MADEMOISELLE VIVIEN, PALMIST
I woke next morning at seven, or perhaps I should say I was awakened
by Gertie 'Uggins, who to judge from the noise was apparently engaged
in wrecking the sitting-room. I looked at my watch, and then halloed
to her through the door. The tumult ceased, and a head, elaborately
festooned with curl-papers, was inserted into the room.
"Yer want yer barf?" it asked.
"I do, Gertrude," I said; "and after that I want my breakfast. I have
a lot to do today."
The head withdrew itself, tittering; and a moment later I heard a
shrill voice calling down the kitchen stairs.
"Grahnd floor wants 'is 'ot water quick."
Within about five minutes the ground floor's wish was gratified, Mrs.
Oldbury herself arriving with a large steaming can which she placed
inside a hip bath. She asked me in a mournful voice whether I thought
I could eat some eggs and bacon, and having received a favourable
reply left me to my toilet.
It was about a quarter to eight when I sat down to breakfast.
Considering that for three years I had been obliged to rise
at painfully unseasonable hours, this may appear to have been
unnecessarily energetic, but as a matter of fact I was not acting
without good reasons.
To start with, it was my purpose to spend a pleasant morning with
George. I wanted to be outside his house so that I could see his face
when he came out. I felt sure that as long as I was at liberty he
would be looking worried and depressed, and I had no wish to postpone
my enjoyment of such a congenial spectacle.
Then, provided that I could restrain myself from breaking his head, I
intended to follow him to Victoria Street or wherever else he happened
to go. Beyond this I had no plan at the moment, but at the back of my
mind there was a curious irrational feeling that sooner or later I
should stumble across some explanation of the mystery of Marks' death.
I knew that as a rule George didn't start for business until
nine-thirty or ten. I was anxious to get out of the house as soon as
possible, however, just in case I was correct in my idea that the
gentleman with the scar was keeping a kindly eye on my movements. In
that case I thought that by departing before half-past eight I should
be almost certain to forestall him. If, as I believed, he was under
the impression that I had been indulging in a night's dissipation, it
was unlikely that he would credit me with sufficient energy to get
up before ten or eleven. As to waiting for George--well, I had no
objection to that. It was a nice sunny morning, and I could buy a
paper and sit on one of the embankment seats.
This, indeed, was exactly what I did. I slipped out of the house as
unobtrusively as possible, and, stopping at a little newspaper and
tobacco shop round the first corner, invested in a _Telegraph_ and a
_Sportsman_. Then, after making sure that I was not being followed, I
set off for the embankment.
Some of the seats were already occupied by gentlemen and ladies who
had apparently been using them in preference to an hotel, but as luck
would have it the one opposite George's house was empty. I seated
myself in the corner, and after cutting and lighting a cigar with the
care that such an excellent brand deserved, I prepared to beguile my
wait by reading the _D.T_.
Nothing particularly thrilling seemed to have been happening in the
world, but I can't say I felt any sense of disappointment. Just at
present my own life afforded me all the excitement my system needed.
The only important item of news that I could find was a rather
offensive speech by the German Chancellor with reference to the
dispute with England. It was a surprising utterance for a statesman in
his position, and the _Telegraph_ had improved the occasion by writing
one of its longest and stateliest leaders on provocative politicians.
I had just finished reading this effort when George appeared. He came
out of the front door and down the steps of his house, dressed as
usual in a well-fitting frock-coat and tall hat, such as he had always
affected in the old days. I stared at him with a sort of hungry
satisfaction. He looked pale and harassed, and he carried his head
bent forward like a man whose mind was unpleasantly preoccupied. It
warmed my heart to see him.
When he had gone some little way along the pavement, I got up from my
seat and began to keep pace with him on the other side of the roadway.
It was easy work, for he walked slowly, and stared at the ground as
though fully taken up with his own thoughts. I was not the least
frightened of his recognizing me, but as a matter of fact he never
even looked across in my direction.
We marched along in this fashion as far as Vauxhall Bridge Road, where
George turned up to the left in the direction of Victoria Street.
