CHAPTER VII
Over an excellent grouse, followed by mushrooms on toast, and illuminated by a bottle of Chablis, I leisurely reviewed the situation. So far, about thirteen hours had elapsed since I had parted from Northcote at the Milan, and if they had contained one or two disconcerting experiences, I decided that I might certainly consider myself lucky to have emerged as successfully as I had. I was still alive; I had ten thousand pounds in my pocket; and so far I had apparently played my part without arousing the faintest suspicion.
There was a reverse side to this attractive picture, of course. In the first place, I now had ample evidence that Northcote's dread of assassination was neither a joke nor a delusion. My own animated interview with Mercia, and the present condition of the luckless Milford, made it very plain that during the next three weeks any Insurance Company which knew the facts of the case would politely but firmly decline to accept my life at less than a hundred per cent. Of Mercia herself I was no longer afraid, but the mysterious Guarez, and possibly other gentlemen with equally suggestive names, were apparently still hanging around, waiting to carry on the good work which she had so unsuccessfully attempted to inaugurate.
Then there was this visit to Maurice. Somehow or other, I felt very uneasy about my hospitable cousin. Even if Northcote had not warned me against him, his personality would have been quite enough to put me on my guard. All the time I had been with him I had had a curious feeling that underneath his easy manner there lurked a bitter and dangerous hostility. Why he should dislike me, or rather Northcote, I had no idea, and I was equally ignorant as to whether there was any possibility of his being connected with my other unknown friends.
Under the circumstances, it seemed like asking for trouble to have accepted his invitation. I haven't got that sort of nature, however, that can sit down patiently under a mystery—especially when my life is at stake—and I was determined to get to the bottom of things as rapidly and effectually as I could. A week at Maurice's country retreat appeared to offer considerable possibilities in this line, and I was cheerfully prepared to accept any extra risk which might be involved in the process.
If I had only had some pal in whom I could place absolute trust, I think I should have felt perfectly contented. It was more the loneliness of my situation than the prospect of being murdered at a moment's notice that disturbed my natural equanimity.
I was just pondering over this problem when suddenly, like a flash of light, a brilliant idea leaped into my mind. I brought my hand down on the arm of my chair with a bang that made a respectable old gentleman at the next table nearly jump out of his skin.
Billy Logan!
Of course! What a double-blanked idiot I had been. If he had not fixed up his business with Seatons, Billy was exactly the man for my purpose. True as steel, tough as whipcord, and game for any conceivable mischief that the world could offer, he would be a fitting partner for the mad business to which I had pledged myself.
I hastily ran through my pockets for the address which he had given me. A horrible doubt seized me that I might perhaps have left it in my blue suit, but just as I was giving up hope, I found it securely tucked away in the flap of my pocket-book:
W. G. LOGAN,
34 VAUXHALL ROAD, S. W.
I looked at it affectionately. With Billy to back me up, I felt equal to tackling half a dozen Maurices, with a Guarez or two chucked in to keep them company.
It was true that by confiding in Billy I should, in word at least, be breaking my promise to Northcote, but this didn't weigh very heavily on my mind. All that eminent financier was really concerned about was my keeping up appearances before the world in general and his would-be assassins in particular. This I fully intended to do and if he didn't like my bringing in Billy to assist me, he would most decidedly have to lump it.
I made up my mind that I would drive down to Vauxhall Road directly my meeting at the Cannon Street Hotel was over. Meantime, I would wire to Billy telling him to be there to meet me.
Thoroughly cheered up by this happy inspiration, I paid my bill and told the waiter to order me a taxi. I was just leaving the restaurant when it suddenly occurred to me that I ought to telephone to Ritchie and find out how the unfortunate Milford was getting on.
There was a box in the hall, so I entered it and hunted up the doctor's number.
"Is that you, Ritchie?" I asked, in response to a curt "Hullo!"
"Yes," came the answer. "Who's speaking?"
"I'm Northcote," I said. "I wanted to know how Milford is."
"Oh, I'm glad you rang up. I'm happy to say he's much better. We've managed to get rid of the poison."
"Is he out of danger?" I asked.
