The mention, when it did come, was by Claire about half an hour later, and that would be about nine-thirty, plumb in the middle of an argument between Hayles and his partner in some card game à deux they were playing over by the fire. Claire himself and Franklin, like two seniors in a nursery, were yarning away by themselves when Claire butted in.
“What time’s the Midge coming, Kinky?”
Dorothy Claire looked up as if startled. Hayles’s mournful face with its streak of moustache and plaintive eyes, went scarlet. He fumbled with the cards. “After the show, I—er—rather gathered.” He glanced at the clock and went on more fluently. “He ought to be round in a minute or so, unless the fog—er—holds him up.”
“Well, come over here, you two,” said Claire in his blunt way. “Cheer Mr. Franklin up a bit!”
“That’s a libel on yourself,” protested Franklin as the others came across. Hayles sidled into a chair. Dorothy Claire took the end of the settee, spread the gown over her knees and sat primly.
“Well, what are we going to do?”
“I know!” suggested Hayles. “Let’s tell Bates to bring the gong in, and when the Midge comes we’ll give it a wallop!”
Claire narrowed his eyes and looked at him. “What a baby you are, Kinky!” and Franklin couldn’t tell if he were serious or not. Dorothy Claire got up quickly and began rearranging the chrysanthemums in the bowl on the side table and Hayles laughed rather inanely. For the first time that evening, the four of them had become separate and detached individuals. A jarring note seemed to have been struck, at least Franklin felt so in his bones. He was wondering just what to say, or when the unnatural silence was going to break—then voices were heard and the door opened.
“Hallo, Dorothy! Hallo, Peter! And the little feller here too! And”—France stopped before Franklin and smiled—the jolly smile of a man who feels on good terms with himself and all the world. Claire did the introduction business, then clapped Franklin on the back.
“Get the Midge a tot! And look after your own!”
Franklin set about the job. France said when. Hayles had the merest spot and Claire had a long one. Franklin, wondering whether he were putting his flat foot clean in it, smiled across.
“The tiniest spot for you, Mrs. Claire?”
She made a face. “Perfectly horrible stuff! Just some soda, please!”
He took it over, then freshened up his own drink. The three of them grouped round the fire.
“Well, here’s how!” said France and held the glass to the light. He took a pull at it, then smiled round the circle. “Two more of those chaps and my number’s up.”
“You’re starting on Monday?” drawled Claire.
“On Monday as ever was!” His voice was very friendly, and jolly as his smile. “Same old game. Got about a stone to get rid of. I’ve got Dunally, by the way. He signed along the dotted line this afternoon.”
Claire didn’t seem surprised. “I thought you would. He’ll probably keep you on the move. Has Spider Fletcher been cabled to, Kinky?”
“Two days ago—I told you so yesterday,” said Hayles aggrievedly.
Claire grunted. “And you’ll want another good man, not counting amateurs.”
“What about yourself?” The question was obviously flippant.
Claire looked round at Franklin. “Don’t know. I rather fancy both Mr. Franklin here—and myself—could land a hefty wallop. We could look after ourselves, eh?”
As Franklin smiled and shook his head he sensed somewhere a subtle aggression—some hidden reason for the sneer that lay behind the remark. France took it all seriously. “I expect you would, old chap. And Mr. Franklin.” Then he laughed. “Do you remember that chap Miles—how he sailed into me at that charity exhibition? Bored me to the ropes before I knew where I was!”
“What about the little fellow?” drawled Claire, and this time there seemed affection rather than malice. “You going along, Kinky?”
“Kinky’s staying… to put the autographs in!”
“I think it’s disgraceful!” broke in Dorothy Claire. She explained to Franklin. “Midge actually makes Kinky sign up all the autograph albums!”
Franklin looked suitably amused, then Claire’s voice came in again.
“What are you doing to-morrow, Midge?”
