by Peter Baron
“Pretty scaly forgathering, what?” he suggested in his drawling falsetto.
“By which,” sighed the Duke, in his kind, well-modulated voice, “I take it that your advances have been unsuccessful? Leave the stage alone, Freddie. Actresses have good legs but bad morals.”
He puffed reflectively at his cigar and studied an undraped Diana on the opposite wall with passive appreciation.
“Now there,” he said contentedly, “we have beauty of body and morals, Freddie.”
But Freddie was asleep. Having contributed to the conversation to the utmost of his capability—one remark every ten minutes—he had retired into his former comatose state with a satisfied smile. After all, Leslie had said “One.”
It was now twenty past and no woman was ever less than forty-five minutes late—it was a point of honor—so he had approximately half-an-hour in which to rest.
Reasoning thus, he drifted into dreamless slumber. And erred.
Two minutes after sleep claimed him, Leslie walked down the lobby towards them to an accompaniment of polite, disdainful, and envious nods, the tribute that every well-dressed, pretty woman commands.
She came to a stand before the Duke, who had risen to his feet.
“Hallo, Erb,” she said, extending her hand cordially and, bending forward, she tapped Freddie gently on the head with her glove.
His Grace offered his arm gallantly.
“Ignore the sleeping beauty, my dear,” he remarked. “Lunch awaits us,” and with a last glance at Freddie: “I hope his soup is cold when he wakes up.”
He led the way into the restaurant and Freddie, with a tired smile, joined them, babbling brightly about the weather to a decidedly inattentive young lady.
The Duke had reserved a corner window seat from which they could see both the teeming crowds in Regent Street and the host of diners in the restaurant.
Leslie noticed a cluster of scarlet roses in the center of the table and recognized her host’s hand.
A bowing waiter sidled up to the table, rapidly jotted down a few details as he passed to each of them and then vanished as swiftly as he had come.
Forestalling Freddie’s tentative efforts to start a conversation and monopolize her for himself, Leslie turned to her host.
“It’s ages since I’ve seen you, you old ruffian Erb,” she said, impudently. “You’re as bad as Marky. Where have you been hiding yourself?”
“I only arrived in England yesterday, my dear, and naturally my first thought was of lunching with you.”
She returned his smile engagingly.
“Naturally,” she mimicked, “but the lunching part of it ruins the compliment. I believe you’re an irreclaimable gourmet, Erb.”
“Absolute glutton,” said Freddie solemnly, and possessed himself of the finger she was wagging reprovingly at his uncle.
“I believe in enjoying the good things of life, certainly,” rejoined His Grace, “among which is your society. The greater includes the lesser—hence my lunch, even though it entails enduring the somnolent society of the resuscitated cod who is striving to dislocate your finger.”
“Here, I say,” protested the ‘resuscitated cod,’ sleepily, as Leslie disengaged her finger, “go easy with the fulsome flattery, Erb.”
“The younger generation,” said the Duke weightily, “has an unpleasing lack of respect which I find most trying.”
He fixed his eyes reprovingly on his nephew and, having quelled that gentleman, turned to Leslie.
“By the way, how is Marky?”
“Still as restless as ever,” sighed Leslie. “People at Marky’s time of life don’t change much, Erb.”
“I sincerely hope that that blot on the landscape will change before it is too late,” said His Grace, ferociously eyeing his nephew. “Don’t gape, Freddie.”
“No—er—rather not,” agreed Freddie cheerfully.
“You were saying, my dear?” continued the Duke, turning to Leslie.
“Simply that dear old Marky wants some interest in life other than his moldy old books. You see more of him than I do, you know. He’s hardly been at the house at all during the past two years. I haven’t seen him for two days.”
“Optician’s over the way,” murmured Freddie cheerfully. “Don’t babble, Freddie,” his uncle reproved gently. “Certainly,” beamed Freddie, “made quite a name for myself at not babbling.”
“Marky’s out at all hours of the day,” Leslie continued, ignoring Freddie’s efforts to join in the conversation. “He accepts the various invitations and when whatever it is arrives, he’s vanished. He’s awfully trying.”
