thinking and after the Pendulum Society and the Old Rottingfestrians is a lot less keen on the convention idea. ‘I have a very interesting proposition to discuss with him,’ she goes on. ‘I am convinced it could be of great benefit to us all.’

‘I’m certain it could be,’ I say, humouring her. ‘When I see Mr Noggett I’ll tell him to come and see you.’

‘Please do. You see I have an uncle, by one of those quirks of fate not greatly older than myself, and he–’

‘Yes, yes,’ I say, ‘well, I must be going.’ I am backing out just as Doctor Carboy bowls in.

‘Dear lady,’ he trills, ‘What can I say?’ He looks round the dark, shabby room like it is an Ideal Home feature. ‘Your own incomparable beauty is matched by the elegance of your surroundings. Forgive me for not coming sooner but I was engaged in a tedious search for my baggage. Alas, without success. But what care I? You are the prettiest little baggage in the world.’ I think he must be round the twist but Miss Ruperts giggles coyly and obviously laps it up. No accounting for tastes.

‘Go and make sure that the champagne is cool,’ he says to me. ‘I’ll make sure that the blood is hot.’ He is actually taking her hand in his as I leave. I always thought he was a bit batty, now I am certain of it.

‘I reckon your Miss Ruperts is on the point of betraying you with another,’ I say, when I bump into Sidney. ‘That Doctor Carboy bloke is giving her the full treatment.’

‘If only we had a few more like him, all our troubles would be over,’ sighs Sidney. ‘I hope she doesn’t upset him. You know, I think you were right about her. I can’t afford the booze she puts away, let alone anything else. Trouble is I suppose Mrs Caitley would chuck in her notice if I gave her the boot.’

‘Mrs Caitley would probably punch your head in, Sid. Come on, why fight it any longer? This place is going down the drain. If there’s anything left when these bleeding rugger buggers have pulled out, why don’t you let Rigby have it?’`

Sid sighs and does the whole head-shaking bit, like Jack Hawkins about to send Richard Todd out on a suicide mission without his cocker spaniel. ‘Oh, blimey,’ he says, ‘after all I’ve put into the place.’ I can’t think of anything, but maybe he is talking about a different place. ‘All right,’ he goes on, ‘but the bastard will have to come to me first. I’m not crawling back to him.’

Sidney does not have to wait long for the coming. The next morning, while I am helping June and Audrey clean up the results of a fire extinguisher battle–no prizes for guessing who between–Rigby’s rodent frame bristles behind us.

‘You want to try using carpet shampoo,’ he says. ‘It’s less messy. Where’s Noggett? Hiding from his creditors, as usual?’

‘I suggest you wait in the lounge,’ I say grandly. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’

‘No thanks. Something might drop off the walls.’

‘I thought that’s how you got in here,’ says June, loyally.

‘Watch it, girlie, you’ll find yourself out of a job when I take over,’ snarls Rigby.

‘I wouldn’t stay here five minutes if you took over. Only long enough to open the windows.’

You don’t have to be good at reading expressions to know that Rigby does not like that, but before he can say anything Sidney appears.

‘You’re looking for me, are you?’ he says, seeing Rigby.

‘Amongst many others, I expect,’ sneers Rigby. ‘I came round to tell you that I’m fed up with hanging about. Unless you see sense by tomorrow dinner-time I’m moving my boys in to start developing the sites on either side of you. They’ll be at it twenty-four hours a day, working by floodlights. I’m behind schedule and my backers want results. If you don’t take my offer you won’t be able to accept a booking from anyone who isn’t deaf.’

‘You can’t blackmail me.’

‘I’m not blackmailing you. I’m telling you. You should be grateful to me for giving you a chance to get out of this dump. Look at it! I’m amazed it hasn’t fallen down without the other two buildings to support it.’

‘You’re a nice bloke to do business with, aren’t you?’ Sid’s fists have folded into bunches of bananas and there is a look in his eye like the outbreak of World War III.

‘I’ve heard about the kind of guests you’re taking now. Down to football teams, isn’t it? I suppose if they can’t afford the YMCA they come here.’

‘Rugby teams, not football teams.’ The words come from one of Fatso’s mates and are spoken without warmth. Since the speaker is about six foot eight inches tall they encourage attention.

‘Rugby teams,’ says Rat Features.

‘And we never stay at the YMCA. The YWCA, now that’s different.’ Mr Big is advancing towards Rigby as if he wants to use him to practise tying knots.

