THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
My shopping took me quite a little while. There were a lot of things
I wanted to get, and I saw no reason for hurrying--especially as
McMurtrie was paying for the taxi. I stopped at Selfridge's and laid
in a small but nicely chosen supply of shirts, socks, collars, and
other undergarments, and then, drifting slowly on, picked up at
intervals some cigars, a couple of pairs of boots, and a presentable
Homburg hat.
The question of a suit of clothes was the only problem that offered
any real difficulties. Apart from the fact that Savaroff's suit was by
no means in its first youth, I had a strong objection to wearing his
infernal things a moment longer than I could help. I was determined to
have a decently cut suit as soon as possible, but I knew that it would
be a week at least before any West End tailor would finish the job. In
the meantime I wanted something to go on with, and in my extremity I
suddenly remembered a place in Wardour Street where four or five years
before I had once hired a costume for a Covent Garden ball.
I told the man to drive me there, and much to my relief found the
shop still in existence. There was no difficulty about getting what I
wanted. The proprietor had a large selection of what he called "West
End Misfits," amongst which were several tweeds and blue serge suits
big enough even for my somewhat unreasonable proportions. I chose the
two that fitted me best, and then bought a second-hand suit-case to
pack them away in.
I had spent about fifteen pounds, which seemed to me as much as a
fifty-pound capitalist had any right to squander on necessities. I
therefore returned to the taxi and, arranging my parcels on the
front seat, instructed the man to drive me down to the address that
McMurtrie had given me.
Pimlico was a part of London that I had not patronized extensively in
the days of my freedom, and I was rather in the dark about the precise
situation of Edith Terrace. The taxi-man, however, seemed to suffer
under no such handicap. He drove me straight to Victoria, and then,
taking the road to the left of the station, turned off into a
neighbourhood of dreary-looking streets and squares, all bearing a
dismal aspect of having seen better days.
Edith Terrace was, if anything, slightly more depressing than the
rest. It consisted of a double row of gaunt, untidy houses, from which
most of the original stucco had long since peeled away. Quiet enough
it certainly was, for along its whole length we passed only one man,
who was standing under a street lamp, lighting a cigarette. He looked
up as we went by, and for just one instant I had a clear view of his
face. Except for a scar on the cheek he was curiously like one of the
warders at Princetown, and for that reason I suppose this otherwise
trifling incident fixed itself in my mind. It is funny on what queer
chances one's fate sometimes hangs.
We pulled up at Number 3 and, mounting some not very recently cleaned
steps, I gave a brisk tug at a dilapidated bell-handle. After a minute
I heard the sound of shuffling footsteps; then the door opened and a
funny-looking little old woman stood blinking and peering at me from
the threshold.
"How do you do?" I said cheerfully. "Are you Mrs. Oldbury?"
She gave a kind of spasmodic jerk, that may have been intended for a
curtsey.
"Yes, sir," she said. "I'm Mrs. Oldbury; and you'd be the gentleman
I'm expectin'--Dr. McMurtrie's gentleman?"
This seemed an accurate if not altogether flattering description of
me, so I nodded my head.
"That's right," I said. "I'm Mr. Nicholson." Then, as the heavily
laden taxi-man staggered up the steps, I added: "And these are my
belongings."
With another bob she turned round, and leading the way into the house
opened a door on the right-hand side of the passage.
"This will be your sitting-room, sir," she said, turning up the gas.
"It's a nice hairy room, and I give it a proper cleaning out this
morning."
I looked round, and saw that I was in a typical "ground-floor front,"
with the usual cheap lace curtains, hideous wall paper, and slightly
stuffy smell. At the back of the room, away from the window, were two
folding doors.
My landlady shuffled across and pushed one of them open. "And this
is the bedroom, sir. It's what you might call 'andy--and quiet too.
You'll find that a nice comfortable bed, sir. It's the one my late
'usband died in."
"It sounds restful," I said. Then walking to the doorway I paid off
the taxi-man, who had deposited his numerous burdens and was waiting
patiently for his fare.
As soon as he had gone, Mrs. Oldbury, who had meanwhile occupied
herself in pulling down the blinds and drawing the curtains, inquired
whether I should like anything to eat.
