As the curtain fell on the turn that preceded that of France, the excitement, even in the stalls, got really noticeable. The great building began to hum like a hornets’ nest and in the heights of the gallery clapping had already started. The rise of the curtain seemed deliberately delayed and as the orchestra struck up the swinging strains of “You’ve Got ’em Going, Baby!” the upper peaks of gallery and circle joined in and soon the whole of the packed audience appeared to be singing. Mob hysteria, Travers self-consciously assured himself, but it was uncommonly thrilling for all that.
The vast interior seemed already to be in total darkness but yet more lights were lowered till the footlights made a white clamour. Then the curtain swung back disclosing the ring against a background of further darkness. The audience hushed. A figure in evening dress came forward to the footlights and began an announcement.
“Ladies and gentlemen! we have the honour to present to you for a few moments this evening, Michael France, the heavyweight champion of Europe—”
A voice shrilled stridently from somewhere above, “The WORLD!” and then a huge shout burst from the audience with round after round of applause. The announcer bowed and smiled, then raised his hand and the crowd hushed dramatically. “As you say, ladies and gentlemen, most likely heavyweight champion of the world!”
That brought pandemonium. Roar after roar of applause burst out, then came clapping, and up above the gallery began to sing again. “Damn good staff work!” thought Travers, but better was to follow. Just when the hall seemed all one vast roar, a figure in a dressing gown appeared from the wings. The orchestra crashed into “See the conquering hero comes!” and the crowd went really mad. Even Travers found himself clapping furiously. Two minutes of that and the announcer withdrew; the sparring partner appeared; the timekeeper took his seat by the gong; the dressing gown was slipped off and the sham fight began. In a second the roar of the crowd became an intense hush.
Travers was fascinated. France seemed to move like a lithe and enormous cat but his speed was deceptive. There would be a wicked flash from the other man’s glove but he wasn’t there. The great, muscled body was elusive as quicksilver. Back he would go to the ropes and you’d wait for the thud of the blow he couldn’t possibly avoid and then all at once he’d be somewhere else and out would shoot that wicked left of his and back would go the other fellow’s head with a jolt and he’d be away again. Then he’d close in and they’d go at it, toe to toe—thud! thud! grunt! thud!—and then he’d give a sort of laugh, a jab of that long left and away he’d go again, the audience laughing and cheering like mad. Once the other man rocked him with a quick uppercut and Travers saw him stiffen, then cut in with a lightning left and right. The gong sounded. The first round was over!
When finally France had come again and again to the footlights and the curtain was rung down, Travers’ education was almost complete. He knew something of the reason for the frenzy the papers had prophesied. France was a wonder; a genius—unique! He’d made that other chap—who was he by the way? He consulted his programme—Fred Dunally, ex-heavyweight champion of England, look like a novice. Pre-arranged of course, a lot of it, but not all. You couldn’t arrange that six foot three of perfect development, the play of the muscles, the incredible gracefulness, the uncanny speed of the footwork and the devastating certainty of that wonderful left hand. A thousand a week—and by jove! he was worth every penny of it!
Half an hour later he got restless. The rest of the programme was very much in the nature of an anti-climax—the comedian far too obvious to be funny and the drawing-room playlet too primly decorous, and as his seat was handy for the gangway he made an unobtrusive exit towards the side. He passed through the swing doors and after a few yards of steps and stone corridor, found himself with a choice of two ways and no indication as to which was the right one. The one he did take brought him to a further corridor at right angles and almost into a collision with a man whose silk hat made his height even more pronounced. Without appearing to notice Travers he passed straight on, whilst Travers—who had recognised the famous France—fell in behind at a suitable interval, judging from the top hat and the dark overcoat that the boxer was bound for the outside air.
