Another Man's Shoes

by Victor Bridges

CHAPTER VIII

I rather like surprises; but, as my old friend Jack Costello used to say, "You can have too dern much of a good thing."

With the telegram in my hand I went inside the house, shutting the door behind me. The light was full on in the hall, and sitting on the edge of the table I again read through the curt message:

"Get rid of your new butler immediately."

It had been sent off from Charing Cross at 9.58, and the sender, whoever he might be, was evidently a person of direct and frugal mind. The whole wire came to exactly twelve words, while for crispness of style its phrasing certainly left little to be desired.

I stared at it with mingled feelings of doubt, annoyance, and amusement. If the warning was genuine, and my new butler was really lurking behind the coal-scuttle with a dagger in his coat-tail pocket, who the dickens had taken the trouble to put me on my guard? It must have been someone acquainted with my movements that morning; but, so far as I knew, Maurice was the only person who answered that description. I couldn't exactly see Maurice wading in with a kindly caution; and in any case, if he had wanted to give me the tip, why couldn't he have done so when he had been with me?

On the whole, I was more inclined to think that the wire was an attempt at bluff. It might be that my prompt engagement of another trustworthy servant in place of Milford had interfered with my friends' plans, and that they were hoping to frighten me into clearing him out.

Anyhow, there was obviously only one course to pursue, and that was to interview the gentleman myself without delay, and see what I thought of him. So, crossing to the fireplace, I rang the bell, and took up a dignified but alert attitude on the hearth-rug.

As far as promptness was concerned, Francis left nothing to be desired. Thirty seconds could hardly have elapsed before he had entered the hall, and was standing before me with a deferential bow of greeting.

I looked at him keenly. He was a tall, slim fellow of about thirty-five, with thick black hair and a rather sallow face.

"Well, I see you've arrived all right, Francis," I observed.

He again inclined his head.

"Yes, sir. I came round with Mr. Seagrave about three o'clock. He gave the cook your card, sir."

"Have you seen Milford?" I asked.

"Yes, sir. I had a short conversation with him."

"How is he?"

"He seems a little better, sir. He was anxious to go through the work with me, but I thought it best not to allow him to talk too much. I think I can manage quite satisfactorily, with what the cook has told me."

I nodded. "Quite right," I said. "There is really nothing to discuss. I only want you to look after me and carry out the ordinary duties of a butler. I'll tell you anything you want to know, if you come and ask."

He bowed a third time. "Yes, sir—thank you, sir."

"Well, I'm going to bed now," I said. "I shan't want anything else, except some hot water. You can call me at the usual time—eight o'clock."

I handed him my hat and stick, and, taking some letters from the table, sauntered slowly up the big stair-case, which led to the landing above. At the first bend I purposely dropped a letter, and then, as though suddenly discovering my loss, turned to pick it up. The strategy, though ingenious, seemed to be a trifle uncalled-for. Francis was at the other end of the hall, with his back towards me, apparently placing my stick in the hat-stand.

With memories of the previous evening in my mind, the first thing I did on reaching my sitting-room was to walk across to the recess and pull back the curtain that covered it. Of course I knew it would be empty, but at the back of my mind I somehow or other had a ridiculous hope that I should find Mercia standing there, pistol in hand, and that delicious half-sorrowful, half-scornful expression on her face. I believe I would willingly have risked ducking another bullet if by so doing I could have ensured her presence.

But the recess was void—quite undoubtedly and stupidly void; and with a feeling of disappointment I sat down in a chair and began to open Northcote's correspondence. It contained nothing of any particular importance to me, consisting for the most part of bills and circulars, with one or two business letters that I contented myself with just glancing through. I had had enough of business for one day.

As I was looking at the last of them, I heard Francis enter my bedroom. After moving about for several minutes, apparently putting things straight for the night, he tapped gently at the sitting-room door and then opened it.

"Your room is quite ready now, sir," he observed.

"Thank you, Francis," I said. "Good-night."

"Good-night, sir."

He withdrew noiselessly and went out through the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

I waited until he had had time to reach the basement, and then, getting up from my chair, I began to take one or two simple steps towards securing my position. Although in my heart I believed the wire to be a false alarm, it seemed to me that there would be no harm in adopting a few obvious precautions.

So, after lighting a pipe, I proceeded to indulge in a thorough search both of the bedroom and the sitting-room. Having satisfied myself that there were no strangers or bombs lurking about, I locked both doors and carefully inspected the fastenings of the windows. These were quite secure; indeed, so far as I could see, there was no way, short of gunpowder or a false key, by which anyone could enter either room without my assistance. To make matters doubly safe, however, I collected all the fire-irons from the two grates (reserving only a poker for personal use in case of necessity) and deposited them in two heaps—one in front of each door. I am a light sleeper, and I reckoned that anyone making a forcible entrance from outside would do so to a musical accompaniment that would at once disturb my slumbers. Then, with a mind relieved, I leisurely undressed myself and got into bed.

There was an electric lamp on the table beside me, but by way of a reserve light I stuffed a box of matches beneath my pillow. My trusty poker I placed down the side of the bed under the top blanket, ready to my hand should I be unseasonably disturbed.

One last look round satisfied me that my preparations were distinctly efficient. As I flicked off the light and lay back on my pillow, I felt a kind of half-hope that there might really be something genuine in the warning I had received. It seemed a pity to have taken so much trouble for nothing.

Going to sleep is always a more or less instantaneous business with me, and, as far as I know, this night was no exception to the rule. At all events, I have no recollection of anything between the time I was fingering the handle of my poker in a kind of dreamy satisfaction and the moment when I started up suddenly in bed with the faint chink of fire-irons still sounding in my ears.