I walked on a bit, so as to allow him to get about a hundred yards
ahead, and then coming back followed in his track. As he drew nearer
to the station I began to close up the gap, and all the way along
Victoria Street I was only about ten yards behind him. It was
tantalizing work, for he was just the right distance for a running
kick.
The offices of our firm, which I had originally chosen myself, are on
the first floor, close to the Army and Navy Stores. George turned in
at the doorway and went straight up, and for a moment I stood in the
entrance, contemplating the big brass plate with "Lyndon and Marwood"
on it, and wondering what to do next. It seemed odd to think of all
that had happened since I had last climbed those stairs.
Exactly across the road was a restaurant. It was new since my time,
but I could see that there was a table in the window on the first
floor, which must command a fair view of the houses opposite, so I
determined to adopt it as a temporary scouting ground. I walked over
and pushed open the swinging doors. Inside was a sleepy-looking waiter
in his shirt-sleeves engaged in the leisurely pursuit of rolling up
napkins.
"Good-morning," I said; "can I have some coffee and something to eat
upstairs?"
He regarded me for a moment with a rather startled air, and then
pulled himself together.
"Yes, saire. Too early for lunch, saire. 'Am-an'-eggs, saire?"
I nodded. I had had eggs and bacon for breakfast, and on the excellent
principle of not mixing one's drinks, 'am an'-eggs sounded a most
happy suggestion.
"Very well," I said; "and I wonder if you could let me have such a
thing as a sheet of paper, and a pen and ink? I want to write a letter
afterwards."
This, I regret to say, was not strictly true, but it seemed to offer
an ingenious excuse for occupying the table for some time without
arousing too much curiosity.
The waiter expressed himself as being in a position to gratify me, and
leaving him hastily donning his coat I marched up the staircase to the
room above.
When I sat down at the table in the window I found that my
expectations were quite correct. I was looking right across into the
main room of our offices, and I could see a couple of clerks working
away at their desks quite clearly enough to distinguish their faces.
They were both strangers to me, but I was not surprised at this. I
always thought that George had probably sacked most of the old staff,
if they had not given him notice on their own account. Of my cousin
himself I could see nothing. He was doubtless either in his own
sanctum, or in the big inner room where I used to work with Watson, my
assistant.
It was of course impossible to eat much of the generous dish of
'am-an'-eggs which the waiter brought me up, but I dallied over it as
long as possible, and managed to swallow a cup of rather indifferent
coffee. Then I smoked another cigar, and when the things were cleared
away and the writing materials had arrived, I made a pretence of
beginning my letter.
All this time, of course, I was keeping a strict watch across the
street. Nothing interesting seemed to happen, and I was just beginning
to think that I was wasting my time in a rather hopeless fashion when
suddenly I saw George come out of his private office into the main
room opposite, wearing his hat and carrying an umbrella. He spoke to
one of the clerks as though giving him some parting instructions, and
went out, shutting the door behind him.
I jumped to my feet, and hurrying down the stairs, demanded my bill
from the rather surprised waiter. Considering that I had been sitting
upstairs for over an hour and a half, I suppose my haste did appear a
trifle unreasonable; anyway he took so long making out the bill that
at last I threw down five shillings and left him at the process.
Even so, I was only just in time. As I came out into the street George
emerged from the doorway opposite. He looked less depressed than
before and much more like his usual sleek self, and the sight of him
in these apparently recovered spirits whipped up my resentment again
to all its old bitterness.
He set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the Houses of
Parliament, and crossing the street I took up a tactful position in
his rear. In this order we proceeded along Whitehall, across Trafalgar
Square, and up Charing Cross Road into Coventry Street. Here George
stopped for a moment to buy himself a carnation--he had always had a
taste for buttonholes--and then resuming our progress, we crossed the
Circus, and started off down Piccadilly.
By this time what is known I believe as "the lust of the chase" had
fairly got hold of me. More strongly than ever I had the feeling that
something interesting was going to happen, and when George turned up
Bond Street I quickened my steps so as to bring me back to my old if
rather tempting position close behind him.
