CHAPTER VII. THE HOUSE IN SOHO
WHITTINGTON and his companion were walking at a good pace. Tommy startedin pursuit at once, and was in time to see them turn the corner of thestreet. His vigorous strides soon enabled him to gain upon them, and bythe time he, in his turn, reached the corner the distance between themwas sensibly lessened. The small Mayfair streets were comparativelydeserted, and he judged it wise to content himself with keeping them insight.
The sport was a new one to him. Though familiar with the technicalitiesfrom a course of novel reading, he had never before attempted to“follow” anyone, and it appeared to him at once that, in actualpractice, the proceeding was fraught with difficulties. Supposing, forinstance, that they should suddenly hail a taxi? In books, you simplyleapt into another, promised the driver a sovereign--or its modernequivalent--and there you were. In actual fact, Tommy foresaw that itwas extremely likely there would be no second taxi. Therefore hewould have to run. What happened in actual fact to a young man who ranincessantly and persistently through the London streets? In a main roadhe might hope to create the illusion that he was merely running for abus. But in these obscure aristocratic byways he could not but feel thatan officious policeman might stop him to explain matters.
At this juncture in his thoughts a taxi with flag erect turned thecorner of the street ahead. Tommy held his breath. Would they hail it?
He drew a sigh of relief as they allowed it to pass unchallenged. Theircourse was a zigzag one designed to bring them as quickly as possibleto Oxford Street. When at length they turned into it, proceeding in aneasterly direction, Tommy slightly increased his pace. Little by littlehe gained upon them. On the crowded pavement there was little chance ofhis attracting their notice, and he was anxious if possible to catcha word or two of their conversation. In this he was completelyfoiled; they spoke low and the din of the traffic drowned their voiceseffectually.
Just before the Bond Street Tube station they crossed the road, Tommy,unperceived, faithfully at their heels, and entered the big Lyons’.There they went up to the first floor, and sat at a small table in thewindow. It was late, and the place was thinning out. Tommy took a seatat the table next to them, sitting directly behind Whittington in caseof recognition. On the other hand, he had a full view of the second manand studied him attentively. He was fair, with a weak, unpleasant face,and Tommy put him down as being either a Russian or a Pole. He wasprobably about fifty years of age, his shoulders cringed a little as hetalked, and his eyes, small and crafty, shifted unceasingly.
Having already lunched heartily, Tommy contented himself with orderinga Welsh rarebit and a cup of coffee. Whittington ordered a substantiallunch for himself and his companion; then, as the waitress withdrew, hemoved his chair a little closer to the table and began to talk earnestlyin a low voice. The other man joined in. Listen as he would, Tommy couldonly catch a word here and there; but the gist of it seemed to be somedirections or orders which the big man was impressing on his companion,and with which the latter seemed from time to time to disagree.Whittington addressed the other as Boris.
Tommy caught the word “Ireland” several times, also “propaganda,” butof Jane Finn there was no mention. Suddenly, in a lull in the clatter ofthe room, he got one phrase entire. Whittington was speaking. “Ah, butyou don’t know Flossie. She’s a marvel. An archbishop would swear shewas his own mother. She gets the voice right every time, and that’sreally the principal thing.”
Tommy did not hear Boris’s reply, but in response to it Whittington saidsomething that sounded like: “Of course--only in an emergency....”
Then he lost the thread again. But presently the phrases became distinctagain whether because the other two had insensibly raised their voices,or because Tommy’s ears were getting more attuned, he could not tell.But two words certainly had a most stimulating effect upon the listener.They were uttered by Boris and they were: “Mr. Brown.”
Whittington seemed to remonstrate with him, but he merely laughed.
“Why not, my friend? It is a name most respectable--most common. Didhe not choose it for that reason? Ah, I should like to meet him--Mr.Brown.”
There was a steely ring in Whittington’s voice as he replied:
“Who knows? You may have met him already.”
“Bah!” retorted the other. “That is children’s talk--a fable for thepolice. Do you know what I say to myself sometimes? That he is a fableinvented by the Inner Ring, a bogy to frighten us with. It might be so.”
“And it might not.”
“I wonder ... or is it indeed true that he is with us and amongst us,unknown to all but a chosen few? If so, he keeps his secret well. Andthe idea is a good one, yes. We never know. We look at each other--_one of us is Mr. Brown_--which? He commands--but also he serves. Amongus--in the midst of us. And no one knows which he is....”
With an effort the Russian shook off the vagary of his fancy. He lookedat his watch.
“Yes,” said Whittington. “We might as well go.”
He called the waitress and asked for his bill. Tommy did likewise, and afew moments later was following the two men down the stairs.
Outside, Whittington hailed a taxi, and directed the driver to go toWaterloo.
Taxis were plentiful here, and before Whittington’s had driven offanother was drawing up to the curb in obedience to Tommy’s peremptoryhand.
