CHAPTER XVII
REINFORCEMENTS
The soi-disant Dale Conway strolled along the crowded towpath, recognising acquaintances, returning salutations, and basking in the grateful sunshine of social popularity. He had only been in Ripleigh for three weeks, but already that exclusive stronghold of nice people was his to play upon as he would.
It was Regatta Day, and the time was a quarter-past four. The final for the Darnborough Vase was to be rowed at four-fifty; and the Ripleigh Junior Senior Crew, having drawn a bye in the first round and defeated a London four in the second, were to participate therein. Conway had just left them, sitting in a row upon their raft, and whistling forlornly through chattering teeth. Even his optimistic and vivid forecast of the result of the race had been insufficient to eradicate the symptoms of that distressing malady known as ‘the needle.’
However, nerves usually vanish when the time for action comes. At this moment the crew swung past him on their way to the starting-post, sitting their boat nicely and evoking a patriotic and well-merited cheer from the Ripleigh spectators. Cradock politely elbowed his way to the edge of the stream for a better view. At his feet, moored to the towpath, lay a punt. His eye fell upon the occupants. The first was a small man with a peaky face and a disillusioned expression. He was wearing a suit of what is usually known as sponge-bag check, and a panama hat. He was accompanied in the punt by a henna-haired lady of about his own age, who looked like the mother of all barmaids, and two ravishing young creatures—one blonde and the other brunette—with cheeks of exactly the same shade of pink and vermilion mouths of precisely the same shape.
Cradock reached down and tapped the small man upon the shoulder.
‘Good-afternoon, Moon!’ he said.
Mr. Moon jumped; apparently being tapped upon the shoulder awoke disturbing memories. Then he turned cautiously, and came face to face with his late employer.
Cradock gave an almost imperceptible jerk of his head, and turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd. Mr. Moon extracted himself painfully from the punt and followed him, in his usual dejected fashion.
Presently the pair foregathered in a quiet spot behind a refreshment tent. Cradock shook hands affably.
‘You got home from America all right?’ he inquired.
‘Yes, sir. Not for a bit, though. I had to keep on moving round the country for more than a year after I left you, on account of what they called the Selective Draft. However, I got back in the end.’
‘Good! What’s your game now?’
Mr. Moon flinched.
‘No game at all, sir, I assure you. We’re straight—more or less.’
Cradock surveyed him thoughtfully. He was not the man to let slip such instruments as Providence placed in his hand.
‘Are you under police supervision at present?’ he asked.
‘Oh, no, sir!’
‘However, I suppose there are certain little episodes of the past which, if they did come to light, might make your position an extremely delicate one?’
‘They would make it something chronic,’ said Mr. Moon frankly.
‘Well, I won’t give you away to anybody.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Still, one good turn deserves another. Perhaps you can help me.’ Mr. Moon flinched again. ‘What do you do for a living now?’
‘Well, Lizzie is running a Dancing Academy, in Maida Vale.’
‘Lizzie?’
‘Yes, sir; my wife.’
‘The lady in the punt—the elder lady?’
‘Yes, sir. She had a hard time when I was abroad, and she’s none too strong now. ’Er valves—’
‘Go and fetch her.’
Mr. Moon shambled away, and Cradock, having lit a cigarette, devoted the ensuing three minutes to reflection. His resourceful imagination had already included the Moon ménage in the cast of a little drama which he proposed shortly to stage in Ripleigh.
Next moment Mrs. Moon stood before him, deferential and overheated, and was duly presented by her husband.
‘I hear you conduct a Dancing Academy, Mrs. Moon,’ said Cradock.
‘Yes, sir. Ballroom and stage dancing. Private lessons.’
‘And what are Mr. Moon’s precise duties in the establishment? Don’t tell me that he is one of your instructors!’
‘Oh, no, sir,’ interposed Moon, plainly a little shocked at the suggestion. ‘I do a bit on the side.’
‘On the same premises as the Dancing Academy?’
‘Yes, sir. I run a baccarat table of an evening—for a few select ladies and gents.’
‘Are you doing anything in the turf line at present?’
‘Very little, sir.’
‘Well, never mind. Now, listen to me! You see that house down there, above the lock? It’s called Abbot’s Mill.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, I want you and Mrs. Moon to come there this evening at a quarter-past six. There’s to be a large meeting held in the drawing-room, in aid of some object which I have forgotten. Admission is free, so don’t be afraid to walk right in. You will find me occupying the distinguished post of Chairman. Don’t be surprised if I mention your name. I may propose you for an office of some kind; but your duties will be purely nominal and honorary; so don’t offer any opposition, whatever you do. By the way, who are the girls in the punt, Mrs. Moon? Your daughters?’
‘No, sir. We never had—’
‘Well, who are they?’
‘Two of our dancing instructresses, sir. Miss Gladys Arbuthnot, and—’
‘Are they nice girls?’
‘Very nice, sir.’
‘Reefined,’ added Mr. Moon.
‘What are they doing at a regatta?’
‘Well, sir, they sometimes come across some of our gentlemen clients, and sit about with them—in punts—’
‘That’s right,’ corroborated Mr. Moon. ‘Under trees.’
‘And they introduce their friends to Gus, with a view to the baccarat business.’
‘I understand. I think you had better not bring them to the meeting, though I may want them later. You are staying for the fireworks, of course?’
‘If you wish it, sir.’
‘Very good. Buzz off, now. You can all come on to my bungalow after the meeting—the girls, too. I know a couple of young gentlemen who would be only too pleased to shake a cocktail for them. By Jove, there’s the race coming over!’
And Cradock, precipitately abandoning the Moons, ran frantically to the towpath, just in time to see Denny and his crew sweep gallantly past the post, victorious by half a length.