The sister in charge of the Treatment Room brought a Mrs Twitchett into the office. She was one of those fat women whose greatly overpowdered faces look like plasticine, and whose bosoms, if pricked, would surely subside with a loud bang and a gust of air. The sister introduced her to Sophia, saying that she had already been taken on at the local A.R.P. headquarters as a part time worker for St. Anne’s; Sophia’s business was to note down all particulars on the card index.
‘Emma Twitchett,’ she wrote, ‘144 The Boltons. Qualifications, First Aid, Home Nursing and Gas Certificates. Next of kin, Bishop of the Antarctic. Religion, The Countess of Huntingdon’s Connexion.’
Here Sophia looked up sharply and saw, what in her preoccupation had not hitherto dawned on her, that Emma Twitchett was none other than Rudolph. For the first moment of crazy relief she thought that he must know everything and have come to rescue her, Milly and Sir Ivor. Then she realised that this could not be the case. He was merely bored and lonely without her, and was hoping that he would get back into favour by means of an elaborate joke. It was absolutely important to prevent him from giving himself away in the office, while under the impression that they were alone. As soon as she had scribbled down Mrs Twitchett’s particulars, she hurried him out of the Post.
Although it could not be said that Sophia had hitherto proved herself to be a very clever or successful counter-spy, she now made up for all her former mistakes by perfectly sensible behaviour. The luck, of which she had been so hopeful, had come her way at last and she did not allow it to slip through her fingers. She conducted Mrs Twitchett, as she always did new people, round the Post, chatting most amicably. She was careful to omit nothing, neither the rest room upstairs, the canteen, the ladies’ cloakroom nor the room with the nurses’ lockers. She hoped that Rudolph would notice, and remember afterwards, how Winthrop, without giving himself the trouble to dissimulate his movements, was following them closely during this perambulation. Sophia was only too thankful that it was Winthrop who, she estimated, was about half as intelligent as Heatherley. At last she took Mrs Twitchett to the exit and showed her out, saying ‘Very well then, that will be splendid; tomorrow at twelve. Oh yes, of course,’ she said rather hesitatingly and shyly, ‘Yes, naturally, Mrs Twitchett, I’ll lend you mine.’ She took out her handkerchief and offered it to Rudolph with a smile. ‘No, of course, bring it back any time. I have another in my bag; it’s quite all right. Good, then, see you tomorrow; that will be very nice. So glad you are coming; we are rather short-handed, you know.’
She went back without even glancing at Winthrop who was hovering about inside the Post, and who followed her to the office. Then she sat for a while at her table trembling very much and expecting that any moment she would be summoned to the drain, but as time went on and nothing had happened, she took up her knitting. If she had a certain feeling of relief that, at any rate, she had been able to take a step towards communication with the outside world, she was also tortured with doubts as to whether Rudolph would ever see what was written on the handkerchief and whether, if he did, he would not merely say that women were bores in wars. Olga had certainly queered the pitch for her rivals in the world of espionage as far as Rudolph was concerned. Also, if he did have the luck to read and the sense to follow her directions, would he be in time? He must hurry; she felt sure that after tomorrow any action which might be taken would be too late to save Milly and the old gentleman, certainly too late to catch Florence. Tomorrow was what the posters call zero hour. The rest of that day dragged by even more horribly slowly than the preceding one, and there was no sign from Rudolph. She could not help half expecting that he would have got some kind of a message through to her; when seven o’clock arrived and there was nothing, she was bitterly disappointed. Heatherley conducted her home in a taxi, dined with her and never let her out of his sight until Florence was ready to take charge of her. Sophia did not sleep a single wink; she lay strenuously willing Rudolph to read her handkerchief.
