The Great Adventure | Page 7

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 do something silly with his money, and I'm relieved to find it's no worse. In fact, the idea of a great public institution in London being associated with my family is rather pleasant.
CARVE. But he meant to destroy that will long since.
CYRUS. (As he cons the will.) How do you know? Has he made a later will?
CARVE. No.
CYRUS. Well, then! Besides, I fail to see why you should be so anxious to have it destroyed. You come into eighty pounds a year under it.
CARVE. I was forgetting that.
CYRUS. (Reading.) "I bequeath to my servant, Albert Shawn, who I am convinced is a thorough rascal, but who is an unrivalled valet, courier, and factotum, the sum of eighty pounds a year for life, payable quarterly in advance, provided he is in my service at the time of my death."
(CARVE laughs shortly.)
You don't want to lose that, do you? Of course, if the term "thorough rascal" is offensive to you, you can always decline the money. (Folds up will and puts it in his pocket--CARVE walks about.) Now where's the doctor?
CARVE. He's left his card. There it is.
CYRUS. He might have waited.
CARVE. Yes. But he didn't. His house is only three doors off.
CYRUS. (Looking at his watch.) I'll go in and see him about the certificate. Now you haven't begun to put your things together, and you've only got a bit over half an hour. In less than that time I shall be back. I shall want to look through your luggage before you leave.
CARVE. (Lightly.) Shall you?
CYRUS. By the way, you have a latchkey? (CARVE nods.) Give it me, please.
(CARVE surrenders latchkey.)
(CYRUS turns to go--As he is disappearing through the door, L., CARVE starts forward.)
CARVE. I say.
CYRUS. What now?
CARVE. (Subsiding weakly.) Nothing.
(Exit CYRUS. Sound of front door opening and of voices in hall.)
(Then re-enter CYRUS with JANET CANNOT.)
CYRUS. This is Mr. Albert Shawn. Shawn, a friend of yours.
(Exit L.)
CARVE. (Pleased.) Oh! You!
JANET. Good-morning. D'you know, I had a suspicion the other night that you must be Mr. Shawn?
CARVE. Had you? Well, will you sit down--er--I say (with a humorous mysterious air). What do you think of that chap? (Pointing in direction of hall.)
JANET. Who is