Adrian, whom she had not seen since Hubert’s committal, received her with his usual quiet alacrity, and she was sorely tempted to confide in him. Jean must know that to ask his advice about a Turkish conversation book would surely stimulate his curiosity. She restrained herself, however, and said:
“Uncle, you haven’t a Turkish conversation book? Hubert thought he’d like to kill time in prison brushing up his Turkish.”
Adrian regarded her, and closed one eye.
“He hasn’t any Turkish to brush. But here you are—”
And, fishing a small book from a shelf, he added: “Serpent!”
Dinny smiled.
“Deception,” he continued, “is wasted on me, Dinny, I am in whatever know there is.”
“Tell me, Uncle!”
“You see,” said Adrian, “Hallorsen is in it.”
“Oh!”
“And I, whose movements are dependent on Hallorsen’s, have had to put two and two together. They make five, Dinny, and I sincerely trust the addition won’t be needed. But Hallorsen’s a fine chap.”
“I know that,” said Dinny, ruefully. “Uncle, do tell me exactly what’s in the wind.”
Adrian shook his head.
“They obviously can’t tell themselves till they hear how Hubert is to be exported. All I know is that Hallorsen’s Bolivians are going back to Bolivia instead of to the States, and that a very queer padded, well-ventilated case is being made to hold them.”
“You mean his Bolivian bones?”
“Or possibly replicas. They’re being made, too.”
Thrilled, Dinny stood gazing at him.
“And,” added Adrian, “the replicas are being made by a man who believes he is repeating Siberians, and not for Hallorsen, and they’ve been very carefully weighed—one hundred and fifty-two pounds, perilously near the weight of a man. How much is Hubert?”
“About eleven stone.”
“Exactly.”
“Go on, Uncle.”
“Having got so far, Dinny, I’ll give you my theory, for what it’s worth. Hallorsen and his case full of replicas will travel by the ship that Hubert travels by. At any port of call in Spain or Portugal, Hallorsen will get off with his case, containing Hubert. He will contrive to have extracted and dropped the replicas overboard. The real bones will be waiting there for him, and he will fill up when Hubert has been switched off to a plane: that’s where Jean and Alan come in. They’ll fly to, well—Turkey, judging from your request just now. I was wondering where before you came. Hallorsen will pop his genuine bones into the case to satisfy the authorities, and Hubert’s disappearance will be put down to a jump overboard—the splash of the replicas, I shouldn’t wonder—or anyway will remain mysterious. It looks to me pretty forlorn.”
“But suppose there’s no port of call?”
“They’re pretty certain to stop somewhere; but, if not, they’ll have some alternative, which will happen on the way down to the ship. Or possibly they may elect to try the case dodge on the arrival in South America. That would really be safest, I think, though it lets out the flying.”
“But why is Professor Hallorsen going to run such a risk?”
“YOU ask me that, Dinny?”
“It’s too much—I—I don’t want him to.”
“Well, my dear, he also has the feeling, I know, that he got Hubert into this, and must get him out. And you must remember that he belongs to a nation that is nothing if not energetic and believes in taking the law into its own hands. But he’s the last man to trade on a service. Besides, it’s a three-legged race he’s running with young Tasburgh, who’s just as deep in it, so you’re no worse off.”
“But I don’t want to owe anything to either of them. It simply mustn’t come to that. Besides, there’s Hubert—do you think he’ll ever consent?”
Adrian said gravely:
“I think he has consented, Dinny; otherwise he’d have asked for bail. Probably he’ll be in charge of Bolivians and won’t feel he’s breaking English law. I fancy they’ve convinced him between them that they won’t run much risk. No doubt he feels fed up with the whole thing and ready for anything. Don’t forget that he’s really being very unjustly treated, and is just married.”
“Yes,” said Dinny, in a hushed voice. “And you, Uncle? How are things?”
Adrian’s answer was no less quiet:
“Your advice was right; and I’m fixed up to go, subject to this business.”