“Doing? My God! he asks me what I’m doing!” and he laughed. “Playing touch with Dunally—matinée and evening. Oh, and watching another bloke eat at the Girandole before the evening show. Then I’m going out of town for the week-end—seeing a bloke about a little dog.” He looked round at Claire and beamed, then thought of something quite different. “I say, what do you think happened to-night? That chap Forbes actually had the damn nerve to suggest that I should come on later to-morrow night—sort of spectacular wind-up to the contract!”
“What’d you say?”
“I didn’t! I just looked at him!”
“Did you now!” said Claire, leaning back in the settee corner and running his arms along the top. “And what about your public? Haven’t they got to be attended to?”
France refused to be ruffled. “Of course they have, old chap! I’m attending to them all right—only just a bit earlier.”
Claire nodded and smiled. “And what’s the big idea about all the hurry to-morrow night?”
France didn’t look at him. He got to his feet, yawned and stretched, then remarked casually, “Cussedness, old chap! Just cussedness!” He moved over to the tray and put the glass down. “Kampinbolo going to-morrow?”
“If the fog holds off. I’m going down in any case—and that reminds me. I mayn’t be back till after you’ve gone on Monday. Still, I’ll slip round to-morrow and see you about that.” He, too, got to his feet and moved over to the tray. “What about you, darling, if the fog’s like this?”
She hesitated for a moment. “I don’t think I’ll go—after all… Or perhaps I may.” Then she laughed and sprang to her feet. “Do you know we’re talking all this about ourselves and poor Mr. Franklin is looking dreadfully out of it!”
She smiled round at them. “Let’s play something! What shall it be? I know! Vingty—for pennies!”
“Splendid!” said France. “Get the chips, Peter, you lazy devil!”
Claire balanced his drink carefully and resumed his corner. “Count me out. You four play. I’m too devilish sleepy to keep my eyes open.”
In five minutes everything was going with a swing and Franklin had never felt more at home in his life. Everybody was in great form. All sorts of side shows were introduced to keep the ball rolling. Even Hayles showed a vein of unrelieved hilarity and altogether it was a very juvenile evening and the best fun in the world. France himself was perfectly charming—topping face and not the least bit of side; more like a moneyed dilettante than anything else he could think of, though of course, as Franklin assured himself, he wasn’t a boxer really; that was merely force of circumstances and so on, and in any case, what the devil did it matter if he was? He, and Claire, and Hayles reminded him of the Three Musketeers; nobody coming into that room could ever guess the real relationships in which they stood. France was perhaps a bit cynical at times, and Claire the least bit irritable, and poor little Hayles got badgered unmercifully, but what a thundering good lot they all were! Even Claire looked benevolence personified as he lounged with closed eyes in the settee corner.
It was just after midnight when the party broke up. If anything the fog seemed less dense but you couldn’t see the width of the drive. At the main gate the three stopped for a last word.
“Kinky’ll see you as far as the station,” said France. “It’s all on his way.”
“And what about you?” asked Franklin.
“Oh, I’m all right!” He pointed away up the left-hand blackness. “Couple of hundred yards and I’m there.”
Franklin, the last cheerio said, sat reviewing in the train what had really been one of the jolliest evenings he had ever known. Perfectly wonderful, he thought, the number of
wholly delightful people there were in the world, waiting to be known. Take little Hayles for instance—awfully good chap; intensely loyal type and—Franklin frowned slightly—obviously worshipping the ground Dorothy Claire walked on, though there was no harm in that. Then there was Claire—with that blasé, irritable pose of his—just the fellow, with his nerves of steel wire, to have at your back in a crisis. And his wife—awfully pretty woman! jolly and friendly as could be; a thoroughbred to the fingertips and without an ounce of affectation. What had Travers said about her? “Vivacious without being stimulating.” Well, he ventured to disagree. She was just the sort of woman Ludo ought to marry.
As for France, Franklin was complacently gratified. His had been the grand manner, the natural assurance of the aristocrat and that perfect merging into surroundings that paradoxically made him conspicuous. The hero had turned out to be even more heroic because he had been so essentially human. In short, as John Franklin was drowsing off to sleep, his last ideas on life were, as you may gather, that it was great—not only for its experiences but for its delightful possibilities.
