Two in a Train

by Warwick Deeping

  He observed people. He was here, there, and everywhere, debonair, watchful, polite, and during the next two or three days he made a point of observing Mr. Brown. The man might have a plain name, but he possessed a certain air of distinction. He was well-dressed, easy in his manners, quietly self-assured. He strolled into the dining-room with the detachment of a man who had no need to feel self-conscious. He spoke to the waiters with an air of casual authority. Moreover, Mr. Miller saw that Mr. Brown had attached himself to the most exclusive clique. He was accepted. He danced well, played a good game of golf, and almost too good a game of bridge. His clothes and his carriage were meticulously it.

  Mr. Miller said to his wife—“The fellow seems perfectly normal. He’s in the Carpmael-Maltravers set. He dances with the Maltravers girl. He plays golf with Carpmael and Sir John Windlesham. I believe young Dunning is lending him his speed-boat.”

  Mary Miller was going through the inventory of the hotel linen. She helped her husband in many ways, and when towels and sheets and pillow-cases had to be checked by the hundred Mary Miller functioned as a kind of super-housekeeper.

  “Do you still feel the same way about him, Fred?”

  Mr. Miller rubbed his firm, round chin.

  “Well, yes, in a way. Whenever I meet the man a funny little shiver seems to go through me.”

  Obviously, Mr. Brown was popular in the hotel. At the end of the first week he paid his bills in cash and did not query a single item. He and Mr. Miller met occasionally in the lounge or vestibule, and Mr. Miller got the impression that Mr. Brown’s eyes stared rather hard. But then his eyes were made that way. They smiled upon each other.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Morning.”

  Mr. Miller compelled himself to overcome that curious shrinking feeling that attacked him in the presence of Mr. Brown.

  “I hope you are quite comfortable, sir?”

  “Quite.”

  Did Mr. Miller imagine it, or was there a flicker of irony on the other man’s hard, well-groomed face? But—why irony? Moreover, if Mr. Brown was comfortable, Mr. Miller had every reason to feel that all was well with his particular world. The Royal Hotel was paying a dividend of fifteen per cent. Its private owners were so well pleased with the property and with Mr. Miller’s ten years of managerial enthusiasm that on January 1st of the incoming year he was to become a partner, a member of the syndicate. He had saved some two thousand pounds. He was married to a woman who filled the emotional side of his life. He had three healthy, and good-tempered children—Tom, and Irene, and Babs the baby, aged three. He loved his hotel. He was always planning some new refinement, polishing the corners of its already excellent service. During the previous year they had added twenty new huts to the bathing establishment, and built a small jetty and breakwater in the cove where motor-boats could be moored. The garage accommodation was perfect. Mr. Miller was even thinking in terms of the air. Why should not the Royal Hotel at Seabourne be the first hotel to possess its own private aerodrome? Progress sped upon the pinions of speed.

  On that particular morning Mr. Miller had been down inspecting the bathing-huts. The attendant was not quite as thorough as Mr. Miller wished him to be, and someone had complained of finding a soiled towel on one of the seats. The day was blue as to sea and sky, the sand in the cove a yellow sickle. Mr. Miller was climbing the winding path through the gardens, and thinking of nothing so disconcerting as some unpleasant adventure out of the past, when a voice addressed him.

  “Good morning, Müller.”

  Mr. Miller stopped as though a hand had been thrust against his chest. Almost he went backwards. He found himself staring at Mr. Brown, who, in white flannels and tennis shoes, had come silently down the path, and was standing just above him. And there was that curious flicker of irony in Mr. Brown’s sea-blue eyes.

  Mr. Miller hesitated.

  “Good morning, sir. Perfect weather for a bathe.”

  He made as though to pass by, but Mr. Brown was neither bathing nor allowing Mr. Miller to escape.

  “You don’t remember me, Müller?”

  Mr. Miller stuck out his chin.

  “No—I don’t.”

  “Quite sure?”

  “I must admit, sir, that there’s something just a little familiar——”

  The other man’s smile was sardonic.

