Complete Works of a E W Mason

by A. E. W. Mason

  “It is true. The banker wins every coup.” He looked steadily for a moment or two at Monsieur Chaunard. “And what is this establishment of yours of which you spoke?”

  Monsieur Chaunard shrugged his shoulders.

  “The Sûreté of Paris,” he replied, and a movement rippled swiftly about the table like a flaw of wind about a pond. “You have an establishment of the same kind here. You call it the Q.E.D.”

  “No, no!” Mr. Ricardo was of too precise a mind to endure so ridiculous a variation. “The C.I.D.,” he cried like a man suffering grievously from the toothache. “The C.I.D.,” and he repeated the initials, spacing them, so that never such a mistake might occur again.

  Monsieur Chaunard was charming, not at all annoyed by the unnecessary interruption, just dignified and firm, if I may use his admirable phrase, a man in his veins. He looked rather sorrowfully at Mr. Ricardo.

  “My friend, you overstep a little. In the socialities I am at your feet. But in the matters of police, I know. I read your papers. I see great riddles solved and at the end — what? Q.E.D. Ah, a fine tribute! The Press — it gives us no such recognition in France.”

  “Very well,” said Arnold Mann a trifle impatiently, “you belong to the Q.E.D. of France.”

  “It is so.”

  “And your name?”

  “I am Hanaud.” The reply was made with a superb simplicity. “In every generation our police has a Hanaud. I am he of this one.”

  There seemed to be nothing further to be said and Hanaud rose from his chair.

  “You will understand, Mr. Sanford, Mr. Calhoun, that I am not here officially. If ever you came to France that would be another matter. But here I am the friend of Monsieur de Craix and all that I can do is to repeat one little word — restitutions.”

  He bowed ceremoniously and in a dead silence he went out of the room with Mr. Ricardo at his heels. He had hardly closed the door behind him before the spell was broken. A veritable clamour broke out. Those imprisoned in the buffet added their voices and their strength. The double doors bent and broke. Jack Sanford was swept aside; a wave of curious, angry people surged in to mingle with the others. And all at once that decorous assemblage became a mob, ugly, raw, deadly. Jack Sanford, shaking with fear, cowered against the wall. In front of him a throng of hysterical women and excited men threatened him. Fine clothes went for nothing. It was mob-passion working up to the fling of the first stone; and of the two sexes it seemed to me that the women were the more alarming.

  “Ladies — gentlemen — we will put all right. It was a mistake — someone has tricked us all,” Jack Sanford screamed in a high shrill feminine scream which made me feel sick. And at once jeers and cries interrupted him. But amongst them all was one in the room who kept his head. I caught Imogen to my side and drew her away towards the windows upon Savile Row. I looked about for Michael Crowther. He had disappeared. I said to myself bitterly: “He has bolted. Pongyis don’t fight even to protect the women they are with,” and as the thought flashed into my mind, the door on to the staircase was thrown open and Michael stood upon the threshold. He cried in a voice which overtopped the tumult so that not a man nor a woman but must hear him:

  “The police!”

  It was a word of magic.

  “The police!” he cried again and his voice rang with authority. He was again as in old days the captain of a ship and the ship in danger. The shouts were hushed, the abuse and the threats died away in growls. No one wanted the police brought into the affair. All turned towards the door; and with a spontaneous single movement the women fell back, the men ranged themselves in front of them. A bare space of floor littered with fragments of lace was left between the men and Crowther at the door.

  “You?” said Arnold Mann. “You are of the police?”

  Michael shook his head.

  “There are no police,” he answered quietly. “But in five minutes there would have been.”

  A gasp of relief followed upon his words. A woman here and there even began to repair her face and her toilet. There was suddenly a sense of shame. In the midst of the silence Crowther stalked across the room. He looked at Imogen and myself.

  “You and I, at all events, have no reason to stay.”

  We followed him down the stairs without a word. Imogen and I got our coats from the cloak-room and went out. Even in that quiet street a tiny crowd had gathered. For once the silent room had spoken but it was silent again now. I had parked my car a few houses away. Crowther was still in command. We drove away.

