Whether the train lacked passengers or whether, which was more probable, M. Lebrun was an expert in travelling on his national railway system, the three had the compartment to themselves all night and rested in tolerable comfort. The struggle for breakfast seemed likely to be aggressively lively, for far more weary-eyed males and females appeared for its blessings than ever seemed likely to obtain a share, but again M. Lebrun had his own peculiar ways and means and the three of them secured a table.
Had Henry any lingering doubts with regard to the trustworthiness of M. Lebrun, this last small act of knight errantry dispelled them. Henry appreciated breakfast as a meal. Food was essential to begin any day, and the fact that a Frenchman should appreciate this very English habit changed Henry into M. Lebrun’s devoted friend.
From Marseilles they travelled somnolently to Toulon, M. Lebrun pointing out noteworthy scenery on the way. Harrison was delighted with the sun and the genial warmth.
“Glorious after London, isn’t it, Henry?” he said.
“Soon get tired of it,” answered Henry.
“But the sun,” protested Harrison.
“I was talking to a man who had been to the South of France, sir, one evening,” said Henry, solemnly, “and he said that, as he was going on the last stage of his journey, just as we are now, sir, he saw a small cloud in the sky and a friend with him said, ‘Take a good look at that cloud, it’s the last you’ll see while you’re by the Mediterranean.’ And what happened, sir? The man said that it rained cats and dogs the whole of the next day.”
“What a gruesome story, Henry,” answered Harrison, laughing. “At any rate we’ll be thankful to the sun while it lasts.”
Toulon was eventually reached and, while Harrison said farewell to M. Lebrun and received final instructions in minute detail, Henry got all the luggage on to the platform with the assistance of a very willing gentleman in porter’s uniform. Slinging the cases in professional fashion around him, the porter moved quickly down the platform, and beckoned Henry to follow after.
By the time Harrison and Henry had themselves left the station the porter was placing the last case on a taxicab.
“Pretty slick,” said Harrison, walking towards the taxi-cab, and then, suddenly, to Henry’s amazement, he called out, “Come along, Henry, and get these cases off this cab, as quick as you like.”
When the taxicab driver saw what was happening he broke into a series of voluble expletives, and called Heaven and any bystanders who might be present to witness that the English-man had engaged him and that nothing would prevent him from exacting his just reward.
Henry looked ferociously at the man and gripped his cases tightly, but had no idea of what was being said. Harrison, however, turned to the man and, without raising his voice, answered him to such effect in his own language that, with one frightened look he bent forward over his steering wheel and, starting with a terrific spring, drove full tilt out of the station yard. His career proved nearly fatal to the foot-passengers who were making their way across the road, and provoked a whole series of curses and blasphemies.
“After that, Henry,” said Harrison, “I think we’ll put them in the cloak-room and walk into the town.”
“What on earth did you say to the man, sir?” asked Henry, after these arrangements had been made and they were leaving the station for the second time.
“I told him to go back to his employer, Mrs. Crewe,” answered Harrison.
Henry whistled.
“And it looked as if he went at top speed,” continued Harrison. “But, Henry, didn’t the porter himself strike you as rather curious?”
“I can’t say he did, sir,” said Henry.
“He snatched up the bags and rushed to the taxicab,” said Harrison. “That might have been all right, Henry, but when I turned round to tip him and found that he had disappeared, that was too much of a good thing. No ordinary porter disappears without waiting for his tip.”
“That’s true, sir.”
“You see, Henry,” Harrison went on, “it all depends on the way you look at a taxicab. Now in Paris—and you needn’t deny it, for suspicion was written all over your face—you didn’t like the appearance of the taxicab driver because his face did not attract you. You made yourself thoroughly miserable because people seemed to be doing obviously suspicious things. While here everything seemed normal, and the fact that the helpful porter had piled our luggage on a particular taxicab made you feel quite normal and satisfactory yourself. Mrs. Crewe using her psychology again, Henry, and we shall have to keep our eyes very wide open.”