"I don't think I'll trouble you," I said. "I have got to go out in any
case."
"Oh, it's no trouble, sir--no trouble at all. I can put you on a nice
little bit o' steak as easy as anything if you 'appen to fancy it."
I shook my head. A few weeks ago "a nice little bit o' steak" would
have seemed like Heaven to me, but since then I had become more
luxurious. I was determined that my first dinner in London should be
worthy of the occasion. Besides, I had other business to attend to.
"No, thanks," I said firmly. "I don't want anything except some hot
water and a latchkey, if you have such a thing to spare. I don't know
what time you go to bed here, but I may be a little late getting
back."
She fumbled in her pocket and produced a purse, from which she
extricated the required article.
"I'm not gen'rally in bed--not much before midnight, sir," she said.
"If you should be later per'aps you'd be kind enough to turn out the
gas in the 'all. I'll send you up some 'ot water by the girl."
She went off, closing the door behind her; and picking up my parcels
and bags I carried them into the bedroom and started to unpack. I
decided that the blue suit was most in keeping with my mood, so I laid
this out on the bed together with a complete change of underclothes. I
was eyeing the latter with some satisfaction, when there came a knock
at the door, and in answer to my summons the "girl" entered with the
hot water. She was the typical lodging-house drudge, a poor little
object of about sixteen, with a dirty face and her hair twisted up in
a knot at the back of her head.
"If yer please, sir," she said, with a sniff, "Mrs. Oldbury wants ter
know if yer'll be likin' a barf in the mornin'."
"You can tell Mrs. Oldbury that the answer is yes," I said gravely.
Then I paused. "What's your name?" I asked.
She sniffed again, and looked at me with round, wondering eyes.
"Gertie, sir. Gertie 'Uggins."
I felt in my pocket and found a couple of half-crowns.
"Take these, Gertie," I said, "and go and have a damned good dinner
the first chance you get."
She clasped the money in her grubby little hand.
"Thank you, sir," she murmured awkwardly.
"You needn't thank me, Gertie," I said; "it was a purely selfish
action. There are some emotions which have to be shared before they
can be properly appreciated. My dinner tonight happens to be one of
them."
She shifted from one leg to the other. "Yes, sir," she said. Then with
a little giggle she turned and scuttled out of the room.
I washed and dressed myself slowly, revelling in the sensation of
being once more in clean garments of my own. I was determined not to
spoil my evening by allowing any bitter or unpleasant thoughts to
disturb me until I had dined; after that, I reflected, it would be
quite time enough to map out my dealings with George.
Lighting a cigarette I left the house, and set off at a leisurely pace
along Edith Terrace. It was my intention to walk to Victoria, and then
take a taxi from there to whatever restaurant I decided to dine at.
The latter question was not a point to be determined lightly, and as I
strolled along I debated pleasantly in my mind the attractions of two
or three of my old haunts.
By the time I reached Victoria I had decided in favour of
Gaultier's--if Gaultier's was still in existence. It was a place that,
in my time at all events, had been chiefly frequented by artists and
foreigners, but the food, of its kind, was as good there as anywhere
in London.
I beckoned to a passing taxi, and waving his arm in response the
driver swerved across the street and drew up at the kerb.
"Where to, guv'nor?" he inquired.
I gave him the direction, and then turned to open the door. As I did
so I noticed a man standing on the pavement close beside me looking
vacantly across the street. For an instant I wondered where I had seen
him before; then quite suddenly I remembered. He was the man we
had passed in Edith Terrace, lighting a cigarette under the street
lamp--the man who had reminded me of one of the prison warders. I knew
I was not mistaken because I could see the scar on his face.
With a sudden vague sense of uneasiness I got into the taxi and shut
the door. The gentleman on the pavement paid no attention to me at
all. He continued to stand there staring aimlessly at the traffic,
until we had jerked forward and turned off round the corner of
Victoria Street.