  Chapter 18 Imogen Asks Questions

  AT THE CORNER where Clifford Street runs into Bond Street Crowther asked to be put down. I stopped the car but Imogen said:

  “Please wait a moment, Michael.”

  It was a small car and we were all together on the one seat with Imogen between Michael and myself. She turned her face towards him.

  “Didn’t you feel to-night that you had a place in the world?” she asked.

  Michael was silent.

  “In this world — here?”

  Michael moved his legs uncomfortably.

  “And rather a fine place if you chose.”

  “I think I’ll get down,” said Crowther.

  But he did not open the door. Imogen was still looking at him. I was remembering small, long-forgotten things — not his bumptiousness nor his dishonesty — but how completely he was master of his ship amongst the swirls and sand-banks of the Irrawaddy and with what neatness and certainty he had edged her into the one tiny vacant space in the line of steamers at Mandalay. Thus we sat without speaking for a few moments. Then Imogen continued her questioning.

  “How old are you, Crowther?”

  “Forty-three,” he answered.

  “Not too old,” said Imogen.

  “To lose one’s soul again? No. Not too old for that,” he replied. His hand moved towards the catch of the door, but Imogen had not done with him.

  “You were sure of yourself to-night, Crowther. One could tell it from your voice. You had authority. You were the Centurion who says unto one, Go, and he goeth and to another, Come, and he cometh.”

  Crowther’s hand fell to his side again. It seemed to me that Imogen was pressing him rather cruelly.

  “You enjoyed your moment to-night, Crowther.”

  Crowther did not answer, but Imogen pressed him.

  “I could hear that, too, in your voice. You enjoyed it.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Crowther made the admission reluctantly, remorsefully.

  “Well, then!” cried Imogen.

  “The more blame to me,” Crowther answered. “It was vanity.”

  “It was power.”

  And with his next words Crowther’s calmness broke up like the face of a pool in a sudden storm. His voice was low but vibrant with passion.

  “No! I tried here. I failed here. I was more unhappy here than I believed it possible that a man could be.”

  Imogen caught him up.

  “You tried... you failed... you were unhappy....” She repeated, weighing his words. Were there ever reasons so feeble? They sounded all the more lamentable in that there was no contempt in Imogen’s voice. A note of surprise, perhaps, that the man who had dominated a room full of hysterical and violent people should use such excuses, but no more than that.

  “Service means nothing, then,” she said gently, and Crowther started as though she had slapped his face.

  “I have only one thing to do here and then I’m through. Through! Do you hear that?” And in a gust of bitterness he added: “I hope I won’t see you again.”

  He snatched at the handle of the door and flung himself out of the car. He banged the door to and stood for a moment on the kerb. The light of a street-lamp showed us his face. It was white and his eyes were smouldering with resentment. Then he turned on his heel and went back by the way we had come — up Clifford Street towards Savile Row.

  Imogen looked straight in front of her with her face set. She was hu
rt, and deeply hurt. I felt a swift unreasonable stab of jealousy. Why should Imogen be so concerned? Why should Crowther so disquiet us with his lost sapphire?

  “It might be the Kohinoor,” I grumbled.

  Imogen shook her head.

  “It isn’t a jewel at all. It’s an idea,” she answered.

  It was at all events the symbol of an idea. But the idea had given us nothing but trouble and to Imogen had brought actual danger. It stretched over our heads as the shadow of Adam’s Peak stretched over Ratnapura. I drove on slowly, wishing that I had never set foot on the gangway of the Dagonet nor made the acquaintance of her Captain.

  Suddenly Imogen laid her hand upon my arm.

  “Do you mean that, Martin?” she asked.

  “I never said a word,” I answered.

  “You didn’t have to. I knew what you were wishing and I don’t want you to wish it. For I think we found our way to one another sooner than we otherwise should have done because of Michael’s sapphire.”

