by Anthony Hope
CHAPTER VII
A GENTLEMANLY STRANGER
On this same Christmas Day Sergeant Hooper was feeling morose anddiscontented; not because he was alone in the world (a situationcomprising many advantages), nor on the score of his wages, which wereextremely liberal; nor on account of the "old blighter's"--that is, Mr.Saffron's--occasional outbursts of temper, these being in the nature ofthe case and within the terms of the contract; nor, finally, by reason ofBeaumaroy's airy insolence, since from his youth up the Sergeant washardened to unfavorable comments on his personal appearance, triflingvulgarities which a man of sense could afford to ignore.
No; the winter of his discontent--a bitter winter--was due to theconviction, which had been growing in his mind for some time, that hewas only in half the secret, and that not the more profitable half. Heknew that the old blighter had to be humored in certain small ways, as,for example, in regard to the combination knife-and-fork--and the reasonfor it. But, first, he did not know what happened inside the Tower; hehad never seen the inside of it; the door was always locked; he was neverinvited to accompany his masters when they repaired thither by day, andhe was not on the premises by night. And, secondly, he did not understandthe Wednesday journeys to London, and he had never seen the inside ofBeaumaroy's brown bag--that, like the Tower door, was always locked. Hehad handled it once, just before the pair set out for London oneWednesday. Beaumaroy, a careless man sometimes, in spite of the cunningwhich Dr. Irechester attributed to him, had left it on the parlor tablewhile he helped Mr. Saffron on with his coat in the passage, and theSergeant had swiftly and surreptitiously lifted it up. It was very light,obviously empty, or, at all events, holding only featherweight contents.He had never got near it when it came back from town; then it always wentstraight into the Tower and had the key turned on it forthwith.
But the Sergeant, although slow-witted as well as ugly, had had hisexperiences; he had carried weights both in the army and in otherinstitutions which are officially described as His Majesty's, and hadseen other men carry them too. From the set of Beaumaroy's figure as hearrived home on at least two occasions with the brown bag, and from theway in which he handled it, the Sergeant confidently drew the conclusionthat it was of a considerable, almost a grievous, weight. What was theheavy thing in it? What became of that thing after it was taken into theTower? To whose use or profit did it, or was it, to inure? Certainly itwas plain, even to the meanest capacity, that the contents of the bag hada value in the eyes of the two men who went to London for them and whoshepherded them from London to the custody of the Tower.
These thoughts filled and racked his brain as he sat drinking rum andwater in the bar of the _Green Man_ on Christmas evening; a solitary man,mixing little with the people of the village, he sat apart at a smalltable in the corner, musing within himself, yet idly watching thecompany--villagers, a few friends from London and elsewhere, somesoldiers and their ladies. Besides these, a tall slim man stood leaningagainst the bar, at the far end of it, talking to Bill Smithers, thelandlord, and sipping whisky-and-soda between pulls at his cigar. He worea neat dark overcoat, brown shoes, and a bowler hat rather on one side;his appearance was, in fact, genteel, though his air was a trifleraffish. In age he seemed about forty. The Sergeant had never seen himbefore, and therefore favored him with a glance of special attention.
Oddly enough, the gentlemanly stranger seemed to reciprocate theSergeant's interest; he gave him quite a long glance. Then he finishedhis whisky-and-soda, spoke a word to Bill Smithers, and lounged acrossthe room to where the Sergeant sat.
"It's poor work drinking alone on Christmas night," he observed. "May Ijoin you? I've ordered a little something, and, well, we needn't botherabout offering a gentleman a glass tonight."
The Sergeant eyed him with apparent disfavor--as, indeed, he dideverybody who approached him--but a nod of his head accorded the desiredpermission. Smithers came across with a bottle of brandy and glasses."Good stuff!" said the stranger, as he sat down, filled the glasses, anddrank his off. "The best thing to top up with, believe me!"
The Sergeant, in turn, drained his glass, maintaining, however, hisaloofness of demeanor. "What's up?" he growled.
"What's in the brown bag?" asked the stranger lightly and urbanely.
The Sergeant did not start; he was too old a hand for that; but hissmall gimlet eyes searched his new acquaintance's face very keenly."You know a lot!"
"More than you do in some directions, less in others, perhaps. Shall Ibegin? Because we've got to confide in one another, Sergeant. A littlestory of what two gentlemen do in London on Wednesdays, and of what theycarry home in a brown leather bag? Would that interest you? Oh, thatstuff in the brown leather bag! Hard to come by now, isn't it? But theyknow where there's still some, and so do I, to remark it incidentally.There were actually some people, Sergeant Hooper, who distrusted therighteousness of the British Cause, which is to say (the stranger smiledcynically) the certainty of our licking the Germans, and they hoarded it,the villains!"
Sergeant Hooper stretched out his hand towards the bottle. "Allow me!"said the stranger politely. "I observe that your hand trembles a little."
