Danger Calling

by Patricia Wentworth

  Marian Rayne had been watching the scene. She had risen. She could not understand a word of what was passing, but she understood Gogo’s gesture well enough. A faint scream rose to her lips.

  Gogo threw her a glance of mingled ferocity and suspicion. Lindsay’s right hand fell on his shoulder. His left was ready for any movement of Gogo’s right. His mind dealt with a new and startling thought. How did Gogo happen to make so opportune an entrance? Coincidence? There were too many coincidences in this affair. The thought and the fall of his hand on Gogo’s shoulder were simultaneous; and immediately upon thought and movement he laughed.

  “Tiens, mon vieux! You’re a wonder! Nobody else could have done it without my spotting him! A good piece of work!” He clapped the shoulder again.

  If it had not come straight on the story that had brought up the old adventurous companionship, if Lindsay’s laugh had been less certain, Gogo would have maintained his defence; but the look, the touch, the tale brought back the time when Lindsay had had for him the glamour which the older boy has for the younger—the time when they both served and worshipped Garratt. He was shaken, afraid, unnerved by Lindsay’s assumption of knowledge. His hand moved on the hilt of the hidden knife, his eyes wavered before Lindsay’s. Then with a jerk of the shoulder he freed himself and stood back a pace.

  “What’s all this?” he growled.

  Lindsay was now sure of what before he had only been guessing at. He was laughing with his eyes as he said,

  “Why, you followed us—didn’t you?” Gogo went back another pace. The movement had the effect of a recoil.

  “Why should I follow you?” he said.

  “Because the Vulture told you to,” said Lindsay.

  Madame Marnier threw up her hands with a sharp exclamation. Gogo did not exclaim. He remained looking at Lindsay with a curious expression in his narrowed eyes. He was plainly startled, plainly afraid, and plainly unable to hide his fear. But over and above all this there was a spark of the old admiration.

  Marian looked from him to Lindsay and back again. She was horribly afraid of the knife and of his twitching fingers. If she had not held on to herself with all her might, she would have screamed again.

  “Where did you pick us up?” said Lindsay, still laughing. “I really would like to know. Was it at the hotel?”

  “M’sieu! M’sieu! What are you talking about?” cried Madame Marnier.

  “Ask Gogo,” said Lindsay. “Come, Gogo, be a sport and tell me how you did it.”

  Gogo relaxed suddenly.

  “Since you know everything, you know how I did it. You say I follow you? Well, well—you know how it is done. And I who say, ‘Why should I follow?’ what have I got to answer when you say, ‘Tell me how you did it’?”

  “Professional secrecy, in fact! All right, I won’t ask you to give anything away—we’ve all got our trade secrets. What’s the Vulture like to work for?”

  Gogo’s hand went to the knife again. His brows drew together with a jerk.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Vulture,” said Lindsay with a long, steady look.

  Gogo came closer. He came so close that Marian felt the scream rise in her throat. He came closer still.

  “Why do you talk about him?” said Gogo, whispering.

  Lindsay made a gesture with his hand. He kept his smiling eyes on Gogo’s eyes.

  “It’s dangerous,” said Gogo.

  “For him?”

  “Nothing’s dangerous for him—you ought to know that. The other people die—and he lives. The other people are pinched and put in jug—he goes free. He’s a bad one to cross—you ought to know that.” There was an extraordinary ferocity about the whispered words. “Why are you crossing him?” he said at Lindsay’s ear. His hand shook on the knife. “Why are you crossing him?” he said again.

  “Am I crossing him?” said Lindsay.

  Gogo came out with a violent oath.

  “Are you crossing him? You ask me that!”

  “Certainly. In what way do I inconvenience Monsieur the Vulture?”

  “M’sieu! M’sieu!” said Madame Marnier. “Not that name—for the love of Heaven!”

  Her enormous face was as white as a milk cheese. She shook. Her fingers plucked at her apron.

  “Well?” said Lindsay. “In what way do I inconvenience him?”

  “How should I know?” said Gogo.