“Clever fellow,” applauded Freddie, making another determined effort. “Meantersay—something fearfully—er—what you might call—booky about bookshops, what? You know, awfully thrilling——”
“Don’t babble or goggle, Freddie,” said His Grace coldly.
“No—er—no, after mature consideration—perhaps not,” agreed Freddie and relapsed into silence again.
The meal passed in comparative silence, the Duke eyeing the crowded restaurant with interest, Leslie studying Regent Street and Freddie contributing rather less than his usual quota to the conversation.
The Duke did not speak again until the waiter had set coffee before them and retired.
“I chose the Rivoli, my dear,” he said, “because I am, as you know, a keen psychologist. I find it interesting to watch the masses feeding.”
“To listen to the masses feeding,” corrected Freddie, brightly. “There is a man behind you, Leslie——”
“I can hear him, thank you,” she shuddered. “A solo on spaghetti...
“You have no ear for music,” sighed the Duke. “Nevertheless this restaurant is very diverting. Quite ten per cent, of the people present today are criminals. The remaining ninety per cent.
“Peers of the realm,” Freddie interrupted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said ‘congenital idiots,’ “ answered Freddie.
His Grace frowned coldly on his nephew and decided to ignore him.
“I was about to say,” he continued in a dignified tone, “that the remaining ninety per cent, are very commonplace people and consequently interesting.”
“How would you classify Freddie or myself?” asked Leslie, accepting a cigarette from Freddie’s proffered case.
“You, in a class of your own,” responded the Duke gallantly. “Freddie is an accident that I prefer to forget. I consider that my brother showed lamentable taste in turning loose that blight upon the earth. He is flippant, foolish, fat-headed, feckless, fatuous, flatulent——”
“Hitherto unknown virtues in an already beautiful character are revealed,” grinned Freddie and, as an afterthought, “Try the G’s, Erb.”
“Otherwise,” continued the Duke, “he is a charming boy and, talking of criminals, I see the Squid has made another coup.”
“A bank this time, wasn’t it?” asked Leslie interestedly, cupping her chin in her hands.
“Diamond cut diamond,” said Freddie drowsily. “Sooner or later these batteners on mankind—bankers and other rogues—strangle one another.”
“The Squid,” corrected the Duke, “is a better educated crook than your average bank manager. He is suspected of being what is, I believe, termed by the initiate, a gentleman crook——”
“The terms are synonymous,” drawled Freddie.
“Probably American,” continued His Grace with a withering glance at his irrepressible nephew, “and certainly a rogue of the most pronounced type, working amongst the leisured classes——”
“Bears out the jolly old Leicester thesis,” interrupted Freddie. “All the leisured classes are rogues.”
“A budding Socialist,” mocked Leslie.
“A blithering idiot,” said the Duke, glowering unutterable things at his nephew. “The Squid at least has brains, and that rules Freddie out!”
“It’s a wonder that Marky’s tiara hasn’t come to his notice
before now,” Leslie commented thoughtfully, extinguishing her cigarette. “It’s worth a fortune.”
“So are Erb’s diamonds,” said Freddie. “The result of more battening on human frailty. It’s time that they were roped in by the marine johnny.”
“My collection,” said His Grace serenely, “is too valuable to be lightly lost. I flatter myself that they are immune from the avidious hands of the Squid. You may rest assured that I have taken adequate measures to protect what has taken me a lifetime to collect——”
“And De Beers a lifetime to trace,” grinned Freddie, fidgeting, to his uncle’s annoyance, with a wineglass.
“Throw it on the floor,” suggested the Duke acidly, “and put my nerves at rest.”
Freddie smiled, then stared questioningly at Leslie.
“Erb,” said that lady swiftly before he could speak, “I must away. Freddie is going to propose. I can see it in his eye. Freddie, my gloves.”
With a woebegone countenance, Freddie reached for the gloves and in so doing knocked the glass on the floor.
“Bent,” he murmured sorrowfully, eyeing the ruin on the carpet sadly.