CHAPTER 36
The feeling that such things did not happen persisted with Dinny even after her interview with Adrian; she had too often read of them in books. And yet, there was history, and there were the Sunday papers! Thought of the Sunday papers calmed her curiously and fortified her resolution to keep Hubert’s affair out of them. But she conscientiously posted to Jean the Turkish primer, and took to poring over maps in Sir Lawrence’s study when he was out. She also studied the sailing dates of the South American lines.
Two days later Sir Lawrence announced at dinner that ‘Walter’ was back; but after a holiday it would no doubt take him some time to reach a little thing like Hubert’s.
“A little thing!” cried Dinny: “merely his life and our happiness.”
“My dear, people’s lives and happiness are the daily business of a Home Secretary.”
“It must be an awful post. I should hate it.”
“That,” said Sir Lawrence, “is where your difference from a public man comes in, Dinny. What a public man hates is NOT dealing with the lives and happiness of his fellow-beings. Is our bluff ready, in case he comes early to Hubert?”
“The diary’s printed—I’ve passed the proof; and the preface is written. I haven’t seen that, but Michael says it’s a ‘corker.’”
“Good! Mr. Blythe’s corkers give no mean pause. Bobbie will let us know when Walter reaches the case.”
“What is Bobbie?” asked Lady Mont.
“An institution, my dear.”
“Blore, remind me to write about that sheep-dog puppy.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“When their faces are mostly white they have a kind of divine madness, have you noticed, Dinny? They’re all called Bobbie.”
“Anything less divinely mad than our Bobbie—eh, Dinny?”
“Does he always do what he says he will, Uncle?”
“Yes; you may bet on Bobbie.”
“I do want to see some sheep-dog trials,” said Lady Mont: “Clever creatures. People say they know exactly what sheep not to bite; and so thin, really. All hair and intelligence. Hen has two. About your hair, Dinny?”
“Yes, Aunt Em?”
“Did you keep what you cut off?”
“I did.”
“Well, don’t let it go out of the family; you may want it. They say we’re goin’ to be old-fashioned again. Ancient but modern, you know.”
Sir Lawrence cocked his eye. “Have you ever been anything else, Dinny? That’s why I want you to sit. Permanence of the type.”
“What type?” said Lady Mont. “Don’t be a type, Dinny; they’re so dull. There was a man said Michael was a type; I never could see it.”
“Why don’t you get Aunt Em to sit instead, Uncle? She’s younger than I am any day, aren’t you, Auntie?”
“Don’t be disrespectful. Blore, my Vichy.”
“Uncle, how old is Bobbie?”
“No one really knows. Rising sixty, perhaps. Some day, I suppose, his date will be discovered; but they’ll have to cut a section and tell it from his rings. You’re not thinking of marrying him, are you, Dinny? By the way, Walter’s a widower. Quaker blood somewhere, converted Liberal—inflammable stuff.”
“Dinny takes a lot of wooin’,” said Lady Mont.
“Can I get down, Aunt Em? I want to go to Michael’s.”
“Tell her I’m comin’ to see Kit tomorrow mornin’. I’ve got him a new game called Parliament—they’re animals divided into Parties; they all squeak and roar differently, and behave in the wrong pla
ces. The Prime Minister’s a zebra, and the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s a tiger—striped. Blore, a taxi for Miss Dinny.”
Michael was at the House, but Fleur was in. She reported that Mr. Blythe’s preface had already been sent to Bobbie Ferrar. As for the Bolivians—the Minister was not back, but the Attachй in charge had promised to have an informal talk with Bobbie. He had been so polite that Fleur was unable to say what was in his mind. She doubted if there was anything.
Dinny returned on as many tenterhooks as ever. It all seemed to hinge on Bobbie Ferrar, and he ‘rising’ sixty, so used to everything that he must surely have lost all persuasive flame. But perhaps that was for the best. Emotional appeal might be wrong. Coolness, calculation, the power of hinting at unpleasant consequences, of subtly suggesting advantage, might be what was wanted. She felt, indeed, completely at sea as to what really moved the mind of Authority. Michael, Fleur, Sir Lawrence had spoken from time to time as if they knew, and yet she felt that none of them were really wiser than herself. It all seemed to balance on the knife-edge of mood and temper. She went to bed and had practically no sleep.