All the same the incident had left a kind of uncomfortable feeling
behind it. I suppose an escaped convict is naturally inclined to be
suspicious, and somehow or other I couldn't shake off the impression
that I was being watched and followed. If so, I had not much doubt
whom I was indebted to for the honour. It had never seemed to me
likely that McMurtrie would leave me entirely to my own sweet devices
while I was in London--not, at all events, until he had satisfied
himself that I had been speaking the truth about my intentions.
Still, even if my suspicions were right, there seemed no reason for
being seriously worried. The gentleman on the pavement might have
overheard me give the address to the driver, but that after all was
exactly what I should have liked him to hear. Dinner at Gaultier's
sounded a most natural preliminary to an evening's dissipation, and
unless I was being actually followed to the restaurant I had nothing
to fear. It was quite possible that my friend with the scar was only
anxious to discover whether I was really setting out for the West End.
All the same I determined to be devilish careful about my future
movements. If McMurtrie wanted a report he should have it, but I would
take particular pains to see that it contained nothing which would in
any way disturb his belief in me.
We pulled up at Gaultier's, and I saw with a sort of sentimental
pleasure that, outside at all events, it had not altered in the least
during my three years' exile. There was the same discreet-looking
little window, the same big electric light over the door, and, unless
I was much mistaken, the same uniformed porter standing on the mat.
When I entered I found M. Gaultier himself, as fat and bland as ever,
presiding over the scene. He came forward, bowing low after his usual
custom, and motioned me towards a vacant table in the corner. I felt
an absurd inclination to slap him on the back and ask him how he had
been getting on in my absence.
It seemed highly improbable that he would remember my voice, but, as
I had no intention of running any unnecessary risks, I was careful to
alter it a little when I spoke to him.
"Good-evening," I began; "are you M. Gaultier?"
He bowed and beamed.
"Well, M. Gaultier," I said, "I want a good dinner--a quite
exceptionally good dinner. I have been waiting for it for some time."
He regarded me keenly, with a mixture of sympathy and professional
interest.
"Monsieur is hungry?" he inquired.
"Monsieur," I replied, "is both hungry and greedy. You have full scope
for your art."
He straightened himself, and for an inspired moment gazed at the
ceiling. Then he slapped his forehead.
"Monsieur," he said, "with your permission I go to consult the chef."
"Go," I replied. "And Heaven attend your council."
He hurried off, and I beckoned to the head waiter.
"Fetch me," I said, "a Virginian cigarette and a sherry and bitters."
A true gourmet would probably shudder at such a first course, but
it must be remembered that for three years my taste had had no
opportunity of becoming over-trained. Besides, in matters of this sort
I always act on the principle that it's better to enjoy oneself than
to be artistically correct.
Lying back in my chair I looked out over the little restaurant with a
sensation of beautiful complacency. The soft rose-shaded lamps threw a
warm glamour over everything, and through the delicate blue spirals of
my cigarette I could just see the laughing face of a charmingly pretty
girl who was dining with an elderly man at the opposite table. I
glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was close on eight--the
hour when the cell lights at Princetown are turned out, and another
dragging night of horror and darkness begins. Slowly and luxuriously I
sipped my sherry and bitters.
I was aroused from my reverie by the approach of M. Gaultier, who
carried a menu in his hand.
He handed me the card with another bow, and then stepped back as
though to watch the result. This was the dinner:
Clear soup.
Grilled salmon.
Lamb. New potatoes.
Woodcock.
Pêche Melba.
Marrow on Toast.
I read it through, enjoying each separate word, and then, with a faint
sigh, handed it back to him.
"Heaven," I said, "was undoubtedly at the conference."
M. Gaultier picked up a wine list from the table. "And what will
Monsieur drink?" he inquired reverently.
"Monsieur," I replied, "has perfect faith in your judgment. He will
drink everything you choose to give him."
Half an hour later I again lay back in my chair, and lapped in a
superb contentment gently murmured to myself those two delightful
lines of Sydney Smith's--
"Serenely calm, the epicure may say:
Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today."
I sipped my Turkish coffee, lighted the fragrant Cabana which M.
Gaultier had selected for me, and debated cheerfully with myself what
I should do next. I had had so many unpleasant evenings since my trial
that I was determined that this one at all events should be a complete
success.