CHAPTER IV
FRANKLIN COMES DOWN TO EARTH
For once in a way Franklin’s morning reflections were not at variance with his overnight, and presumably over-coloured, impressions. More than once in the middle of routine work in his office, he would feel a sudden, inward gratification. After all, in one evening he had met the most popular man in England and another whose name was almost as well known. Not only that, he had met them on equal terms and as one of themselves. Then he suddenly remembered that in the general exuberance just before they’d left the house, he’d asked Claire to put a couple of pounds for him on that horse of his. What was the name exactly? He consulted the paper and found it in the list of probables for the 2.30.
Kampinbolo (Mr. P. Claire)…… Bowing. 8st. 61 b.
That alone was a delightfully thrilling continuation of the adventure, especially for one whose yearly flutter was on the Derby—and then a matter of shillings. What had France had on it? A tenner, that was it, and Dorothy Claire another. Perfectly wonderful if it won! Ten to one for instance! Lord! he’d have to send Mrs. Claire a bunch of flowers as big as a house!
Then young Cresswold came in with more papers to be looked over and Franklin really got down to it, though the whole unusual experience was making a pleasant and optimistic background, in spite of the gloom outside and the trying artificial light. One o’clock and he yawned.
“I think you might go now, Cresswold. What’s it like outside?”
Cresswold had a look. “Perfectly ghastly again, sir. I thought it was going to clear up about an hour ago. You can’t see a chimney, sir.”
Franklin, thinking of possible winnings, clicked his tongue in annoyance. And he was not so interested as he might have been when Cresswold all at once remembered something and burst out excitedly—“Talking about the fog, sir, rather funny thing happened yesterday!”
Franklin nodded politely.
“You know my brother’s in the Air Ministry—Meteorological Office, sir; well, yesterday afternoon just before four he happened to be on the ground floor—you know, sir, right against the lift—when he saw an American chap sort of wandering round and this chap came up and asked him where he could get a weather report. Tom said he didn’t feel like being sarcastic as this chap looked a decent sort—gentleman and all that—so he told him where it was posted up, and then this chap says, ‘It’s a mighty important thing to me, so isn’t there any way to find out what the weather’ll be like right over the week-end?’ Tom told him where he’d find the week-end forecast, then he says, ‘Oh! I’ve seen that—Dense fog over London and South Coast—but is it reliable?’ Tom says he kept on badgering him about it and at last he says, ‘See here! I’m open to pay anything you like for the information, but what chance is there of an aeroplane leaving the Hendon Aerodrome to-morrow afternoon?’ ‘It can leave all right,’ says Tom, ‘but the fun’ll start when it tries to land again. Where’s it going?’ The chap looks round, then sort of whispers it confidentially. ‘Across the Atlantic—and there’s a mighty lot of money hanging to it!’ Tom says he was absolutely flabbergasted when he heard that.”
“You mean it wasn’t a feasible proposition?”
Cresswold laughed with the scorn of the partially initiated who apes the expert. “Absolute suicide, sir. Weather over the Atlantic’s been simply ghastly and, as Tom said, if he was doing anything as important as that, why didn’t he get in touch with the big pots?”
“Probably something illegal… and he wanted to keep it secret.”
Cresswold nodded knowingly. “That’s just what I thought, sir, when Tom told me—and that’s why I thought you’d like to know about it. And the really funny thing was, sir, that one of the senior officials happened to come along at that very moment and this American chap sort of mumbled something and moved off. Then when Tom was telling me about last night, sir, I suggested we should ring up the Record—in case there was anything in it—and give them the confidential tip.”
“What’d they say?”
“The chap they put us on to laughed like blazes, sir. He seemed to think we were pulling his leg—but he took Tom’s name in case anything came out of it; all in strict confidence of course, sir.”