A waiter streaked across the room and dropped crooningly over the broken glass. “Put it,” said Freddie magnificently, “on His Grace’s bill. He will not make the same mistake again.”
The Duke eyed his nephew despairingly and, rising, prepared to escort Leslie to her car.
V. MAN AND MAID
It was a little after four o’clock when Leslie allowed Sadie to dress her in a becoming afternoon frock of jade green.
“Mr. Craven is with Sir Marcus in the library, Miss Leslie,” said Sadie, deftly restoring her mistress’s curly head to some semblance of order.
A slightly increased color and a sudden warm glow in her eyes were the only signs Leslie gave, but they were sufficient. Sadie smiled wistfully. The “Please hurry, Sadie,” although very self-possessed, did not deceive the maid.
In the library the man whose name had brought the betraying flush to Leslie’s cheek lounged easily in a chair opposite his friend.
Jimmy Craven was just twenty-seven, tall, dark, with impudent eyes and a humorous mouth. Bagshaw, of the “Evening Mail,” regarded him as one of his most alert and promising young men. Crowland, the superior star reporter, saw only Jimmy’s lack of sartorial taste and his inconsequent negligence. ‘
At the moment, as usual, Jimmy’s tie had succeeded in writhing its way round to the back of his neck; his trousers were even more baggy at the knees than usual; and his socks hung in deplorable wrinkles.
“No time for fashion plates,” was his invariable good-natured defense against the barbed witticisms of his friend Freddie Leicester, and yet, despite his untidy appearance, Jimmy was good to look upon, clean-limbed, healthy, perpetually cheerful and, to quote the immaculate Freddie, “a lovable cuss.”
In striking contrast was his host, the spare, upright and soldierly Sir Marcus Loseley.
Quietly dressed in black, a color that made his pale, almost ascetic face even paler, he sat regarding his guest. His hair was streaked plentifully with gray, but his eyes still retained the keenness of youth, although in his expression was the calm repose of maturity.
Sir Marcus pushed the cigarette box toward Jimmy.
The reporter accepted and, lighting a match, held it for the older man.
“Well, Jimmy, is this an unprofessional visit or are you looking for the eternal copy?” asked Sir Marcus in his deep pleasant voice.
“No, sir,” answered the reporter, “I dropped in to see Leslie. As a matter of fact, I had no idea that you were back.”
“I got back yesterday, and I expected to see you. Leslie’s conversation, even in the first rush of welcome, was very much tinged with the subject of one James Craven.”
He eyed the young reporter quizzically and Jimmy flushed.
“You see, sir,” he began confusedly, running his fingers through his black hair.
“Exactly,” smiled his host, “I do see. I gathered that you two youngsters had been seeing a fair amount of each other; consequently, when you arrived, I had an idea that I was not the principal attraction.”
Still smiling, he drew thoughtfully at his cigarette.
“What’s the most interesting thing in Fleet Street today?” he continued. “I get left behind in Faversham and the news passes me by.”
“The Squid, sir,” answered Jimmy quickly, glad of the temporary respite from a dangerous topic. “Bagshaw can’t get the Squid off his mind and I’ve got the story to write up. We absolutely talk, think, eat and drink Squid nowadays.”
“Not, I should imagine, an over-palatable beverage,” murmured Sir Marcus, “Whisky at your elbow.”
“It’s live copy from a news standpoint,” answered Jimmy, availing himself of his host’s offer, “but it’s dashed hard to get a line on the Squid, sir. No one can definitely swear to having seen him, with the possible exception of Jerry the Lag. Elveden—up at the Yard you know—rather favors the idea that Jerry is one of the Squid’s little bunch, and personally I think Jerry’s worth watching, although he’s so devilish close. Elveden tackled him a few days ago and the blighter refused point blank to say anything about the Squid whatever.”
“Wise man,” commented the other. “The Squid is not above murder.”
“He’s already got one murder to his credit,” agreed Jimmy. “So far he’s got away with it. It remains to be seen whether the invisible tentacles of the Squid will be able to avoid the long arm of the law much longer.”
