Fool Errant

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Personally to Green,” said Minstrel, still in that sharp voice of command. “And you’re to get a receipt from him, mind. And then “—he slipped into a drawl—“you can go and sack the City if you like.”

  He stepped back and stood in the open door.

  “Right, Leonard!”

  They started down the drive. Hugo looked back through the little window in the rear of the limousine and saw Minstrel standing on the doorstep, tall, gaunt, and untidy, with one hand at his beard. The wind blew in his ragged hair. He was watching the car with hot, unquiet eyes.

  As they turned out of the gates, Hugo settled himself and drew up the rug. The envelope which Minstrel had given him lay on his knees. He drew the rug across it and folded back the fringed end so that it made a loose, untidy heap. Then he sat back and looked through the partition at Leonard’s square shoulders and his neck with the black bristling hair growing rather low down.

  Hugo had taken the right-hand corner; he was immediately behind Leonard. He stretched out his legs and leaned back. He was wondering whether Leonard could see him in the windscreen. It would depend upon the light—it had not been a bright day, and it was drawing towards dusk. He looked at his wrist-watch and saw that it was just on a quarter to four. He went on wondering about the wind-screen.

  Presently he made a slight change in his position and drew the rug well up about him. Then he leaned back and shut his eyes.

  It was nearly four o’clock. About five o’clock something was due to happen. He had plenty of time. But he wasn’t going to bank on having plenty of time; and he wasn’t going to bank on Leonard not being able to see him. Reflections were odd, chancy things; and he didn’t mean to take any chances.

  Under cover of the rug he was opening the envelope that Minstrel had given him. The flap came up easily enough. He got the papers out and slid them gently down on to the seat beside him. Then, under cover of getting out his handkerchief, he extracted from an inside pocket the envelope sent him by Ananias. It took him about five minutes to get the papers out of this envelope and into the empty one, because he could only move his fingers and he had to be very careful not to jerk the rug.

  When it was done, he changed his position a little and threw the envelope out on the seat beside him. It didn’t matter about Leonard seeing it; in fact it was quite a good plan that he should. He got the empty envelope back into his pocket, and came to the most difficult part of the whole job. He had to get out his flute and get Minstrel’s plans inside it, rolled up tight. It took a long time, and it was surprisingly hard work. He would never have believed what hard work it was to roll up a number of sheets of paper without moving anything except your fingers. He was as hot when he had finished as if he had run a mile, and the rug was insupportable.

  As soon as the flute was safely back in his pocket, he threw the rug off and leaned out of the window. It was dark now. They passed through a straggly village street and began to climb a stiffish hill. At the top Leonard slowed down, and after running at a crawl for a few hundred yards stopped dead and came round to the window.

  “She’s running very hot,” he said in a worried voice. “I’ll let her cool off a bit if you don’t mind, sir.”

  “Is anything the matter?” said Hugo. “I don’t want to be late, you know. We’re running it pretty fine as it is. I don’t suppose anyone stays in a government office after six—do they?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ll just let her cool down a bit.”

  If this was a breakdown, Leonard was being a little previous.

  “I don’t want to run a bearing, sir.”

  “No, of course not. But Mr. M-M-Minstrel won’t like it if we’re late—he’ll be awfully f-fed up.”

  Instead of answering, Leonard went forward and raised the bonnet. Five minutes later he got back into his seat and started again.

  They ran over the brow of the hill and dipped down into a belt of woodland. The smell of damp leaves came up from it, cold and chill.

  Hugo stopped feeling hot. For the first time he wondered, a little breathlessly, whether robbery with violence was to be the order of the day. The lonely wood had the air of having been especially designed as a setting for a little quiet highway business. Out of the recesses of his mind there poured a veritable mob of tales, in all of which valuables, a lonely traveller, and a dark forest played an uncheering part. In most of them the traveller was never seen again.