One more day like that, and then, as a sailor, whose ship has been in the doldrums, wakes to movement under him, so felt Dinny when at breakfast she opened an unstamped envelope with “Foreign Office” imprinted on it.
“DEAR MISS CHERRELL,—
“I handed your brother’s diary to the Home Secretary yesterday afternoon. He promised to read it last night, and I am to see him today at six o’clock. If you will come to the Foreign Office at ten minutes to six, we might go round together.
“Sincerely yours,
“R. FERRAR.”
So! A whole day to get through first! By now ‘Walter’ must have read the diary; had perhaps already made up his mind on the case! With the receipt of that formal note, a feeling of being in conspiracy and pledged to secrecy had come to her. Instinctively she said nothing of it; instinctively wanted to get away from everybody till all was over. This must be like waiting for an operation. She walked out into a fine morning, and wondered where on earth she should go; thought of the National Gallery, and decided that pictures required too much mind given to them; thought of Westminster Abbey and the girl Millicent Pole. Fleur had got her a post as mannequin at Frivolle’s. Why not go there, look at the winter models, and perhaps see that girl again? Rather hateful being shown dresses if you were not going to buy, giving all that trouble for nothing. But if only Hubert were released she would ‘go off the deep end’ and buy a real dress, though it took all her next allowance. Hardening her heart, therefore, she turned in the direction of Bond Street, forded that narrow drifting river, came to Frivolle’s, and went in.
“Yes, Madam”; and she was shown up, and seated on a chair. She sat there with her head a little on one side, smiling and saying pleasant things to the saleswoman; for she remembered one day in a big shop an assistant saying: “You’ve no idea, Moddam, what a difference it makes to us when a customer smiles and takes a little interest. We get so many difficult ladies and—oh! well—” The models were very ‘late,’ very expensive, and mostly, she thought, very unbecoming, in spite of the constant assurance: “This frock would just suit you, Madam, with your figure and colouring.”
Not sure whether to ask after her would harm or benefit the girl Millicent Pole, she selected two dresses for parade. A very thin girl, haughty, with a neat little head and large shoulder blades came wearing the first, a creation in black and white; she languished across with a hand on where one hip should have been, and her head turned as if looking for the other, confirming Dinny in the aversion she already had from the dress. Then, in the second dress, of sea green and silver, the one that she really liked except for its price, came Millicent Pole. With professional negligence she took no glance at the client, as who should say: “What do you think! If you lived in underclothes all day—and had so many husbands to avoid!” Then, in turning, she caught Dinny’s smile, answered it with a sudden startled brightness, and moved across again, languid as ever. Dinny got up, and going over to that figure now standing very still, took a fold of the skirt between finger and thumb, as if to feel its quality.
“Nice to see you again.”
The girl’s loose flower-like mouth smiled very sweetly. ‘She’s marvellous!’ thought Dinny.
“I know Miss Pole,” she said to the saleswoman. “That dress looks awfully nice on her.”
“Oh! but Madam, it’s your style completely. Miss Pole has a little too much line for it. Let me slip it on you.”
Not sure that she had been complimented, Dinny said:
“I shan’t be able to decide today; I’m not sure I can afford it.”
“That is quite all right, Madam. Miss Pole, just come in here and slip it off, and we’ll slip it on Madam.”
In there the girl slipped it off. ‘Even more marvellous,’ thought Dinny: ‘Wish I looked as nice as that in undies,’ and suffered her own dress to be removed.
“Madam is beautifully slim,” said the saleswoman.
“Thin as a rail!”
“Oh, no, Madam is well covered.”
“I think she’s just right!” The girl spoke with a sort of eagerness. “Madam has style.”
The saleswoman fastened the hook.
“Perfect,” she said. “A little fullness here, perhaps; we can put that right.”