  “You might.”

  “I know nothing.”

  “Yet you followed me?”

  There was a pause of perhaps five seconds. Then,

  “Not you,” said Gogo.

  Lindsay’s pulse gave a jump.

  “You were not following me?”

  Gogo jerked a shoulder at Marian Rayne.

  “Ma’mselle” he said in a sullen voice.

  The pulse jumped again.

  “You were told to follow ma’mselle and see whether she met me?”

  Again the fleeting spark of admiration.

  “Eh bien, Gogo? And what will you have to report? Did ma’mselle meet me, or did she—merely do a little shopping?”

  There was a pause. This time it was a long one.

  Marian had sunk down again on the bench. She leaned forward on one hand watching them. She watched Lin. It was so odd to see him with red hair. She didn’t like it. But she loved the little smiling crinkles at the corners of his eyes; he looked as if he was enjoying himself. She wondered if he was—really. She watched Madame Marnier, and could make nothing of her; she wore her fat like a mask. She watched Gogo, and all at once Gogo looked straight at her, a spiteful, savage look that brought the angry blood to her cheeks. Then in a moment the look changed to a grimace. He snapped his fingers almost in Lindsay’s face.

  “Bah!” he said. “A little shopping! A little this—a little that! And for me”—he made a horribly expressive gesture—” a little throat cutting, and a drop into the Seine on a black night! There are too many people in this. Someone talks—I am dead. Via!”

  “Ma’mselle will hold her tongue,” said Lindsay. “Your mother hasn’t got one, has she?”

  Gogo scowled at him.

  “And no one followed you, par exemple? Do you think I don’t know his way? Do you think he hasn’t got a check on everyone he uses? If I was following her”—he jerked a sharp elbow in Marian’s direction—“then he’d have someone else following you. Isn’t that his way?”

  “Certainly. But you needn’t worry—I shook him.”

  “You thought you’d shaken me—didn’t you?”

  “My dear Gogo, I never knew you were there at all,” said Lindsay laughing.

  “Eh bien?”

  “Well, I did know about the other one—and if I know about a man, I can shake him all right. You know that.”

  Gogo made an impudent grimace.

  “So you say!”

  Lindsay repeated the words with gravity.

  “So I say. And I say also that ma’mselle has been shopping.”

  Gogo grimaced again.

  “Do you take me for a fool?”

  “Certainly not. A fool would make his report and say that ma’mselle met m’sieu, who is an old friend—a very old friend and good companion of Gogo Marnier and of the excellent Madame Marnier, mere—and after they had met they all went together to M. Gogo’s ancestral home, where they had a famous talk about old times. That would make a very interesting report for the Vulture—don’t you think so, mon vieux?”

  Gogo swore.

  “It sounds well—doesn’t it?” said Lindsay. “You know, Gogo, I shouldn’t wonder if the Vulture were to think it sounded a little too much of a good thing. If everything were to come out, he mightn’t care very much about your old association with Garratt and myself. I’m afraid you might be rather badly compromised—and he’s got ra
ther a short way with people who have compromised themselves—hasn’t he?”

  Gogo’s skin had been slowly turning the colour of cheap tallow. He saw himself pinched between two dangers. If one deceived the Vulture, death was the very least that happened to one. On the other hand, to offer—positively to offer him the proof of one’s past association with a notorious member of the British Secret Service … He recoiled in a fervour of self-preservation. The tallow melted in the heat of it. He mopped a streaming brow.

  “M’sieu—what am I to do?”

  This was surrender.

  “It’s quite simple,” said Lindsay. “You followed ma’mselle, and she went shopping. She met no one—she spoke to no one. She returned to the hotel at”—he glanced at his wrist-watch—“half past six, and—she’ll have to hurry to do it! Marian!” He called to her. “We’ve got to hurry.”

  His hand fell on Gogo’s shoulder.

  “Well, mon vieux, you understand. It may upset my plans a bit if the Vulture recognizes me, but as far as you are concerned, my dear Gogo, it’s just sudden death—that is unless he has contracted softening of the conscience lately.”

