by Peter Baron
“I should like to thank you, sir,” he said, “for the opportunity to retrieve the error I made four years ago. Added to which, the score between the Squid and myself is a personal one.”
His face became even paler.
“John Richmond was a friend of mine,” he said simply.
“So I understand,” said Mainwaring, “but for God’s sake don’t mix sentiment up with this business! Personal quarrels are the downfall of too many people. And besides that, one has to think of the Service. Once an S.S. agent becomes known, he is useless and his career is ruined.”
B 29 nodded submissively.
“You can rely on me to do my utmost, sir.”
“You’ve got to do more than that,” stated Mainwaring definitely. “This department has been doing its best for the past four years with no result. The paper has lain in the Loseley tiara for four years and we didn’t know it. Whether Sir Marcus knew of it I cannot say——”
“I don’t think he did, sir,” said B 29. “He is the kind of man who is—well, he’s too straight and loyal to monkey about like that.”
“You know him?”
“In private life, yes,” replied the other. “He’s a personal friend.”
“It matters not,” interjected Mainwaring, “if he is a personal friend of His Majesty King George the Fifth of England, he has to be landed if there is any suspicion, however remote, attaching to him. Now that that letter is out in the open again, it must be recovered.”
He nodded briefly and took up a sheaf of papers.
That was dismissal. B 29 inclined his head slightly and left the room.
XXXV. THE HOUSE ON WIMBLEDON COMMON
Silence reigned in the taxi which carried Jerry and his master home from their eventful interview with the Assistant Commissioner of Police. The Baronet, as far as his gamekeeper could ascertain, was quite unmoved by what had transpired. And that was typical of Sir Marcus. Nothing was ever permitted to disturb his serene equanimity. The same spirit of unmoved fortitude which had carried him through life and his more recent ruin over Thyme’s was standing him in good stead now.
When he spoke at length his voice was perfectly controlled and even, betraying nothing of the emotions seething in his brain.
“In making myself responsible for you, Jerry,” he said, without looking at the other, “I suppressed all mention of your periodical lapses from grace.”
Jerry reddened slightly, but did not reply.
“I trust,” continued Sir Marcus, “that you had sufficient sense not to relieve the Commissioner or Elveden of any of their personal property to which you might have taken a fancy?”
Jerry, with an ever-deepening color, shook his head vehemently.
“Then perhaps,” continued the Baronet, “you will be good enough to tell me to what use you propose putting the silver paper knife you appropriated while you were standing by the Commissioner’s table?”
The Lag looked crestfallen, but made no attempt to vindicate himself.
“We will overlook the incident,” said Sir Marcus serenely. “I trust the Commissioner will be as lenient. And while we are on the subject, Jerry, please refrain from—’frisking’ is, I believe, the term—any of my guests during your visit.”
Jerry nodded obediently, still preserving the same injured silence. It was an unpleasant ordeal, but then—silver fetched a good price!
Descending from the taxi behind Eaton Place, Sir Marcus slipped into his house through a back entrance, taking care to shield his face from the observation of possible occupants of the cars drawn up in the mews. Jerry, left to his own devices, despite previous warnings, began a tour of exploration with a view to personal profit. He had, in fact, reached the entrance hall and was contemplating various pictures and knick-knacks with a professional eye, when a knock at the door disturbed him.
He opened it and confronted the caller dubiously.
The Duke of Framlingham, standing in the porch, returned the stare interestedly and stepped into the hall, a move which the Lag regarded suspiciously.
A crisis was averted by the arrival of Fenton.
“Is Sir Marcus anywhere about, Fenton?” the Duke asked.
“I think not, your Grace,” responded Fenton. “Sir Marcus is, I believe, out on one of his——”
“Then you believe wrong,” interjected Jerry suddenly. “ ‘E’s in. Cum in wiv yer ‘umble a few minits ago.”
Fenton winced slightly. It was two years since he had last seen Jerry, and in the old days their aversion for each other had been a by-word in the domestic quarters. The feeling still existed.