  “Familiar! Well—I should say so. Oblige me a moment by turning round and looking at that nice blue bay. Imagine it to be hazed over by the dusk of a September evening. Imagine a certain—something—appearing out of the water.”

  Mr. Miller was not a man of much colour but his face looked grey. For suddenly the thing had come back to him. He remembered. He was conscious of a sense of emptiness at the pit of his stomach.

  He said, “I suppose you must have your little joke, Mr. Brown—but I don’t quite see the jest of it.”

  “No?”

  “Absolutely no.”

  Mr. Brown looked about him, and then he addressed Mr. Miller in German.

  “Sometimes it is rather intriguing to revive those old war memories. I presume you have ten minutes to spare? Shall we find a quiet place?”

  Mr. Miller hesitated and surrendered. There was a little garden house along the cliff, and Mr. Miller led the way, towards it. The place was empty, and no one could approach it unobserved.

  Mr. Brown sat down in a deck chair, and lit a cigarette. He was very much in control of the situation.

  “I suppose you must be doing pretty well here, Müller?”

  Mr. Miller stood in the doorway.

  “Yes, fairly well.”

  “And you never reported that most peculiar incident.”

  Mr. Miller showed sudden heat.

  “Look here, what has a certain incident to do with you? I don’t like this air of mystery.”

  Mr. Brown lay back in his chair and gazed at the sea.

  “No, perhaps you don’t. Let us redescribe the occasion. On a September evening three gentlemen in mufti strolled into your hotel. They were presumed to be officers from the camp at Headworth. They spoke perfect English. They had an excellent dinner. After dinner they asked to see the manager. You remember?”

  Mr. Miller gave a jerk of the head.

  “You received them in your office. You discovered yourself covered by a pistol. The three officers were Germans; they had landed from a submarine. Incredible, but true. They desired you to give them certain information about the camp at Headworth. You gave it.”

  Mr. Miller turned on the tormentor.

  “Yes—I told them some rubbish. And who—the devil—are you?”

  “Captain von Braun of the German Navy, retired. If you remember—I held the pistol.”

  Mr. Miller did remember it.

  “Well—what about it? All that happened——”

  “So long ago! Exactly. But you never reported the affair to the authorities.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you are still here. Because it would have been extremely awkward for you——”

  Mr. Miller showed heat.

  “Look here, Captain von Braun—I’m a busy man with work to do, and I——”

  The German smiled up at him ironically.

  “Of course. You are a most successful man, Müller. You are to become a partner. Your hotel is an excellent hotel. But if it became known that during the war you received German officers and gave them information——”

  “It’s a lie.”

  “O, come, come!”

  Mr. Miller’s fists were clenched. He confronted the crisis.

  “Look here, you clear out. If you think you are going to blackmail me——”

  “My dear Müller, that’s a vulgar word. The position is—that I’m damned hard up. I came over here on business, and the business went flat. I need a little capital. We might call it a loan.”

  Mr. Miller walked out of the shelter, hesitated, and returned to the doorway.

  “Captain von Braun—you
are just a common blackmailer. Supposing I——?”

  The German stretched out his legs.

  “Well—let us suppose you appeal to the police. The whole story will come out. It will be known that you were in communication with the enemy.”

  “A lie.”

  “How are you going to prove it? You can’t. And do you think it likely that you would retain the management of this hotel? Would you become a partner? Hardly. Not good business, eh?”

  Mr. Miller thrust his fists into his trouser pockets.

  “What do you want?”

  “Cash.”

  “How much?”

  “A thousand pounds.”

  “Impossible, absurd.”

  “I said—a thousand pounds.”

  Mr. Miller glared at the German.

  “Well—what if I say no?”

  “Oh—I shall have a rather amusing story to tell in your hotel. I shall make a joke of it. I shall say that I had a nice little joke with you. But it won’t be a joke, Müller, for you.”

  He lit a second cigarette, drew up his long legs, and at his leisure rose from the deck chair.

