THE DOWNFALL OF MR. JABEZ STIFFSON

I

The next morning Bindle let Mrs. Sedge in at her usual time, seven o’clock.

“Now mind, mother,” he said, “four eggs and plenty o’ bacon an’ coffee, Number Six ’as got a appetite; ’ad no supper, pore gal.”

Mrs. Sedge grunted. Kilburn Cemetery had a depressing effect upon her.

“I’ll take it up myself,” remarked Bindle casually.

Mrs. Sedge eyed him deliberately.

“She’s pretty, then,” she said. “Ain’t you men jest all alike!” She proceeded to shake her head in hopeless despair.

Bindle stood watching her as she descended to the Harts’ kitchen.

“She’s got an ’ead-piece on ’er, ’as olé Sedgy,” he muttered. “Fancy ‘er a-tumblin’ to it like that, an’ ’er still ‘alf full o’ Royal Richard.”

Having prepared and eaten his own breakfast, Bindle sat down and waited. At five minutes past nine he rose.

“It’s time Oscar an’ Olé Whiskers was up an’ doin’,” he murmured as he stood in front of the dingy looking-glass over the fireplace. “Joe Bindle, there’s a-goin’ to be rare doin’s in Number Six to-day, and it may mean that you’ll lose your job, you olé reprobate.”

At the head of the stairs of the second floor Bindle stopped as if he had been shot.

“’Old me, ’Orace!” he muttered. “If it ain’t ’er!”

Running towards him was Miss Boye in a white silk wrapper, a white lace matinee cap, her stockingless feet thrust into dainty slippers.

Bindle eyed her appreciatively.

“Oh, Mr. Porter!” she cried breathlessly, “there’s a man in my bath.”

“A wot, miss?” enquired Bindle in astonishment.

“A man, I heard him splashing and I peeped in, I only just peeped, you know, Mr. Porter, and there was a funny little man in spectacles with whiskers. Isn’t it lovely!” she cried, clapping her hands gleefully. “Where could he have come from?”

“Well, personally myself, I shouldn’t call ’im lovely,” muttered Bindle. “I s’pose it’s only a matter o’ taste.”

“But where did he come from?” persisted Cissie Boye excitedly.

“’E must ’ave been left be’ind by the other tenant,” said Bindle, grinning widely. “I must see into this. Now you’d better get back, miss. You mustn’t go ’opping about like this, or I’ll lose my job.”

“Why! Don’t I look nice?” asked Miss Boye archly, looking down at herself.

“That’s jest it, miss,” said Bindle. “If Number Seven or Number Eighteen was to see you like that, well, anythink might ’appen. Now we’ll find out about this man wot you think ’as got into your bath.”

Followed by Miss Boye, Bindle entered the outer door of Number Six. As he did so Mr. Stiffson emerged from the bathroom in a faded pink bath-robe and yellow felt slippers, with a towel over his shoulder and a sponge in his hand. He gave one startled glance past Bindle at Cissie Boye and, with a strange noise in his throat, turned and fled back to the bathroom, bolting the door behind him.

“Isn’t he a scream!” gurgled Miss Boye. “Oh, what would Bobbie say?”

Like a decree of fate Bindle marched up to the bathroom door and knocked imperiously.

“What is it?” inquired Mr. Stiffson in a trembling voice.

“It’s me,” responded Bindle sternly. “Open the door, sir, if you please. I can’t ’ave you a-frightening this young lady.”

“Tell her to go away, and then I’ll come out,” was the response.

Miss Boye giggled.

“You’d better come out, sir.” There was decision in Bindle’s voice.

“I’ll go into my room,” she whispered, “and then I’ll come out again, see?”

Bindle did see, and nodded his head vigorously. Miss Boye disappeared.

“She ain’t ’ere now, sir,” he said, “so you’d better come out.”

The bathroom door was cautiously opened, and Mr. Stiffson looked out with terror-dilated eyes.

“Is she really ?”

“Of course she is,” said Bindle reassuringly. “Fancy you bein’ afraid of a pretty little bit o’ fluff like that.”