  I had no answer to that. The morning on Adam’s Peak, the day at the rest-house in the jungle, the meeting on the terrace of the Rock-Temple at Dhambulla — they had made a whole world of difference to both of us.

  “You’re right, sweetheart,” I said, and since at this time of night I could drive across Mayfair with one hand, I slipped my left arm about her waist. “We’ll do what we can.”

  But I never looked upon Crowther with the same eyes afterwards, nor thought of him with the same regard. A little while ago he had grown into an aloof and romantic figure — the man who must recognise no ties, be moved by no love, and owe no duty. But four words spoken by Imogen had stripped the romance from him. “Service means nothing, then?” I wanted to be fair. I knew that the monks taught and taught well, but there was no obligation upon them to teach. Their monastery grounds were school-rooms but they need not keep them open. Service was no part of their creed. Service meant nothing and I could not remember anything worth devoting a life to into which service did not enter.

  And Crowther bristled with anger. For he had no answer.

  Chapter 19 Jill Leslie

  THE ESTABLISHMENT OF Jack Sanford was open for the last time on the night when the man from Limoges had the bad flavour to demonstrate the 705 formula. I might go home as late as I would, I saw no light slip past the edges of the curtains into Savile Row. All was dark in that upper apartment. A board announced that a commodious flat was to let and one day the big vans of an auctioneer carried all the furniture away to a sales-room. Robin Calhoun had vanished. Michael Crowther and his troubles passed for a little time out of my knowledge and might, perhaps, have done so altogether but for one of Imogen’s idiosyncrasies.

  It was one of her pleasures to discover a new restaurant, and the smaller the better. At once all her friends must try it. The cooking was the best in London, the cellar stocked with unparalleled vintages. There never had been a restaurant so choice, though there was certain to be another one just a tiny bit better when in the course of a month or two another discovery was made. Late in June of this year Imogen discovered such a paragon of a place in that capital of little restaurants, Soho. It was a long, low, frenchified room with cushioned benches against the wall and scrubby menus written out in copying ink, and it was called Le Buisson. Two little green trees in two little green tubs stood outside the window upon the pavement. There was a patron and several spécialitiés of the maison which were quite marvellous; and, in fact, it was quite indistinguishable from half a dozen similar restaurants within a radius of a hundred yards. To Le Buisson I was accordingly taken on the very last day of June. We dined there at eight o’clock intending to go to a cinema afterwards, and as we took our seats I noticed, a little way down the room, a young singer who was beginning to make her mark in the world. Letty Ransome. She was of a quite lustrous beauty with black hair and a pale, clear face romantic in repose. She gave an entertainment single-handed with a piano to help her.

  “Won’t she be late?” I asked of Imogen.

  “No. She comes on late nowadays. I saw her at the Corinth a couple of days ago,” Imogen answered. “You see who’s with her?”

  I had not seen more than the back of her head, for she was talking earnestly to Letty Ransome, but she turned her face towards us at that moment.

  “Why, it’s the girl who was with De Craix at Jack Sanford’s — —” And then I stopped with a gasp. “Do you see what she’s wearing?”

  “Yes,” said Imogen without any surprise whatever.

  The girl carried about her neck the platinum chain with the sapphire pendant. “Yes, that’s Jill Leslie.” And as she spoke the names she smiled at the girl and gave her a nod of recognition.

  “How in the world did you learn that?” I asked. “She was never with Robin Calhoun.”

  I remembered, indeed, that on the last evening she had come to the house at the same time as ourselves, with a stranger.

  “Yes, I know,” Imogen agreed. “But she always had a word or two once or twice with Robin Calhoun, a look or two more often. So I guessed even before the night when Ricardo and his detective appeared. But that night made me certain.”

  Jill Leslie, meanwhile, had opened her big eyes with surprise at Imogen’s recognition of her, had flushed up to the top of her forehead and then returned a little bow and a smile of thanks. Taken feature by feature she could not have answered to any canon of beauty, I suppose, except for her eyes, which were big and clear and dark as pools in a wood. Her hair was the most ordinary brown, her nose a trifle tip-tilted, her mouth generously wide. But she had beautiful teeth and a Madonna-like oval of a face. What gave her charm was the contrast between this placid contour of a devotee and her humour and high spirits. She was quick in the uptake and had enjoyment ready at her fingers’ ends. The right word, and the demure face was a tom-boy’s — with a sparkle of champagne. At this moment in the restaurant, it was grateful and a little bewildered.