“Indeed?” he said coldly, “I will go and ascertain, your Grace.”
He relieved the Duke of his hat and coat, conducted him to the drawing-room, and then moved sedately in search of Sir Marcus.
He returned a few moments later to discover that Jerry had followed the Duke into the drawing-room and was eyeing him in a hostile manner.
“Sir Marcus will be down almost at once, your Grace,” he said, eyeing the Lag distastefully. “You’d better come down to the servants’ quarters, Jerry.”
“‘Oo yer talkin’ to?” demanded the Lag truculently. “ ‘Op orf an’ don’t come interferin’ wiv yer betters.”
Fenton, with a dignified glower at his enemy, stalked off to his own demesne. When Sir Marcus eventually appeared, the atmosphere in the drawing-room was almost electric.
“What are you doing here, Jerry?” he demanded, and would no doubt have continued had he not caught sight of the Duke.
“I suppose you have come to remind me of your dinner party tonight, Erb?” he said. “I have not forgotten it.”
“Good,” responded His Grace. “Knowing your habit of wandering off into the blue without due warning, I came to see that all was well. Without you, we should be thirteen, and that would annoy me.”
“Quite,” agreed Loseley. “Try not to smash that vase, Jerry.”
The Lag, who had been examining and estimating the worth of a Ming bowl, started and released it so suddenly that it all but fell to the floor.
The Duke gasped audibly as the priceless piece rocked perilously before righting itself, and, breathing deeply, reached for his cigarette case.
“Cigarette?” he asked.
“Thanks,” murmured the Baronet, picking up a box of matches.
His Grace rummaged perplexedly in his hip pocket and then looked up.
“Then smoke your own,” he grunted. “I must have mislaid my case. Queer. I distinctly remember picking it up after Masters filled it this morning.”
Sir Marcus turned tranquilly to his gamekeeper.
“Go and see if His Grace mislaid his cigarette case in the hall,” he directed composedly.
“But I don’t think I left it there,” Framlingham objected with a puzzled frown.
“I’m sure you did,” said Sir Marcus firmly. “Jerry!”
The Lag turned obediently and shuffled out of the room. The Duke looked after him wonderingly.
“Curious specimen,” he said lightly. “Any relation of yours?”
“I must apologize for Jerry, Erb. He is a released ex-convict whom I employ. He has not quite escaped from the old groove yet, I am afraid. A good fellow, but with a decided taste for other people’s property, which I find a little embarrassing. I hope you will overlook it.”
Before the puzzled Duke could reply, Jerry returned with a handsome gold cigarette case.
“On the mat,” he informed his master.
“Thanks,” said Sir Marcus. “I thought perhaps it might be. I shan’t need you again, Jerry.” He looked hard at the old Lag. “Oh, and by the way, Jerry, please remember that if spoons are silvern, restraint is golden.”
He nodded pleasantly and the Lag shuffled away.
The episode shortened His Grace’s visit perceptibly.
• • •
Sir Marcus, apparently unconscious of the figure dogging his footsteps, strode swiftly along Prince of Wales Terrace and ca
me to a stop before one of the flats on the right-hand side of the road. Taking a bunch of keys from his trousers pocket, he selected one and, mounting the short flight of steps, let himself in.
The man who had followed him from Eaton Place drew back into the shadow of the pillared portico of the flat opposite.
Closing the door, Sir Marcus smiled in a satisfied way and walked to a door on the right-hand side of the hall.
He owned “the lower right-hand,” as his landlady was wont to say, and she invariably added, “and there’s something curious about the people who come here. There’s the man who leased it, nice-looking man, middle-aged and well-to-do, I should say. Then there’s a down-at-heel tramp who is often here and also a tall young chap who wears a monocle. A curious affair.”
As Sir Marcus stepped into the room, Jerry rose from a chair by the window, to meet him.
“You got here safely?” enquired Sir Marcus, removing his hat and coat.
