The Great Adventure | Page 6

illness at once. You've let yourself in for a fine row, and well you deserve it.
CARVE. (After a few paces.) See here, doctor. I'm afraid there's been some mistake. (Facing him nervously.)
PASCOE. What?
CARVE. I--I----
(Bell rings.)
PASCOE. (Firmly.) Listen to me, my man. There's been no sort of mistake. Everything has been done that could be done. Don't you get ideas into your head. Lie down and rest. You're done up, and if you aren't careful you'll be ill. I'll communicate with Cyrus Carve. I can telephone, and while I'm about it I'll ring up the registrar too--he'll probably send a clerk round.
CARVE. Registrar?
PASCOE. Registrar of deaths. There'll be all kinds of things to attend to. (Moving to go out.)
(Bell rings again.)
CARVE. (As if dazed.) Is that the front door bell?
PASCOE. (Drily.) Quite possibly! I'll open it.
(Exit.)
(CARVE, alone, makes a gesture of despair. Re-enter PASCOE with CYRUS CARVE.)
PASCOE. (As they enter.) Yes, very sudden, very sudden. There were three of us--a nurse, my assistant, and myself. This is Mr. Shawn, the deceased's valet.
CYRUS. Morning. (Looks round at disorder of room contemptuously.) Pigstye!... My name is Cyrus Carve. I'm your late master's cousin and his only relative. You've possibly never heard of me.
CARVE. (Curtly.) Oh yes, I have! You got up a great quarrel when you were aged twelve, you and he.
CYRUS. Your manner isn't very respectful, my friend. However you may have treated my cousin, be good enough to remember you're not my valet.
CARVE. How did you get to know about it?
CYRUS. I suppose he forbade you to send for me, eh? (Pause.) Eh?
CARVE. (Jumping at this suggestion.) Yes.
PASCOE. So that was it.
CYRUS. (Ignoring PASCOE.) Ha! Well, since you're so curious, I saw it a quarter of an hour ago in a special edition of a halfpenny rag; I was on my way to the office. (Showing paper.) Here you are! The Evening Courier. Quite a full account of the illness. You couldn't send for me, but you could chatter to some journalist.
CARVE. I've never spoken to a journalist in my life.
CYRUS. Then how----?
PASCOE. It's probably my assistant. His brother is something rather important on the Courier, and he may have telephoned to him. It's a big item of news, you know, Mr. Carve.
CYRUS. (Drily.) I imagine so. Where is the body?
PASCOE. Upstairs. (Moving towards door.)
CYRUS. Thanks. I will go alone.
PASCOE. Large room at back--first floor.
(Exit CYRUS, L.)
I think I'd prefer to leave you to yourselves now. Of course, Mr. Carve will do all that's necessary. You might give him my card, and tell him I'm at his service as regards signing the death certificate and so on. (Handing card.)
CARVE. (Taking card perfunctorily.) Very well. Then you're going? PASCOE. Yes. (Moves away and then suddenly puts out his hand, which CARVE takes.) Want a word of advice?
CARVE. I--I ought----
PASCOE. If I were you I should try to get something better than valeting. It's not your line. You may have suited Ilam Carve, but you'd never suit an ordinary employer. You aren't a fool--not by any means.
(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.