The Dinner Club Read online

  Copyright & Information

  The Dinner Club

  First published in 1923

  © Trustees of the Estate of H.C. McNeile; House of Stratus 1923-2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of H.C. McNeile (Sapper) to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2010 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., 21 Beeching Park, Kelly Bray,

  Cornwall, PL17 8QS, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  1842325469 9781842325469 Print

  0755116755 9780755116751 Print (Alt)

  0755122887 9780755122882 Pdf

  0755123069 9780755123063 Mobi

  0755123247 9780755123247 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Herman Cyril McNeile, who wrote under the pseudonym Sapper, was born in Bodmin, Cornwall, on 28 September 1888 to Captain Malcolm McNeile RN and his wife, Christiana Mary. He was educated at Cheltenham College, and then went on to the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich, before joining the Royal Engineers in 1907, from which he derived his pseudonym – ‘sappers’ being the nickname of the Engineers.

  During World War One he served first as a Captain, seeing action at both the First and the Second Battle of Ypres, and won the Military Cross before retiring from the army as a Lieutenant-Colonel in 1919. Prior to this, in 1914 he met and married Violet Baird, daughter of a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Cameron Highlanders. They eventually had two sons.

  Somewhat remarkably, he managed to publish a number of books during the war and whilst still serving, (serving officers were not permitted to publish under their own names – hence the need for a pseudonym), commencing with The Lieutenant and Others and Sergeant Michael Cassidy, R.E. in 1915. Lord Northcliff, the owner of the Daily Mail, was so impressed by this writing that he attempted, but failed, to have McNeile released from the army so he could work as a war correspondent.

  McNeile's first full length novel, Mufti, was published in 1919, but it was in 1920 that his greatest hit Bulldog Drummond, was published. This concerned the exploits of a demobilised officer, Captain Hugh ‘Bulldog’ Drummond, ‘who found peace dull’. This was an immediate and enduring success and has been filmed and performed on stage both in the UK and USA. Further Drummond adventures were to follow, along with other novels, notably those featuring the private detective Ronald Standish.

  Much of his writing is based upon the atmosphere, rather than experiences, he absorbed from public school and London Gentleman’s Clubs. His heroes are most decidedly ‘English’ in character and ‘do the right thing’, whilst his villains are foreign and ‘do not play by the rules’. Ian Fleming once noted that his own hero James Bond was ‘Sapper’ from the waist up.

  McNeile died in 1937 at his home in Sussex, having lived a relatively quiet and content life, in sharp contrast to the characters in his books. His friend Gerard Fairlie, thought to be the model for Drummond, went on to write seven more adventures. Many of his books are collections of short stories, with most having a twist in the tail, usually surprising the reader by totally flawing anticipations with regard to their ending within the last few sentences. They are as popular today as ever and eagerly adopted by succeeding generations as amongst the best of their genre.

  House of Stratus was pleased to gain the right to publish from McNeile’s estate in 1999 and has since continually held his major works in print.

  Foreword

  On a certain day in the year of grace 1920, there came into being a special and very select club. There was no entrance fee and no subscription, in which respect it differed from all other clubs. Its membership was limited to six: the Actor, the Barrister, the Doctor, the Ordinary Man, the Soldier, and the Writer. And since each in his own particular trade had achieved what the world calls fame, except the Ordinary Man, who was only ordinary, it was decided that for purposes of convenience they should be entered in the list of members alphabetically according to their trade, and further that they should carry out the only rule of the club in the order of that entry. And the only rule of the club was, that on certain nights, to be mutually agreed on, the member whose turn it was should give to the remaining members an exceedingly good dinner, after which he should tell them a story connected with his own trade, that should be of sufficient interest to keep them awake.

  And the only penalty of the club was that if the story was not of sufficient interest to keep the audience awake, the offending member should pay a sum of ten pounds to a deserving charity.

  No rule was deemed necessary as to the quality of the dinner: the members had elected themselves with discretion.

  Chapter 1

  The Actor’s Story, being the Patch on the Quilt

  “The trouble in my game,” he began, “is that the greatest plays can never be staged. There would be no money in them. The public demand a plot – a climax: after that the puppets cease strutting, the curtain rings down. But in life – in real life – there’s no plot. It’s just a series of anti-climaxes strung together like a patchwork quilt, until there comes the greatest anti-climax of all and the quilt is finished.”

  He passed his hand through his fast-greying hair, and stared for a moment or two at the fire. The Soldier was filling his pipe; the Writer, his legs stretched in front of him, had his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets.

  “It’s one of the patches in one of the quilts that my story is about,” continued the actor thoughtfully. “Just an episode in the life of a woman – or shall I say, just the life of a woman in an episode?