  He embraced Madame Marnier, clapped Gogo on the back with a “Be wise, my child,” and ran Marian out of the room and down the stairs.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  “WHAT WAS IT ALL about?” said Marian ten minutes later.

  Lindsay had hurried her round corners and along dark streets, finally hailing a taxi.

  He put his arm round her.

  “I’d like you to get out of Paris.”

  “Why, Lin?”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “For you?”

  “For both of us. You were followed when you came to meet me.”

  “Oh—I didn’t see anyone.”

  “One doesn’t see Gogo. He’d follow a needle through a bundle of hay and the hay would never know he was there. We mustn’t meet again, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, Lin—mustn’t we?”

  She clung to him, and they kissed. After a moment he took his arm away and straightened himself.

  “As soon as I get through with this job we’ll be married. Meanwhile I think you’d better droop and be depressed. Write and tell the Raynes you’re homesick, but don’t overdo it. The safest thing is for them to think you’re just bored and moping.”

  “What a horrid word! It sounds like a hen.”

  “You’re thinking of ‘moulting’.”

  “It’s all the same thing.”

  “Darling, be serious. I’ve got to go. The next traffic block we get into I shall slip out. I’ve told him to drive you to Amedee’s. Dash in and collect some parcels—anything. You mustn’t be more than ten minutes. You’re supposed to have been shopping, and you’d better have something to show for it. When you’ve done, take a taxi to the Luxe.”

  He had the door open as he finished speaking. His left hand reached back and closed hard on hers. Then he was gone.

  Marian shut her lids on two burning tears.

  Lindsay slipped through the traffic and made his way to the Rue Jean Jacques, where he called for letters, which were not addressed to Trevor Fothering. The first letter contained some very interesting information. Under a heading, ‘The Vulture,’ Lindsay read:

  “Nothing had been heard of this man for some years. His last coup was the Jarnac affair in ’22. Was believed to be dead until very recently, when the arrest of Ferdinand Schreck in Vienna on a charge of heroin smuggling resulted in the reintroduction of his name. Schreck resisted arrest was severely injured, and in the prison infirmary became delirious and talked repeatedly about ‘the Vulture.’ On his return to consciousness he was confronted with the notes which had been taken of his ravings. He at first denied any knowledge but later admitted that ‘the Vulture’ was alive’ and that he had been acting under his orders. He stated further that half the proceeds of his smuggling went to him—he made use of the expression ‘He wrings us all dry.’ Pressed further he denied knowledge of ‘the Vulture’s’ identity. He sent the money in notes addressed paste restante, using a different name and sending to a different place each time. He was notified of name and place by the receipt of a sheet of paper with the words printed on it in block capitals. One of these sheets was found when he was arrested. It bore the words, ‘Achtung’; and below, plainly printed, ‘Johann Gessner, poste restante, Salzburg.’ Inquiries at Salzburg showed that the packet containing the notes had not been claimed. Pressed on the subject of how he received his instructions, Schreck became excited and declared that all the hard work and initiative were his; ‘the Vulture’ merely raked in the money. Interrogated as to why he paid this levy, he refused to answer. He was remanded for a week whilst inquiries were made. When he was being brought from the prison at the end of this time, he was shot dead by an unknown person who escaped in the crowd. ‘The Vulture’ having operated in most European countries before 1922, the Vienna police informed us in detail and requested us to follow up any indications on this side.”

  Lindsay read all this through a second time. Then he struck a match and burnt the sheets.

  He opened the second letter. It contained an answer to his request for particulars of Drayton’s antecedents. He read it with a puzzled frown:

  “Edward John Drayton. Born 1870. Third son of the Reverend John Drayton, Vicar of Vincton Parva, Glos. Educated at Burgate Grammar School. Scholarship at Caius College, Cambridge. Honours—history, literature. Became assistant librarian at the Carrington Foundation library, 1893; in 1906 became librarian. In 1910 offered appointment of librarian to Mr Henry Lewindorf of 400 Park Lane. On Mr Lewindorf’s death in 1922 passed in the same capacity to the service of Algerius Restow.”

