Two in a Train

by Warwick Deeping

  Mr. Woodhill and Désirée looked at each other.

  Said Mr. Woodhill, “That was a lucky one. I think I had better see you home. Afterwards I can phone to the police.”

  Désirée had one of those vellum skins that do not flush with facility, but when a flush did appear there was no doubt about it.

  “How brave of monsieur! I cannot thank——”

  Mr. Woodhill glanced at the prone figure.

  “Well, never mind just now, mademoiselle. I don’t want to have to use this other stone on the fellow.”

  Inevitably, all Monsieur François’ prevarications were swimming in the potage. When he heard of his daughter’s adventure he ceased to possess prevarications. He even fell upon Mr. Woodhill in the hotel vestibule, embraced him, and kissed him on both cheeks.

  Mr. Woodhill was embarrassed, and all the more so because Mrs. Billington-Smythe happened to witness the incident. He had come in to make his evening report, and to receive his orders for to-morrow.

  “Woodhill.”

  “Madam?”

  Everybody was dressing for dinner, and the lounge was empty, and Mrs. Billington-Smythe interviewed her chauffeur in the lounge.

  “What is the meaning of this extraordinary behaviour?”

  “What behaviour, madam?”

  “You and François. A disgusting habit, men kissing each other. And François, of all people.”

  “I had done François a small service, madam.”

  “Indeed! And he kissed you for it. Just tell me exactly——”

  But Mr. Woodhill showed sudden temper.

  “A private affair of my own, madam. It happened—when I was not on duty. What orders for to-morrow, please?”

  Mrs. Billington-Smythe looked slightly astonished.

  “I am going to Cannes.”

  “At what hour, madam?”

  “Ten o’clock.”

  He bowed to her, and withdrew to the vestibule.

  François was waiting for him, a François who had been listening to the conversation, and whose good-will wished to express itself in solid acknowledgment.

  “Ah, Mr. Woodhill—there must be a little celebration. Yes, the police have locked up the bandit. We must have a little dinner, my friend. You will do us the honour of dining with us to-morrow at my villa?”

  Mr. Woodhill appeared to be in a curious temper.

  “I am sorry, Monsieur François—but I may be on duty to-morrow——”

  He walked towards the glass doors and François followed him. In fact he followed Mr. Woodhill out on to the gravelled space outside the hotel. It was empty and the stars were shining, and François took the young man by the arm.

  “My friend—my daughter insists. We will make dinner any hour you please.”

  Mr. Woodhill stood rigid and self-conscious.

  “Thank you and your daughter, but——”

  “You cannot refuse. Désirée——”

  And suddenly Mr. Woodhill let himself go.

  “Look here, François—I don’t feel that I’m fit to dine with your daughter. I’m nothing but a—— Oh, well, never mind. I can’t call my soul my own. That damned woman——!”

  François retained his hold of Mr. Woodhill’s arm.

  “Yes, that damned woman. Do you remember my people, François, when we were here before the war?”

  “Yes—I remember them. Your mother——”

  Mr. Woodhill seemed to wince.

  “Look here, François, you’re a man and so am I, though there are times when I feel like a cross between a lounge lizard and a Pekingese.”

  “That would be a strange animal, Monsieur Jack.”

  “Oh, don’t laugh at me, man.”

  “The good God forbid!”

  “I suppose I may as well tell you how I got into this livery. My old pater crashed badly in the money market. When he died he left my mother with about twopence a year. I had a job out in India, quite a good job. They fired me. Yes, economy. I couldn’t get another job out there, and I came home—steerage. I had sent the mater all my spare cash. I thought I could get some sort of job in England, but could I? Not—on your life. I spent six months on my feet, getting shabbier and shabbier. I hadn’t a bean. I was living with my mother in her small flat, a working-man’s flat. Yes, sponging, and my mother is the sort of woman—— Oh, well, I felt pretty desperate. Some of the bright lads seem to swallow that sort of thing quite easily. Living on women! Well, someone put me on to this. The lady wanted a courier-chauffeur who could speak French. I tell you I jumped at the chance, but—my God——!”