Chapter XIV
Robinson Crusoe
“The sun is really marvellous, sir,” said Henry, as they strolled across a square in the centre of the town.
“Almost enough to distract us from our work, Henry,” answered Harrison. “That is my particular grudge against Mrs. Crewe and her friends at the moment. They have chosen such pleasant places in which to do ugly things. They should never have carried out a brutal murder at Great Crockham. That itself was a kind of sacrilege, and they should never have decided to continue their evil practices in a part of Europe which can produce this magnificent sunshine.”
“You think they are continuing their evil practices, sir?” asked Henry.
“They wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to leave London if they hadn’t been,” answered Harrison; “we can be sure of that. They didn’t leave London to get away from me. They had some news which made it necessary for them to go to La Plage as soon as possible. News to them, I should say, would be a hint of the further execution of profitable crime. So, Henry, we are not only trying to find out what has happened but we are also looking out for what is going to happen.”
“Both hands full, sir,” commented Henry.
At this moment they passed a large permanent home for a Punch and Judy show. The shutters of the stage were closed but the rows of benches were placed all ready in the square for the collection of enthusiastic children who were likely to form the audience later in the day. Henry was enraptured. Here he saw the simplicity of that “foreigner” about which he had so many definite ideas, and he expressed his regret to Harrison that they were unable to wait until the show was ready to begin.
“When you think of our little shows which have to lurk round corners to attract attention,” he said, “and here in a public square is the children’s own theatre—it’s amazing.”
But Harrison was not to be enticed by the allurements which had impressed Henry and they were soon walking in a bright thoroughfare with large cafés on either side.
“I always think chairs and tables are the most satisfactory ornaments for a pavement, Henry,” said Harrison. “Come on. Let’s add to the local colour by sitting down and watching others go by.”
Henry noticed that Harrison went right to the back of the rows of tables and settled down in such a manner that it was difficult to be seen from the street. “Not that it does much good,” he said; “but you might just miss somebody’s eye.” He paused a moment. “And, by Jove, Henry, we have. Look at that man who has just come past right near the edge of the pavement.”
“You’re right, sir,” said Henry. “It looks like our old friend, Mr. Humphrey Bliss.”
“It is, Henry,” answered Harrison. “I wonder what he’s doing at Toulon. Something to do with the Crewes, I’ll be bound. And something to do with his visit to me, I expect.”
“It’s like Robinson Crusoe, sir,” said Henry.
“Why on earth Robinson Crusoe?”
“The pantomime, I mean, sir. You know, all the characters you’ve seen in England somehow manage to arrive on the desert island, comic men an all. Robinson Crusoe’s never lonely in the pantomime, sir.”
“And we’re not going to be lonely here, is that it, Henry?” asked Harrison.
“It seems to me very unlikely, sir,” answered Henry.
Although, however, Henry scrupulously watched the passers-by after this, he did not recognise any more ac
quaintances to add to his pantomime cast and, their drinks finished, they made their way, by dint of innumerable questions and misunderstood directions, to the address given to Harrison by M. Lebrun. They found that gentleman standing on the pavement, talking and laughing with a heavily-built man, dressed in an extremely faded blue shirt and antediluvian grey trousers. A beret of an even earlier prehistoric era adorned his head and they had no difficulty in deciding that this must be the M. Mallison in question. M. Lebrun saluted them as old friends and forthwith introduced them. “I have persuaded him, M. Harrison,” exclaimed M. Lebrun. “I had to make many concessions but I gave my word to you.”
“On the day M. Lebrun makes concessions,” said the other Englishman solemnly, “you will also see the Angel Gabriel driving a motor-boat in Toulon harbour. Don’t believe a word he says. A robber—and takes advantage of an inexperienced Englishman.”
“You say that, M. Mallison,” was the reply. “And I say that the motor-boat in which the Angel will appear will have been sold to him by the inexperienced Englishman for double its value.”