But what Franklin had been seeing was the unprofessional side of the episode. “Your brother had better be careful,” he said dryly. “It might be a risky business for a person employed in a government office to go telling tales—and nobody should know that better than you.” A word in season, moreover, wouldn’t be amiss. “Remember that, Cresswold,” he went on. “The slightest leakage of anything from this office—”
“But you know I’d never do anything like that, sir!”
Franklin had no intention of rubbing it in. All the same, he knew the reminder could do no harm, while an occasional ticking-off did youngsters like Cresswold all the good in the world.
“And what is the weather going to be like?” he asked more kindly.
Cresswold still looked rather injured. “What I told you, sir. Dense fog over London and local mist else-where. They say it’s one of those blanket fogs, sir—absolutely clear up above.”
Franklin attempted a jocular ending. “Well, you’d better buy a pair of stilts! Oh! what about the midday post, by the way? See to it, will you, on your way down?”
He pulled out his pipe and drew in a chair. No use going to lunch till that correspondence had been gone through. Then as he sat there his thoughts naturally went back to that wonderful evening. Extraordinary handy for those three, living all of a heap, as it were. And jolly handy for the Tube Station, in spite of the modern use of cars. Funny little chap, Hayles! Then he smiled. How desperately anxious he’d been on that short walk, through the fog to the station, to explain away all that badgering he’d had to put up with! The one concern in his mind seemed to be that he should be regarded as quite a different fellow, in reality, from the sort of humorous mascot which he’d been during the evening. He’d mentioned—quite casually of course—his various responsibilities and one or two things he’d done.
A tap at the door put an end to Franklin’s ruminations and in came the commissionaire with the letters.
“Very late to-day, sir! Expect it’s the fog, sir.”
Franklin agreed. He ran through the small assortment and put his own on one side. Only one looked at all promising—a foolscap envelope marked “Personal,” and inside which was a smaller envelope marked “Strictly confidential,” by no means an unusual thing for that office. But he got the surprise of his life when he saw the signature at the bottom of the sheet of greyish notepaper.
tel. Primrose 003023, Regent View, W.
Saturday.
Dear Franklin,
Would you be so good as to look through the enclosed and tell me what you make of them. Personally I find them, after certain inquiries I have made for myself, absolutely inexplicable.
I have further enclo
sed three specimens of handwriting and on these I should like your opinion in strictest confidence.
Will you drop in and see me privately to-morrow Sunday) at about 2.30, when I shall be alone. Do not trouble to answer, except to phone me up at the Paliceum his evening if you are NOT able to come. Many thanks,
Yours sincerely,
Michael France.
The enclosures were three half sheets of cheap paper; at the top left hand corner of each a pencilled letter, and the one marked (c) bearing that day’s date.
(a) I have just got back to England and found out what you done you dirty swine. Unless you are out of the country in three days you are for it.
LUCY.
(b) As you don’t think there’s anything to it, this is your final notice to quit. In 24 hours your for it.
LUCY.
(c) Michal (sic) France your numbers up. I’m coming for you and coming quick.
LUCY.
Franklin smiled—he really couldn’t help it. That penny dreadful ensemble was too funny! Then he had another look at France’s letter—and frowned. The curious thing was that France himself seemed to have taken them perfectly seriously. Then he read the three again and this time with concentration. The writing was what one might have expected, a clumsy compromise between script and printing. The ink was of poor quality and once the pen had spluttered badly. Crudities in punctuation and phrasing he ignored—after all those were probably deliberate. If, however, they were natural to the writer, all the more reason why France should know who that writer was—and yet he’d definitely stated that the whole thing was a mystery as far as he was concerned. As for the rest, it was pure, full-blooded melodrama of the good old type. And who exactly was Lucy? And why had France taken them so seriously as to ask for an expert opinion? And then a thought that cast a vague sort of uneasiness. France had known then who he was, in spite of the fact that no reference had been made to his profession. Franklin frowned again, then turned to the other enclosures—the specimens of handwriting that France’s letter had mentioned.
Dead Man Twice Page 5