It did. The Sergeant was excited. The stranger seemed to be touching on asubject which always excited the Sergeant--to the point of handstrembling, twitching, and itching.
"Have to pay for it, too! Thirty bob in curl-twisters for every ruddydisc; that's the figure now, or thereabouts. What do they want to doit for? What's your governor's game? Who, in short, is going to getoff with it?"
"What is it they does, the old blighter and Boomery (thus he pronouncedthe name Beaumaroy), in London?"
"First to the stockbroker's, then to a bank or two, I've known it threeeven; then a taxi down East, and a call at certain addresses. The bag'swith 'em, Sergeant, and at each call it gets heavier. I've seen it swell,so to speak."
"Who in hell are you?" the Sergeant grunted huskily.
"Names later--after the usual guarantees of good faith."
The whole conversation, carried on in low tones, had passed under coverof noisy mirth, snatches of song, banter, and gigglings; nobody paid heedto the two men talking in a corner. Yet the stranger lowered his voiceto a whisper, as he added:
"From me to you fifty quid on account; from you to me just a sight of theplace where they put it."
Sergeant Hooper drank, smoked, and pondered. The stranger showed the edgeof a roll of notes, protruding it from his breast-pocket. The Sergeantnodded, he understood that part. But there was much that he did notunderstand. "It fair beats me what the blazes they're doing it _for_," hebroke out.
"Whose money would it be?"
"The old blighter's, o' course. Boomery's stony, except for his screw."He looked hard at the gentlemanly stranger, and a slow smile came on hislips, "That's your idea, is it, mister?"
"Gentleman's old, looks frail, might go off suddenly. What then? Friendsturn up, always do when you're dead, you know. Well, what of it? Lessmoney in the funds than was reckoned; dear old gentleman doesn't cut upas well as they hoped! And meanwhile our friend B----! Does it dawn onyou at all, from our friend B----'s point of view, Sergeant? I may bewrong, but that's my provisional conjecture. The question remains howhe's got the old gent into the game, doesn't it?"
Precisely the point to which the Sergeant's mind also had turned! Theknowledge which he possessed--that half of the secret--and which hiscompanion did not, might be very material to a solution of the problem;the Sergeant did not mean to share it prematurely, without necessity, orfor nothing. But surely it had a bearing on the case? Dull-witted as hewas, the Sergeant seemed to catch a glimmer of light, and mentally gropedtowards it.
"Well, we can't sit here all night," said the stranger in good-humoredimpatience. "I've a train to catch."
"There's no train up from here to-night."
"There is from Sprotsfield. I shall walk over."
The Sergeant smiled. "Oh, if you're walking to Sprotsfield, I'll put youon your way. If anybody was to see
us, Boomery, for instance, he couldn'tcomplain of my seeing an old pal on his way on Christmas night. No 'armin that; no look of prowling, or spying, or such like! And you are an oldpal, ain't you?"
"Certainly; your old pal--let me see--your old pal Percy Bennett."
"As it might he, or as it might not. What about the--" He pointed toPercy Bennett's breast-pocket.
"I'll give it you outside. You don't want me to be seen handing it overin here, do you?"
The Sergeant had one more question to ask. "About 'ow much d'ye reckonthere might be by now?"
"How often have they been to London? Because they don't come to see myfriends every time, I fancy."
"Must 'ave been six or seven times by now. The game began soon afterBoomery and I came 'ere."
"Then, quite roughly, quite a shot, from what I know of the deals we--myfriends, I mean--did with them, and reasoning from that, there might be amatter of seven or eight thousand pounds."
The Sergeant whistled softly, rose, and led the way to the door. Thegentlemanly stranger paused at the bar to pay for the brandy, and afterbidding the landlord a civil good-evening, with the compliments of theseason, followed the Sergeant into the village street.
Fifteen minutes' brisk walk brought them to Hinton Avenue. At the end ofit they passed Doctor Mary's house; the drawing-room curtains were notdrawn; on the blind they saw reflected the shadows of a man and a girl,standing side by side. "Mistletoe, eh?" remarked the stranger. TheSergeant spat on the road; they resumed their way, pursuing the roadacross the heath.
It was fine, but overclouded and decidedly dark. Every now and thenBennett, to call the stranger by what was almost confessedly a_nom-de-guerre,_ flashed a powerful electric torch on the roadway."Don't want to walk into a gorse-bush," he explained with a laugh.
"Put it away, you darned fool! We're nearly there."
The stranger obeyed. In another seven or eight minutes there loomed up,on the left hand, the dim outline of Mr. Saffron's abode--the squarecottage with the odd round tower annexed.
"There you are!" The Sergeant's voice instinctively kept to a whisper."That's what you want to see."
"But I can't see it--not so as to get any clear idea."
No lights showed from the cottage, nor, of course, from the Tower; itsonly window had been, as Mr. Penrose said, boarded up. The wind--therewas generally a wind on the heath--stirred the fir-trees and the bushesinto a soft movement and a faint murmur of sound. A very acute and alertear might perhaps have caught another sound--footfalls on the road, agood long way behind them. The two spies, or scouts, did not hear them;their attention was elsewhere.