The door, when he got to it, seemed to be a private one—at least it was not a public entrance or a stage door. There was no sign, for instance, of a crowd waiting to acclaim the hero; all there was was a limousine with a chauffeur and all complete. One of the theatre attendants was closing the door and beyond the profile of the boxer, Travers caught the merest glimpse of a woman, leaning suddenly forward as if to adjust a rug about her knees.
Travers moved on, then saw something else. Twenty yards or so behind, a taxi was drawn up at the kerb and as he passed, the fare leaned forward and tapped to the driver with a motion to the limousine in front. Travers looked back. The limousine was already in motion and the taxi was following it. But the really strange thing had been the occupant of that taxi. In the fraction of a second in which Travers had seen him and in spite of the immense horn-rims the man had been wearing, he was sure it was no other than Hayles.
Not that Travers scented a mystery—nothing of the sort. It was just the coincidence that puzzled him. What a curious sort of bloke Hayles seemed to be—always popping up of late at odd moments under romantic circumstances! Did he wear glasses usually? They seemed to strike one as a trifle odd. And what had he been doing in Durango House that afternoon? And why wasn’t he in the car with France? The woman—the fair lady—that’d be it; two’s company and so on! She and France and Hayles and the private door to avoid the crowd.
But was there a crowd? That could soon be settled. He turned in his tracks and wandered round to the stage door—at least he gathered it was the stage door. A couple of policeman were already making a way for traffic. Travers approached a sporting-looking gentleman who was craning his neck over the sea of heads.
“Would you mind telling me what all the crowd’s for?”
“Michael France!” said the other, and went on craning.
* * * * *
Somewhere about ten-thirty that night, Travers, rather bored with his own company, strolled along the vestibule to Franklin’s quarters at No. 21. Franklin was in front of the fire, reading a book.
“Hallo!” said Travers, picking up the tobacco pouch, sniffing the contents, then filling his pipe. “How’s crime?”
“Not too bad. Have some tobacco!”
“Thanks!” said Travers, drawing up a chair and holding his hand out for the matches.
Franklin squinted at him. “Why the—er—beautiful garments?”
“These? Oh! been to a show—Paliceum—this chap France everybody’s talking about. Wonderful fellow! And damn good looking by the way. Regular patrician profile and all that.”
That started Franklin off and he had to hear all about the show. And he had an interesting contribution to make.
“That patrician profile you were mentioning, is rather funny. Do you know he’s had his nose smashed in?”
“Has he, by jove! Who did it?”
“That chap he was sparring with to-night—Dunally. It’s all in this book —Two Years in the Ring. France was messing about the way they always say he does and all at once this chap Dunally gives him an awful tonk on the smeller. Ten seconds later, France knocked him out. It didn’t happen to be a championship fight, by the way.”
“And what happened to the nose?”
“Some big Harley Street bloke set it. They say it’s a damn sight prettier than it was before—only he can’t smell very well. It’s all in this book.”
“Price tuppence!” added Travers flippantly. “Can’t smell, eh? Damn good chap to murder!”
“As how?”
“Turn the gas on in his bedroom! That reminds me—Pass the matches!”
“Very brainy,” said Franklin. “By the way do you know a chap called Hayles?”
“Oh rather! Saw him at Durango House this evening. Wonder what he was doing
there?”
Franklin told him. Travers nodded his head at the climax, then gave his old, whimsical smile.
“So you’re likely to see the great Michael France in person! Why the devil aren’t I a detective?”
“Because you didn’t start young enough,” said Franklin. “But it isn’t ‘likely’—it’s ‘definitely.’ Hayles rang me up a few moments ago and asked me if I’d go out to dinner with him at a chap’s called Claire, where France is coming on after his show’s over.”
Travers sat up. “Claire? You mean Peter Claire?”
“That’s the chap. The racing motorist and so on.”
Travers nodded. “I know him rather well. Curious sort of fellow. Met him at Brooklands a lot. Know his missis pretty well too—vivacious little person but not very stimulating. What’s he got to do with France?”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Franklin. “Where the devil were you dragged up? Take this book along and learn something! Claire’s his backer—the chap who’s been behind him all through!”