  At this moment the car stopped and Leonard once more approached the window. Hugo experienced a number of sensations in rapid succession, the first of which was a most horrible stab of fear. He suppressed the impulse to shout for help, reflecting that if Leonard wanted to do him in, he had every chance of succeeding, as he could certainly give him three stone, and—this as Leonard put his hand on the door—he suddenly stopped being afraid and began, instead, to feel a sort of tingling excitement.

  “What’s the matter, Leonard?” he said.

  “Well, I don’t know, sir. I wish I did. She’s running red hot and very lumpy. I’d like to get her into a garage where I can have a look at her.”

  “But there isn’t a g-garage,” said Hugo innocently.

  “Well, sir, there’s one about half a mile farther on. There’s an inn there, ‘The Wheatsheaf,’—a biggish place with a good garage, and if we pass it, there’s nothing for ten miles. I don’t like to risk going on like this—there’s something wrong with the lubrication and we might run a bearing any moment.”

  “I don’t want to be l-late.”

  “Perhaps you could ring up from the hotel.”

  “Well—I c-could.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Leonard.

  He climbed back, started the car, and proceeded to crawl between the lines of black shadowing trees.

  Hugo sat up and did some thinking. It was just on five o’clock. The Wheatsheaf was Miller’s rendezvous. Hugo was to go into the hotel to telephone, and there he would meet, or be met by, the red-haired Mr. Miller with the accent which Mrs. Miles considered to be Russian. He felt a very lively interest in what was going to happen after he and Miller met. Up to this point everything had been very well arranged. If he were really the unsuspicious fool they thought him, it would be the most natural thing in the world to go into the inn and ring up the Air Ministry to explain that he had been delayed upon the road.

  He felt very curious to know what was going to happen at The Wheatsheaf, and he had to consider whether it was still necessary for him to play the mug. He thought that it was. He thought that it was not only necessary, but essential.

  Minstrel—he had no proof that Minstrel wasn’t on the straight. Strong suspicion and moral certainty are not proof. He couldn’t disobey Minstrel’s instructions on suspicion. He had got to go on in Minstrel’s car and deliver his papers to Mr. Green. He thought the sooner he allowed himself to be robbed the better. He hadn’t the least idea how Miller meant to get hold of the papers; but once he’d got them, he’d have no further use for Hugo—his idea would be to get across the Channel as quickly as possible.

  Hugo rather thought it was up to him to smooth the ingenious Mr. Miller’s path. Let Miller steal the wrong papers and get away with them as quick as possible. Hugo, with a clear coast and clear conscience, could then take any way he liked to town with his flute; whereas, if he dodged Miller here, he would certainly have to continue to dodge him all the way to town.

  They emerged from the trees and saw the inn as a black blur set with little lighted windows. It had the look of a toy at that distance and against the sweep of lonely open country. There was not another light to be seen; only a formless landscape under a formless sky. The cloudy dark smothered everything except those little twinkling windows.

  “Well—we’ve g-got here,” said Hugo as the car drew up.

  “Yes, sir,” said Leonard. He didn’t say anything more.

  Hugo poked him a little—just to see.

  “How l-long do you think you’ll be?”

  “I couldn’t s
ay, sir.” He raised his voice a little as the hotel door opened. “How long will you be, sir?”

  “I’ll j-just put that call through.”

  The hall-porter must have heard both question and answer, for he met Hugo with, “You wish to telephone, sir?” And then, without waiting for an answer, “This way, sir. Mind the step. Allow me, sir.”

  Half a dozen feet of dark passage-way, rather stuffy; a step that was a real trap; a glimpse of himself in a huge old-fashioned mirror with a frame of tarnished gilt; and the porter was opening a door and standing aside to let Hugo pass him. He took two steps into the room and heard the door close behind him.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  He was looking for Mr. Miller, but he did not see him. He saw walls covered with old sporting prints, a clutter of outrageously incompatible furniture—an old warming pan, a fine tallboy, a staring Brussels carpet, a suite upholstered in crimson plush, white lace antimacassars, and—Mme. de Lara.

  It was Hélène de Lara who gave the last touch of incongruity. She had an air of exquisite aloofness, a mournful elfin air, as she sat on the edge of one of the vast crimson armchairs pouring out coffee.