“But but she was in her ”

“Of course she was, she was goin’ to ’ave a rinse in there,” Bindle indicated the bathroom with his thumb, “when you frightened ’er. Dirty trick a-frightening of a pretty gal like that.”

With affected indifference Bindle strolled over to the bathroom, looked in and then stood before the door.

“Look! there she is again!” almost shrieked Mr. Stiffson, dashing for Bindle and endeavouring to get past him into the bathroom.

“There, there, sir,” said Bindle soothingly, “you’re a very lucky cove, only you don’t seem to know it.”

“But but Mrs. Stiffson ”

There was terror in Mr. Stiffson’s voice. On his forehead beads of perspiration glistened.

“What the wife don’t see the ’usband don’t ’ave to explain,” remarked Bindle oracularly.

“But she’s in my flat,” persisted Mr. Stiffson.

“Oh! you naughty old thing!” cried Cissie Boye. “It’s you who are in my flat.”

“But I came in last night,” quavered Mr. Stiffson.

“So did I didn’t I, Mr. Porter?” She turned to Bindle for corroboration.

“Take my dyin’ oath on it, miss,” said Bindle.

“But ” began Mr. Stiffson, then stopped, at loss how to proceed.

“Look ’ere,” said Bindle pleasantly, “there’s been a little mistake, sort of a misunderstandin’, an’ things ’ave got a bit mixed. You can say it’s me wot’s done it if you like. Now you’d better both get dressed an’ come an’ ’ave breakfast.” Then turning to Mr. Stiffson he said, “Don’t you think o’ meetin’ your missis on an empty stomach. I’m married myself, an’ Mrs. B.’s as ’ot as ginger when there’s another bit o’ skirt about.”

Cissie Boye slowly approached Mr. Stiffson. “You’re surely not afraid of little me, Mr. Man?” she enquired, looking deliciously impudent.

That was exactly what Mr. Stiffson was afraid of, and he edged nearer to Bindle.

“But Mrs. Stiffson ” he stammered, regarding Cissie Boye like one hypnotised.

“Oh! you naughty old thing!” admonished Miss Boye, enjoying Mr. Stiffson’s embarrassment. “You come into my flat, then talk about your wife,” and she laughed happily.

“Now look ‘ere, sir,” said Bindle, “there’s been a little mistake, an’ this young lady is willin’ to forgive an’ forget, an’ you ain’t a-goin’ to ‘old out, are you? Now you jest run in an’ get rid o’ them petticoats, come out lookin’ like a man, an’ then wot-o! for a nice little breakfast which’ll all be over before your missis turns up at ten o’clock, see! You can trust me, married myself I am,” he added as if to explain his breadth of view in such matters.

“But I can’t ” began Mr. Stiffson.

“Oh, yes you can, sir, an’ wot’s more you’ll like it.” Bindle gently propelled the protesting Mr. Stiffson past Cissie Boye towards his room.

“Don’t forget now, in a quarter of an hour, I’ll be up with the coffee an’ bacon an’ eggs. You’re a rare lucky cove, sir, only you don’t know it.”

“I’m so hungry,” wailed Cissie Boye.

“Of course you are, miss,” said Bindle sympathetically. “I’ll get a move on.”

“Oh! isn’t he delicious,” gurgled Cissie Boye. “Isn’t he a perfect scream; but how did he get here, Mr. Porter?”

“Well, miss, the only wonder to me is that ’alf Fulham ain’t ’ere to see you a-lookin’ like that. Now you jest get a rinse in your room an’ ”

“A rinse, what’s that?” enquired Cissie.

“You does it with soap an’ water, miss, an’ you might add a bit or two of lace, jest in case the neighbours was to come in. Now I must be orf. Old Sedgy ain’t at ’er best after them ’alf days with Royal Richard. Don’t let ’im nip orf, miss, will you?” Bindle added anxiously. “‘E’s that modest an’ retirin’ like, that e’ might try.”

At that moment Mr. Stiffson put his head out of his door. “Porter!” he stammered, “Oscar has not had his breakfast; it’s on the kitchen mantelpiece.” He shut the door hurriedly.

“Oscar’s got to wait,” muttered Bindle as he hurried downstairs.