  He was trembling as with some secret indignation.

  “She’s—she’s an old vampire, François. It’s—— Oh, well, I’ve been sticking it because I could send a little money home. The mater’s been ill. Fact is—she won’t live very long, so what does my damned pride matter? I may as well swallow the medicine so long as I can. But look here, I am not coming to dine with your daughter. I don’t feel fit to——”

  François drew Mr. Woodhill to the stone balustrade of the terrace and spoke to him with unusual gentleness. The night was clear and sweet, and the stars were shining.

  “Monsieur Jack, we are grateful to you. The dinner will be an excellent dinner. You must try my daughter’s soufflé. Désirée is——”

  “I’m not coming, François.”

  “Chocolate soufflé. And I have some bottles of 1919——”

  “I’m not coming.”

  “And a little ‘fin’—Imperial ‘fin.’ ”

  “Damn you, François—why can’t you——?”

  François laughed.

  “My daughter has a new Paris frock. She will be so——”

  Mr. Woodhill threw up his head like a man confronting a crisis.

  “All right—I’ll come, just for the once. It’s awfully decent of you, François. I’ve been so damned lonely here.”

  “I quite understand, my dear. You come to us and enjoy your dinner. My daughter would like to hang a medal on you. To—‘Le Brave Jack.’ ”

  Mr. Woodhill still possessed a dinner jacket that had travelled from England in his old suit-case. He had brought that jacket with him, not because he had expected to wear it, but because it symbolized a self-regarding and more prosperous past. Désirée wore her new Paris frock, and when they stood together in François’ salon they looked as comely a couple as any fat little father could wish to see. They appraised each other, and in their eyes was a mutual liking. François, mixing little drinks at a side-table, smiled, rubbed his chin, and reflected. For the last three years he had been keeping his eyes open for a particular sort of young man. The young man would have to be good looking, possess a presence, character, knowledge of the world. He would need good eyes and a good head. It was essential that he should be able to speak English, French, and German.

  François clinked a glass against a bottle.

  “Monsieur Jack, can you speak German?”

  Mr. Woodhill turned and looked at him questioningly.

  “German? Yes, a little. But why?”

  François chuckled.

  “Oh—I just wondered. I just wondered.”

  When Mr. Woodhill returned to the hotel full of wine and dinner and Désirée, the night porter met him. Chauffeurs, maids and valets lived in a wing at the back of the Hesperides, and Mr. Woodhill always used the front door. Madame might have left some instructions for him at the bureau.

  “Madame has been on the telephone.”

  “My madame?”

  The man grinned.

  “You are to report to her—at once. She is waiting up.”

  Mr. Woodhill was smoking the last third of a third cigar. He tossed it into a metal fern pot and looked grim.

  “Many thanks. I go.”

  When he knocked at the door of Mrs. Billington-Smythe’s suite, he heard the lady’s voice from the deeps within.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Woodhill, madam.”

  “Come in.”


  He knew by her voice’s frayed edge that his mistress was in a temper, which was not unusual, and especially after three hours of cold and concentrated bridge in the fug of the hotel lounge. He had forgotten that he was wearing a dinner jacket. It had sat on him so naturally down there at François’s villa that it had become like his old and accustomed skin.

  Mrs. Billington-Smythe appeared from the bathroom in a brilliant cerise and green dressing-jacket. She looked flushed. Her brassy hair might have been blown about by a high wind. She stared at Mr. Woodhill. She was surprised, and offended by his dinner-jacket. What was the fellow doing wearing a dinner-jacket? How dared he wear a dinner-jacket without consulting her preference for pyjamas?

  “Where have you been?”

  The warmth of the François home seemed to die out of Jack Woodhill. He felt cold, murderously cold.