‘Of course.’

‘Piss off,’ says Sid, falling in beside the incredible hulk.

‘Dinner time tomorrow,’ squeaks Rigby, breaking the World Backward-walking record. ‘If you don’t agree to my terms, I’ll turn my boys loose on the site.’

‘Getoutofit!’

Rigby flashes into his Rolls like he is only let out of it on a spring. The windows are a smokey-blue colour so we cannot see him through them. Nobody expresses a sense of loss.

‘We’ll see him tomorrow,’ says the big guy. There is a note of anticipation in his voice that I do not appreciate at the time.

‘What are we going to do, Sid?’ I say.

‘I don’t know, Timmy. It just depends on what kind of offer he finally makes.’ But, from the expression on Sid’s face I know that he has as good as chucked in the sponge.

One person who remains cheerful is Miss Ruperts. When I next see her, she squeezes my arm affectionately and draws me closer. She opens her mouth to speak and I feel that it must conceal the entrance to a whisky still.

‘He’s so kind and thoughtful, isn’t he?’ she says.

‘Who?’

‘Doctor Carboy. Or Walter as he allows me to call him. Do you know he’s going to have all my jewellery valued free?’

I look at her mitts and they are indeed ringless.

‘Very nice.’ It is isn’t it? Doctor Carboy has now completely replenished the items that were lost when his luggage failed to turn up and the local tradespeople must be very grateful for his custom. He has also consumed gallons of booze and exotic goodies in the privacy of his suite. All in all, a man well versed in the art of chucking money about. Now he has taken Miss Ruperts’ jewellery–hey! Wait a minute. I detach myself from Miss Ruperts and move swiftly to Sid’s side. He is in his office slamming shut a large ledger and beginning to slide despairing hands over his mush.

‘Sid,’ I say, trying to sound very relaxed about the whole thing, ‘has it occurred to you that Doctor Carboy might be a conman?’ Sid pauses for a moment, then continues to slide despairing hands over his mush.

‘Not until you mentioned it,’ he says. ‘Now it seems the most natural thing in the world. That’s all we need, isn’t it? A conman. Very nice. When did you first become suspicious?’

I tell Sid about the ring-valuing and he shakes his head.

‘He just might be on the level,’ he says hopefully. ‘Come on, we’d better go and talk to Miss Ruperts. I’ve been trying to keep out of her way but I suppose–’

‘You’ve been avoiding me,’ says Miss Ruperts reproachfully when we interrupt her trying to find room for a couple of ice cubes in a jumbo slug of scotch.

‘I’ve been very busy,’ says Sid, lamely. ‘Now–’

‘Now,’ says Miss Ruperts, riding over him professionally. ‘Now that you’re here at last. There’s something I want to say to you–’

‘Yes, but–’

‘Doctor Carboy.’

‘Oh.’ Sid’s cakehole closes slowly.

‘A wonderful man and a wonderful doctor. He has performed miracles for me in the short time he has been here. Not one of your killjoys,’ she raises her glass to the absent Doctor C. and knocks back a Bogart-sized swig. Sid winces. ‘Now, what I have been vainly trying to tell you for the last few days is that I have inherited an extraordinarily large sum of money,’ she pauses while Sid and I gulp. ‘Some relation I hardly knew I had. Made a fortune in rubber. Quite remarkable what he did with it. The rubber I mean.’ Sid nods understandingly. ‘Now, I am very happy here, and so is my friend Mrs Caitley, but neither of us is getting any younger,’ she takes another giant swig, ‘and what I was thinking is that it might well be a good idea to turn the hotel into a clinic under the supervision of Doctor Carboy. In that way the interests of many of the more elderly members of the staff could be preserved and you would still have a profitable investment. Possibly a much more profitable investment.’

‘And you would be prepared to put some of your money into the venture, would you, Miss Ruperts?’ Sid’s tone could be described as pleading.

‘With Doctor Carboy at the helm I would have no qualms about putting my money into anything.’

‘It sounds a marvellous idea, Miss Ruperts. I have considered something like it myself. But are you certain that Doctor Carboy is the right man? Does he really have the–’

‘Without Doctor Carboy I would not consider putting up a penny.’ Miss Ruperts bangs down her empty glass on the table and the ice cubes land in it a couple of seconds later.

‘Well, it’s certainly a very interesting idea, isn’t it, Timmy?’