  “You remember that play of mine – John Pendlesham’s Wife?” He turned to the Barrister, who nodded.

  “Very well,” he answered. “Molly Travers was your leading lady.”

  “I was out of England,” said the Soldier. “Never saw it.”

  “It’s immaterial.” The Actor lit a cigarette. “The play itself has nothing to do with my story, except indirectly. But as you didn’t see it, I will just explain this much. I, of course, was John Pendlesham – Molly was my wife, and the third act constituted what, in my opinion, was the finest piece of emotional acting which that consummate actress has ever done in her career.”

  The Writer nodded. “I agree. She was superb.”

  “Night after night the fall of the curtain found her nearly fainting; night after night there was that breathless moment of utter silence followed by a perfect crash of applause. I am mentioning these old facts because her marvellous performance does concern my story directly – even though the play does not.

  “We had been running about a month, I suppose, when my story begins. I had just come off after the third act, and was going to my dressing room. For some reason, instead of going by the direct door which led into it from the stage, I went outside into the passage. There were some hands moving furniture or something…

  “I think you’ve all of you been behind at my theatre. First you come to the swing doors
out of the street, inside which the watch dog sits demanding callers’ business. Then there is another door, and beyond that there are three steps down to my room. And it was just as I was opening my door on that night that I happened to look round.

  “Standing at the top of the three stairs was a woman who was staring at me. I only saw her for a moment: then the watch dog intervened, and I went into my room. But I had seen her for a moment: I had seen her for long enough to get the look in her eyes.

  “We get all sorts and conditions of people behind, as you’d expect – stage-struck girls, actors out of a shop, autograph hunters, beggars. And the watch dog knew my invariable rule: only personal friends and people who had made an appointment by letter were allowed inside the second door. But a rule cannot legislate for every case.

  “Gad! you fellows, it’s many years now since that night, but I can still feel, as clearly as if it were yesterday, the message in that girl’s eyes. There had been hope and fear and pitiful entreaty: the look of one who had staked everything on a last desperate throw: the look of a mother who is fighting for her child. It was amazing: I couldn’t understand it. As I stood just inside my door I couldn’t have told you whether she was old or young, plain or pretty. And yet in that one fleeting second this vivid, jumbled message had reached me.” The Actor pressed out his cigarette, and there was silence while he lit another one.

  “For a moment I hesitated,” he continued after a while; “then I rang the bell for the watch dog.

  “‘Who is that lady I saw outside there?’ I asked, as he came in.

  “‘Won’t give no name, sir,’ he answered. ‘Wants to see you, but I told her the rules.’

  “Once again I hesitated; probably I’d exaggerated – put a totally false construction on her expression, probably she was looking for a job like the rest of them. And then I knew that I’d got to see that woman, and that I should have no peace of mind until I’d heard what she had to say. The watch dog was regarding me curiously; plainly he could see no reason whatever for my hesitation. He was a matter-of-fact fellow, was the guardian of the door.

  “‘Show her in, I’ll see her now.’ I had my back to him, but I could feel his virtuous indignation. After all, rules are rules.

  “‘Now, sir?’ he echoed.

  “‘Now; at once.’

  “He went out, and I heard him go up the steps.

  “‘Mr Trayne will see you. Come this way.’

  “And then the door opened again, and I turned to face the woman. She was young – quite young, dressed in a kind of cheap suburban frock. Her shoes had been good ones – once, now – well, however skilfully a patch is put on it is still a patch. Her gloves showed traces of much needle and cotton; the little bag she carried was rubbed and frayed. And over the cheap suburban frock she had on a coat which was worn and threadbare.

  “‘It was good of you to see me, Mr Trayne.’

  “She was nervous and her voice shook a little, but she faced me quite steadily.

  “‘It’s a very unusual thing for me to do,’ I said. ‘But I saw you at the top of the stairs, and...’

  “‘I know it’s unusual,’ she interrupted. ‘The man outside there told me your rule. But believe me’ – she was talking with more assurance now – ‘my reason for coming to see you is very unusual also.’

  “I pulled up a chair for her. ‘What is your reason?’ I asked.

  “She took a deep breath and began fumbling with her handkerchief.

  “‘I know you will think me mad,’ she began, ‘but I don’t want to tell you my reason now. I want to wait until after the play is over, and I know you go on at once in the fourth act.’

  “‘You’ve seen the play, then?’ I remarked.

  “‘I’ve seen the play,’ was her somewhat astonishing answer, ‘every night since the first.’

  “‘Every night!’ I stared at her in surprise. ‘But...’

  “I must have glanced at her clothes or something and she saw what was in my mind.

