Henry, however, was a tower of strength on these occasions. His native Cockney shrewdness was never at a loss or in solution of the apparently insoluble. Besides, his own admiration of his master was so profound that an impatient client would soon be admitting that it was the greatest honour for Clay Harrison to be taking the slightest interest in his insignificant troubles. During these few days Henry worked uncomplainingly at the highest pressure, and they both gave a sigh of relief when they were once safely sitting in the Continental boat train.
The journey to Toulon was uneventful except for an argument at Calais between Henry and a black-bearded Frenchman regarding the disposal on the rack of their respective complement of suitcases. Granted that the Frenchman had an extravagant number of small cases and that the porter, after the fashion of his race, had assumed that the whole available space between the rack and the roof was his to command, there is no doubt that Henry was somewhat jumpy after the acid-throwing experience. Whenever he had been out in the streets of London with Harrison he had been watching for some fresh attack, and now that he was in a foreign land, where an one, man, woman, or child, was able to say what they liked without his being able to understand, he felt the need to be especially careful.
Possibly Henry felt that the very beardedness of the stranger was in itself a suspicious circumstance. He could tolerate a trim, well-cut beard, but those like the one before him which grew forth in reckless profusion were beneath contempt. No right-minded man—of whatever nationality—could endure a decoration of that nature. So when the porter started placing an inoffensive looking case on the top of Harrison’s large suitcase, Henry politely but firmly removed it and placed it on the seat. The porter and the Frenchman looked at Henry in a stupefied manner, as at one who has broken every one of the rules of the game of travel.
The porter picked up the case and once more started to place it in the same position.” Oh, no, my friend, if you please,” said Henry, firmly, and pushed the porter away. This was too much for both of the others, and they burst into a flood of indignant French. But Henry had no time for talk of this kind and recommended them to find another carriage. The porter looked as if he was prepared to settle the argument by force, and started pushing Henry away from the corner where he was standing to defend his position. “Come, come, my friend, play the game,” said Henry, and pushed him back.
Meanwhile the unfortunate Frenchman was becoming somewhat alarmed at the turn of events and meditated retreat. With this end in view he seized the handle of one of his own packages and started pulling it down from the rack. This action still further infuriated the porter, who thereupon strove with one hand to place the case on the rack by pushing it with all his might past Henry and with the other sought to hold back the package which the Frenchman was trying to remove.
The whole action was taking place in the midst of voluble discussion in French by two of the participants while the third was continually requesting the others in calmly indignant tones to be “steady” and “play the game.”
Harrison, who had been walking on the platform, looked into the compartment to find that the porter was rapidly approaching violence. Assailed in front and rear, the man was naturally in a bad tactical position, and his obvious way out was to burst through. Henry gave a sigh of relief when he saw his master, and in a few moments Harrison had taken command of the situation. He had apologised to the gentleman with the beard and had insisted on his staying in the carriage. He had smoothed down the porter and the offending case was reposing on top of his own where Henry continued to eye it indignantly.
“What a scene, Henry,” said Harrison, gravely. “Who on earth started all this racket?”
“I objected to the porter putting that case on ours,” said Henry. “I still do,” he added, viciously.
“It looks to me a perfectly harmless case,” said Harrison.
“How do you know it is, sir?” asked Henry. “You’ve told me we shall be followed wherever we go and I haven’t forgotten the acid, sir.”
“Henry, you’ve got the jumps.”
“You can’t be too careful,” said Henry. “You never know what might be in a case like that, sir. The porter was terribly anxious to put it on top of yours.”
“The only place left in the compartment, Henry.”
“Maybe,” said Henry. “And the man with it, too. A sinister looking person, I should say.”
“You may not like beards, Henry,” answered Harrison, “but you must not regard every bearded Frenchman as a suspicious character. One could see at once that the man was an ordinary and rather charming traveller. He was much more afraid of you than you were of him.”
