The Great Adventure | Page 7

(CARVE shrugs his shoulders.)
(Exit PASCOE, L. Door shuts off.)
(Re-enter CYRUS immediately after the door shuts.)
CARVE. (To himself.) Now for it! (To CYRUS). Well?
CYRUS. Well what?
CARVE. Recognize your cousin?
CYRUS. Of course a man of forty-five isn't like a boy of twelve, but I
think I may say I should have recognized him anywhere.
CARVE. (Taken aback.) Should you indeed. (A pause.) And so you're
Cyrus, the little boy that kicked and tried to bite in that historic affray
of thirty years ago.
CYRUS. Look here, I fancy you and I had better come to an
understanding at once. What salary did my cousin pay you for your
remarkable services?
CARVE. What salary?
CYRUS. What salary?
CARVE. Eighty pounds a year.
CYRUS. When were you last paid?

CARVE. I--I----
CYRUS. When were you last paid?
CARVE. The day before yesterday.
CYRUS. (Taking a note and gold from his pocket-book and pocket.)
Here's seven pounds--a month's wages in lieu of notice. It's rather more
than a month's wages, but I can't do sums in my head just now.
(Holding out money.)
CARVE. But listen----
CYRUS. (Commandingly.) Take it.
(CARVE obeys.)
Pack up and be out of this house within an hour.
CARVE. I----
CYRUS. I shall not argue.... Did your master keep his private papers
and so on in England or somewhere on the Continent--what bank?
CARVE. What bank? He didn't keep them in any bank.
CYRUS. Where did he keep them then?
CARVE. He kept them himself.
CYRUS. What--travelling?
CARVE. Yes. Why not?
CYRUS. (With a "tut-tut" noise to indicate the business man's mild
scorn of the artist's method's.) Whose is this luggage?
CARVE. Mine.
CYRUS. All of it?
CARVE. That is----
CYRUS. Come now, is it his or is it yours? Now be careful.
CARVE. His. (Angrily, as CYRUS roughly handles a box.) Now then,
mind what you're about! Those are etching things.
CYRUS. I shall mind what I'm about. And what's this?
CARVE. That's a typewriter.
CYRUS. I always thought artists couldn't stand typewriting machines.
CARVE. That was--his servant's.
CYRUS. Yours, you mean?
CARVE. Yes, I mean mine.
CYRUS. Then why don't you say so? What do you want a typewriter
for?
CARVE. (Savagely.) What the devil has that got to do with you?
CYRUS. (Looking up calmly from the examination of a dispatch box.)

If you can't keep a civil tongue in your head I'll pitch you down the
front-door steps and your things after you.
CARVE. I've got something to tell you----
CYRUS. Silence, and answer my questions! Are his papers in this
dispatch box?
CARVE. Yes.
CYRUS. Where are his keys?
CARVE. (Slowly drawing bunch of keys from his pocket.) Here.
CYRUS. (Taking them.) So you keep his keys?
CARVE. Yes.
CYRUS. (Opening dispatch box.) Wear his clothes too, I should say!
(CARVE sits down negligently and smiles.)
CYRUS. (As he is examining papers in box.) What are you laughing
at?
CARVE. I'm not laughing. I'm smiling. (Rising and looking curiously
at box.) There's nothing there except lists of securities and pictures and
a few oddments--passports and so on.
CYRUS. There appears to be some money. I'm glad you've left that.
Quite a lot, in fact. (Showing notes.)
CARVE. Here, steady! There's twelve thousand francs there besides
some English notes. That's mine.
CYRUS. Yours, eh? He was taking care of it for you, no doubt?
CARVE. (Hesitating.) Yes.
CYRUS. When you can furnish me with his receipt for the deposit, my
man, it shall be handed to you. Till then it forms part of the estate.
(Looking at a packet of letters.) "Alice Rowfant."
CARVE. And those letters are mine too.
CYRUS. (Reading.) "My dearest boy"--Were you Lady Alice
Rowfant's dearest boy? Anyhow, we'll burn them.
CARVE. So long as you burn them I don't mind.
CYRUS. Indeed! (Continues to examine papers, cheque foils, etc. Then
opens a document.)
CARVE. Oh! Is that still there? I thought it was destroyed.
CYRUS. Do you know what it is?
CARVE. Yes. It's a will that was made in Venice I don't know how
long ago--just after your aunt died and you had that appalling and final
shindy by correspondence about the lease of this house. Everything is

left for the establishment of an International Gallery of Painting and
Sculpture in London, and you're the sole executor, and you get a legacy
of five pounds for your trouble.
CYRUS. Yes.... So I see. No doubt my cousin imagined it would annoy
me.
CARVE. He did.
CYRUS. He told you so?
CARVE. He said it would be one in the eye for you--and he wondered
whether you'd decline the executorship.
CYRUS. Well, my man, I may tell you at once that I shall not renounce
probate. I never expected a penny from my cousin. I always assumed
he'd