With his back to the room, Ananias whispered malignantly:
“Pull out the plug and wet him all over!”
“So much for A,” said Lindsay.
Mr Smith was lying back, his head against the worn crimson leather, an arm stretched full length on either arm of his chair.
“Yes,” he said—“yes. And that brings us to B—a man of a different type—not quite so clever as A, but more solid. At first he is up against a stone wall, and he is very discouraged. Later he forms the opinion that there is nothing to find but a mare’s nest—he writes and says so. And then he disappears.” He paused. “He did not go to Peru—he went into the river.”
“But why—if he had found nothing?”
“The department asked that question too. B was not married, but he had a girl. They asked her why, and she gave them a reason. B came to see her on the evening of the day that he disappeared. He had been going to take her to the pictures, but he looked in to say that he wouldn’t be able to go. She was angry and disappointed, and to pacify her he said, ‘If you only think why I couldn’t come, you’d be as pleased as I am. Why, if I pull this off, we shall be able to marry right away. It will be the most tremendous feather in my cap’.”
“Tie him to the taffrail when she’s yard-arm under!”
shrieked Ananias with vindictive suddenness.
Mr Smith said, “Hush!”
Ananias did not hush. He rose on his toes and poured out a flood of Spanish oaths. Then, as Mr Smith made a movement to rise, he stopped in midstream and plunged again into his toilet.
“I don’t know why I keep a parrot,” said Mr Smith. “He never forgets anything he has ever learned—which is a pity. Well, that was what happened to B. C came back to the department and said I he couldn’t find out anything. I don’t think he was telling the truth. The matter was then put into D’s hands.” He paused.
Lindsay said nothing.
Ananias combed his feathers.
Mr Smith said nothing.
Lindsay had the feeling that it was Mr Smith’s J silence, and that it was up to him to break it.
He did break it at last, rather unexpectedly.
“The question is—do I tell you about D’s case, or do not?”
“That is for you to say.”
“Not at all. That is quite a mistake on your part, because D’s case is irrelevant unless—” He paused again.
“Unless?”
“Oh, unless you are E,” said Mr Smith in his dreamiest voice.
CHAPTER VI
AN IMPORTANT CHOICE HAS probably seldom been put to anyone in a less important manner. The man who had put it so casually leaned back in his chair and gazed abstractedly at the ceiling. Lindsay felt a certain impatience.
“I want to know a good deal more before I say yes or no to that,” he said.
Mr Smith maintained his abstracted gaze at the ceiling for what seemed like quite a long time. When he spoke, he had abandoned his letters of the alphabet.
“Ideas are very disturbing things—ideas and ideals. All that the human race has ever desired is to be left alone. The explorer, the missionary, the discoverer, the inventor, the man of science, the seer disturb this comfortable lethargy. They introduce ideas—and there is nothing so disturbing as ideas. Their exponents, after an appropriate martyrdom, are accommodated with handsome tombs—there is an impression that they are safer dead. You cannot, however, burn an idea at the stake, nor can you immure it in a tomb—it continues to seek for expression. Each new expression rouses the old antagonism of animal ignorance, laziness, and hate. We have arrived at a time when the of an advancing age are expressing themselves in such protests against the violent folly and ruin of the Kellogg Pact, The League of Nations, and the Court of International Justice.” His voice ceased. been slow and gentle throughout. It was more ring a man think than hearing him speak.
He raised himself slightly in his chair and turned his eyes upon Lindsay. After a moment he looked away.
“These things are effects, not causes. They are the expression of the enlightened thought of the world, But everyone does not wish for light in his house, Darkness suits dark things. Light is being focussed upon some of these dark things. Do you think they will all vanish without a struggle, without any resistance? I am speaking to you to-night of a phase of this resistance.”
Lindsay sat still and thought about that. Mr Smith, let him think. He had certainly roused his interest. Lindsay did not know quite what he had expected, but the horizon had widened in the last few minutes.
“It’s not a national business then?” he said at last.
“International,” said Mr Smith; and then, “Does that lessen your interest?”
Lindsay shook his head.
Mr Smith began to talk of the world situation. He touched upon the interlocking difficulties and problems of each nation. He was extraordinarily sure and lucid, He talked for some time. At the end he said,
“That’s where we are. And on the surface every responsible man in the public life of every nation in the world, with perhaps one exception, is pledged to peace and progress and all that peace and progress stand for. There is not a single prominent man in this country, or in a dozen other countries, who would dare to stand up to-day and denounce the activities of peace. But they are not all whole-hearted—they say things in private which they no longer say on a public platform.
He stopped and made a slight gesture with his right hand, raising it and then letting it fall again.
“That does not take us very much farther—does it? That is my difficulty—I cannot take you much farther, because the next step takes us into the dark, and we don’t know what may be happening in the dark. We don’t know—and we want to know. We believe that things are moving in the darkness—gathering themselves together, organizing—and we want to know what is going on.”
“Awk!” said Ananias very loudly. Then, on a rapid scream, “If you want to know the time, ask a policeman!”