My first impulse of course was to visit George. There was something
very engaging in the thought of being ushered into his presence by a
respectable butler, and making my excuses for having called at such
an unreasonable hour. I pictured to myself how he would look as
I gradually dropped my assumed voice, and very slowly the almost
incredible truth began to dawn on him.
So charming was the idea that it was only with some reluctance I was
able to abandon it. I didn't want to waste George: he had to last me
at least three days, and I felt that if I went down there now, warmed
and exhilarated with wine and food, I should be almost certain to give
myself away. I had no intention of doing that until the last possible
moment. I still had a sort of faint irrational hope that by watching
George without betraying my identity, I might discover something which
would throw a little light on his behaviour to me.
But if I didn't go to Cheyne Walk, what was I to do? I put the
question to myself as I slowly lifted the glass of old brandy which
the waiter had set down in front of me, and before the fine spirit
touched my lips the answer had flashed into my mind. I would go and
see Tommy!
It was the perfect solution of the difficulty; and as I put down the
glass again I laughed softly in sheer happiness. The prospect of
interviewing Tommy without his recognizing me was only a degree less
attractive than the thought of a similar experience with George. I
knew that the mere sight of his velvet coat and his dear old burly
carcase would fill me with the most delightful emotions--emotions
which now, amongst all my one-time friends, he and perhaps poor little
Joyce would alone have the power to provoke. The others seemed to me
as dead as the past to which they belonged.
One thing I was determined on, and that was that I wouldn't give away
my secret. It would be difficult not to, for there were naturally a
hundred things I wanted to say to Tommy; but, however much I might be
tempted, I was resolved to play the game. It was not the thought of my
promise to McMurtrie (that sat very easily on my conscience), but the
possibility of getting Tommy himself into trouble. I knew that for me
he would run any risk in the world with the utmost cheerfulness, but
I had no intention of letting him do it. He had done more than enough
for me at the time of the trial.
I called for the waiter and paid my bill. It seemed absurdly cheap
for such a delightful evening, and I said as much to M. Gaultier, who
insisted on accompanying me to the door. He received the remark with a
protesting gesture of his hands.
"Most people," he said, "feed. Monsieur eats. To such we do not
wish to overcharge. It is a pleasure to provide a dinner which is
appreciated."
The porter outside volunteered to call me a taxi, and while he was
engaged in that operation I had a sharp look up and down the street
to see whether my friend with the scar was hanging about anywhere. I
could discern no sign of him, but all the same, when the taxi came up,
I took the precaution of directing the man in a fairly audible voice
to drive me to the Pavilion, in Piccadilly Circus. It was not until
we were within a few yards of that instructive institution that I
whistled through the tube and told him to take me on to Chelsea.
I knew Tommy was in the same studio, for Joyce had told me so in her
second letter. It was one of a fairly new block of four or five at the
bottom of Beaufort Street, about half a mile along the embankment
from George's house. All the way down I was debating with myself what
excuse I could offer for calling at such a late hour, and finally
I decided that the best thing would be to pretend that I was a
travelling American artist who had seen and admired some of Tommy's
work. Under such circumstances it would be difficult for the latter
not to ask me in for a short chat.
I stopped the cab in the King's Road, and getting out, had another
good look round to see that I was not being followed. Satisfied on
this point, I lighted a second cigar and started off down Beaufort
Street.
The stretch of embankment at the bottom seemed to have altered very
little since I had last seen it. One or two of the older houses had
been done up, but Florence Court, the block of studios in which Tommy
lived, was exactly as I remembered it. The front door was open, after
the usual casual fashion that prevails in Chelsea, and I walked into
the square stone hall, which was lighted by a flickering gas jet.
There was a board on the right, containing the addresses of the
various tenants. Opposite No. 3 I saw the name of Mr. T.G. Morrison,
and with a slight quickening of the pulse I advanced along the
corridor to Tommy's door.
As I reached it I saw that there was a card tied to the knocker. I
knew that this was a favourite trick of Tommy's when he was away, and
with a sharp sense of disappointment I bent down to read what was
written on it. With some difficulty, for the light was damnable, I
made out the following words, roughly scribbled in pencil:
"Out of Town. Please leave any telegrams or urgent letters at No. 4.