‘Very interesting, Sid.’

‘We’d better go and have a word about it, hadn’t we, Timmy?’

‘Yes, Sid.’

‘Have you–er, mentioned your idea to Doctor Carboy yet, Miss Ruperts?’

‘No. I thought it right that I should speak with you first.’

‘Very thoughtful of you. Does he–er, know about your good fortune?’

‘The inheritance? No. I didn’t want to appear ostentatious.’

‘Very sensible,’ says Sid, having no idea what she is on about. ‘Well, we’ll come back to you very soon.’

When we get to Carboy’s room it is empty–and I mean empty. Even the toothmugs have gone and there is no trace of all the booze we have carted up there.

‘Oh my gawd.’ Sid sinks down on the bed, a beaten man.

‘Hey, Sid, look!’ A freshly stubbed fag end is still smoking in one of the ash trays. ‘He must have only just left.’

Sid beats me to the door leading to the back stairs by a short head and it is a good race to lose. He storms through and promptly dives over a bulky suitcase waiting on the top step. At the same instant an empty-handed Carboy appears, presumably coming back to collect his last load of swag. He is a cool bastard because he carefully steps over the suitcase and extends a helping hand to Sid.

‘My goodness me. You nearly took a nasty tumble, didn’t you? Very unpleasant.’ He indicates the suitcase. ‘I rather think that this case contains some of the items that were stolen from my room.’

‘Really,’ says Sid.

‘Yes, I returned a few minutes ago to find it ransacked. You really will have to tighten up on your security precautions.’

‘We have it very much in mind,’ says Sid, wincing as he tries to lift the suitcase. ‘Blimey, the bloke certainly stashed some stuff away, didn’t he?’

‘Indeed, indeed. But I suspect that there is even more somewhere. I think I’ll take another look round the yard to see if I can spot what he’s done with it.’

‘We’ll come with you,’ says Sid quickly. ‘Mr Lea is our house detective, you know.’

‘Really. You want to keep on your toes, young man. Wouldn’t it be better if you–er, rang the police?’

‘We’ll do that later.’

Directly outside the back entrance is a Cortina Estate with the boot packed roof-high with suitcases.

‘I think we might just have found where the rest of the stuff is,’ says Sid drily.

‘All that? It never occurred to me–’

‘Doctor Carboy, or whatever your name is, you’re not fooling anybody. We know you lifted that stuff.’

‘What?’ Carboy’s display of indignant outrage is worth a government subsidy. ‘How dare you! Do you know what you’re suggesting?’

‘I’m suggesting we have a little chat,’ says Sid. ‘Believe it or not, I’ve got a proposition to make to you.’

It is about two o’clock in the morning when I go to bed and Carboy is still maintaining that somebody else nicked all the stuff from the rooms. Yes, it turns out that about half a dozen rooms have been turned over. He is, not surprisingly, very interested in Miss Ruperts’ proposition and when I leave Sid and him they are on the point of going off to see the old bag. One thing that does cheer and amaze me is that Carboy really is a doctor. At least he says he is and he has a very impressive piece of paper to back his words. It carries more swirls and squiggles than the label on a vermouth bottle.

The next morning I come down to find that Carboy and Miss Ruperts have left for London.

‘That’s it,’ I tell Sid. ‘He’s probably married her by now. We’ll be right in the S – H one T.’

‘Whether he has or hasn’t he can’t do us too much harm. I still own this hotel and if he gets nasty I’ll tell Miss Ruperts what he was up to last night. He’ll find it difficult to talk his way out of that.’

‘Don’t bet on it. He hasn’t been doing badly so far. That geezer could dive into a cesspool and come up smelling like a poof’s bedroom. Why have they gone to London?’

‘She wants him to get all the gen on her financial affairs.’

‘Bleeding heck! He’ll take her to the cleaners. Why didn’t you go?’

‘She didn’t want me to. I don’t have the same pull that he does. Let’s face it. Any deal we fix up is because she reckons him.’

Much as it pains me to admit it, I know that Sid is right and that there is nothing we can do except twiddle our thumbs and wait for Carboy and Ruperts to turn up again–if they ever do. Even as I think about it I have a horrible vision of them climbing the gang-plank of the QE II, arm in arm …

Luckily there are other things to take my mind off my immediate problems. Things like Mrs Fatso. She willows up to me, removing a crumb from the corner of her beautiful mouth and fixing me with an eye that glows like a night-watchman’s brazier.