"Practically, I think. It's rather difficult to say for certain, because we don't know what the poison was until we've analysed it. However, he's sleeping now, and his pulse is regular if a bit weak. The only bad symptom is a curious sort of mental torpor he seems to be suffering from. It's probably the result of weakness, but we shall have to watch him carefully. I've told the nurse to ring up and let me know how he is when he wakes."
"Well, that seems fairly satisfying, on the whole," I said. "I've sent in a new man from Seagrave's to look after things, so Milford will be able to get away for a bit as soon as he's better."
"The best thing he could do," returned the doctor. "A couple of days at Brighton will pick him up better than any medicine. I'll let you know about the poison as soon as I've got the analyst's report."
"Yes, do," I said; and then, thinking that the conversation was taking a rather delicate turn, I added: "I must go now. I've got a meeting at the Cannon Street Hotel at three o'clock. See you to-morrow morning."
"Right you are. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," I echoed, and hung up the receiver.
The knowledge that Milford was out of danger was a considerable relief. I liked the man, and shared Northcote's opinion as to his trustworthiness; while, apart from that, if he had died I should certainly have been placed in a devilish awkward situation. A police inquiry into the private doings of Mr. Stuart Northcote's ménage was a form of excitement which I felt that I could very well dispense with.
Getting into my taxi, I started off down Coventry Street, stopping at the Post Office in Leicester Square to send off my wire to Billy.
I arrived at the Cannon Street Hotel just as a quarter past three was striking. I was a little late on purpose, as befitted the dignity of a King of Finance. A waiter who was standing in the hall evidently recognised me as Northcote, for he bowed profusely, and without comment conducted me upstairs to a large room where a number of prosperous-looking gentlemen in frock-coats were sitting round a long table.
They one and all greeted me with a respectful courtesy that still further heightened my opinion of Northcote's abilities.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," I said, seating myself in a vacant chair at the head of the table.
There was a chorus of "Good afternoon, Mr. Northcote," and then a solemn-looking old buffer at my right hand took up a printed paper and began ingratiatingly to explain to me how far the proceedings had gone.
I need hardly say that my ignorance of business is about as profound as it could possibly be. Sitting there with all these eminent exponents of the art regarding me with evident respect and apprehension appealed so forcibly to my sense of humour that it was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into a shout of laughter. However, with a great effort, I managed to retain a befitting gravity, and listened with a sombre frown to my neighbour's exposition. Finally, I nodded my head as though satisfied, and the business of the meeting again proceeded on its normal course.
What that "normal course" precisely was I have neither the ability nor desire to describe. A great deal of it was necessarily double Dutch to me, but I played my part with an impressive air of understanding that seemed to go down most successfully with my colleagues. Of course I spoke as little as possible, and then only when I was appealed to on some point of dispute. On such occasions I gave my decision with curt firmness, and I found that it was almost invariably accepted without further comment. I began to think the profession of a Financial Magnate was one in which I was peculiarly adapted to shine.
It must have been getting on for half-past five when the proceedings at length terminated. As we left the room, a bald-headed little man who had been exceedingly talkative all through came up to me and inquired whether I would do him the honour of joining him in a glass of champagne. I replied graciously that I had no particular objection, and with evident pride he led the way downstairs to the saloon bar of the hotel.
"Your good health, Mr. Northcote," he said looking at me respectfully over his bubbling glass.
"That same to you," I replied, not to be outdone in politeness.
"A most satisfactory meeting," he went on, setting down his glass; "most satisfactory! Pensford gave a little trouble about those Debentures, but you soon settled him."
"One has to put one's foot down sometimes," I observed firmly.
"Yes, yes. Quite so, Mr. Northcote; quite so!" Then he paused. "I was wondering," he added, a little nervously, "whether you could possibly give me a tip of any kind about those new South American Goldfields."
I suppose I looked at him rather sharply, for he at once put up an apologetic hand.
"Please don't think me intrusive, Mr. Northcote," he added hurriedly. "Your name has been mentioned very freely in the City in connection with them; but if you would rather not say anything at present, of course I shall understand."
His words had naturally given me a bit of a start. I had no idea that, with the exception of my own discoveries in Bolivia, anyone had so much as smelt a fresh goldfield in South America. Could this, I wondered, be the mysterious "Company" alluded to in Sangatte's letter? I lit a cigarette to give myself time to think.