“Follow that other taxi,” directed the young man. “Don’t lose it.”
The elderly chauffeur showed no interest. He merely grunted and jerkeddown his flag. The drive was uneventful. Tommy’s taxi came to rest atthe departure platform just after Whittington’s. Tommy was behind him atthe booking-office. He took a first-class single ticket to Bournemouth,Tommy did the same. As he emerged, Boris remarked, glancing up at theclock: “You are early. You have nearly half an hour.”
Boris’s words had aroused a new train of thought in Tommy’s mind.Clearly Whittington was making the journey alone, while the otherremained in London. Therefore he was left with a choice as to which hewould follow. Obviously, he could not follow both of them unless----Like Boris, he glanced up at the clock, and then to the announcementboard of the trains. The Bournemouth train left at 3.30. It was now tenpast. Whittington and Boris were walking up and down by the bookstall.He gave one doubtful look at them, then hurried into an adjacenttelephone box. He dared not waste time in trying to get hold ofTuppence. In all probability she was still in the neighbourhood of SouthAudley Mansions. But there remained another ally. He rang up the _Ritz_and asked for Julius Hersheimmer. There was a click and a buzz. Oh, ifonly the young American was in his room! There was another click, andthen “Hello” in unmistakable accents came over the wire.
“That you, Hersheimmer? Beresford speaking. I’m at Waterloo. I’vefollowed Whittington and another man here. No time to explain.Whittington’s off to Bournemouth by the 3.30. Can you get there bythen?”
The reply was reassuring.
“Sure. I’ll hustle.”
The telephone rang off. Tommy put back the receiver with a sigh ofrelief. His opinion of Julius’s power of hustling was high. He feltinstinctively that the American would arrive in time.
Whittington and Boris were still where he had left them. If Borisremained to see his friend off, all was well. Then Tommy fingered hispocket thoughtfully. In spite of the carte blanche assured to him, hehad not yet acquired the habit of going about with any considerable sumof money on him. The taking of the first-class ticket to Bournemouthhad left him with only a few shillings in his pocket. It was to be hopedthat Julius would arrive better provided.
In the meantime, the minutes were creeping by: 3.15, 3.20, 3.25, 3.27.Supposing Julius did not get there in time. 3.29.... Doors were banging.Tommy felt cold waves of despair pass over him. Then a hand fell on hisshoulder.
“Here I am, son. Your British traffic beats description! Put me wise tothe crooks right away.”
“That’s Whittington--there, getting in now, that big dark man. The otheris t
he foreign chap he’s talking to.”
“I’m on to them. Which of the two is my bird?”
Tommy had thought out this question.
“Got any money with you?”
Julius shook his head, and Tommy’s face fell.
“I guess I haven’t more than three or four hundred dollars with me atthe moment,” explained the American.
Tommy gave a faint whoop of relief.
“Oh, Lord, you millionaires! You don’t talk the same language! Climbaboard the lugger. Here’s your ticket. Whittington’s your man.”
“Me for Whittington!” said Julius darkly. The train was just startingas he swung himself aboard. “So long, Tommy.” The train slid out of thestation.
Tommy drew a deep breath. The man Boris was coming along the platformtowards him. Tommy allowed him to pass and then took up the chase oncemore.
From Waterloo Boris took the tube as far as Piccadilly Circus. Then hewalked up Shaftesbury Avenue, finally turning off into the maze of meanstreets round Soho. Tommy followed him at a judicious distance.
They reached at length a small dilapidated square. The houses there hada sinister air in the midst of their dirt and decay. Boris looked round,and Tommy drew back into the shelter of a friendly porch. The place wasalmost deserted. It was a cul-de-sac, and consequently no traffic passedthat way. The stealthy way the other had looked round stimulated Tommy’simagination. From the shelter of the doorway he watched him go up thesteps of a particularly evil-looking house and rap sharply, with apeculiar rhythm, on the door. It was opened promptly, he said a word ortwo to the doorkeeper, then passed inside. The door was shut to again.
It was at this juncture that Tommy lost his head. What he ought to havedone, what any sane man would have done, was to remain patiently wherehe was and wait for his man to come out again. What he did do wasentirely foreign to the sober common sense which was, as a rule, hisleading characteristic. Something, as he expressed it, seemed to snap inhis brain. Without a moment’s pause for reflection he, too, went up thesteps, and reproduced as far as he was able the peculiar knock.
The door swung open with the same promptness as before. Avillainous-faced man with close-cropped hair stood in the doorway.
“Well?” he grunted.
It was at that moment that the full realization of his folly began tocome home to Tommy. But he dared not hesitate. He seized at the firstwords that came into his mind.
“Mr. Brown?” he said.
To his surprise the man stood aside.
“Upstairs,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “second dooron your left.”
The Secret Adversary Page 8