Ten minutes later he had the gas-stove lighted in the sitting-room, and coffee, eggs and bacon, bread and butter, strawberry jam and marmalade ready on the table.

Miss Boye emerged from her room, a vision of loveliness in a pale-blue teagown, open at the throat, with a flurry of white lace cascading down the front. There was a good deal of Cissie Boye visible in spite of the lace. She still wore her matinee cap with the blue ribbons, and Bindle frankly envied Mr. Stiffson.

“Now, sir,” he cried, banging at the laggard’s door, “the coffee and the lady’s waitin’, an’ I want to feed Oscar.”

Mr. Stiffson came out timidly. He evidently realised the importance of the occasion. He wore a white satin tie reposing beneath a low collar of nonconformity, a black frock-coat with a waistcoat that had been bought at a moment of indecision as to whether it should be a morning or evening affair, light trousers, and spats.

“My, ain’t we dressy!” cried Bindle, looking appreciatively at Mr. Stiffson’s trousers. “You got ’er beaten with them bags, sir, or my name ain’t Joe Bindle.”

Mr. Stiffson coughed nervously behind his hand.

“Now,” continued Bindle, “you got a good hour, then we must see wot’s to be done. I’ll keep the Olé Bird away.”

“The Old Bird?” questioned Mr. Stiffson in a thin voice as he opened the door; “but Oscar is only ”

“I mean your missis, sir,” explained Bindle. “You leave ’er to me.”

“Come on, Mr. Man,” cried Cissie Boye, “don’t be afraid, I never eat men when there’s eggs and bacon.”

Mr. Stiffson motioned Bindle to accompany him into the sitting-room.

“I got to see to Oscar,” said Bindle reassuringly.

“Now sit down,” ordered Cissie Boye. Mr. Stiffson seated himself on the edge of the chair opposite to her. She busied herself with the coffee, bacon and eggs. Mr. Stiffson watched her with the air of a man who is prepared to bolt at any moment. He cast anxious eyes towards the clock. It pointed to a quarter to nine. Bindle had taken the precaution of putting it back an hour.

Suddenly Oscar burst into full song. Mr. Stiffson sighed his relief. Oscar had had his breakfast.

“Now, Mr. Man, eat,” commanded Cissie Boye, “and,” handing him a cup of coffee, “drink.”

“An’ be merry, sir,” added Bindle, who entered at the moment. “You’re ‘avin’ the time of your life, an’ don’t you forget it.”

Mr. Stiffson looked as if the passage of centuries would never permit him to forget.

“An’ now I’ll leave you little love-birds,” said Bindle with the cheerful assurance of a cupid, “an’ go an’ keep watch.”

“But ” protested Mr. Stiffson, half rising from his chair.

“Oh! do sit down, old thing!” cried Cissie; “you’re spoiling my breakfast.”

Mr. Stiffson subsided. Destiny had clearly taken a hand in the affair.

“Now you jest enjoy your little selves,” apostrophized Bindle, “an’ then we’ll try an’ find out ’ow all this ’ere ’appened. It does me, blowed if it don’t.”

II

“I’m not aware that I speak indistinctly.” The voice was uncompromising, the deportment aggressive. “I said ’Mr. Jabez Stiffson.’”

“You did, mum,” agreed Bindle tactfully; “I ’eard you myself quite plainly.”

“Then where is he? I’m Mrs. Stiffson.”

Mrs. Stiffson was a tall woman of generous proportions. Her hair was grey, her features virtuously hard, her manner overwhelming. Her movements gave no suggestion of limbs, she seemed to wheel along with a slight swaying of the body from side to side.

“Well?” she interrogated.

“’E’s sort of engaged, mum,” temporised Bindle, “‘avin’ breakfast. I’ll tell ’im you’re ’ere. I’ll break it gently to ’im. You know, mum, joy sometimes kills, an’ ’e don’t look strong.”

Without a word Mrs. Stiffson wheeled round and, ignoring the lift, marched for the stairs. As he followed, Bindle remembered with satisfaction that he had omitted to close the outer door of Number Six.

Straight up the stairs, like “never-ending Time,” marched Mrs. Stiffson. She did not hurry, she did not pause, she climbed evenly, mechanically, a model wife seeking her mate.