  She looked up, exclaimed in a soft fluttered way, and almost dropped the heavy and much discoloured coffee-pot.

  “You! Oh, my dear, how nice!”

  Hugo crossed the room warily. He was still looking for Mr. Miller. Hélène de Lara’s little cold fingers clung to his for a moment.

  “To see a friend in this desolate spot! Isn’t that just the very nicest thing that ever happened? I was so cold and so vexed, because I have been to town, and I should have been back at Torring House by now. Actually I have someone coming to dinner—an old friend—so I was feeling—oh, all at sixes and sevens, and wishing I had gone up by train—because trains don’t ever have anything wrong with their engines—do they? And then, just when I was so cross—to see you! How nice!”

  She had a way of looking out of those big dark eyes that suggested a great many things. Hugo, for instance, had to resist the pleasant suggestion that he was the one person in the world Hélène de Lara wished to meet, and that this was very natural because he was without doubt the most delightful, attractive, and charming young man of her acquaintance. Such suggestions, even if resisted, are not altogether without some effect on the atmosphere.

  Hugo blushed.

  “I want to put a c-call through,” he said.

  “Ah now, and I’ve just asked for one! And I’m afraid it may take some time—but they promised to tell me as soon as ever it comes through. Are you in a terrible hurry? Or are you waiting for your car like me?”

  “W-well—I am.”

  “Ah! How nice it is to have a companion in misfortune! Does it console you a little to feel that you are consoling me—a great deal? And you’ll have a cup of coffee now—won’t you?” She was pouring one out as she spoke.

  It was the second cup on the tray that made Hugo’s gaze continue to travel round the room in search of Mr. Miller. The grinning mask of a fox set on the wall immediately above a case of dilapidated stuffed birds was the nearest approach to the red-headed gentleman with the Russian accent.

  Mme. de Lara was holding out a coffee-cup.

  “Black?” she said.

  Hugo put some milk into it and took two lumps of sugar. He was wondering about the coffee. Mme. de Lara was drinking hers. He put the cup to his lips and pretended to sip from it. After that he stopped wondering. The coffee was certainly drugged. He had a very keen sense of smell, and this sense informed him that there was something in the cup besides milk, sugar, coffee and—possibly—chicory.

  He began to wander round the room looking at the old prints and still pretending to sip the coffee.

  Hélène de Lara never took her eyes off him.

  “You like these queer old pictures?”

  “V-very much.”

  He came to a standstill under the grinning fox. There was a rose-wood table on his right; a magazine or two had been thrown down on it; there were two metal ashtrays, a bright blue jar containing soiled calico daffodils; and a plant, which might also have been artificial, spreading stiff striped green and white leaves above a furiously shiny yellow pot.

  Hugo gazed lovingly at the pot. As a receptacle for drugged coffee which one didn’t want to drink, it was quite perfect. If Hélène would only look away for a second.

  “Do you think that t-tallboy is really old?” he said.

  Mme. de Lara did not look at the tallboy; she continued to look at Hugo. Her unwavering gaze said how clever it was of him to know that it was a tallboy and that it was old. He felt a schoolboy desire to pick up the case of stuffed birds and heave it at the lady. He repressed this desire; but his finger-tips tingled.

  “That one over there,” he said, pointing.

  She did turn her head for a moment then; but only for a moment.

  “I expect so,” she said languidly.

  Hugo had been very quick indeed; the stripy plant had received a lethal dose, and the empty cup was at his mouth. He tilted it, felt the last drugged drop against his lips, and then, with a half-suppressed yawn, he came across and put the cup down on the tray.

  “It’s w-warm in here.”

  He thought he had better go to sleep and let them get away with the papers—it would save a lot of trouble.

  “Are you too warm? Why don’t you take your coat off and be comfortable?”

  “Well, I’ve got some p-papers of Mr. M-Minstrel’s that I oughtn’t to leave about—but I can put them in another p-pocket.”