They both laughed noisily. “They understand each other’s little ways,” thought Henry.
“You have room for M. Harrison and his friend, that is so?” M. Lebrun went on.
“Two rooms on the first floor,” said Mallison. “Running water when the pump, provided by M. Lebrun, condescends to work properly. Electric light, when the current, provided indirectly by M. Lebrun, does not fail. Hard court tennis when the ants, unexterminated by M. Lebrun, leave enough room for the players.”
“I’m very grateful,” said Harrison.
“Better wait and see,” said Mallison, “whether you are going to be grateful to me or abusive to M. Lebrun.”
“You will like it, M. Harrison,” said M. Lebrun. “I expect that M. Mallison does not strike so hard bargains with his own countrymen.”
“But you must admit, M. Lebrun,” expostulated Mallison, “the law is the law.”
“I do admit it,” answered the other.
“Then why did you argue about it?”
“Your law is not my law, M. Mallison,” said M. Lebrun. “You demand an injustice.”
“When anyone can point out to me that British law is wrong, I’ll agree you’re right. Still, that’s settled.”
“Satisfactorily, I hope?” asked Harrison
Lebrun looked gloomy and gave no reply.
“We’ll have a drink,” said Mallison, “and then get a tram to La Plage.”
M. Lebrun explained that he was so full of affairs that it was impossible for him to spare the time. He repeated that he would not complain of unfair treatment from Mallison because he had been able to keep his word to Harrison, and then departed with the warmest farewells.
The others drifted back to the street of large cafes. The afternoon was getting extremely warm, and Henry was thankful that their guide knew his way through the maze of streets. Mallison was full of the treachery of the French business man in general. He had been robbed at every turn, but one had to expect it if one made up one’s mind to live in a strange land. But he liked Lebrun. In fact, Lebrun was different from all the others. A robber you could trust. Kept his word when you had come to a settlement. No sense of humour, of course, but it was wise to laugh at his jokes. He liked it and it made business easier.
At the café all the waiters seemed to know M. Mallison and most of them had a word with him as they passed. He sipped a depressing-looking concoction which he said was extremely good for the digestion, but advised them not to follow his example in choice of beverage. He personally had a very peculiar and highly-individualised digestion.
Harrison commented with satisfaction on the heat and was told that it was not nearly as warm as it had been the year before; even the South of France was deteriorating. But Harrison’s standard of comparison was with the somewhat cooler London he had left, and he revelled in the sunlight.
Suddenly his eye was attracted by a figure outside the café. It carried a worn and aged mackintosh over its shoulder, on this cloudless afternoon, and was carefully studying the people sitting at the tables.
“Do you recognise anyone?” Harrison asked Henry.
“Yes, sir,” said Henry; “it must be that journalist fellow, Garfitt.”
The eye of the figure rested on their table, twinkling with recognition, and Ronald Garfitt came towards them.
“Robinson Crusoe with a vengeance,” said Henry. “Nearly the whole pantomime has arrived now.”
But Garfitt did not immediately speak to Harrison. He looked at Mallison and gave a yelp of joy. “Honest Bob Mallison,” he shouted and gave that person a crashing blow on the back.
“Great glory, if it isn’t Ronnie,” answered Mallison, obviously equally delighted to see the other. “In Toulon, of all places. Up to no good, I’ll be bound.”
“My news-editor—” started Garfitt and then looked at Harrison and Henry.
“Excuse me,” said Mallison to Harrison, thinking that the pause had been due to Garfitt’s need of an introduction to them.
“Harrison and Mr. Henry are old friends of mine,” said Garfitt. “In fact, to cut a long story down to two lines, that’s why I’m here.”
“I was afraid so,” said Harrison.
“You’ll break my heart if you talk like that, Mr. Harrison,” answered Garfitt.