"At the present moment," I said gravely, "I am not in a position to impart any information on the matter." (God knows this was true enough!) "But," I added, seeing his evident disappointment, "a little later on I might perhaps be able to give you a useful hint or two."
His greedy and rather pasty face brightened at once. "I should be extremely grateful if you could, Mr. Northcote," he said, "extremely grateful."
"Oh, that's all right," I returned, finishing up the rest of the champagne. "Now I'm afraid I must be off. I've got an appointment at six."
He followed me to the door of the hotel, protesting his appreciation of my kindness, and respectfully waved a podgy hand as a convenient taxi bore me away down Holborn. It must be a good long way from the Cannon Street Hotel to Vauxhall Road, but my memories of the meeting were sufficiently entertaining to prevent my noticing it. Indeed, I was still smiling thoughtfully to myself over the bald-headed gentleman's anticipations when the driver pulled up with a jerk outside a row of depressed-looking three-storey houses, fronted in dirty stucco.
"'Ere you are, sir," he said, leaning back and opening the door. "Number 34."
I got out and told the man to wait. In case Billy was not at home, it would be just as well, I thought, to have a cab in readiness. For all I knew, I might have been followed; and if that were the case, from what I could see of my surroundings it was not at all the sort of neighbourhood for an unattended stroll.
Mounting a dilapidated flight of steps, I gave a pull at the bell, which tinkled vehemently down in the basement. It was answered after a long wait by a round-shouldered elderly woman, who put her head round the doorway and peered at me suspiciously.
"Is Mr. Logan in?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"When will he be back?" I asked.
She shook her head again. "I dunno," she observed.
I repressed a strong inclination to swear. "I am a friend of his," I explained patiently. "I sent him a telegram this afternoon to say I was coming. Didn't he get it?"
"No," she replied; "'e didn't get no telergram."
"But it must have come," I objected. "I sent it off."
"Oh, it come all right," she said. "The telergram come all right, sir. I put it in 'is lookin'-glass. Only 'e ain't bin back not since yesterday."
"That's a nuisance," I observed. "Can I come in and write him a letter?"
She blinked doubtfully. "I dunno as 'ow 'e'd like it."
"Oh, he'd like it right enough," I assured her. "I don't want to go into his room; I'll scribble it in the hall if you'll let me have a sheet of paper and an envelope."
Something in my sporting offer seemed to reassure the old girl, for she cautiously pulled back the door just wide enough for me to come in.
"I shan't be long," I called out to the cabman, and then, crossing the threshold, entered the house.
The landlady opened the door on the left-hand side of the passage.
"I s'pose it's all right," she said grudgingly. "This 'ere's Mr. Logan's room."
I followed her into Billy's sanctum, which proved to be the ordinary cheaply-furnished front parlour of a London lodging-house.
"I'll get yer a bit o' paiper," she added, moving ponderously across it to a small desk against the wall. "'E gen'rally keeps some in 'is blottin'-book."
I seated myself at the small table in the centre, which was covered with a hideous rep cloth, and patiently awaited her investigations. It pleased me to think that I could soon transfer Billy to more congenial surroundings.
After fumbling about for a minute she produced the required articles and laid them on the table in front of me.
"Yer want some ink?" she asked.
"No, thanks," I said. "I've got a pencil. That will do quite well."
I turned back the cloth, and began to write, while the good lady, breathing heavily, stood and watched me.
"DEAR BILLY,"—I began,—"I'm writing this in your room, as your landlady will no doubt tell you when you come home. I wired you this afternoon, saying I was going to look you up; but thanks to your disgraceful habit of staying out all night, the wire is sitting up, unopened, in your looking-glass.
"If you haven't fixed your business with Seatons, chuck it at once. I've got something for you much more in your line. I can't explain now, but there's plenty of money in it, and I want you bad, Billy, very bad.
"Come along and see me directly you get this. I'm staying at 46A Park Lane. It's in the telephone book under the name of Stuart Northcote, so if you like you can ring me up first. If you do, ask for Mr. Northcote, not for me, and the same thing if you come to the house. Don't make any mistake about this. In case I'm out, the servants will have instructions to ask you to wait, but you're not to mention my name, under any circumstances. Just ask for Mr. Northcote.
