Chapter IX: Sir Toby Is Amused

Breakfast-time at High Ash was peculiarly elastic, and Michael took full advantage of it next morning. It was close on ten-thirty when he arrived in the morning room, and the sun was streaming in through the leaded windows. As he was exploring the hot dishes on the sideboard, his host's valet entered.

'Morning, Ruff,' said Michael. 'How's Sir Toby?'

As Bobby Manvers once said, it would be almost impossible to choose a more unsuitable name than Ruff's. His voice was soft, his manner gentle and benign, and he always looked as if he had just had a bath and brushed his hair.

'Not too well, I'm afraid, sir,' he said. 'He had one of his bad nights again.'

'Not serious, is it?' asked Michael, helping himself generously to kedgeree.

Ruff shook his head dubiously.

'He won't admit it to be serious himself, sir,' he said, 'but these heart attacks worry me. His gout's nothing much, though very painful, of course, and keeps him laid up at times, but heart trouble's another matter. I've served Sir Toby for ten years, and I know that these attacks are getting slowly worse. But he won't listen to reason, sir.'

'No, he's a sportsman,' said Michael.

The valet hesitated.

'If you could persuade him to--er--take it gently to-day, you'd be doing him a real service, sir,' he suggested.

'All right, Ruff, I'll do what I can.'

'Thank you, sir. I believe I hear Sir Toby coming now.'

Ruff adjusted the toasting-machine, and then opened the door to admit a smiling, grey-haired man of about fifty.

Everyone knew Sir Toby Ward, and everyone liked him. Even Michael Doone, who disliked the whole English nation on principle, admitted that there was a good deal to be said for him, and actually rose to his feet as his host entered the room.

'Morning, Michael. Sit down; don't let me interrupt your breakfast,' said Sir Toby. 'Coffee, please, Ruff. No, thanks, nothing else.'

He lowered himself, with some difficulty, into a chair by the window, and sat sipping his coffee, and watching his guest with amused and understanding eyes. To Michael, food was the paramount object of a meal. He had never grasped the fact that the essence of good table manners is to disregard it; to eat, as it were, half consciously. He sat now, completely absorbed in his breakfast, a shaft of sunlight across his face, lighting up his high cheekbones and compressed, sensitive mouth. Across his forehead hung a lock of black, straight hair. No matter how short he cropped it, that lock always seemed to be there, a perpetual defiance to civilisation. At last he pushed back his plate, and faced his host with a smile.

'Toast?' suggested Sir Toby, indicating the machine.

'Thanks.' Michael leant over and helped himself. 'I hear you had a bad night. Rotten luck.'

'Oh, it's nothing to worry about,' said Sir Toby, accepting the offer of conversation with an amused twinkle. 'Ruff exaggerates. Well, what sort of a show was it last night?'

'Very average, I imagine,' said Michael. 'Rather overcrowded.'

'All the élite of the county, I suppose,' said Sir Toby, 'and Katherine Hamilton-Browne rushing distractedly about, trying to force people into enjoying themselves. A dear soul. She's escaped religious mania, but has got hospitality instead, in much the same way. A sense of duty is a paralysing thing.'

'It must be,' said Michael. 'Not that I know much about it myself.'

'Nor I. In my youth I had occasional spasms of conscience, but I soon discovered that whenever I did a thing from a sense of duty, it was inevitably a failure. So I gave it up. No point in asking for trouble. Anybody interesting there?'

Michael pondered, frowning thoughtfully. Sir Toby watched him amusedly.

'Anybody you liked at all?' he substituted.

'Fellow called Manvers,' said Michael, with a reminiscent grin. 'Not at all a bad chap. Stutters.'

'Oh, yes, our Bobby. I know him well. In fact, I believe he's my godson, but I have so many that I forget. Bobby's a good soul, and has more brains than you might guess. Poor lad, he's an example of misplaced duty. His people wanted him to follow in his father's footsteps, and now he's a barrister, without much hope of a brief. A depressing life.'

'Did he want to do something else?' asked Michael.

'Yes.' Sir Toby's twinkle broadened into a mischievous grin. 'He wanted to get into the C.I.D.'

Michael gave a sudden yelp of laughter.

'Oh, it's a crime! _What_ a detective he'd have made! W-Watson, pass me the m-morphia! But, not seriously?'