“Sit down, Ronnie, and don’t be an idiot,” said Mallison. “Great glory, but it’s good to see you.“
“If Mr. Harrison permits,” he said, with a flourish, and immediately settled at the table. “But Mr. Harrison is cross and why should that be. He was satisfied with my story—”
“Absolutely,” answered Harrison.
“But he does not like being followed about?”
“I must confess I hardly expected this delicate attention,” answered Harrison.
“Your profession makes you over-suspicious, Mr. Harrison,” said Garfitt, reprovingly.
“What’s his profession, Ronnie?” asked Mallison.
Garfitt went off into a roar of laughter. “Good lord, Bob,” he cried, “simple as ever, I can see. Haven’t I warned you against speaking to suspicious strangers, especially if it’s in a foreign country and they claim to be English. Of course—”
“I cut Mr. Garfitt a little short,” commented Harrison, turning to Mallison. “My name is Clay Harrison—”
“That’s enough,” said Mallison. “No need for any more introduction. I may live in a foreign country, as Ronnie so politely says, but I know that name well enough, and I’m proud to meet you. And this is Henry?”
Henry almost blushed at the respectful manner in which the last words had been said.
“Of course you will understand, Mr. Harrison,” continued Mallison, “that Lebrun fellow talked sixteen to the dozen about his dear friend, M. Errison, and it was all in the midst of an infernal business discussion, too. If only you could have heard him. One minute he was overflowing with a torrent about justice and, almost in the same breath, he was demanding that I should take the greatest care of M. Errison.”
“What I think—” began Garfitt, who seemed to feel he had been left out of the conversation too long.
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Harrison,” said Mallison, cheerfully ignoring Garfitt’s effort, “I feel I ought rather to explain Ronald Garfitt to you. He’s a low journalist fellow—”
“I knew that,” answered Harrison, gravely.
Waving aside any attempt on Garfitt’s part to protest, Mallison continued, “In my long vanished past, I had various dealings with Fleet Street. I am sure, Mr. Harrison, you will not expect details, but an acquaintance with different corners frequented by journalists of a low type brought me into occasional contact with Mr. Garfitt here.”
“That will be enough, Bob,” said Garfitt, indignantly. “I was pretty useful to you and you know it.”
“By permission of your news-editor?” asked Harrison.
“If I wasn’t the sweetest-tempered ma
n in the world,” said Garfitt, “I should depart in dudgeon.”
“Not until you’d got your story, Ronnie,” answered Mallison. “You’re too good a journalist for that.”
“You take back ‘low’?” asked Garfitt.
Mallison looked inquiringly at Harrison who nodded agreement.
“We take back ‘low,’” he answered.
“Exit dudgeon,” murmured Henry and all four laughed.
“And now, perhaps, Mr. Highly-sensitive Ronald Garfitt,” said Mallison, “you’ll condescend to tell us why you are really here.”
“I’ve told you,” said Garfitt, “I’ve followed Mr. Harrison. And I shall go on doing so until I get what I want.”
“And that is?” asked Harrison.
“The solution of the mystery of the murdered tramp,” was the reply, “and, mind you, exclusive to the Daily Flight.”
“You think it’s to be found in the South of France?” asked Harrison.
“Of course,” said Garfitt, “because you do.”
“You seem very sure about what I think, Mr. Garfitt.”
“I am,” was the reply. “Even more than my news-editor. You see, I know.”
“Ronnie always was a great talker, Mr. Harrison,” said Mallison, in a kindly tone.
“I know a greater,” was Garfitt’s comment.
“You should be above such personalities, Ronnie,” said Mallison.
“I’m not being personal,” said Garfitt, and looked with a twinkling eye at Harrison. “What about Miss Julia Docket?”
“I see,” said Harrison.
“You can’t blame Julia,” continued Garfitt. “On my day I’m irresistible. I know you’ve all got a down on me. You none of you admit genius when you see it. Too busy thinking about your own weaknesses. But Julia likes me, and I expect she told me very much more than she thinks she did. That’s my technique.”
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