On the morning of the third and last day, Sophia would have been ready to construe anything which seemed at all mysterious into a code message from Rudolph. But nothing of the sort came her way. She eagerly scanned her egg for a sign of calligraphy, however faint; it was innocent, however, of any mark. The agony column of The Times was equally unproductive nor had Milly contributed to the dog advertisements; there was not even a mention of French bulldogs. Her morning post consisted of nothing more hopeful than Harrod’s Food News. In fact, it became obvious to Sophia that Rudolph had never read her S O S at all, or if he had that he did not believe in it. Two large tears trickled down her cheeks. She decided that if nothing had materialised to show that Rudolph was helping by four o’clock, she would abandon Milly and the old gentleman to death and worse in the main drain, and dash out of the Post on the chance of finding a policeman before she too was liquidated.
Having made up her mind to some definite action, she felt happier. She jumped out of bed, dressed in a great hurry and led poor Florence, who suffered a good deal from fallen arches, round and round Kensington Gardens for two hours at least.
When Sophia arrived at the Post, accompanied by a limping Florence, the first person she saw was Mrs Twitchett. Her doubts were dispersed in a moment and great was her relief. Rudolph must certainly be working on her side; it would be unnatural for anybody to go to the trouble of dressing up like that, twice, for a joke. Mrs Twitchett was busily employed in the Labour Ward, but found time, when Sophia came down from her luncheon in the canteen, to go round to the office and give back the borrowed handkerchief. Sophia put it away in her bag without even looking at it.
‘So kind of you,’ said Mrs Twitchett. ‘I have had it washed and ironed for you, of course. And now you must forgive me if I run back to the Labour Ward. I am in the middle of a most fascinating argument with Sister Turnbull about umbilical cords. Thank you again, very much, for the handkerchief.’
Rudolph’s disguise was perfect, and Sophia did not feel at all nervous that Florence would see through it; he had, in his time, brought off much more difficult hoaxes, and she herself had not seen who it was yesterday until he began to make a joke of the card index.
Presently Sophia gave a loud sniff, rummaged about in her bag and pulled out the handkerchief. Rudolph really did seem to have had it washed and ironed, unless it was a new one. Slowly she spread it out, gave it a little shake and blew her nose on it. The letters ‘O.K.’ were printed in one corner, so that was all right. She began to do her knitting. An almost unnatural calm seemed to have descended on the Post. Several people, as well as Sister Wordsworth, were on the sick list, and the personnel were so depleted that it was not even possible to hold the usual practice in the Treatment Room. The wireless, joy of joys, was out of order. One nurse came in and asked Sophia for a clean overall in which to go to the theatre, and Sophia felt guilty because she had known that this girl’s own overall was lost in the wash and she ought to have sent a postcard about it to the laundry. As she got a clean one out of the general store, she assured the girl that she had done so and was eagerly awaiting the reply. It seemed that today was to be a gala at the theatre, with two cerebral tumours and a mastoid. This nurse had been looking forward to it all the week. Sophia helped her with her cap, and she dashed away to her treat, singing happily.
Sophia felt very restless, and wandered into the Treatment Room where, done out of the ordinary practice, the nurses, in an excess of zeal, were giving each other bed pans. Further on, in the Labour Ward, Sister Turnbull and Mrs Twitchett sat on the floor counting over the contents of the poison cupboard. Mrs Twitchett was enlarging on the most horrid aspects of childbirth. Then Sophia went back to the office, and hour upon hour went by with absolutely nothing happening until she thought she would scream.
Suddenly, just before it was time for her to go off duty, all the lights went out. This was always happening at the Post; nevertheless Sophia found herself under the table before she had time consciously to control her actions. A mome
nt later she heard Winthrop push his way through the sacking curtain and he began to flash a powerful torch round the office, evidently looking for her. In one more minute he must see her. Sophia experienced a spasm of sick terror, like a child playing a too realistic game of hide and seek, and then, almost before she had time to remember that this was no game at all, two more torches appeared in the doorway, and, by the light of Winthrop’s which was now flashed on to them, she could see Mrs Twitchett, accompanied by the reassuring form of a tin-hatted policeman. For a few moments the office resembled the scene of a gangster play in which it is impossible to discover what is happening; however, when the shooting and scuffling was over, she saw Winthrop being led away with gyves upon his wrists, and this gave her great confidence.