“I suppose you understand these foreigners, sir,” said Henry, wearily; “but I must say I didn’t like the way they went on at all.”
“You mustn’t lose your head, Henry,” replied Harrison, gently. “We’ve got to keep our eyes open in a different direction. The people we are up against are an ingenious lot. The crime itself was diabolically so. You will agree that the egg containing the acid was highly unusual. They are not going to do anything quite as usual as travelling to Toulon with us—in the same carriage, at any rate—for that’s what our French friend is going to do. And I hope to have an interesting chat with him on the way down, into the bargain.”
Harrison carried out his word, and part of the journey was spent in hearing the difficulty of a French steel producer making ends meet in a world which seemed to resent the suggestion of buying steel at all. To him it was particularly interesting, because he felt that the French manufacturer was talking in practically the same terms as would be used by one of his English competitors, had he been travelling in a train to Glasgow with Harrison. Despite the beard, as Henry might have said, the Frenchman was a shrewd business man and, except in questions affecting his industry, was broad-minded enough to have few national prejudices. He had been in England once or twice and, although he made the effort when all else failed, he spoke very little English. He was, however, observant and a good talker, and greatly entertained Harrison with his comments.
Henry sat in his corner with an injured look. Even Dickens failed to reassure him. His master was not taking nearly enough care. The smooth-voiced stranger was just the sort of man who would suddenly grow violent and attack him. Occasionally he looked suspiciously at the offending case as if he thought that a python might suddenly start sidling its way mysteriously forth and hang menacingly above Harrison’s head. But nothing spoiled the peacefulness of the journey and Paris was reached without mishap.
As every man has his own particular streak of carefulness it was a peculiarity of Harrison that he objected to paying large sums for sleeping accommodation on railway journeys, and so he and Henry were to spend the night in this same carriage. So also was the stranger, and to Henry’s horror, Harrison was delighted with the Frenchman’s suggestion that they should go forth at the Gare de Lyon and find some dinner. He looked even more distressed when Harrison said that he was to come, too. He said he preferred to stay with the luggage in the carriage, but thought better of it when he found that all the lights were being turned off and the carriage doors locked.
“But do you think it safe, sir?” he asked, as he got down on to the platform.
“Oh yes, our things will be all right,” answered Harrison. “I think this is an extraordinarily sensible system. They put the train in the cloak room, so to speak, until the passengers want to use it again.”
“I don’t mean that, sir,” said Henry, gloomily. “I mean going into the depths of Paris with a stranger.”
“Really, Henry,” answered Harrison, “I think you are remarkably hard on M. Lebrun. He’s quite all right. Come along and don’t panic.”
Henry shook his head with foreboding, and his worst fears were confirmed when the black-bearded stranger of whom Harrison had spoken as M. Lebrun signalled in the station yard and a taxicab seemed to appear from nowhere driven by one of the most criminal-looking men Henry thought he had
ever seen. Certainly he did not sport a beard but his eyebrows were of diabolic angle, his extremely black chin most offensively unshaven and his dark eyes had a penetration and gleam which suggested unsuspected backwoods of villainy.
M. Lebrun politely ushered them into the vehicle and himself followed after whispered instructions to the driver. This was all in accordance with Henry’s expectations, and when Harrison showed no signs of alarm he decided that his master must have some deep plan for countering such an obvious plot against him. The taxicab disappeared with astonishing suddenness into a maze of small streets, and finally stopped in front of a small restaurant of not too prepossessing an appearance. Despite Harrison’s protests, M. Lebrun paid the fare. Another piece of evidence, thought Henry. Englishmen are the only people who generously pay in this manner. That was the last thing you would expect of the normal foreigner. Obviously, M. Lebrun and his fellow-conspirators were willing to spend money in this way to get them into their toils.