  “‘I suppose you think that I hardly look as if I could afford such luxuries.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I’ve only seen it from the gallery and pit, you know. And even that has meant that I’ve had to go without lunch. But – you see – it was necessary for me to see it: I had to. It was part of my plan – a necessary part.’

  “‘I don’t want to seem dense,’ I said gently, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t quite follow. How can seeing my play thirty odd times be a necessary part of your plan?’

  “‘That’s what I don’t want to tell you now,’ she repeated, and once more her hands began twisting nervously. ‘I want to wait till afterwards, when perhaps you’ll – of your kindness – do as I ask you. Oh! Mr Trayne – for God’s sake, don’t fail me!’ She leant forward beseechingly in her chair.

  “‘My dear child,’ I answered quietly – I don’t think she can have been much more than twenty,’ you haven’t told me yet what you want me to do.’

  “‘I want you to come to a house in Kensington with me,’ she said steadily.”

  Once again the Actor paused, and stared at the fire. Then he gave a short laugh.

  “When she said that, I looked at her pretty sharply. Without appearing conceited or anything of that sort, one has occasionally in the course of one’s career, received certain flattering attentions from charming women – attentions which – er – one is tempted to conceal from one’s wife.”

  “Precisely,” murmured the Ordinary Man. “Precisely.”

  “And for a moment, I must confess that the thought passed through my mind that this was one of those occasions. And it wasn’t until the colour rose to her face and stained it scarlet, that I realised that not only had I made a mistake, but that I had been foolish enough to let her see that I had.

  “‘My God!’ she whispered, ‘you don’t think – you couldn’t think – that I meant…’

  “She rose and almost cowered away from me.

  “‘Why, I’m married.’

  “I refrained from remarking that the fact was hardly such a conclusive proof of the absurdity of my unspoken thought as she seemed to imagine. I merely bowed, and said a little formally: ‘Please don’t jump to conclusions. May I ask why you wish me to come to a house in Kensington with you?’

  “The colour ebbed away from her cheeks, and she sat down again.

  “‘That’s the very thing I don’t want to tell you, until you come,’ she answered very low. ‘I know it sounds absurd – it must do, it seems as if I were being unnecessarily mysterious. But I can’t tell you, Mr Trayne, I can’t tell you… Not yet…’

  “And then the call boy knocked, and I had to go on for the last act. In a way I suppose it was absurd of me – but life is made up of impulses. I confess that the whole thing intrigued me. When a woman comes and tells you that she has seen your play every night since it started; that she’d had to go without her lunch to do so; that it was a necessary part of some wonderful plan, and that she wants you to go to a house in Kensington, the least curious man would be attracted. And from my earliest infancy I’ve always been engrossed in other people’s business…

  “‘All right,’ I said briefly. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  “And then I had to put out my hand to steady her, I thought she was going to faint. Reaction, I thought at the time; later, it struck me that the reason was much more prosaic – lack of food.

  “I stopped for a moment till she seemed herself again; then I told her to wait outside.

  “‘I shall be about half an hour,’ I said, ‘and then we’ll take a taxi, and go down to Kensington. Tell them to give you a chair…’

  “And my last impression as I went on to the stage was of a white-faced girl clutching the table, staring at me with great brown eyes that held in them a dawning triumph.

  “I think,” went on the Actor
thoughtfully, that that is where the tragedy of it all really lay. Afterwards she told me that the part of her plan which had seemed most difficult to her was getting my consent to go with her to Kensington. Once that was done, she knew all would be well, she was absolutely and supremely confident. And when I went on to the stage for the fourth act, she felt that success had crowned her efforts, that what was to come after was nothing compared to that which she had already done. The inaccessible stronghold had been stormed, the ogre had proved to be a lamb.

  “Well, we went to Kensington. I sent my own car home, and we took a taxi. During the drive she was very silent, and I didn’t try to make her talk. Evidently no inkling of the mysterious plan was to be revealed until we arrived at the address she had given the driver. It was some obscure street that I had never heard of and the name of which I have completely forgotten. I know it was somewhere not far from Barker’s.

  “The door was opened by a repulsive-looking woman who peered at me suspiciously. And then the girl took her on one side and whispered something in her ear. Apparently it had the desired effect, as the Gorgon retired grumbling to an odoriferous basement, leaving us alone in the hall.

  “When she had shut the door the girl turned to me.

  “‘Will you come upstairs, Mr Trayne. I want you to meet my husband.’

  “I bowed. ‘Certainly,’ I said, and she led the way.

  “‘So the husband was in the plan,’ I reflected as I followed her. Was he a genius with a play that he proposed to read to me? I had suffered from the plays of genius before. Or was he some actor down on his luck? If so, why all the mystery? And then, when I’d made up my mind that it was a mere begging case, we arrived at the room. Just before she turned the handle of the door she again looked at me.