‘There’s another game this afternoon,’ she says pointedly.

‘Your old man going to be up to it?’

‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag him away.’

‘And you’re not going?’

‘He might get hurt again. I couldn’t bear to watch that.’ She smoothes a non-existent ruckle out of her slacks. Slacks! There’s a ridiculous word for them. There is more tension going on down there than at a meeting of the Labour Party Executive. ‘I was thinking that it might be fun to organise a little team activity of our own. Quite a number of the girls aren’t all that keen on rugger.’

Hello, hello! What’s all this then? Do I detect intimations of immorality? (It’s wonderful what a course at the Polytechnic can do for your vocabulary, isn’t it?)

‘Oh, yes,’ I say, dead casual. ‘I saw you talking to one of your friends.’

‘Judy? Yes, she was very keen on the idea. She feels the fish market has little more to offer her.’

‘Very understandable. Quite what was she considering as an alternative?’

‘Well,’ Mrs Fatso takes a deep breath. Something she does rather well. ‘A party might be fun, mightn’t it? If you could round up some more able-bodied men we might pass the afternoon in more agreeable fashion than standing on a sodden touch-line shouting “oily, oily, Rottingfestrians”.’

‘Sounds a very nice idea. My colleague, Mr Noggett, has a suite of rooms which would be ideal for the purpose. I’m certain he would be only too glad to participate.’

‘Can’t you think about anything else but nooky at a time like this?’ says Sid irritably when I tell him.

‘No. What is there?’

Sid thinks for a moment. ‘You’re right. What time does the party start?’

I tell him that I have laid it on for when all the Rottingfestrians have trotted off to the rugby game and his face creases into a faint smile for the first time in days.

‘Frisky load of fillies, aren’t they?’ he says. ‘I won’t be sorry to get amongst that lot after what I’ve been through with their old men. Now we’ve only got to worry about stalling Rigby.’

To my surprise, Rigby does not show up promptly at lunch time and it is only when the Rottingfestrians are having their last pint before leaving for the game that the Rolls slides up outside the hotel entrance. Its arrival draws a cheer from the crowd of half-pissed thicknecks milling about outside the bar and this does not go down well with Rigby.

‘Take a good look,’ he sneers, indicating the car. ‘It’s about as near as any of you will ever get to one.’

This remark provokes an immediate outcry and Sid moves forward fast to avoid a possible lynching.

‘Come and have a drink,’ he says civilly. Rigby jerks his head towards the bar.

‘Not in here, thanks. I don’t like drinking with scruffy schoolkids.’

‘Come into the office.’ Sid leads the way to Miss Ruperts’ cubby hole and we are fortunate enough to find half a bottle of scotch that the old bat has left over from breakfast.

‘I’m not here to pay a social call. Are you ready to sign?’

‘We’ve given it a lot of thought–’

‘You’ve had a lot of time.’

‘–but we won’t be able to give you our decision until tomorrow.’

‘Right! Well, you’re going to have a sleepless night to think about it. I’m walking straight out of here and I’m giving my boys the go ahead to start moving in. You’d better start getting the cotton wool out of the medicine cabinet.’

‘Mr Rigby? How fortunate to find you here.’ The words fall from the lips of Doctor Carboy who comes bustling through the door carrying a bulging briefcase. Hard behind him is Miss Ruperts, her face flushed with what I imagine to be a few hastily snatched glasses of lunch.

‘Who is this?’ snarls Rigby.

‘I represent those interests of this lady and gentleman that are not covered by liquor, sex and drugs,’ says Carboy evenly. ‘I have been bringing myself up to date with their affairs. I had to go to London to read all the relevant Sunday newspapers.’

‘I’m not interested in jokes,’ says Rigby, sourly.

‘What a pity. With a face like that I’d have thought you would have had to have been.’

‘I didn’t come here to be insulted.’

‘No, I’m certain a man of your standing can be insulted anywhere. In fact, now I come to mention it, I’m certain a man of your standing could be standing anywhere. Like outside in the rain for instance. There’s a Rolls-Royce outside the front door. Why don’t you go and stand under it and I’ll tell you when it’s stopped raining.’

‘Do you know who I am?’ screeches Rigby.

‘Of course I do. You’re King Farouk’s younger brother thinking that nobody is going to recognise you without the flower pot and the dark glasses. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I know who you are. I told you when I came in. Don’t say you’ve forgotten already?’