The three of them made their way into the restaurant and found a room of somewhat dingy character where a number of French women and men were drinking at cafe tables. M. Lebrun disregarded all this and plunged ahead towards a doorway across which hung a curtain. Henry braced himself up. Here was the climax. What were they going to find behind the curtain? He did not know quite what to expect, but he had a vague mental picture of the three Crewes and their faithful gardener sitting in a room and brandishing a multitude of firearms. Well, he was ready to make a fight for it, whatever the odds, and he set his jaw as he pushed through the curtains in the wake of Harrison and the Frenchman. To his surprise he found a very clean-looking collection of tables set out for dinner presided over by an equally clean-looking waiter.
“This is always one of the great surprises of Paris to me, Henry,” said Harrison, as they settled down at a table and M. Lebrun started a technical discussion on food and drink with the waiter. “If you can only get through the somewhat frowsty café in front you can find any number of little restaurants like this, with good wine and excellent cooking. We ought to be very grateful to M. Lebrun, for we are going to have a treat.”
Henry was now in the throes of reaction and was only able to mutter somewhat incoherently. His suspicions were not entirely stilled. They would not be until he was safely back in the railway carriage, but things had not turned out as he expected. M. Lebrun had now finished his expert studies. He apologised to Harrison, but explained that he usually patronised this particular spot and therefore had taken upon himself to display its special virtues.
Harrison thanked him and, as the meal progressed, realised that M. Lebrun was an excellent guide and the chef a master of his art. The dinner was excellent. Although not particularly interested in food, certainly not to the extent of the connoisseur who goes to particular restaurants in different parts of the world for particular dishes, Harrison appreciated a well-cooked and appropriately chosen meal, and he was duly grateful to M. Lebrun. Even Henry saw the world from a slightly more optimistic angle, and when the meal was finished and M. Lebrun had shown his whole-hearted appreciation of Harrison’s choice in cigars, the three talked as old friends.
“And where are you staying in Toulon, M. Harrison?” asked M. Lebrun.
“I have no idea at all,” answered Harrison, with a laugh. “Perhaps you will be able to suggest as good a hotel there as this restaurant. As a matter of fact, our objective is not really Toulon. It is a small spot called La Plage. Have you ever heard of it?”
M. Lebrun laughed till his beard rocked. “Have I ever heard of La Plage, M. Harrison?” he cried, his eyes twinkling. “Come, come, have I ever heard of my mother. But may I say that I regret that you have heard of it? Not you yourself, M. Harrison, you are charming, but I regret that the English have heard of it. It was one of the few places on the Mediterranean coast that still belonged to the French. For quite a long time you only heard my language spoken there. But the English have the reputation for great explorers. A few of them have found La Plage and soon it will be another of your colonies.”
“I apologise for our intrusion,” said Harrison, with mock politeness.
“Still, if it had to be anyone,” said M. Lebrun, “and such a state of happiness could not last for ever, I prefer the English. The Germans, a thousand times not. I suspect it is the pressure of the Germans that have made the English move along the coast from the better-known places on the Riviera.”
“And if am not being too curious, M. Lebrun, what is your own connection with La Plage?”
“That is simply answered, M. Harrison,” was the reply. “I am often in Toulon on business and I sometimes make long stays. My wife says she is lonely without me. Women are like that, M. Harrison, aren’t they?”
“Unfortunately I am not married,” said Harrison.
“It is a misfortune indeed,” said M. Lebrun, with the greatest sympathy. “I have a good wife. So steel is good and I buy a villa at La Plage and there we live when my work brings me here. And we are very happy. But now steel is bad. A man may not have two homes. So my wife does not come with me and I hasten to dispatch my business and get back to her.”
“A great pity,” said Harrison. “Your wife must have regretted the villa very much?”
“She is a good wife,” answered M. Lebrun. “If the money is not there to pay she does not regret. The good times and the bad times, we share them and we laugh, for steel is not all a man’s life, M. Harrison.” He paused and then gave a huge chuckle and banged his fist on the table. “But that gives me a profound idea, M. Harrison,” he cried.