“Rather a lot of my skin,” murmured Dinny.
“Oh! But so becoming, with a skin like Madam’s.”
“Would you let me see Miss Pole in that other frock—the black and white?”
This she said, knowing that the girl could not be sent to fetch it in her underclothes.
“Certainly; I’ll get it at once. Attend to Madam, Miss Pole.”
Left to themselves, the two girls stood smiling at each other.
“How do you like it now you’ve got it, Millie?”
“Well, it isn’t all I thought, Miss.”
“Empty?”
“I expect nothing’s what you think it. Might be a lot worse, of course.”
“It was you I came in to see.”
“Did you reely? But I hope you’ll have the dress, Miss—suits you a treat. You look lovely in it.”
“They’ll be putting you in the sales department, Millie, if you don’t look out.”
“Oh! I wouldn’t go there. It’s nothing but a lot of soft sawder.”
“Where do I unhook?”
“Here. It’s very economic—only one. And you can do it for yourself, with a wriggle. I read about your brother, Miss. I do think that’s a shame.”
“Yes,” said Dinny, and stood stony in her underclothes. Suddenly she stretched out her hand and gripped the girl’s. “Good luck, Millie!”
“And good luck to you, Miss!”
They had just unclasped hands when the saleswoman came back.
“I’m so sorry to have bothered you,” smiled Dinny, “but I’ve quite made up my mind to have this one, if I can afford it. The price is appalling.”
“Do you think so, Madam? It’s a Paris model. I’ll see if I can get Mr. Better to do what he can for YOU—it’s YOUR frock. Miss Pole, find Mr. Better for me, will you?”
The girl, now in the black and white creation, went out.
Dinny, who had resumed her dress, said:
“Do your mannequins stay long with you?”
“Well, no; in and out of dresses all day, it’s rather a restless occupation.”
“What becomes of them?”
“In one way or another they get married.”
How discreet! And soon after, Mr. Better—a slim man with grey hair and perfect manners—having said he would reduce the price ‘for Madam’ to what still seemed appalling, Dinny went out into the pale November sunlight saying she would decide tomorrow. Six hours to kill. She walked North–East towards the Meads, trying to soothe her own anxiety by thinking that everyone she passed, no matter how they looked, had anxieties of their own. Seven million people, in one
way of another all anxious. Some of them seemed so, and some did not. She gazed at her own face in a shop window, and decided that she was one of those who did not; and yet how horrid she felt! The human face was a mask, indeed! She came to Oxford Street and halted on the edge of the pavement, waiting to cross. Close to her was the bony white-nosed head of a van horse. She began stroking its neck, wishing she had a lump of sugar. The horse paid no attention, nor did its driver. Why should they? From year’s end to year’s end they passed and halted, halted and passed through this maelstrom, slowly, ploddingly, without hope of release, till they both fell down and were cleared away. A policeman reversed the direction of his white sleeves, the driver jerked his reins, and the van moved on, followed by a long line of motor vehicles. The policeman again reversed his sleeves and Dinny crossed, walked on to Tottenham Court Road, and once more stood waiting. What a seething and intricate pattern of creatures, and their cars, moving to what end, fulfilling what secret purpose? To what did it all amount? A meal, a smoke, a glimpse of so-called life in some picture palace, a bed at the end of the day. A million jobs faithfully and unfaithfully pursued, that they might eat, and dream a little, and sleep, and begin again. The inexorability of life caught her by the throat as she stood there, so that she gave a little gasp, and a stout man said:
“Beg pardon, did I tread on your foot, Miss?”
As she was smiling her ‘No,’ a policeman reversed his white sleeves, and she crossed. She came to Gower Street, and walked rapidly up its singular desolation. ‘One more ribber, one more ribber to cross,’ and she was in the Meads, that network of mean streets, gutters, and child life. At the Vicarage both her Uncle and Aunt for once were in, and about to lunch. Dinny sat down, too. She did not shrink from discussing the coming ‘operation’ with them. They lived so in the middle of operations. Hilary said:
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