“Yus,” Jerry nodded, “I took a rahnd-abaht rowt in case o’ haccidents, but I managed to get ‘ere wivout bein’ spotted by any o’ that gang wot’s cruisin’ about in Eaton Place.”
The other nodded and, crossing the room, peered cautiously out of the window.
“Our man is waiting, Jerry,” he observed amusedly over his shoulder. “Elveden should really choose more imaginative men. I crossed the room four times quite unnecessarily on my way here and our friend dutifully followed me.”
He stepped back, and entering the bedroom remained there for ten minutes. When he emerged he was wearing a shabby bowler, choker and disreputable suit. He carried a large ebony box under his arm.
For a moment the two men faced each other, undistinguishable, save for their faces. Even the faded chokers matched and the boots had holes in the same positions.
“Pretty good,” nodded the Baronet, and seating himself at the table, opened the black box.
“Put on the light,” he directed, “and pull the curtains across, but don’t let that fellow outside catch sight of you.”
The Lag obeyed, and Sir Marcus set to work with his make-up box.
Jerry, watching the transformation for the first time, marveled at the deft skill of those slim fingers, fingers that soon became coarsened to an exact replica of the Lag’s own.
Slowly Sir Marcus’s face took on a skeleton resemblance to Jerry’s and in a short time the addition of a lank, untidy wig and a sandy colored mustache completed the disguise.
“Lumme, you aren’t arf a lorss to the perfession, Sir Marcus,” said the Lag admiringly.
“Wot’s that got ter do wiv you, yer perisher?” demanded Sir Marcus in a perfect imitation of the Lag’s voice.
Jerry guffawed heartily and took up his hat.
“Don’t forget my instructions,” said Sir Marcus, peering carefully out of the window. “You are to stand outside in full view for a moment, then in an artistically furtive manner you are to set off and lead Friend Watcher for a nice little walk. Take him towards Piccadilly, as I want to go the opposite way, and don’t want to encounter either of you. If our friend saw too many Jerrys, he might grow a little suspicious. It might, to quote yourself, ‘queer the pitch’ undesirably.”
The Lag nodded and made his exit.
From the window Sir Marcus watched the old Lag take a prominent position on the curb, as though his intentions were quite innocent. Then Jerry gazed up and down the Terrace in an elaborately unconcerned way and set off to the Park end of the road. It was excellently done and the Baronet smiled grimly as he watched a shadow slip away from the house opposite and follow in the Lag’s wake. Jerry, apparently unconscious of the interest in his movements, slouched off Piccadilly-wards.
As the two passed out of sight Sir Marcus sat down and drawing a small sheet of paper from his pocket studied it reflectively.
In the center of the paper a crude map had been drawn, representing a portion of Wimbledon Common with a cross marked against a house which was to be the rendezvous.
On the back of the paper was written: “RUSHMERE HOUSE AT NINE TONIGHT. THE SQUID.”
Sir Marcus tore up the paper and tossed it into the waste-paper basket. That done, he extinguished the light and left the room.
Descending the steps into the darkness of the Terrace, he took a careful survey and then slipped away toward the Park.
Reaching the end of the road, he turned towards Kensington and slouched on his way.
It is impossible to foresee everything, however wary a man may be. In providing for the obvious, Sir Marcus had overlooked the unlikely.
Behind him a slim, tall young man detached himself from the railings against which he had been leaning and sauntered in the Baronet’s wake.
A vacuous grin played over the young man’s rather expressionless face.
Sir Marcus boarded a south-bound omnibus and made his way on to the upper deck.
The young man overtook the bus in half a dozen long strides and took a seat inside. Moving slightly in order to watch the door, he unfolded a newspaper and held it so as to shield his face from observation.
A fine drizzle had begun to fall, but the conductors kindly expressed opinion that they were “in for a good old soaker” failed to draw the man with the monocle into conversation.
He remained buried in his newspaper until they reached the Park Side Road at Wimbledon Common.
Looking up at that point, he covertly watched his quarry’s descent.
The bus moved on, and after it had gone a few yards the young man dropped off and retraced his steps.