I woke with all my faculties keenly on the alert. Everything round me was in utter darkness, and my hand went out instinctively and closed upon the electric switch. I must have stayed like that for several seconds. My heart was beating rapidly, but I don't think I felt the least afraid.

Then I heard the door close very gently, and someone take a step forward into the room. Without making a sound, I reached under the clothes with my disengaged hand and stealthily withdrew my trusty poker. Having secured this, I wriggled over into such a position that I should be facing the intruder, and then, without further hesitation, I pressed down the switch.

My intention was either to hurl the poker directly the light went up, or else to take a flying jump from the bed and land my visitor a good swipe over the head before he could defend himself. It all depended upon whether he was carrying a revolver.

Unfortunately, neither of these excellent designs materialised. The switch went down with a sharp snap, but instead of a blaze of light flooding the room, everything remained in darkness.

I can tell you I didn't stop to wonder what had happened. The danger of my position struck me with a bang, and in less time than it takes to say I had hurled myself sideways off the bed in the opposite direction from the door.

I was only just in time.

Almost before I reached the floor I heard the crash of an overturning table, and then something came down on the pillow with a wicked thud that made the whole bedstead tremble.

I fell heavily full-length on the carpet, but it is extraordinary what activity danger will occasionally lend one. No cat could have recovered her feet more nimbly or leaped back into the darkness with such masterly swiftness. The wall of the room was only about a yard away, and I fetched up against it with a jar that nearly knocked the breath out of my body. There I stood, panting and shaken, but with the poker still gripped affectionately in my right hand.

It was not exactly an inspiriting situation—especially to a man in pyjamas and bare feet. The only bright spot about it was that my visitor, having bungled his first shot, was no better off than I was. Indeed, if, as I imagined, he was none other than my new retainer, I held the trump card of being a good way the heftier of the two. I couldn't picture myself being slaughtered by Francis, even in the dark.

Crouching down against the wall, I peered out into the blackness in front of me and listened intently. Since his first magnificent slap at the bed, my visitor had apparently rested on his laurels. I could hear him breathing quickly, but beyond that there was not the faintest sound. Not knowing what had happened to me, he was evidently waiting for inspiration.

I did some rapid but necessary thinking. If I called out for help, it was just possible that I should be sealing my fate; for should he be armed with a revolver as well as his other weapon, he would doubtless blaze away in the direction of my voice. Apart from this, I felt a very strong desire to settle the matter without assistance from anyone.

My best plan seemed to be to get to close quarters, trusting to Providence and the poker that I should get my slam in first. With this object in view, I began to creep noiselessly along the wainscoting, keeping my back against the wall. At the third step I ran against a small picture, which swung sideways and fell from its nail with a nerve-shaking crash. In a second I had dropped to the floor, where I crouched breathlessly, waiting the expected shot.

None came, however: only a slight movement from the direction of the bed told me that my visitor was on the alert. I stayed as I was, straining my ears to catch the smallest sound; and then, very faint but just audible to my excellent sense of hearing, came the stealthy tread of an advancing footstep.

During the next moment my mind worked pretty quickly. It was either a case of waiting where I was, or else rushing forward and lashing out blindly into the dark. Which I should have done I can't say, for it was at that crucial instant that my hand happened to touch the corner of the picture which had just fallen from the wall.

Never until then had Art properly appealed to me. I clutched that blessed frame with the gratitude of a starving man who has suddenly stumbled upon food, and changing the poker over to my left hand, rose swiftly and joyously to my feet.

At the slight noise which I made, the footsteps stopped. I knew, however, that my visitor must be desperately near, and for a tense second we both stood in absolute silence, each of us holding his breath for fear of betraying himself to the other.

Then out of the blackness ahead of me came the faintest possible rustle. Like a flash I whipped back my right hand, and hurled the picture with all the force I could straight at the sound.

I rather think it must have landed on the bridge of my visitor's nose, since no other point of contact could have produced such a yelp of surprised agony as that which cleft the darkness. I did not wait to jeer, but, ducking down again, took a couple of hasty steps to the left in the direction of the door. He evidently heard me, for, rushing forward, he landed a vicious smack on the wall, just above my head, bringing down the plaster in a scattering shower. I retaliated with a furious swipe at the empty air that nearly put my shoulder out, and then, feeling that so far I had had all the best of the duel, I leapt back out of range.

How the contest would have ended Goodness knows, for at that moment it was cut short by an unexpected interruption. From the passage outside came the noise of hurrying footsteps; then the door of the room burst open, admitting a ray of light that seemed almost blinding after the total darkness. A figure appeared on the threshold—a tall figure in white, holding a candle in one hand and a stick of some sort in the other.

I blame myself pretty badly for what happened next. If I had only had the sense of a caterpillar, I should have dashed for the door, so cutting off all chance of my visitor's escape. As it was, I'm blessed if I didn't actually jump away in the opposite direction, I suppose from some silly idea that I was going to be tackled by a fresh enemy.

I realised my mistake at once, but it was too late. There was a swift rush of feet, a wild scuffle on the threshold, and then the candle went out and I heard Milford's voice shouting for help.

With an oath I hurled myself forward, stumbling blindly over the scattered fire-irons. There was still a glimmer of light in the passage, and by its aid I could see two figures locked in a furious struggle.

Just as I reached the door, one of them collapsed, and the other, breaking free, leaped wildly for the head of the banisters. I was after him at once, and we went down that staircase in a way that would have put the fear of God into a couple of chamois.

If the front door had been locked, I should have had him. As it was, he just got it open in time, and taking the steps with a flying jump, landed clear on the pavement outside. With a last effort, I hurled my poker at him through the gate, only missing him by the merest fraction. Then he was off, bolting down the street like a rabbit, and vanishing round the corner before you could count five.