Any doubts that Bindle may have had as to Mrs. Stiffson’s ability to find the husband she sought were set at rest by the shrill pipings of Oscar. Even a trained detective could not have overlooked so obvious a clue.

Along the corridor, straight for Number Six moved Mrs. Stiffson, Bindle in close attendance, fearful lest he should lose the dramatic intensity of the arrival of “the wronged wife.”

Unconscious that Nemesis was marching upon him, Mr. Stiffson, stimulated by the coffee, bacon and eggs, and the gay insouciance of Cissie Boye, was finding the situation losing much of its terror for him.

No man for long could remain indifferent to the charming personality of Cissie Boye. Her bright chatter and good looks, her innocence, strangely blended with worldly wisdom, her daring garb; all combined to divert Mr. Stiffson’s mind from the thoughts of his wife, apart from which the clock pointed to five minutes past nine, and Mrs. Stiffson was as punctual as fate.

Had he possessed the intuition of a mongoose, Mr. Stiffson would have known that there was a snake in his grass.

Instinct guiding her steps, Mrs. Stiffson entered the flat. Instead of turning to the right, in the direction of the bedroom in which Oscar was overdoing the thanksgiving business for bird-seed and water, she wheeled to the left and threw open the sitting-room door.

From under Mrs. Stiffson’s right arm Bindle saw the tableau. Mr. Stiffson, who was facing the door, was in the act of raising his coffee-cup to smiling lips. Cissie Boye, sitting at right angles on his left, was leaning back in her chair clapping her hands.

“Oh, you naughty old thing!” she was crying.

At the sight of his wife, Mr. Stiffson’s jaw dropped and the coffee-cup slipped from his nerveless hands. It struck the edge of the table and emptied its contents down the opening of his low-cut waistcoat.

At the sight of the abject terror on Mr. Stiffson’s face, Cissie Boye ceased to clap her hands and, turning her head, met Mrs. Stiffson’s uncompromising stare and Bindle’s appreciative grin.

“Jabez!” It was like the uninflected accents of doom.

Mr. Stiffson shivered; that was the only indication he gave of having heard. With unblinking eyes he continued to gaze at his wife as if fascinated, the empty coffee-cup resting on his knees.

“Jabez!” repeated Mrs. Stiffson. “I thought I told you to wear your tweed mixture to-day.”

Mrs. Stiffson had a fine sense of the dramatic! The unexpectedness of the remark caused Mr. Stiffson to blink his eyes like a puzzled owl, without however removing them from his wife, or changing their expression.

Cissie Boye laughed, Bindle grinned.

“Won’t you sit down?” It was Cissie Boye who spoke.

“Silence, hussy!” There was no anger in Mrs. Stiffson’s voice; it was just a command and an expression of opinion.

Cissie Boye rose, the light of battle in her eyes. Bindle pushed past Mrs. Stiffson and stood between the two women.

“Look ’ere, mum,” he said, “we likes manners in this ‘ere flat, an’ we’re a-goin’ to ’ave ’em, see! Sorry if I ’urt your feelin’s. This ain’t a woman’s club.”

“Hold your tongue, fool!” the deep voice thundered.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” said Bindle cheerfully, looking up at his mountainous antagonist. “You can’t frighten me, I ain’t married to you. Now you jest be civil.”

“Listen!” cried Cissie Boye with flashing eyes. “Don’t you go giving me the bird like that, or ” She paused at a loss with what to threaten her guest.

“It’s all right, miss,” said Bindle, “You jest leave ’er to me; I got one o’ my own at ’ome. She’s going to speak to me, she is.”

Mrs. Stiffson’s efforts of self-control were proving unequal to the occasion, her breathing became laboured and her voice husky.

“What is my husband doing in this person’s flat?” demanded Mrs. Stiffson, apparently of no one in particular. There was something like emotion in her voice.

“Well, mum,” responded Bindle, “‘e was eatin’ bacon an’ eggs an’ drinking coffee.”

“How dare you appear before my husband like that!” Mrs. Stiffson turned fiercely upon Cissie Boye. “You brazen creature!” anger was now taking possession of her.