  A blameless chronicle—“beautifully regular, icily dull,” as Algerius might have put it. Lindsay twisted his lip over it in an odd smile. At what period in this beautifully regular life did the third son of the Reverend John Drayton of Vincton Parva adopt blackmail as a recreation?

  He walked back to the hotel thinking deeply. It seemed to him, quite plainly and soberly, that his life was in the Marniers’ hands. To the Marniers he was Lindsay Trevor. What was he to the Vulture? Lindsay Trevor, or Trevor Fothering? An adversary, or a tool? If he was Trevor Fothering, what coincidence had sent Marian Rayne to Paris, to come face to face with him in the lounge at the Luxe, and why had Gogo orders to shadow her and to see whether she met Trevor Fothering? On the other hand, if it was known that he was Lindsay Trevor, why hadn’t he already met the fate of his predecessor and of Ferdinand Schreck?

  Restow—

  Was Restow the Vulture?

  His mind dealt with the possibility in detail. His instinct rejected it.

  He returned to Vincton Parva and Burgate Grammar School. Was the Vulture by any chance a product of these blameless surroundings? He went over the dates in his mind. Assistant librarian in ’93—librarian to Henry Lewindorf 1910—passed into Restow’s service in 1922.

  1922—

  The Vulture disappeared in 1922.

  Lindsay stopped a hundred yards short of the hotel and put a match to the record of Drayton’s blameless past.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  GLORIA PARAVICINI STOOD IN the middle of her apartment and contemplated the square wooden box which a waiter had just set down upon the table.

  “Open it!” she said.

  “Madame desires that I should open it?”

  Madame Gloria presented him with a dazzling smile which displayed her wonderful teeth in all their strength and even whiteness.

  “Step to it!” she said, and waved her hand very much as she was wont to wave it before the eyes of a refractory tiger.

  “But it requires tools, madame.”

  Gloria clapped her hands. They made a sound just like the crack of a whip.

  “Rosalie!” she called. “Rosa!” Then as the b
edroom door began to open, “Bring a chisel—a hammer—a penknife—a pair of scissors—a nail file—or any old thing that’ll open a packing case!”

  A stolid, grey-haired maid appeared at the half open door, looked without emotion at the box, and presently appeared with one of those large clasp knives whose handles conceal an astonishing variety of implements. She handed it to the waiter, and the waiter addressed himself to the box.

  It was not a very terrible proposition. Four light strips of wood crossed one another in such a manner as to form a skeleton crate. On these being removed, the box was seen to possess a simple fastening consisting of an iron staple and hook. It also had a number of small holes drilled in the lid.

  “It’s a snake!” said Madame Paravicini in a tone full of enthusiasm.

  The waiter, who had only recently been transferred from the London branch, dropped the knife upon his foot and leapt back acrobatically. Rosalie remained unmoved.

  Madame Paravicini, who was dressed for dinner in an exotic mediæval robe of ruby velvet and cloth of gold, with a gilded net across the back of her head and strings of rubies wound into her plaits, picked up the box, exclaimed at its weight, held it fondly to her bosom, and reiterated,

  “It’s a snake! Someone has sent me a snake!”

  The waiter reached the door, bounded through it backwards, and was about to shut it, when he saw Madame Paravicini replace the box upon the table and raise the lid. He remained, his hand upon the door, at gaze. The box apparently contained a quantity of coarse greenish-white flannel. And then, just as he had allowed himself to become conscious of relief, there shot up out of the flannel a yard or two of snake topped by a flat seeking head. He shut the door so vigorously that the act remained on his professional conscience as a bang.

  But Madame Paravicini did not even hear it.

  “My! Isn’t he cute?” she said. “Rosa—isn’t he just a real honey boy? Say—do you think Algy sent him to me? Because if I thought that, after the way he behaved last night, I’d come pretty near sending him back again.”