The Elusive Dud - ebook

1. THE PROFESSIONAL FRIEND

It was Felix Borcham who christened Archibald Dobbly “The Dud.” Borcham’s words were so many laws, and his appellations carried authority. His factories covered acres of ground on the outskirts of London, and his was the finest house in Brackton, that toney suburb.

In Brackton the social centre was the golf club, and it was one evening after a dance, when the men were gathered together in the smoke-room and conversation took a wide and personal range, that Borcham called Archie “Dob the Dud.”

Dob looked a dud. There is something about an elegantly-dressed man which arouses the fiercest suspicions of his dowdy friends, and when a man carries his elegance to such lengths as did Archie, that suspicion is flavoured with contempt. Archie was fair, clean-shaven, and vacuous of countenance. He was the only man in Brackton who sported an eye-glass, and he had committed the crowning infamy of appearing at the golf dub in a shiny silk topper, white spats, and yellow gloves. What he did for a living, nobody knew. He had a tiny office in Queen Regent Street, which he attended punctually and regularly–he always went up to town by the 9.18 and travelled first-class–but what he did in that tiny office none knew.

It was some time after Brackton had accepted him as the kingpin of dudery that Dob revealed his guilty secret. The occasion was afternoon tea at the club one Sunday, and the boys had been chaffing him.

“What do I do, old thing?” he answered. “I do nothing.”

“There are times when you look it,” sneered Borcham, who was one of those tall, dark, good-looking men with a fine black silky moustache, and the habit of saying savage things in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

“Possibly, possibly, dear old bird,” replied Dob, waving his gloved hands, “but I had five years of doing things in France, old bean, perfectly horrible things. And I’m trying to get out of the habit.”

Borcham flushed a deep red. During the period of war his services had been too valuable for the nation to dispense with in his capacity as managing director of Borcham’s Manufacturing Company, Limited.

“Some of us were worth battalions of men at home,” he almost snarled. “Personally, I volunteered six times, but the Ministry would not let me go.”

“Hard luck, hard luck, old thing,” murmured Dob. “It was much nicer in Brackton, I assure you. No,” he went on, “I haven’t quite decided what I am going to do. I’ve got a perfectly dinky little office and a jolly little typewriter that I’m learning to work, but I haven’t decided whether I’ll be a manufacturer’s agent or a private detective.”

There was a roar of laughter at this, but Dob did not join.

“Not so much a private detective as a worldly adviser to the young and innocent,” he explained solemnly, and all within hearing of his voice shrieked with merriment. Borcham’s guffaw was loudest.

“You’d make a jolly fine friend and mentor to people in trouble,” he said sarcastically.

“I think I should,” agreed Dob complacently.

“All right,” sneered Borcham, “when I want a little advice I’ll come to you.”

Dob took a notebook from his pocket and solemnly wrote down Felix Borcham’s name.

“I’ll reckon you as my first client,” he said.

He looked up suddenly and fixed May Constance with his steady grey eyes, which were by far the best of his features.

“And you shall be my second, Miss Constance.”

The girl flushed, and those who were looking at her saw her lips tremble for a moment: then with a lift of her chin she rose and walked away. Borcham, with a savage look in Dob’s direction, followed her.

A little silence followed this incident. Everybody knew that Dob had put his fool in it. There was nothing between Felix Borcham and May Constance. There was hardly likely to be anything “between” a man who was reputedly a millionaire and a girl who occupied a fairly humble position in his city office. He was not the kind of fellow who would marry for love. Felix had social ambitions, but he was nevertheless sweet on May Constance, whose father before his death had been a respected member of the club.

It was one of those attractions which make people feel a little uncomfortable, because not even the most sentimental imagined that Felix contemplated matrimony. There were ugly stories attached to his name, but since those stories were in the category of rumours and the club and its members knew nothing officially, Felix was received in the best houses and amongst the best people; for Brackton was not only a wealthy suburb, but numbered amongst its citizens a millionaire or two, an author or two, an Under-Secretary of State, and innumerable recipients of the honour of knighthood.

Those who know their London and its environs will not have any difficulty in placing Brackton on the map. Its beautiful houses facing the wide sweep of common long ago dedicated to the ancient volunteers, its historic windmill and its countrified atmosphere, despite its proximity to London, have made it famous the world over.

A week later, Kelby, the banker, had occasion to call upon Archie. Kelby was a young man for his position, and had a sneaking regard for the Dud. He had known him in the days of war, and the mud of the Flanders trenches cemented their acquaintance into friendship. He climbed up the two flights of stairs to the floor on which Archie’s office was situated, and stood, paralysed, before the inscription upon the glass panel of his door.

ARCHIBALD DOBBLY.
CONFIDENTIAL ADVISER AND
PROFESSIONAL FRIEND.

read the notice.

“Good Lord, Archie,” said Kelby, when he entered the diminutive apartment, “what’s this game you’re playing?”

Archie spun round in his chair, and his long knees almost barked against the opposite wall.

“Sit down, Kelby, old bird,” he chuckled. “Yes. I’ve decided. That’s my game.”

“But, confidential adviser, Archie? Who’s coming to you for advice?”

“Lots of people,” answered Archie calmly.

“Rubbish, Archie,” replied Kelby with a good-natured laugh. “You silly old owl! The moment your clients see your innocent face they’ll fly.”

The story was all over Brackton the same night. The Dud had started in business as a professional friend. When Archie made his appearance, as he did every evening, for a game of bridge, loud were the howls of joy which greeted him. Players at other tables with mock seriousness asked his advice on their hands and the calls.

Billy Sand, the club humourist, insisted upon a recipe for rheumatism, but through it all Archie never lost his sang froid. He was a grinning, cheerful young man when he left that night, though he knew the experience would be repeated on the following day. Of course, it died down after a week, and the club accepted Archie and his eccentricities as they accepted Felix Borcham with his unsavoury reputation.

Archie the Dud had not spoken to May Constance since that Sunday afternoon. Consequently he was a little surprised about a fortnight after his going into business, when she came out of the crowded dance-room and sank into a basket-chair on the verandah by his side.

“Aren’t you dancing, Mr Dobbly?” she asked.

“No, Miss Constance,” replied Archie: “it tires my old feet.”

She laughed softly, and then suddenly became serious.

“I’ve heard about your new bureau,” she said. “Is it a success?”

“It takes years to make a thing like that successful,” evaded Archie.

“Do you have many clients?”

Archie coughed.

“Well, to be perfectly candid, Miss Constance, they haven’t started rolling in yet.”

She was silent for a while.

“Whom do you expect to get?” she asked.

Archie shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you know, Miss Constance,” he said, very seriously for him, “this jolly old world is filled with people who’ve got a load of trouble on their shoulders, and who don’t know where to turn to get advice. There are lots of people who don’t want to go to doctors or to lawyers, and yet who dare not trust their own friends with their secrets.”

She nodded.

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