  He took off his overcoat, hauled out the envelope, and put it into his jacket pocket. He didn’t want Miller pawing him all over. If they were going to have the papers, they might just as well know where to look for them. He folded the overcoat, and for a moment the flute showed.

  Hélène exclaimed, “You take your flute when you go to see other people, but you wouldn’t bring it when you came to see me.”

  “I’m only taking it up to be m-mended.” He yawned again. “I b-beg your pardon.”

  “You do look tired,” said Hélène. “Why don’t you have a little sleep? I’m sure Ambrose works you quite cruelly—he is cruel, you know. I told you we were friends once; but cruelty is the thing I can’t bear.” She put both hands to her breast. The diamond in her ring shone like a wonderful tear. “He is cruel—and I can’t bear cruelty. There is something here that weeps when I see anyone being cruel. But men are all cruel, I think. I have had to weep so often.” She put her hand across her eyes for an instant, then smiled sadly. “I don’t think you’re cruel, you know—not yet, Hugo.”

  In spite of everything, the thrill in her voice when she said his name did move him. It stirred the springs of his imagination, as acting has the power to stir them even when we know that we are being played upon. Hugo knew, and was stirred. He was glad when the door opened.

  The porter stood there.

  “Just a moment, sir, if you please.”

  As he went to the door, Hugo wondered what was coming.

  “About your call, sir—the lady has one first—they say at the exchange that it may take time. Perhaps she wouldn’t object to yours being put through first.”

  Hugo hesitated, then suddenly decided not to ring the Air Ministry, but to shed Leonard and take the plans to Mr. Smith. The embargo on a visit might now be considered to be off. Mr. Smith would know where Mr. Green was to be found after office hours.

  He said, “No—it’s all right—it doesn’t matter—it’s too late to catch the p-people I wanted to.”

  He hoped he had done the right thing. The whole affair was like a game of devil-in-the-dark. He and Susan used to play it with the Carnabys—a frightful breath-catching game in which you crept about shoeless, noiseless, in a dark room waiting to be pounced upon by the unseen “He.”

  He went slowly back to the red plush sofa where his coat was lying. He yawned again, said “I b-beg your pardon,” and sat down. He thought the time had come when he m
ight stare vaguely before him and desist from conversation. He was aware of a most sympathetic glance.

  “My dear boy, you look dead tired. Do have a little nap. I’ll wake you at once if your car comes round.”

  Hugo mumbled something and allowed his eyes to close. This was really a great relief, because he found it very embarrassing to have Mme. de Lara looking at him in that intense sort of way. He shut his eyes, let his head give a drowsy jerk, and was aware of a cushion where no cushion had been a moment before. Through his lashes he caught a glimpse of Mme. de Lara bending over him. The glimpse puzzled him; she was still looking at him as if—as if.… There was a murmur of “Poor boy!” and something touched his cheek. He burrowed furiously into the cushion and threw out one hand.

  Hélène de Lara stepped back with a caught breath that sounded like a sob. Then she went and sat down again on the edge of the big armchair.

  Hugo began to breathe as if he were very fast asleep. The cushion hid most of his face. It was horribly soft and hot and feathery, and the feathers smelt of mould; but it was certainly useful.

  The moments passed into minutes. There was a heavy stillness in the room, broken only by Hugo’s own breathing and the sound of a clock ticking somewhere out of sight; he thought it must be in the passage. It ticked with a heavy irregular tick—dot dash—dot dash—dot dash. Hugo began to count the ticks, and then stopped because he was afraid of sending himself to sleep. He wished to goodness that something would happen. And as the thought passed through his mind, Hélène de Lara gave a little sigh and got up.

  She came round the back of the sofa, leaned on it, and put a soft fluttering touch on Hugo’s hair. It was most frightfully difficult not to move, but he kept still and went on taking those long deep breaths. At last his face was hidden—pr nearly hidden. She stroked his hair two or three times, and then bent down and kissed him. It was really the most frightful moment of the whole adventure, because he felt the blood rush to his face.

  But Hélène had turned away with another of those sobbing breaths. She went to the door and opened it. After a moment he heard it close again. There was someone else in the room.