Peering ahead, he made out the figure of Sir Marcus striking out for a point somewhere between the White Cottage and the Windmill. At a safe distance the monocled man followed.
The Baronet, turning up his coat collar and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, plodded steadily on, his mind occupied with the reason for the summons to this outlandish place.
Eventually after a ten-minute walk he came to a standstill before a long low-gabled house just as the first decisive flash of lightning split the heavens to the accompaniment of a protesting rumble of thunder.
Crouching in the shadow of the gate-post, he peered at the legend inscribed near the top and discovered that it read “Rush-mere House.” The “R” was partially obliterated, but the rest told him all he wanted to know.
Head down, he shuffled up the long drive, overgrown with weeds and lamentably in need of the attention of a gardener, toward the house.
Behind him, and crouching against the post he had just left, the young man stared thoughtfully up at the bleak and desolate-looking old house, ducking occasionally as a flash of lightning momentarily flooded the place.
Reaching the house, Sir Marcus stared at it for some time. A short flight of steps led to the front door and, mounting these, he found that the door was an old-fashioned, nail-studded one of oak.
No sound came from the house and no light showed in the windows. It stood like some huge dead thing, motionless, forbidding.
What was this particular summons destined to bring in its train? He smiled thoughtfully. Was there any reason why the Squid should have chosen this place? Usually the meetings took place in town. It was ominous.
He stood there pondering.
Was it possible that the Squid had any suspicions or was this merely an ordinary rendezvous at which to plan a new campaign? Was the old dreary wait to go on or had the time for the settlement between them arrived?
It depended largely on whether the gang were there in force or whether he alone had been summoned.
He had come prepared. The revolver in his pocket gave him confidence and he touched it lovingly. It gave him strength, which was perhaps one of the reasons for the Squid’s fiat against the carrying of arms by his henchmen.
The Baronet shrugged and braced his shoulders. Reaching out a wet hand, he felt for the door. As his hand moved upward to the knocker, he felt the door give to his touch. He forced it open and peered into the dark hall.
No
sound; no movement; not a vestige of light. He stepped inside.
XXXVI. THE SQUID IS AMUSED
Sir Marcus found himself in a square oak-paneled hall, unlighted save by the frequent flashes of lightning, and smelling of dust and the peculiar atmosphere that age and disuse give.
Beneath his feet the boards creaked slightly and, glancing down, he noticed that the floor was uncarpeted.
Waiting for the next flash, he glanced swiftly round him and his brows contracted in a frown of perplexity.
As far as he had been able to see, the oak paneling stretched round the three sides of the hall without a break. In the fourth wall, directly opposite him, was a narrow opening in which he could discern the first two steps of a spiral staircase vanishing away into the upper regions.
No other opening or door was visible, and that was curious since he knew from his memory of the outside of the house, that there must be rooms on either side of him. Still frowning perplexedly he made a silent tour of the hall, feeling along the walls carefully for any sign of a door, but met with no success.
Halting in the center of the hall, he eyed the entrance to the stairs meditatively. It was a curious situation. He had been summoned to a rendezvous, but had not been given any details, which was unusual. Furthermore, he was certain, from the absence of any sound, that the rest of the gang were not present. Whether they would arrive later or not he could only conjecture.
The Baronet was aware that the Squid would not make himself known until he was certain that the gang and only the gang were present. That was his safeguard against the defaulting of any member. Did he but suspect that the police might be lying in wait for him, it was a moral certainty that he would keep at a safe distance and, what was more, would seize the earliest opportunity of suitably rewarding the defaulting member.
Sir Marcus smiled grimly in the darkness. The Squid had little need to fear police intervention tonight. The minions of the law had been successfully dispatched on a wild goose chase. In the event of Jerry being the sole member of the gang whose presence was desired, the Squid would have something else to fear.
He became increasingly wary. The fact that apparently he was to be the only guest hinted at something out of the ordinary and his lips tightened suddenly as the faintest suspicion crossed his mind that he had made a false step somewhere.