T.M."
I dropped the card and stood wondering what to do. If Tommy had some
pal living next door, as seemed probable from his notice, the latter
would most likely know what time he was expected to return. For a
moment I hesitated: then retracing my steps, I walked back into the
hall and glanced at the board to see who might be the tenant of No. 4.
To my surprise I found it was a woman--a "Miss Vivien."
At first I thought I must be wrong, for women had always been the one
agreeable feature of life for which Tommy had no manner of use. There
it was, however, as plain as a pikestaff, and with a feeling of lively
interest I turned back towards the flat. Whoever Miss Vivien might
be, I was determined to have a look at her. I felt that the girl whom
Tommy would leave in charge of his more important correspondence must
be distinctly worth looking at.
I rang the bell, and after a short wait the door was opened by a
little maid about the size and age of Gertie 'Uggins, dressed in a cap
and a print frock.
"Is Miss Vivien in?" I asked boldly.
She shook her head. "Miss Vivien's out. 'Ave you got an appointment?"
"No," I said. "I only want to know where Mr. Morrison is, and when
he's coming back. There's a notice on his door asking that any letters
or telegrams should be left here, so I thought Miss Vivien might
know."
She looked me up and down, with a faint air of suspicion.
"'E's away in 'is boat," she said shortly. "'E won't be back not till
Thursday."
So Tommy still kept up his sailing! This at least was news, and news
which had a rather special interest for me. I wondered whether the
"boat" was the same little seven-tonner, the _Betty_, in which we
had spent so many cheerful hours together off the Crouch and the
Blackwater.
"Thanks," I said; and then after a moment's pause I added, "I suppose
if I addressed a letter here it would be forwarded?"
"I s'pose so," she admitted a little grudgingly.
There seemed to be nothing more to say, so bidding the damsel
good-night, I walked off down the passage and out on to the
embankment. If I had drawn a blank as far as seeing Tommy was
concerned, my evening had not been altogether fruitless. I felt vastly
curious as to who Miss Vivien might be. Somehow or other I couldn't
picture Tommy with a woman in his life. In the old days, partly from
shyness and partly, I think, because they honestly bored him, he had
always avoided girls with a determination that at times bordered
on rudeness. And yet, unless all the signs were misleading, it was
evident that he and his next-door neighbour were on fairly intimate
terms. The most probable explanation seemed to me that she was some
elderly lady artist who darned his socks for him, and shed tears
in secret over the state of his wardrobe. There was a magnificent
uncouthness about Tommy which would appeal irresistibly to a certain
type of motherly woman.
I strolled up the embankment in the direction of Chelsea Bridge,
smiling to myself over the idea. Whether it was right or not, it
presented such a pleasing picture that I had walked several hundred
yards before I quite woke up to my surroundings. Then with a sudden
start I realized that I was quite close to George's house.
It was a big red-brick affair, standing back from the embankment
facing the river. As I came opposite I could see that there was a
light on the first floor, in the room which I knew George used as a
study. I stopped for a minute, leaning back against the low wall and
staring up at the window.
I wondered what my cousin was doing. Perhaps he was sitting there,
looking through the evening paper in the vain hope of finding news
of my capture. I could almost see the lines on his forehead and the
nervous, jerky way in which he would be biting his fingers--a trick of
his that had always annoyed me intensely. He would bite harder than
ever if he only knew that I was standing outside in the darkness not
more than twenty yards away from him!
I waited for a little while in the hope that he might come to the
window, but this luxury was denied me.
"Good-night, George," I said softly; "we'll meet in the morning," and
then, with a last affectionate look at the lighted blind, I continued
my way along the embankment.
I was not sure which turning I ought to take for Edith Terrace, but an
obliging policeman who was on duty outside the Tate Gallery put me on
the right track. There was something delicately pleasing to my sense
of humour in appealing to a constable, and altogether it was in a
most contented frame of mind that I inserted my latch-key into Mrs.
Oldbury's door and let myself into the house. My first day's holiday
seemed to me to have been quite a success.