  “I’m going for a spin in Mr. Dunning’s speed-boat. Yes, he has lent it to me. Think it over, Müller, and let me know to-night.”

  As he passed the Swiss he patted him ironically on the shoulder.

  “You people over here won the war, you know. You owe us something, my dear Müller. The luck of the throw. Yes, that little sum will be extremely useful to me. The generous gesture, what! Well—till to-night. Come to my room after dinner.”

  He walked off down the path to the cove where Dunning’s white speed-boat lay at the jetty, and Mr. Miller stood for some seconds like a little black-coated Prometheus chained to a rock.

  He said to himself—“Damn you, damn your confounded soul! Now—what—in the name of heaven am I to do about this?”

  He did that which he always did when he was in trouble, he rushed off to his wife. He found her sitting in the garden, with Babs playing on the grass at her feet.

  “I’ve something serious to discuss with you, my dear.”

  He looked grey, almost as grey as he felt, and Babs was carried off and handed over to the cook. She was a very sweet-tempered child, and to Mr. Miller an emblem of all that was good and pleasant in his life. Were things to be wrecked, and his children’s future interfered with by a damned fellow who had emerged out of the past just like his infernal submarine of nine years ago? He followed his wife and child into the house.

  “I’m going upstairs, Mary. Quieter—there.”

  Was it as bad as all that? And what exactly was the problem. She found him sitting on the bed. He told her to close the door.

  “I was right, Mary, about my ghost. I ought to have told you years ago, but it seemed so unnecessary.”

  “Well, tell me now, Fred.”

  He told her the whole story, an almost incredible story of cool audacity and consummate impudence. O, yes, those Germans had bluffed the whole hotel. The cheek of the thing, coming ashore and strolling up and into the hotel and eating an English dinner! It was an amazing yarn, and had Mary Miller not known her husband so well she would not have believed it.

  “They held you up in your office, Fred. Why didn’t you hand them over——?”

  “One of them had a pistol, my dear. Besides, it wasn’t the pistol that scared me. If it was bluff—I couldn’t call it.”

  “Why not?”

  “They said, ‘If you call people in—we become prisoners, that’s all, officer prisoners. We shall be interned. But we shall swear that you were a paid spy.’ ”

  “And you let them go?”

  Mr. Miller gave a pathetic shrug of the shoulders.

  “Yes. I told them a lot of lies—and they went. You see, it was a ghastly dilemma for me. I had just got the management of the hotel.”

  “You told nobody. Not even the police?”

  “Nobody.”

  “O, Fred—how utterly foolish of you.”

  He nodded.

  “Don’t rub it in, Mary.”

  “My dear—I’m not that sort. And this Mr. Brown——?”

  “Is Captain von Braun of that submarine. He wants a thousand pounds to keep his mouth shut. A scandal of that sort would ruin us.”

  Mary Miller sat down by the window.

  “A common blackmailer! Fred—you must——”

  He got up and paced the room.

  “Call in the police! Yes, and a nice mess I should be in. I can’t prove the fellow a liar. I should be damned by my own silence. An ex-spy, my dear! Why—I should be kicked out, and the scoundrel knows it. He’s got me in a corner.”

  “But a thousand pounds, Fred, the money we have been saving for Tom’s education.”

  “I know—I know. Nothing you could say could make it more bitter. I shall have to pay up. I don’t see any alternative.”

  His wife put out her hands.

  “Tom—I’m so sorry. Don’t be in a hurry. If you gave him this money, he may come again.”

  Mr. Miller held his wife’s hands for a moment.

  “You’ve always been such a help to me, Mary. There’s no one else in the world like you.”

  “Let’s try and think of something, Fred.”

  “Think! He has given me till to-night. There does not seem to be any alternative.”

  “But would they believe him?”

  “My dear, my concealing the whole affair would damn me. How can I prove that I told him a lot of nonsense? I suppose I was weak. I shall have to pay for my weakness.”

  She sat holding one of his hands while he stood looking out of the window, humiliated and distraught.

  “If only you had told me, Fred, years ago, it would have made a difference.”