For a moment Henry thought that all M. Lebrun’s preliminaries had been leading to this point and that now the whole lot was going to be revealed. But, suspicious as he felt he ought to be, there was something about the Frenchman’s manner which won over his confidence.
“It is this,” continued M. Lebrun; “my villa I have let to an Englishman. I would not sell it. Oh no, then my wife would have been indeed sad. We go back one day, she said, and I cannot deny her. So I have a lease with an Englishman. Why should you not stay there?”
“A good idea, M. Lebrun,” said Harrison. “But your Englishman might object.”
“I will explain,” said M. Lebrun. “I will not have my villa made into a pension. That would be wrong, but the Englishman he asks permission if he may have his friends from England. They will pay him to come, of course, but he will promise that they shall be only his friends. He will not advertise and he will carefully choose them. And I cannot argue. Who could argue with M. Mallison?”
“M. Mallison? Tell me something about him,” said Harrison.
“He is droll, is M. Mallison,” replied M. Lebrun. “A type, that man. He is a great, large man. He dresses terribly. All Englishmen on holidays dress terribly, I think. But his life is a whole holiday, and he always dresses terribly. He makes jokes and he laughs at them himself—and you laugh too. But he does not often laugh at your jokes. He persuades, too. I do all he asks. He is not to be persuaded. Always he is obstinate. He has a French wife and she worships him. It is strange, is it not, that a French woman should adore an Englishman? She is pretty and petite. He could carry her in his pocket—where he carries so many things. But yet it is not strange. My wife loves M. Mallison and I think I do, as well.”
“A very flattering portrait,” said Harrison; “I feel proud of my fellow countryman.”
“But he is always arguing,” answered M. Lebrun. “Immediately I get to Toulon tomorrow morning I must go to my lawyer and there meet M. Mallison. He argues about the taxes. The French law says he must pay them. But he will not understand. He says definitely I must pay. That is the English law, he says and will listen to nothing more. My lawyer argues and argues but M. Mallison stands like a rock. So I must see him myself.”
“And make him pay the taxes?”
“That is the law,” said M. Lebrun, and added, “he cannot argue me away from what is the law;” but there was a note of doubt in his voice. “The Engli
shman has so many rights,” he added regretfully. “It is a national disease. M. Mallison speaks of his rights—”
M. Lebrun shrugged his shoulders and left the rest to imagination.
“But that you shall stay with him is different,” went on M. Lebrun. “There are not so many English with money for La Plage at the moment and, even if M. Mallison shall beat me in argument,” he mopped his brow at the approaching contest, “I will persuade him to take care of you. I will lock my lawyer’s door until he agrees.”
After all, a very good sort of Frenchman, thought Henry, warming to the possible scene in Toulon.
“There will, I hope, be no need to do that, M. Lebrun,” said Harrison, “although I greatly appreciate the generosity which prompts your offer.”
“That is agreed, then,” answered the Frenchman, producing a notebook and writing on a leaf, which he tore out and handed to Harrison. “That is my lawyer’s address. When we get to Toulon I will go straight to my lawyer and, after an hour, you will follow. M. Mallison will need an hour.”
“Many thanks,” said Harrison, carefully putting away the slip of paper. “And one more question, if I may, M. Lebrun.”
“I will answer everything,” answered the other, expansively.
“Have you ever heard the name Crewe, C-R-E-W-E , in connection with La Plage?”
“I regret, M. Harrison,” said M. Lebrun. “It is a name which I do not know.”
It was now time to be returning to the station and Henry, although he had regained a certain amount of his confidence, was extraordinarily glad to find himself back in the compartment with all their belongings safe and sound. He checked them all carefully and life seemed so satisfactory as the train drew out of the station that he could settle down with perfect serenity to the study of Martin Chuzzlewit.
Death on the Highway Page 17