  I asked Imogen what she would eat.

  “Grapefruit, a trout meunière and a cheese soufflé,” said she. “I told you, Martin, darling, didn’t I, that she was the one I was sorry for?”

  “You did, Imogen,” I answered. “You have a catholic heart and the most narrow-minded appetite I ever came across.”

  “You see all her rings are gone.”

  I looked again at Jill Leslie.

  “Now I see. There was a rope of big pearls, too, wasn’t there?”

  As we ate our dinner I began to be curious. I asked:

  “You guessed that this girl was Jill Leslie pretty quickly?”

  “Well — I don’t know about that,” Imogen replied.

  “Sooner than I did, anyway.”

  “Darling, you didn’t guess it at all. I had to tell you. You hadn’t the slightest idea. Oh, I’m not disheartened about it. I’ve no doubt that you were thinking of higher things — how many elephants can push how many logs into the Irrawaddy, if there was Summer Time in Burma. No, I am delighted that you shouldn’t see what’s under your nose. It gives me great hopes for our married life.”

  “When you’ve done,” I said, “I should like to ask you a question.”

  “My other name’s Sibyl,” said Imogen. “My spiritual home is Delphi.”

  “Very well. You want Michael to get back his sapphire and hang it up on his pagoda?”

  “I certainly do,” Imogen answered firmly. “I had a foolish moment or two when I tried to argue him out of his plan. But I was wrong. He has got a belief and that’s much too tremendous a thing for little people to meddle with. I’ve got an idea that Michael without his belief would be very like a Pekinese dog close shaved, nothing very much to look at anyway. But with his belief he’s the milk in the cocoanut. I shouldn’t wonder if that big voice of authority which brought us all to our senses in the house in Savile Row was nothing more than — what shall I say? — a by-product — I know that’s a good word — of his belief.”

  I had not been prepared for this treatise on faith
. I had to revise my own views a little by the light of it. I had lightly put down that voice of authority to a renascent habit of command, a readiness for an emergency which the Captain of a ship must have. But, after all, the swirls and shallows of the Irrawaddy did not make such very heavy demands upon the quality of a Commander, whilst the manoeuvre of edging a steamer into a vacant space against the bank at Mandalay must fall within the routine of every voyage. No, I must look to something else than the command of a river steamer for the power which had come out of Michael Crowther in volume enough to stop a riot.

  “Very well,” I said. “Then here’s my question.”

  “Yes, darling?”

  Imogen spoke indulgently like a schoolmistress encouraging the first signs of intelligence in a pupil.

  “You didn’t tell Michael which of the young women at Jack Sanford’s was Jill Leslie?”

  “No, darling.”

  “But you want Michael to get back his sapphire?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell him who had it?”

  Imogen looked at the wall across the room. There was a short silence. Then she said:

  “Is not the peacock a beautiful bird?”

  I expected that there would at all events be the picture of a peacock painted on the opposite wall. But it was quite blank. Then I remembered my own attempt at general conversation after dinner at Hatton.

  “The Socratic method of enquiry seems unpopular,” I reflected aloud.

  “And unreasonable,” said Imogen. “Women are often right but seldom logical.”

  At the table further down the room a waiter was presenting a bill, and Letty Ransome was redecorating her lips with the help of a little hand-mirror. Imogen wrote a few lines on the menu, folded it, wrote a name upon it and handed it to our waiter.

  “I’ve asked Jill Leslie to have coffee with us. You don’t mind, Martin, do you? I’m curious about her — rather moved by her.” Imogen laughed as she added: “Besides, I’d like to find out for my own satisfaction why I didn’t tell Michael that she was the girl who had his sapphire.”