"I suppose this sounds mysterious, but I'll explain as soon as I see you.
"Don't fail me, Billy. It's the real goods all round."
I signed this "Jack Burton," and then folded it up and put it in the envelope, which I carefully fastened. I was not in the least anxious for Billy's landlady to read it, so, in order to give the gum a chance to dry, I felt in my pocket and produced a handful of money, from which I slowly counted out five shillings. She watched me with absorbed interest.
"May I offer you this," I said, "for putting you to so much trouble?"
"It's a pleasure, sir," she murmured, eagerly accepting the coins. "Allus glad to oblige a gen'l'man."
"Then perhaps you wouldn't mind giving this to Mr. Logan as soon as he comes in," I added, putting the letter in the glass alongside the telegram.
"I'll be sure to call 'is notice to it, sir. You can count on that, sir. I'm only sorry as 'e was out, sir."
She opened the door for me with almost painful subservience and stood on the steps blinking and bowing while I walked down and got into the cab.
"Where to, sir?" inquired the driver.
I reflected rapidly. Knowing that Milford was better, I had no particular desire to go back to Park Lane, even if the new butler had arrived. The thought of a solitary dinner in that big dining-room distinctly failed to appeal to me.
"Oh, drive me to the Café Royal," I said.
The cooking at that delightful establishment is good enough by itself to induce a certain satisfaction with the world. Backed as it was, in the present case, by my feelings of joy in the prospect of Billy's company, it lifted me into a state of serene optimism such as I had not known since my first fortnight in England.
I dined deliberately, choosing my wines after consultation with the head waiter, and also accepting the latter's excellent advice in the matter of a cigar. Then for the best part of an hour I sat and smoked, gently contemplating my fellow-diners through the haze, and finally deciding that not even the lady with the emeralds, who was undoubtedly the prettiest woman in the room, could hold a candle to Mercia Solano.
Having arrived at this conclusion, I paid my bill and strolled out to walk back to Park Lane. I had not forgotten the possible dangers of solitary pedestrian exercise, but the evening was fine, I had my trusty sword-stick with me, and I felt that I would be damned if M. Guarez or any other infernal Dago should compel me to spend the remainder of my life in cabs.
Nevertheless, despite this defiant mood, I took particular care to keep my eyes open. The old rhyme, "Thrice blest is he who hath his quarrel just, but ten times he who gets his blow in fust," has always struck me as a peculiarly sound piece of philosophy, and I scanned each harmless passer-by who approached with a wary eye for any symptom of trouble.
Unless anyone took a pot-shot at me from the Park railings, I felt that I was fairly safe, and my sense of security was increased by seeing a comfortable-looking Bobby standing right under the big electric light just opposite my home.
He saluted me as I came up.
"Good evening, Constable," I said.
"Good evenin', sir," he returned. "No more trouble with any of them beggars, I hope?"
It was just on the tip of my tongue to ask, "What beggars?" when I suddenly recollected myself.
"No, thanks," I said, wondering what on earth he meant.
"Since you complained to me, sir, I've been keeping a good look-out, and I reckon they've spotted it and cleared off."
In a flash I realised that Northcote must have taken these ingenious means of rendering any vigil on the part of M. Guarez and his friends a somewhat trying affair.
"I'm much obliged to you," I said. "I don't want to complain officially, but you might keep your eyes open a bit longer. It's a nuisance to have people hanging round the house."
As I spoke, I handed him half a sovereign, which he accepted without a quiver.
"Thank you very much, sir," he said. "I'll see you're not bothered again, sir. Don't you worry about that."
Bidding him good-night, I mounted the steps of my house, and was just getting out my latch-key when a telegraph-boy suddenly rode up on a bicycle and jumped off in the gutter outside.
He came up the steps, pulling out a wire from his bag.
"Is that for me?" I asked. "Mr. Stuart Northcote?"
"Yes, sir."
I took it from him, and, tearing open the envelope, held up the message to the light of the street lamp. It consisted of seven words:
"Get rid of your new butler immediately."
I stared at it for a moment, and then laughed.
"Thanks," I said; "there's no answer."