'Perfectly seriously. Criminology is now his hobby. He can tell you the life history of every English murderer, and he will, too, if you don't see it coming and head him off. He revels in clues and finger-prints and alibis. One of these days he'll go a little too far with his amateur detecting, and there'll be a newspaper scandal. I'm his trustee, too, God help me!'

'It doesn't seem to worry you much,' commented Michael.

Sir Toby chuckled comfortably. 'I don't go in for worrying, Michael. Life's too short. Ruff does all mine for me. That's why he's so thin. But you haven't told me much about the party. Were you terribly bored?'

'More or less,' admitted Michael.

'Poor lad! What time did you leave?'

'About one, I suppose.'

Sir Toby's eyebrows rose.

'Ruff told me you didn't get in till three.'

'Perfectly correct. I spent the intervening time exploring Suffolk by moonlight.'

'By yourself?' Sir Toby had a twinkle in his eye.

'By myself.'

'Oh, my dear Michael!' Sir Toby sighed. 'What a waste of moonlight!'

Michael grinned reminiscently. Sir Toby waited patiently, watching his guest.

'I was chasing a waiter,' he said at last.

Sir Toby laughed outright.

'Dear me, I'd no idea you were suffering from what poor Katherine calls "this terrible servant problem." Do tell me all about it, Michael.'

Michael complied. Sir Toby was an excellent listener, and when Michael described, vividly enough, his emotions on finding his Bentley gone and the grey two-seater left, his host laughed helplessly.

'Wait a bit,' went on Michael, now thoroughly warmed up. 'The chap had left his card, stuck in the wheel.'

'Good Lord! What was his name?'

'Vive le Sport.'

The amusement on Sir Toby's face gave place to surprise. 'Vive le Sport! But I never knew he stole cars. This is a new game.'

'Do you know him, then?'

'Not personally; I've heard a good deal about him.'

'Who is he?'

'A burglar. London's full of wild stories about him, but as far as I can gather, he's an ex-officer who came out of the war with a craving for excitement. He's reported to have said that one cannot appreciate life unless one is in danger of losing it. I disagree, but never mind. Scotland Yard knows him by his card, which he always leaves in any house he burgles. Incidentally, he's never been known to rob anyone except fat and prosperous profiteers. I tell you the insurance companies must hate him.'

'Sportsman!' said Michael, with deep approval.

'I quite agree, but consider the morals of the country! He's a very dangerous element, just because he is a sportsman! So far, his story has been kept out of the papers, but if they get hold of it, think of the effect on the public! There'd be a wave of popular sympathy towards this modern Robin Hood, who robs the rich company promoters and laughs at Scotland Yard. It won't do, you know.'

'Rot!' said Michael. 'You know you're all for him, too.'

'Of course I am,' admitted Sir Toby. 'But I also see that to make a popular public character of a successful house-breaker is unthinkable.'

'Does he specialise in burglary?'

'More or less. The experts swear that the safe isn't made that he can't open. Also, he has a positive genius for disguise, and disguise isn't merely a question of a false nose. It's acting ... living the part you're playing.'

'What's his real name?'

'Nobody knows.'

'Vive le Sport! I wish I'd known all this last night!'

'Incidentally, what was he doing at Barton? Hamilton-Browne made his money quite legitimately. Michael, do ring up and find out if they've missed any valuables.'

With a nod Michael departed, to return a few minutes later. 'Not a thing. I made Ruff do the telephoning. All's well at Barton.'

'Very odd,' said Sir Toby. 'I wonder what he was there for? By the way, what are you going to do about your car? This two-seater sounds a poor exchange.'

'Oh, she's not at all a bad little bus,' said Michael. 'I got sixty-five out of her easy, coming back here, and she wasn't running her best. As for mine, he told me on the card that I'd find her in Dorset Mews any night between ten and twelve.'

'That's good,' said Sir Toby. 'I should hate the idea of his becoming a miserable car thief.'

'Nice sentiments for a law-abiding householder!' grinned Michael.

'I know. It's impossible to be consistent where Vive le Sport is concerned. We all feel the same, and that's why we're so anxious not to let the general public get hold of the story. And now let's go out into the garden. One mustn't miss sunshine in this country. You've got to take it quickly when it comes ... like many other things.'

Michael smiled, but made no reply.