‘Don’t beat about the bush, Walter,’ pants Miss Ruperts, casting about her for the whisky bottle. ‘Tell him. Odious little man.’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Not you, Walter! Him!’

‘Very well. If you insist, dear lady. I’m sorry, Ratby, I mean Rigby, but I’m afraid you’ve been taken over.’

‘What!’ Rigby’s face turns a different shade of scarlet.

‘Yes. The Rigram Property Company is now owned by a consortium in which my fair companion here is the major shareholder. Yes, Rigby, money talks, and to you it says: “Shove off and see if you can get a job posing for a Warfarin advertisement.”’

‘You expect me to believe that?’

‘I don’t care whether you believe it or not. Why don’t you ring your accountant? Mr Ransome, isn’t it?’ Rigby’s face achieves another remarkable change of shade. ‘How did you–?’

‘Suffice to say that we have ways, Rigby. Now if you will excuse me. I have to cut my toenails and I don’t want anyone to get hurt by flying trimmings.’

‘I’ll get–’

‘ “Out” is all you’re entitled to get at the moment.’ There is a hard edge to Carboy’s voice that suggests that he does not spend all his time helping old ladies across badly marked zebra crossings. Rigby looks round desperately.

‘You haven’t heard the last of this. I’ll be in touch.’

‘I’ll buy a pair of gloves just in case. Good afternoon.’ Carboy opens the door and Rigby storms out. The minute he has gone we both turn on Carboy.

‘Is that true? Have you really taken over that bastard’s outfit?’

‘Virtually. Miss Ruperts has secured a controlling interest in it. To all intents and purposes she is the owner.’

‘And you did all that in a couple of hours?’

‘I know the right people.’

‘I’ll say you do.’

‘I think a glass of champagne would be in order,’ trills Miss Ruperts.

‘I’ll drink to that,’ says Carboy. ‘Now what on earth is all that noise about?’

We bundle out into the foyer and there is a tall geezer wearing a grey chauffeur’s uniform and a very worried expression.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Bloody young hooligan has driven off in Mr Rigby’s Rolls.’

‘Where’s Rigby?’

‘He’s inside it!’

‘Blimey!’

We join the drunken crowd of Rottingfestrians laughing and cheering on the steps of the hotel and follow their eyes towards the pier.

‘What’s Lofty going to do with him?’ Oh, so that’s it. I thought the big fellow had got the needle with Rigby. Little did I know how much.

‘Good God. He’s driving onto the pier!’ He is too. For some reason they have opened the gates and I can see ant-like figures hopping out of the way as the black shape zooms behind the ghost train.

‘He’s going it, isn’t he?’

‘Slow down Lofty, you Charley!’

‘Oh, no!’ The Rolls is now ripping down the pier like it is a runway.

‘What’s he doing?’

‘He’s pissed.’

‘He’s mad.’

‘He won’t be able to stop.’

The last speaker is right. As we watch, horrified, the Rolls bursts through the barrier like it is made of bread sticks and dives gracefully into the sea.

‘Oh, my God.’

Some of the onlookers start running towards the pier but most of us remain rooted to the spot.

‘Look!’

To my amazement a figure appears on the surface closely followed by another. There is a pause and then they both begin to swim slowly towards the pontoon at the end of the pier. A relieved cheer goes up.

‘Did he have his kit with him?’ says Fatso seriously.

‘Come on, let’s go and clap him in.’

‘Better hurry or we’ll be late for the kick off.’

‘Time for another beer?’

‘No. We’ll have one there.’ They pick up boots and bags and disappear in a straggling convoy.

‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’ says Sid.

‘Fantastic,’ says Carboy. ‘Come my dear, the champagne awaits.’

They go in and Sid rests his hand on my shoulder.

‘Might as well have a glass of bubbly, I suppose.’

‘Yoo hoo.’

We look up and there are Mrs Fatso and Judy and two other well-stacked birds leaning over the balcony of Sid’s room. They all appear to be wearing low-cut negligees and it looks like the production line of a small dumpling factory looming down on us.

‘Did you tell Petheridge to fall in for this lot?’ says Sid, rubbing his hands together.

‘Yeah, I told him I’d wake him up when the party started.’

‘Don’t bother. He’s been working a bit hard lately and I think we can handle this lot by ourselves.’

THE END