Travers cast a languid eye over the book. “I have read it—or some of it; only I seem to have forgotten all the parts that are important.” He handed it back. “About your friend Hayles who has a passion for colour. I know you’re fond of scandal. What do you make of these three occurrences?”
Franklin made nothing, that is to say he was fertile in excuses. Moreover, as he insisted, Hayles was a thundering good fellow. Travers was gratified to hear it. After that for another hour it was France—and France all the way; and the enthusiasm by no means one-sided.
CHAPTER III
FRANKLIN IN THE CLOUDS
It was round about midday on the Friday that the fog began moving over London. An hour later, a screen of whitish grey had settled over everything and by the middle of the afternoon it was a regular old-time “pea-souper”; filthily yellow, almost palpable and so dense as to make invisible the fingers at the end of your arm. Franklin first of all smelt it, then tasted it, and a peep out of the lighted office told its own tale. Then, shortly after five, Hayles rang up and suggested meeting at St. John’s Wood Station instead of Piccadilly as arranged.
Luckily, No. 3, Regent View, was only a couple of hundred yards away and Hayles knew every inch of the road.
“You know Claire, I suppose?” he asked, as they moved cautiously along the pavement through the unnatural light.
“Only by reputation. I’ve never actually spoken to him.”
“You’ll find him a very good chap,” said Hayles. “He doesn’t chatter a lot but he’s an awfully good sort. Mrs. Claire’s simply delightful!”
His tone was so enthusiastic that Franklin shot a look at him, and so dense was the fog that he saw only the blurred outline for his pains.
“Is she young?” he asked.
“About my own age—or younger. She was Dorothy Pleasance, you know—one of the Berkshire Pleasances. Lord Faxton’s her uncle.”
Franklin uttered to himself two pious wishes—that she wouldn’t be too standoffish and that the fates would remove from his reach any bricks that were capable of being dropped. That brought them to the house and what it was like was impossible to judge in that damnable gloom, except that it was a large one. Inside, however, things were at least visible; the spacious lounge hall, for instance, bristling with heads and antlers that told where Claire had spent a good many months of his thirty years.
“Will you come into the drawing-room, sir?” asked the footman. “Mr. Claire will be down in a moment, sir.”
“All right, Archer,” said Hayles. “And bring in a couple of cocktails, will you,” and he led Franklin off through the door.
On the heels of the drinks came Claire, beefy and sleepy looking but quite agreeable for all that. Franklin put him at six foot and fourteen stone. And he’d certainly spent a good deal of his time out in the weather, for beneath his hair—blond almost to whiteness—his face was a study in reds and browns. The eyes were narrowed and peering like those of a man who habitually faces the wind, and the little wrinkles at the corners gave a general impression of good nature—a careless, satisfied sort of good nature that comes from a comfortable and natural indolence, though that and a man with the reputation of Peter Claire seemed hardly in keeping. His voice was the last thing you’d expect. True the drawl was there, but with it went a curious directness. It was the sort of voice that could remain almost inaudible and yet be positively insulting.
“Hallo, Kinky! And this is Mr. Franklin. How’d you do,” and he thrust out a huge fist. Then before Franklin could say a word—“They’ve got you a drink then? Get Franklin off his pins, Kinky! What’s it like outside?”
“Hellish!”
“Hm! Going to last?”
“Well—er—I can’t say.” Hayles’s voice was very reedy in comparison. “You can never tell, you know, with these fogs. Will it—er—upset your plans for to-morrow?”
“Oh lord, no! It won’t be all over the country, will it?”
“The weather report—in the papers to-night—is pretty bad,” and he glanced at Franklin.
But Franklin at the moment was catching Claire’s eyes fixed on him with an intensity that was rather unsettling. The eyes dropped at once and Claire took a sip of the short drink.
“Well, happy days! fog or no fog.”