  “Out, madam.”

  “Out—where?”

  “Dining, madam.”

  “Dining! What do you mean by going off for hours without letting me know——?”

  He was icy.

  “When I am not on duty, madam, I presume——”

  “Where have you been dining?”

  “As a matter of fact—I have been dining with François.”

  “François?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that get up?”

  “There are occasions, madam, when Monsieur François wears a dinner jacket. What orders for to-morrow?”

  Mrs. Billington-Smythe changed her tone. You might be angry with your pet dog, but you were not angry all the time.

  “Golf—as usual. I shall want my clubs.”

  “Certainly, madam. The usual hour? Yes. Good night madam,” and before she could find anything else to say he had walked out and closed the door.

  But in the course of the next few days the affair of Mr. Woodhill, the brigand and the maiden had become public gossip in the Hotel Hesperides. People made a point of enlarging upon it to Mrs. Billington-Smythe. “I hear your chauffeur’s quite the hero.” “Almost, the Ronald Colman touch.” “A most romantic affair. They tell me the fellow was a most desperate character, and was badly wanted by the police.” Mrs. Billington-Smythe smiled through clenched teeth. She was not going to have her chauffeur behaving like a mountebank or a cinema star. He was just her paid servant—and——

  She made the announcement to Mr. Woodhill.

  “We are leaving for Cannes the day after to-morrow.”

  “Yes, madam. But—unfortunately—I shall be needed here as a witness. The police have warned me.”

  “A witness?”

  “Yes, against that fellow—who——”

  Mrs. Billington-Smythe flared.

  “Perfectly preposterous! I engaged you as a chauffeur, and not to get mixed up in affairs like this. We leave for Cannes the day after to-morrow. Damn the police.”

  “Certainly, madam.”

  He was preparing to walk out, but she called him back.

  “Woodhill, unless—you arrange—to be at my service—properly—I shall sack you. You understand?”

  “Quite, madam.”

  “Well, don’t let me have any more nonsense of this kind.”

  What Mrs. Billington-Smythe described as nonsense was interference of any kind by any person or public body with her pleasures and her passions. She was a spoilt child of fifty, and she believed in exercising the power of the purse. She rather thought that she had Mr. Woodhill on the leash, and he—examining the contents of his wallet in the privacy of his bedroom, was moved to rage against life’s limitations. He was the possessor of seventy-three francs, fifteen centimes. Ten days ago his spare cash had travelled to England on duty.

  “O, damn it!”

  He was in love, with the daughter of François. How impossible the whole thing was! He supposed that he would have to continue in the service of Mrs. Billington-Smythe. Even if he indulged in a magnificent gesture and discharged himself he had not the price of a ticket home.

  But he did not allow for the prepossessions of Mademoiselle Désirée. Like many Frenchwomen she had very decided opinions, and plump and determined affections. Many men had made love to her, and she had encouraged them, but Mr. Jack Woodhill was the man whom she had decided to marry. She was quite sure that he would satisfy her both as a lover and a husband. Like her father she had a nice sense of property.

  Also, she was a charming, affectionate, capable creature. She wanted to stroke her poor Jack’s worried head.

  She had always been frank with her father. She said—“Papa, about the new hotel at Aix? I have had an idea.”

  François had been juggling with the same idea.

  “Ah, yes—I need a manager. I have been keeping my eyes open for a manager, a gentlemanly fellow who would be willing to learn the business.”

  Father and daughter looked at each other.

  Said Désirée—“I—know—quite a lot about the management of hotels, papa. You have talked to me for years about hotels.”

  “You wish to manage my new ‘Splendide’?”

  She smiled at him.

  “You could arrange the new directorate, papa. You would be the chief director, and I——”

  François chuckled.

  “There should be a man on the spot too. I have thought of proposing to Mr. Woodhill that—with some instruction and supervision—he might make an excellent director. He has a presence, manners, language. He has had a business training. He is honest. Do you think, my dear, that Mr. Woodhill would make a successful director?”