“Here, easy on, old thing!” said Cissie Boye, seeing Mrs. Stiffson’s rising temper, and entirely regaining her own good humour.

“I repeat,” said Mrs. Stiffson, “what is my husband doing in your company?”

“Ask him what he’s doing in my flat,” countered Cissie Boye triumphantly.

“Look ’ere, mum,” broke in Bindle in a soothing voice, “it’s no use a-playin’ ’Amlet in a rage. You jest sit down and talk it over friendly like, an’ p’raps I can get a drop of Royal Richard from old Sedgy. It’s sort of been a shock to you, mum, I can see. Well, things do look bad; anyhow, Royal Richard’ll bring you round in two ticks.”

Mrs. Stiffson turned upon Bindle a look that was meant to annihilate.

Bindle glanced across at Mr. Stiffson, who was mechanically rubbing the middle of his person with a napkin, his eyes still fixed upon his wife.

“Because your ’usband gets into the wrong duds,” continued Bindle, “ain’t no reason why you should get into an ’owling temper, is it?”

There was a knock at the door and, without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Sedge entered, wearing a canvas apron and a crape bonnet on one side and emitting an almost overpowering aroma of Royal Richard. In her hands she carried a large bowl of porridge. Marching across to the table, she dumped it down in front of Mr. Stiffson.

“Ain’t that jest like a man, forgettin’ ‘alf o’ wot ’e ought to remember!” she remarked and, without waiting for a reply, she stumped out of the room, banging the door behind her.

Bindle sniffed the air like a hound.

“That’s Royal Richard wot you can smell, mum,” he explained.

Cissie Boye laughed.

Ignoring the interruption, Mrs. Stiffson returned to the attack.

“I demand an explanation!” Her voice shook with suppressed fury.

“Listen!” cried Cissie Boye, “if your boy will come and sleep in my flat ”

“Sleep in your flat!” cried Mrs. Stiffson in something between a roar and a scream. “Sleep in your flat!” She turned upon her husband. “Jabez, did you hear that? Oh! you villain, you liar, you monster!”

“But but, my dear,” protested Mr. Stiffson, becoming articulate, “Oscar was here all the time.”

Cissie Boye giggled.

“So that is why you have put on your best clothes, you deceiver, you viper, you scum!”

“Steady on, mum!” broke out Bindle. “’E ain’t big enough to be all them things; besides, if you starts a-megaphonin’ like that, you’ll ‘ave all the other bunnies a-runnin’ in to see wot’s ‘appened, an’ if you was to ‘ear Number Seven’s language, an’ see wot Queenie calls ’er face, Mr. S. might be a widower before ’e knew it.”

“Where did you meet this person?” demanded Mrs. Stiffson of her husband, who, now that the coffee was cooling, began to feel chilly, and was busily engaged in trying to extract the moisture from his garments.

“Where did you meet her?” repeated his wife.

“In in the bath-room,” responded Mr. Stiffson weakly.

Mrs. Stiffson gasped and stood speechless with amazement.

“I heard a splashing,” broke in Cissie Boye, “and I peeped in, I only just peeped in, really and really.”

“An’ then we ’ad a little friendly chat in the ’all,” explained Bindle, “an’ after breakfast we was goin’ to talk things over, an’ see ’ow we could manage so that you didn’t know.”

“Your bath-room!” roared Mrs. Stiffson at length, the true horror of the situation at last seeming to dawn upon her. “My husband in your bath-room! Jabez!” she turned on Mr. Stiffson once more like a raging fury. “You heard! were you in this creature’s bath-room?”

Mr. Stiffson paused in the process of endeavouring to extract coffee from his exterior.

“Er er ” he began.

“Answer me!” shouted Mrs. Stiffson. “Were you or were you not in this person’s bath-room?”

“Yes er but ” began Mr. Stiffson.

Mrs. Stiffson cast a frenzied glance round the room. Action had become necessary, violence imperative. Her roving eye lighted on the bowl full of half-cold porridge that Mrs. Sedge had just brought in. She seized it and, with a swift inverting movement, crashed it down upon her husband’s head.