"Probably they're both in bed; it's quite safe to make our examination,"said the stranger.
"Yes, I s'pose it is. But look to be ready to douse your glim. Boomery'sa nailer at turning up unexpected." The Sergeant seemed rather nervous.
Mr. Bennett was not. He took out his torch, and guided by its light(which, however, he took care not to throw towards the cottage windows)he advanced to the garden gate, the Sergeant following, and took a surveyof the premises. It was remarkable that, as the light of the torch beamedout, the faint sound of footfalls on the road behind died away.
"Keep an eye on the windows, and touch my elbow if any light shows. Don'tspeak." The stranger was at business--his business--now, and his voicebecame correspondingly businesslike. "We won't risk going inside thegate. I can see from here." Indeed he very well could; Tower Cottagestood back no more than twelve or fifteen feet from the road, and thetorch was powerful.
For four or five minutes the stranger made his examination. Then heturned off his torch. "Looks easy," he remarked, "but of course there'sthe garrison." Once more he turned on his light, to look at his watch."Can't stop now, or I shall miss the train, and I don't want to have toget a bed at Sprotsfield. A strayed reveler on Christmas night might betoo well remembered. Got an address?"
"Care of Mrs. Willnough, Laundress, Inkston."
"Right. Good-night." With a quick turn he was off along the road toSprotsfield. The Sergeant saw the gleam of his torch once or twice,receding at quite a surprising pace into the distance. Feeling the wad ofnotes in his pocket--perhaps to make sure that the whole episode had notbeen a dream--the Sergeant turned back towards Inkston.
After a couple of minutes, a tall figure emerged from the shelter of ahigh and thick gorse bush just opposite Tower Cottage, on the other sideof the road. Captain Alec Naylor had seen the light of the stranger'storch, and, after four years in France, he was well skilled in the art ofnoiseless approach. But he felt that, for the moment at least, his brainwas less agile than his feet. He had been suddenly wrenched out of oneset of thoughts into another profoundly different. It was his shadow,together with Cynthia Walford's, that the Sergeant and the stranger hadseen on Doctor Mary's blind. After "walking her home," he had--well, justnot proposed to Cynthia, restrained more by those scruples of his than byany ungraciousness on the part of the lady. Even his modesty could notblind him to this fact. He was full of pity, of love, of a man's joyoussense of triumph, half wishing that he had made his proposal, half gladthat he had not, just because it, and its radiant promise, could still bedangled in the bright vision of the future. He was in the seventh heavenof romance, and his heaven was higher than that which most men reach; itwas built on loftier foundations.
Then came the flash of the torch; the high spirits born of one experiencesought an outlet in another. "By Jove, I'll track 'em--like old times!"he murmured, with a low light laugh. And, just for fun, he did it, takingto the heath beside the road, twisting his long body in and out amongstgorse, heather, and bracken, very noiselessly, with wonderful dexterity.The light of the lamp was continuous now; the stranger was making hisexamination. By it Captain Alec guided his steps; and he arrived behindthe tall gorse bush opposite Tower Cottage just in time to hear theSergeant say "Mrs. Willnough, Laundress, Inkston," and to witness theparting of the two companions.
There was very little to go upon there. Why should not one friend giveanother an address? But the examination? Beaumaroy should surely know ofthat? It might be nothing, but, on the other hand, it might have ameaning. But the men had gone, had obviously parted for the night.Beaumaroy could be told to-morrow; now he himself could go back to hisvisions--and so homeward, in happiness, to his bed.
Having reached this sensible conclusion, he was about to turn away fromthe garden gate which he now stood facing, when he heard the house doorsoftly open and as softly shut. The practice of his profession had givenhim keen eyes in the dark; he discovered Beaumaroy's tall figure stealingvery cautiously down the narrow, flagged path. The next instant the lightof another torch flashed out, and this time not in the distance, but fullin his own face.
"By God, you, Naylor!" Beaumaroy exclaimed in a voice which was low butfull of surprise. "I--I--well, it's rather late--"
Alec Naylor was suddenly struck with the element of humor in thesituation. He had been playing detective; apparently he was now thesuspected!
"Give me time and I'll explain all," he said, smiling under the dazzlingrays of the torch.
Beaumaroy glanced round at the house for a second, pursed up his lipsinto one of the odd little contortions which he sometimes allowedhimself, and said: "Well, then, old chap, come in and have a drink, anddo it. For I'm hanged if I see why you should stand staring into thisgarden in the middle of the night! With your opportunities I should bebetter employed on Christmas evening."
"You really want me to come in?" It was now Captain Alec's voice whichexpressed surprise.
"Why the devil not?" asked Beaumaroy in a tone of frank but friendlyimpatience.
He turned and led the way into Tower Cottage. Somehow this invitation toenter was the last thing that Captain Alec had expected.