‘Sophia, where are you?’ shouted Rudolph.
Sophia crawled out from under her table feeling unheroic, but relieved.
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘You all right?’
He took her hand, and together they ran through the Post, which seemed to be quite full of men with torches, shouting and running, towards the museum. This was also full of policemen. They went past the Siamese twins, past the brains and came to where the case of bladders lay in pieces on the floor; beyond it the door stood open. Framed in the doorway, with the light behind him making an aura of his golden hair, stood the old gentleman with Milly in his arms.
‘We’ve got Winthrop all right,’ said Rudolph, ‘what about your two?’
Sophia was busy kissing Milly, who showed enthusiasm at the sight of her owner.
‘She looks a little bit all eyes,’ she said; ‘otherwise quite well. Oh, Milly, I do love you.’
‘Florence and Heatherley have scuttled themselves in the main drain,’ said Sir Ivor, ‘and I could do with a whisky and soda, old dears.’
15
Rudolph had only just been in time. He confessed that when he first read Sophia’s message on the handkerchief he had felt excessively bored. Every woman in London seemed to have some secret service activity on hand. Then he remembered that Sophia’s manner had been rather queer, and that, although she must have known who Mrs Twitchett was, she had not given him so much as a wink, even when they were outside the Post. She was looking white and strained and anxious, and the circumstance of her having the handkerchief ready to give him was peculiar. Finally there was something about the way she had worded her message that made him think this was, after all, no silly joke, but an affair which called for some investigation.
Accordingly, when he had divested himself of his Twitchett personality and was once more respectable in uniform, he hurried round to Scotland Yard with the handkerchief which he showed, rather deprecatingly, to Inspector McFarlane. The Inspector, however, so far from laughing at him, was exceedingly interested. He told Rudolph that for a long time now the authorities had suspected that the old ‘King’ was broadcasting in this country; that furthermore, Scotland Yard was on the track of three dangerous spies, the leaders of a large and well organised gang who were known to be in London and who so far could not be located. Quite a lot had been discovered about their activities, but nobody had any idea who they might be or where to find them. Rudolph told him about Florence, of how he had jokingly suggested that she was really a spy, and of the pigeon in her bedroom, and the Inspector, who was quite interested to hear all this, said that the Boston Brotherhood, or any such cranky society, and an American accent would provide an admirable smoke screen for clever spies. He also said that the gang he was looking for certainly used pigeons, two of which had been shot down over the Channel quite recently.
The long and the short of it was that the Inspector told his two best men that they must somehow penetrate into the cellars of St. Anne’s. He advised Rudolph on no account to make any attempt at communicating with Sophia until they knew more, as her life might easily be endangered if he did.
‘By the way,’ he said, glancing once again at the handkerchief, ‘who is Milly?’
‘Milly,’ said Rudolph angrily, for this made him look a fool, ‘since you ask me, is a blasted bitch.’
‘A friend of Lady Sophia’s?’
‘You misunderstand me, Inspector. No, her French bulldog. She is potty about the wretched animal, and certainly if anyone wanted to get Sophia into his power an infallible way would be by kidnapping Milly.’
‘I see. So my men must look out (unless the whole thing is a joke) for Sir Ivor King and a French bulldog. If it should prove to be a joke, you must in no way distress yourself, Mr Jocelyn. In war-time we are bound to explore every avenue, whether it is likely to be productive of results, or not. Every day we follow up false clues, and think ourselves lucky if something turns out to be genuine once in a hundred times. I am very grateful to you for coming round, and will let you know of course if there are any developments.’
Rudolph went to the Ritz from Scotland Yard, and here he saw Olga, who was telling quite a little crowd of people that she was hot-foot on the track of a gang of dangerous spies, and soon hoped to be able, singlehanded, to deliver them over to justice. Mary Pencill was also there, assuring her admirers that Russia’s interest in Finland was only that of a big brother, not, she said, that she held any brief for the present ruler of Russia, who had shown his true colours the day he had accepted the overtures of Hitler.