With the scream of a wounded animal, Mr. Stiffson half rose, then sank back again in his chair, his hands clutching convulsively at the basin fixed firmly upon his head by the suction of its contents. From beneath the rim the porridge gathered in large pendulous drops, and slowly lowered themselves upon various portions of Mr. Stiffson’s person, leaving a thin filmy thread behind, as if reluctant to cut off all communication with the basin.

Bindle and Cissie Boye went to the victim’s assistance, and Bindle removed the basin. It parted from Mr. Stiffson’s head with a juicy sob of reluctance. Whilst his rescuers were occupied in their samaritan efforts, Mrs. Stiffson was engaged in describing her husband’s character.

Beginning with a request for someone to end his poisonous existence, she proceeded to explain his place, or rather lack of place, in the universe. She traced the coarseness of his associates to the vileness of his ancestors. She enquired why he had not been to the front (Mr. Stiffson was over fifty years of age), why he was not in the volunteers. Then slightly elevating her head she demanded of Heaven why he was permitted to live. She traced all degradation, including that of the lower animals, to the example of such men as her husband. He was the breaker-up of homes, in some way or other connected with the increased death-rate and infant mortality, the indirect cause of the Income Tax and directly responsible for the war; she even hinted that he was to some extent answerable for the defection of Russia from the Allied cause.

Whilst she was haranguing, Bindle and Cissie Boye, with the aid of desert spoons, were endeavouring to remove the porridge from Mr. Stiffson’s head. It had collected behind his spectacles, forming a succulent pad before each eye.

Bindle listened to Mrs. Stiffson’s tirade with frank admiration; language always appealed to him.

“Ain’t she a corker!” he whispered to Cissie Boye.

“Cork’s out now, any old how,” was the whispered reply.

Then Mrs. Stiffson did a very feminine thing. She gave vent to three short, sharp snaps of staccatoed laughter, and suddenly collapsed upon the sofa in screaming hysterics.

Cissie Boye made a movement towards her. Bindle laid an arresting hand upon her arm.

“You jest leave ’er be, miss,” he said. “I know all about them little games. She’ll come to all right.”

“Where the hell is that damn porter?” the voice of Number Seven burst in upon them from the outer corridor.

“’Ere I am, sir,” sang out Bindle.

“Then why the corruption aren’t you in your room?” bawled Number Seven.

Bindle slipped quickly out into the corridor to find Number Seven bristling with rage.

“Because Olé Damn an’ ’Op it, I can’t be in two places at once,” he said.

Whilst Bindle was engaged with Number Seven, Mrs. Stiffson had once more galvanised herself to action. Still screaming and laughing by turn, she wheeled out of the flat with incredible rapidity and made towards the lift.

“Hi! stop ’er, stop ’er!” shouted Bindle, bolting after Mrs. Stiffson, followed by Number Seven.

“Police, police, murder, murder!” screamed Mrs. Stiffson. She reached the lift and, with an agility that would have been creditable in a young goat, slipped in and shut the gates with a clang. Just as Bindle arrived the lift began slowly to descend. In a fury of impatience, Mrs. Stiffson began banging at the buttons, with the result that the lift stopped halfway between the two floors.

Bindle and Number Seven shouted down instructions; but without avail. The lift had stuck fast. Mrs. Stiffson shrieked for help, shrieked for the police, and shrieked for vengeance.

“Damned old tiger-cat!” cried Number Seven. “Leave her where she is.”

Bindle turned upon him a face radiating smiles.

“Them’s the best words I’ve ’eard from you yet, sir”; and he walked upstairs to reassure the occupants of Number Six that fate and the lift had joined the Entente against Mrs. Stiffson.

It was four hours before Mrs. Stiffson was free; but Mr. Stiffson, his luggage, his thermos flask and Oscar had fled. Cissie Boye was at rehearsal and Bindle had donned his uniform. It was a chastened Mrs. Stiffson who wheeled out of the lift and enquired for her husband, and it was a stern and official Bindle who told her that Mr. Stiffson had gone, and warned her that any further attempt at disturbing the cloistral peace of Fulham Square Mansions would end in a prosecution for disorderly conduct.

And Mrs. Stiffson departed in search of her husband.