Mr Smith leaned forward, picked up a lump of coal with a pair of brass tongs, and put it on the fire. When he had laid down the tongs, he said,
“I have been a little high-falutin— Hush, Ananias!”
“Ask a p’liceman!” shrieked Ananias. “Ask a p’liceman! Ask a p’liceman!” Then, at a second “Hush!” he descended to a low mutter.
“There is something up, and we want to know what it is,” said Mr Smith in quite a brisk voice. “Well now—are you E? That is the immediate question.”
Lindsay meant to say yes. He had virtually said yes by coming here to-night. But he had a cautious streak in him. He thought that he would not say yes just yet.
There was a pause, during which he could hear him saying the word “p’liceman” over and over mumbling undertone. He thought it came very pat on Mr Benbow Smith’s last question—“Are you E—p’liceman—p’liceman—p’liceman—are you E—are you—p’liceman—p’liceman.”
“Well?” said Mr Smith. “What about it? I can tell you a little more when you’ve really said yes.”
Lindsay laughed. He could not help it.
“Didn’t I say yes when I came here?”
“Then it is yes?”
Lindsay nodded.
“Then we may proceed,” said Mr Smith.
He was still leaning forward and looking into the fire, which had sunk to a red glow about the new lump of coal.
“Let us come back to D—I think we were talking about D? D is a man who has done occasional jobs for the department. When C threw in his hand, D was in Paris. He wrote giving quite a useful piece of information. He finished up by saying that he knew C had been shadowing a certain person, and suggested that he might take on the job. He had, it seemed, made this person’s acquaintance, and considered that he might turn it to account. After some hesitation he was told that he could report to the dep
artment.
“That was about two months ago. He reported nothing of any real interest. Three weeks ago something very interesting happened. He was offered the post of secretary to the person he was watching. He was, you must understand, playing the role of the young man without a job—hard up, in the modern luxurious manner. The man who offered him the job fairly pushed it at him. He wrote and asked if he was to accept. He was told to do so. Ten days ago he was sent to England on his employer’s business, and met with a motor accident. His injuries were of them slightest, but he appeared to be on the edge of a very serious nervous breakdown. We had taken care to put a special nurse on to the case. Her report was a disquieting one. The man was in a perfect panic of fear. He woke screaming in the night, and proffered as an apology that he thought they had got him. He talked in his sleep. You shall see the notes the nurse made—she had instructions to write everything down. The conclusion we came to was that D had been got at; but we don’t know whether he was got at before his engagement as secretary or afterwards.”
He turned and moved his left hand in a gesture that invited Lindsay’s attention.
“You see the importance of this. If he was got at first, the appointment would have been offered in order to make use of him to mislead the department. If, on the other hand, he wasn’t got at until afterwards, they seem to have been taking a considerable risk, and the motive must have been a strong one.”
Lindsay said, “Yes, I see.”
“D, of course, denies having been got at. He really denies it too vehemently. He is, I am sure, in fear of his life. He knows something that he is afraid of knowing—he would un-know it if he could—he sweats if you look at him. In fact he has the jumps, and would go on his knees to anyone who would pick him out of the mess he has got into and drop him down in, let us say, Australia.”
There did not seem to be anything for Lindsay to say.
“So much for D,” said Mr Smith. “We want you to take his place.”
Lindsay waited.
“To take his place,” Mr Smith repeated. “To step shoes, and wear his clothes, and be the intelligent who has been got at.”
The sheer impossibility of the thing hit Lindsay between the eyes.
“You don’t mean—”
“Well, I fancy I do,” said Mr Smith.
“But—”
“A little family history is indicated, I think. You had a very narrow escape of being expelled when you were at Harrow.”
Lindsay stared at him.
“I suppose Jack told you.”
Mr Smith made a movement of assent.
“You were seen by one of the masters having supper at a night-club during term, and the matter was brought to the headmaster’s notice. You denied it. The master was prepared to swear to you. The Head cast about him for an explanation, and, fortunately for you, he found one. Your cousin, Trevor Fothering, was asked to leave.”
Lindsay felt himself flushing. The thing had always galled him. That little beast Froth—
“It was stupid of him,” said Mr Smith, “to keep a brown wig and a make-up box where they were bound to be discovered in the event of a search being made.”
“We’re not really alike,” said Lindsay. “Barfoot was an ass!”
“There is a considerable facial resemblance,” said Mr Smith. “The fact that his hair is red blinds one to it at first sight, but there is certainly a strong facial resemblance.”
He had said that in the train. Lindsay had wondered what he meant. Now he wondered again. What was he driving at? And where were they getting to?
Mr Smith told him in one short sentence.
“D is Trevor Fothering.”
Lindsay must have been prepared for it; but it was a shock. He had hardly seen Froth since that time at Harrow. He was a poisonous little beast then. His father was only a second cousin, so no one could say that the relationship was a near one-the more distant the better as far as Lindsay was concerned.
So D was Froth, and he was to take his place as somebody’s secretary. The thing appeared to him to be most patently absurd. His mind got to work like a tape-machine and began to pour out reasons why it was not only absurd but impossible.