“Here you all are then!” came a voice. Mrs. Claire stood framed in the doorway. Franklin got up; Claire lumbered to his feet; Hayles sprang up, his face beaming.
As soon as Franklin saw her he thought of one of those pleasantly mannered boys one meets on holidays. Her jet-black hair was close cropped and the black curve of the eyebrows gave the eyes an expression of interest and interrogation that was Puckish. The lips were smiling and the eyes were smiling. Franklin, at his old game of lightning registration, thought of “alluring,” then changed it to “roguish,” then discarded that. Not exactly a beautiful woman but a remarkably attractive one—a man’s woman and a jolly good sort. Sporting probably to the last inch of her; breeding in every line, and five foot two of fascination and good fun. Topping gown she had on too—all shimmers and yellow fluffiness.
He found himself bowing awkwardly and then in a couple of minutes perfectly at ease. Claire rather dropped out of things, but the other two chattered away and seemed to be taking him for granted. Hayles appeared to be a kind of young brother—laughed at and called “little man” and “Kinky”; all quite good fun, with Dorothy Claire deceptively on the quiet side but friendly and jolly as anything. Hayles didn’t seem to be able to keep his eyes off her. Awfully attractive that gorgeous little laugh of hers too, as Claire shrugged his beefy shoulders at some remark of hers.
Dinner was a very unpretentious affair in spite of the fluttering attentions of the butler and a couple of footmen. The food was good and though he was the worst thing in connoisseurs, Franklin knew the wine was good too. Then, too, as far as conversation was concerned, he might have been a stockbroker or a man-about-town for all the allusion to his profession. Hayles and Mrs. Claire kept up a chatter that was almost hectic, on subjects that flitted from plays to contract bridge. Claire, at the head of the table, seemed to lean forward with hunched, immense shoulders over his plate as if he were guarding it and now and then Franklin saw the suspicion of a frown come over his face as if he were an elder in the company of two children whose jollity threatened to become too uproarious.
“What are you really doing to-morrow, Peter?” Hayles asked during a rare pause.
Claire kept his eyes on his plate where he was wrestling with the tough foundation of a savoury. “As arranged. Going to Lingfield, then back to Royston with Utley. Why don’t you come to Lingfield yourself and make a bit?”
“Well—er—I’d like to, but I’m going down to Martlesham on that job of work.”
Claire grunted. “Sorry! I forgot.” Then he turned to Franklin. “Horse of mine going to-morrow at Lingfield. Kampinbolo. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it?”
“I haven’t,” said Fran
klin. “Queer sort of name, isn’t it? Sounds like an absconding Greek!”
Claire pushed out his lower lip to the semblance of a smile “Does rather! Place in Africa, as a matter of fact, where I once had a bit of trouble with some porters. I think he’ll win.”
Dorothy Claire’s voice cut in like a silver bell—“Oh, darling!”—then stopped. It was as though she’d realised in a flash some mistake she was going to make. Then she went on, with all the enthusiasm gone. “I do hope he wins! But what about Parson’s Pride?”
Claire lowered his eyes to his plate and his voice was so final as to be curt.
“Rogers is riding. If I start him he’ll win.”
She leaned over to Hayles. “What shall we have on him, little man?” Then to her husband, very timidly, though that may have been a pose—“Darling, I do so want a new coupé!”
Claire made a gesture of resignation, an indifferent rather than a humorous one, and on the chatter went again. He and Franklin went on discussing big game shooting and it was not till they had moved off to the drawing-room that something struck Franklin as unusual. Not once during the evening had France’s name been mentioned! Twice, at least, they’d seemed on the point of coming to it and once Franklin himself had made a leading question, but Claire had skirted round it. Perhaps there were simply enough reasons for it but yet it was strange, considering that Hayles had brought a guest for the one ostensible reason, that Hayles was his general factotum and Claire the man who had financed him. Perhaps that was the reason. Those two had long since taken France as a matter of course.
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