  His daughter gave him a droll and affectionate look.

  “I think he would make an excellent director.”

  “In partnership?”

  She nodded. “Yes, in partnership with François.”

  François had dined, and he lit a cigar.

  “Shall I talk business to Mr. Woodhill or will you?”

  “You, naturally,” said the daughter.

  “It will surprise him. What if he should refuse?”

  “Then—I shall have to support you, papa.”

  François, having smoked his cigar, walked up to the Hotel Hesperides, and half-way up the path he met a melancholy and loitering figure. It was Mr. Woodhill coveting the moon.

  “What, you, my friend? I was coming to see you.”

  He laid a plump hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “I hear Madame Formidable is leaving for Cannes.”

  “Yes, that’s so.”

  “And you?”

  “I am her chauffeur.”

  François looked up at the moon.

  “Listen, Monsieur Jack. I have a proposal to make. Leave Mrs. Smythe to engage a new chauffeur, and come into business with me.”

  Mr. Woodhill stiffened.

  “What do you mean? At the Hesperides?”

  “No, no. I—François—am a man of capital. Next season I open a new hotel at Aix. I need a director.”

  “Well——?”

  “Why should not you be my director?”

  Mr. Woodhill was momentarily voiceless.

  “You’re not serious, François?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But I know nothing about hotels. It’s perfectly amazing of you, but my dear François—I’m not such a cad as all that. I could not justify——”

  “Then—you refuse?”

  “Absolutely. I’m not going to let you down.”

  François patted Mr. Woodhill’s shoulder.

  “Well—well—how disappointing, I will say no more. But go down to the villa, my friend; I shall be back in half an hour and we will share a little drink. You will find Désirée doing the household accounts. Tell her to give you a cigar.”

  Mr. Woodhill hesitated.

  “Look here, François, you’ve been most awfully kind to me, and I——”

  Again, François patted Mr. Woodhill’s shoulder.

  “Nothing, my friend, nothing. Go and sit in my chair and wait for me. Désirée will not feel d
isturbed. She will finish her accounts.”

  Mr. Woodhill surrendered, and went unsuspectingly to that more subtle temptation, and François walked up and down the path for three-quarters of an hour. He did not go to the Hotel Hesperides. He lit a second cigar. And presently he toddled back to the gate of the Villa des Fleurs. He looked at the moon and he heard voices.

  He sidled along the wall and stood listening. The voices came from the little terrace where the bougainvillea and the Banksia roses were in flower, and inwardly François chuckled.

  “But, my darling, it’s all so wonderful. I know nothing about hotels. How can I let your father——?”

  Someone’s fingers pinched a young man’s ear.

  “Are you so very old, Jack, so very, very old? Too old to learn?”

  “Well—I don’t know. I——”

  “I—know—quite a lot about hotels, mon cheri. But—of course—the proud Anglais would not learn from a woman.”

  “O—wouldn’t he? I’m learning the most marvellous things.”

  “Well, my Jack, learn to be an hotelier, and go and saboter the engine of Madame’s car.”

  There was sudden laughter, and other sounds, and François, setting up a humming in his throat, announced the parental presence.

  “Hallo, hallo! Do I hear voices?”

  Mr. Woodhill leaned over the wall.

  “That you, sir?”

  “I think so.”

  “Do you despise a man who changes his mind?”

  François chuckled.

  “Ask my daughter, Monsieur Jack. Who persuaded Adam——?”

  And as he entered the gate his daughter met him on the steps and kissed the top of her father’s bald head.

  Incidentally, Mrs. Billington-Smythe travelled to Cannes with a new chauffeur hired for a month from the local garage. She had threatened Mr. Woodhill with legal proceedings; he had broken his contract; she would interview the English consul at Cannes. She would——

  Mr. Woodhill, out of livery and dressed in his lounge suit, had been polite and a little ironic.