He got out of his chair.—
“The thing is a sheer impossibility.”—
“Not at all,” said Mr Smith. “Your cousin, Trevor Fothering, is undoubtedly D.”
“I didn’t mean that. I mean it’s impossible for me to take his place.”
Mr Smith repeated, “Not at all,” in a gentle conversational voice.—
“He has been three weeks with this man as secretary. How could I possibly pass for him?”
“The likeness is strong.”
“He has red hair.”
“Henna,” said Mr Smith placidly. It is easily applied and certain in its effect.”
Lindsay pushed that away.—
“Have you considered the question of handwriting?” He thought he had him there.
“Oh, naturally. But he has been using a typewriter. I suppose you can type. You would have to copy his signature.”
Life has its surprises. Lindsay had certainly never imagined that he would live to forge Froth’s signature.
“Oh, I can type,” he said. “But—hang it all, sir, the thing is ridiculous. I might pass as Froth across a room or in a crowd—I suppose I must take your word for it that I could do that—but as for impersonating him in a house full of people with whom he’s been living for three weeks, it simply isn’t within the bounds of possibility.”
Mr Smith gazed into the fire.
“Oh, I think it is. You see you haven’t got the facts quite right. Fothering met his—er—employer first in Paris, and then at Monte Carlo. He took on the secretaryship three weeks ago at Monte Carlo. His employer went away almost immediately—next day, I believe—leaving him to cope with arrears of correspondence. He came back for one day, and went away again for five. The day after his return he sent Fothering to England with instructions to go down to his place in Surrey and wait for him there. It was whilst he was motoring down there that he met with the accident, and he has been in a London nursing home ever since. Now where is the impossibility? He has had a few hurried interviews with his employer. He is now under orders to go down to Rillbourne as soon as he is well enough. No one there—none of the staff, that is—has ever seen him. If he seems changed in any way, the accident can be called in to account for it. Your voices, I may say, are extraordinarily alike.
Lindsay’s old dislike fairly flared.
Mr Smith put another lump of coal on the fire, then drew out a white silk handkerchief and dusted his hands.
“I am afraid you will have to put up with the family likeness,” he said.
There was something in his voice that startled Lindsay. Mr Smith had not looked at him. He seemed to know what was going on in his mind. A few hundred years ago and he could imagine this faculty sending Mr Smith to the stake, with Ananias on his shoulder. He felt that Ananias would make a very good familiar.
Mr Smith put the handkerchief back into his pocket and stood up. He leaned a shoulder against the mantelshelf. He did not look at Lindsay.
“Well?” he said.
Lindsay got up too.
“If you think it can be done, I’ll do it.”
A long thin hand lay for a moment on his shoulder, and a very fleeting but most charming smile changed Mr Smith’s face. Lindsay had burnt his boats, and instead of regretting it he felt exhilarated. To have to think, plan, act, and live on the edge of danger would be a godsend.
“Oh, it can be done,” said Mr Smith, with so much quiet certainty that the difficulties did not seem worth bothering about.
All the same there were a good many things Lindsay wanted to know. To start with, if he was going to be a secretary, he wanted to know whose secretary he was going to be.<
br />
Ananias had been looking over his shoulder. He turned now, spread his wings a little, and craned his head forward as if he was listening intently for what Lindsay was going to say.
“You haven’t told me who Froth’s employer is.”
“No,” said Mr Smith—“no, I haven’t. I dare say you will know him by name—most people do. Restow—Algerius Restow.”
“The devil!” said Ananias in a low hoarse whisper. He flapped his wings and continued on a rapidly rising note, “Devil! Diable! Diablo! Diavolo! Der Teufel!” With the last word he went back to a creepy whisper.
“Perhaps,” said Mr Smith. “Ananias is sometimes apt. On the other hand, perhaps not.”
Restow. … Like everyone else, Lindsay had heard of Restow. There could not possibly be anyone in the newspaper-reading world who had not heard of Algerius Restow—his enormous wealth, his control of the Restow-Adamson trust, his art collection, his erratic philanthropy, his spectacular ruin some dozen years ago, his equally spectacular recovery. His matrimonial affairs had been, and still were, the subject of innumerable paragraphs.
“Restow!” he said.
“Do you know him?”
Lindsay shook his head.
“I saw him play polo at Hurlingham two years ago. They say he’s too heavy now. He was getting fat then.”
He was really talking to give his surprise time to settle. Restow—Restow. … If Restow … That might be a big business. Benbow Smith seemed to know what he was thinking.
“You understand why I look for a motive when it is Restow who engages Fothering as a secretary—Froth, you call him—a very good nickname. On the other hand, he is a man of whims, a modern Haroun-al-Raschid, who might at any time bring in a beggar to dine with him or pick up a secretary at a gaming-table. He is, of course, a formidable person. If he chose to make himself the rallying point for an organized resistance to such world necessities as peace, disarmament, and fiscal understanding, he would be very formidable. He is, you understand, a true international—that is a politer word than mongrel. He has some roots in every country, some drops of every nation’s blood, some understanding that would enable him to play successfully upon each nation’s susceptibilities.”
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