“Not forgetting the inky feelers of the press, eh?” chaffed Sir Marcus.
Jimmy grinned and ran his fingers through his hair again.
“Would it surprise you to know that I once saw the Squid?” asked his host slowly.
The reporter stared blankly at him for fully a minute. If Sir Marcus were striving for effect, he had succeeded. A thunderbolt would not have startled Jimmy more.
“By Jove, sir, is that gospel?” he gasped and hurriedly produced a notebook. “I—well, I’d no idea that anyone beside Jerry had ever clapped eyes on him—and, as a matter of fact, I’m not altogether sure that Jerry has. He’s a lying old devil at the best.”
The Baronet’s face clouded over slightly and he regarded the reporter steadily for some moments without speaking.
“I don’t know why I am telling you this,” he confessed at length. “For four years I’ve kept it to myself—even Leslie does not suspect—but, well, you can hear what there is to tell. It was hushed up at the time and never got into the papers—for obvious reasons, and it’s confidential, Jimmy, sorry—but I can’t give you a news haul. You see, Leslie always thought her father died naturally——”
“Well, he did, didn’t he?” asked Jimmy interestedly, pocketing his notebook. “I remember reading the notice—heart failure, wasn’t it?”
“No! You spoke just now of the Squid being responsible for a murder—he was responsible for two!”
Sir Marcus’ face hardened and Jimmy sat forward suddenly.
“Good lord, you don’t mean——?”
“One of those two,” continued Sir Marcus in the same colorless tone and speaking as though he had not heard the reporter’s incredulous remark, “was a man for whom I had a very great affection.”
He drew thoughtfully at his cigarette.
“I met the Squid two minutes after he had committed the crime.”
“And?”
“He all but committed a second. I carry the scar to this day. The man he killed was John Richmond, my very good friend and Leslie’s father.”
“But the heart failure—I don’t understand——”
“Sop for the public,” replied Sir Marcus vacantly, and, looking the reporter straight between the eyes, he sat forward.
“Some day, Jimmy, I shall get the Squid for that crime.”
“You mean—kill him?” asked Jimmy, watching the other intently.
Sir Marcus shook his head and a harsh
unnatural laugh escaped him.
“Nothing so crude,” he answered in an ominously flat voice. “I shall put him behind the bars! What is death after all, but transition, in most cases instantaneous? No, my way is far more effective. It strikes at his vanity and further—it will teach him fear. The fear of death. Three long weeks with nothing else to do but sit and think. Think of it—the nerve-wracking trial—the long wait—and at the end of it—the rope!”
Jimmy, puffing hard at his unlighted cigarette, stared wonderingly at the baronet. Sir Marcus, the kindly, the placid—expressing those sentiments!
“But, good Lord, sir—I’d no idea—you mean you’re going to——?” he sat back, wide-eyed, unbelieving.
“I don’t know how,” said Sir Marcus, “but I know that if there is a God it will be done, Jimmy, even if it costs me my life.”
There was a queer, almost fanatical, light in his eyes and his voice trembled curiously.
“Can you describe the Squid, sir?” asked Jimmy nervously, striving to evade any further reference to Sir Marcus’ last statement.
The Baronet rubbed a hand over his eyes and pulled himself together.
“Your enthusiasm smells of the Press,” he said warningly. “Remember that this is not for the Evening Mail. I tell you this in confidence, and I expect you to respect my wishes.”
The reporter nodded his agreement, a little reluctantly.
“The Squid, as I remember him,” said Sir Marcus, “is of stocky build and dressed entirely in black. He is, I should say, of medium height and over his head wears the most ghastly mask I have ever seen. A huge waxen head hinged at the jaw—an exact model of a human head—a bald head. The mask is of a most repellent pallor and, save for the movement of his eyes—cold and intent—and jaw, it remains fixed, a horrible composed fixity. The head joins his shoulders by a neck that is partially hidden by collar and tie. A foul, ghoul-like thing, Jimmy, and one that I am going to tear from his face one day—God’s curse on him.”
He clenched his hand and brought it down violently on the table.