In the middle of the night, Inspector McFarlane sent for Rudolph to go and see him. He had some news. One of his men had actually seen the King of Song in his subterranean cubby-hole; not only that, he had managed to hold a short whispered conversation with him. Sir Ivor told him that the gang had now entirely dispersed with the exception of Florence, Heatherley and Winthrop. Florence was planning to leave for Germany, taking Sir Ivor with her, the following day at 8 p.m. An hour later, a time fuse, which was already in one of the cellars, would go off, setting in motion an elaborate network of machinery connected with the whole drainage system of London. Every drain would be blown up, carrying with it, of course, hundreds of buildings and streets; the confusion and loss of life would be prodigious, the more so as none of the bombs would explode simultaneously, and people hurrying to safety from one part of the town to another would find themselves in the middle of fresh explosions. London would lie a total wreck, and prove an easy prey for the fleet upon fleet of aeroplanes which would now pour over it, dropping armed parachutists. Taking advantage of the city’s disorganization, and led by Heatherley and Winthrop, they would soon be in possession of it. London would be destroyed and in enemy hands, the war as good as lost.
‘So, you see,’ remarked the Inspector, ‘it was just as well that you did not treat Lady Sophia’s message as a joke. Oh, and by the way, Sir Ivor has the dog with him. He says her snoring gets on his nerves.’
‘I’m not surprised. What anybody wants to have a dog like that for——!’
The Inspector told Rudolph that he had better become Mrs Twitchett again and go to the Post. Like this he would be able to keep an eye on Florence and also to reassure Sophia, whose nerves, if nothing were done to relieve her anxiety, might give way, greatly to the detriment of the Inspector’s plans. He wanted to leave the gang undisturbed until nearly the last minute, as it was important that no message should get though to Berlin which would prevent the now eagerly awaited arrival of the parachutists. The War Office was seething with arrangements for their reception.
Everything went off beautifully except that the fusing of the lights, a pure accident, had enabled Florence and Heatherley to dive into the main drain before they could be arrested. It had happened just as the Inspector’s men were pouring into the Post through the ordinary entrance and also by means of the drain, and had momentarily caused some confusion.
‘We should have preferred to catch them alive,’ said the Inspector, ‘but there it is.’
Sophia was rather pleased; the idea of Florence as Mata Hari in her silver foxes was repugnant to her, and besides, it would have been embarrassing for Luke. Far better like this.
Presently the
air was filled with Dracula-like forms descending slowly through the black-out. These young fellows, the cream of the German army, met with a very queer reception. Squads of air-raid wardens, stretcher-bearers, boy scouts, shop assistants and black-coated workers awaited them with yards and yards of twine, and when they were still a few feet from the earth, tied their dangling legs together. Trussed up like turkeys for the Christmas market, they were bundled into military lorries and hurried away to several large Adam houses which had been commandeered for the purpose. Soon all the newspapers had photographs of them smoking their pipes before a cheery log fire, with a picture of their Führer gazing down from the chimneypiece. Sir Ivor King went several times to sing German folk songs with them, a gesture that was much appreciated by the great British public who regarded them with a sort of patronizing affection, rather as if they were members of an Australian cricket team which had come over here and competed, unsuccessfully, for the Ashes.
16
Sophia was not acclaimed as a national heroine. The worthy burghers of London, who should have been grateful to her, were quite displeased to learn that, although their total destruction had in fact been prevented, this had been done in such an off-hand way, and with so small a margin of time to spare. Sophia was criticised, and very rightly so, for not having called in Scotland Yard the instant she had first seen Florence letting a pigeon out of her bedroom window. Had the full story of her incompetence emerged, had the facts about Milly seen the light of day, it is probable that the windows of 98 Granby Gate would have shared the fate of those at Vocal Lodge, which were now being mended, in gratitude and remorse, at the expense of all the residents of Kew Green. Actually, Sophia was damned with faint praise in the daily press, and slightly clapped when she appeared on the News Reels.
Christmas Pudding and Pigeon Pie Page 34