  “I did not want to worry you, Mary. Besides, who could have foreseen a resurrection like this.”

  She smiled up at him and her voice was gentle.

  “You’re not a suspicious person, Fred—I’m thinking—and thinking so hard. Yes, if there is nothing in this man to appeal to, if he values nothing but money—then we are in a pretty hopeless position. He will stand for his pound of flesh. Is there nothing in him to appeal to?”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Yes—once or twice, one of those men with faces like brass.”

  “Exactly, and the god of brass is his god, Mary.”

  She was still holding his hand.

  “There are few really bad people in the world, Fred. This man may have a soft spot somewhere.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “He may be desperate. He may have other people to think of.”

  “Well—that doesn’t help us much, Mary. It’s the skin game. He just holds a pistol at us and says ‘Pay up.’ ”

  The more they discussed the problem the more insoluble it seemed, save on lines of violence that were utterly alien to two such people as the Millers. A bullet through Captain von Braun’s hard head would have been productive of further complications. The gangster touch! Someone shot and pushed over the Royal Hotel cliff! Even von Braun’s cynical and polished little smile suggested that Otto Friedrich was just a succulent little bourgeois who could be safely squeezed, and Otto Friedrich was just as wise as to the sardonic reasonableness of the situation as was von Braun.

  Von Braun held the cards. Realism willed it that the man who had been spoofed would have to pay.

  Mr. Miller went back to the hotel, a little man who was feeling too foolish and dejected to be angry. He was disgusted with himself. Here was this blood-sucker established in the Royal Hotel, and as his wife had said, what was to prevent von Braun from repeating the process should Mr. Miller compromise by paying him that thousand pounds. If only von Braun and his damned submarine had been sent to the bottom during the war. But Mr. Miller pulled himself together. He had the hotel and its daily routine on his shoulders as well as the incubus of von Braun. He went about his business with a kind of underchant of worry going on inside hi
m. “A thousand pounds. Five years’ savings. Shall have to sell out and shell out. Poor Mary. I wish the fellow was at the bottom of the sea.”

  Mr. Miller was in the vestibule interviewing a gentleman who had arrived in a car and had asked for the manager, when Transon, the man in charge of the bathing huts and the hotel beach, rushed into the hotel. Transon was distinctly stout and distinctly out of breath. He was hatless and perspiring.

  “Mr. Miller about——?”

  “In the vestibule, Tom. Anything wrong?”

  “Wrong! I should say so.”

  Transon did not wait to explain things to the second porter. He made for the vestibule and most unceremoniously interrupted Mr. Miller’s chat with the gentleman who was inquiring about terms and rooms.

  “Mr. Miller, sir—there’s been an accident, sir.”

  “Excuse me, sir. What is it, Transon? No one drowned?”

  “No, that Mr. Brown, sir. He went out in Mr. Dunning’s boat. I warned him to be careful.”

  Mr. Miller’s face looked like a little white frozen mask.

  “Well—Transon, well? Be quick.”

  “I warned him not to let her all out too close in shore. I said that if there was any driftwood about——”

  “Yes, yes—Transon, but——”

  “Of course he didn’t listen to me. The White Cat was all out when she must have struck a piece of driftwood. I happened to be watching. She seemed to jump in the air and then fly all to pieces.”

  Mr. Miller controlled himself.

  “And Mr. Brown?”

  “No, he ain’t dead, sir, but terribly smashed up. They managed to fish him out. Smith’s boat was cruising close by. They’re carrying him up here, sir, on the door of a hut.”

  “Who?”

  “The gardeners and a couple of gentlemen.”

  Mr. Miller stood there looking bewildered. This German badly injured and laid up in his hotel! The fellow might be here for months. He might live; he might die. And then Mr. Miller saw Corcoran hurrying to open the side door at the entrance. A man in a sweater and one of the hotel gardeners appeared. Something was being carried in, a thing that looked like a white bundle stained with red. Mr. Miller stood and stared. His feeling as an hotelier was that such a procession should not have been allowed to pass through the vestibule.