Quite suddenly in the very narrowest part of the pavement he came to a
stop, and entered a doorway next to a tobacconist's shop. In a
couple of strides I had reached the spot, just in time to see him
disappearing up a winding flight of stone stairs.
There were two little brass plates at the side of the door, and I
turned to them eagerly to see whom he might be honouring with a visit.
One was inscribed "Dr. Rich. Jones, M.D.," and the other "Mlle.
Vivien."
The moment I read the last name something curiously familiar about it
suddenly struck me. Then in a flash I remembered the pencilled notice
on Tommy's door, and the obliging "Miss Vivien" who was willing to
receive his telegrams.
The coincidence was a startling one, but I was too anxious to discover
what George was doing to waste much time pondering over it. Stepping
forward to the foot of the stairs, I peered cautiously up. I could see
by his hand, which was resting on the banisters, that he had passed
the floor above, where the doctor lived, and was half way up the next
flight. Whoever Mlle. Vivien might be, she certainly represented
George's destination.
I retreated to the door, wondering what was the best thing to do.
My previous effort in Victoria Street had been so successful that
I instinctively glanced across the street to see whether there was
another convenient restaurant from which I could repeat my tactics.
There wasn't a restaurant but there was something else which was
even better, and that was a small and very respectable-looking
public-house.
If I had to wait, a whisky-and-soda seemed a much more agreeable thing
to beguile the time with than a third helping of ham and eggs, so
crossing the road with a light heart, I pushed open a door marked
"Saloon Bar." I found myself in a square, comfortably fitted apartment
where a genial-looking gentleman was dispensing drinks to a couple of
chauffeurs.
Along the back of the bar ran a big fitted looking-glass, sloped at
an angle which enabled it to reflect the opposite side of the street.
This was most convenient, for I could stand at the counter with my
back to the window, and yet keep my eye all the time upon the doorway
from which George would appear.
"Good-morning, sir: what can I get you?" inquired the landlord
pleasantly.
"I'll have a whisky-and-soda, thanks," I said.
As he turned round to get it a sudden happy idea flashed into my mind.
I waited until he had placed the glass on the bar and was pouring out
the soda, and then inquired carelessly:
"You don't happen to know any one of the name of Vivien about here, I
suppose?"
He looked up at once. "Vivien!" he repeated; "well, there's a Mamzelle
Vivien across the road. D'you mean her?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know," I said; then, with a coolness
which would have done credit to Ananias, I added: "A friend of mine
has picked up a little bag or something with 'Vivien, Bond Street,' on
it. He asked me to see if I could find the owner."
The landlord nodded his head with interest. "That'll be her, I expect.
Mamzelle Vivien the palmist--just across the way."
"Oh, she's a palmist, is she?" I exclaimed. The thought of George
consulting a palmist was decidedly entertaining. Perhaps he wanted to
find out whether I was likely to wring his neck.
With a side glance at the chauffeurs, the landlord leaned a little
towards me and slightly lowered his voice. "Well, that's what she
calls 'erself," he observed. "Palmist and Clairvoyante; and a smart
bit o' goods she is too."
"But I thought the police had stopped that sort of thing," I said.
The landlord shook his head. "The police don't interfere with her.
She don't advertise or anything like that, and I reckon she has some
pretty useful friends. You'd be surprised if I was to tell you some o'
the people I seen going in there--Cabinet Ministers and Bishops."
"It sounds like the Athenaeum Club," I said. "Do you know what she
charges?"
"No," he replied; "something pretty stiff I guess. With folks like
that it's a case of make 'ay while the sun shines."
He was called off at this point to attend to another customer, leaving
me to ponder over the information he had given me. I felt that somehow
or other I must make Mademoiselle Vivien's acquaintance. A beautiful
palmist, for whom George deserted his business at eleven in the
morning, was just the sort of person who might prove extremely
interesting to me. Besides, the fact that her name was the same as
that of the lady who lived next door to Tommy lent an additional spur
to my curiosity. It might be a mere coincidence, but if so it was a
sufficiently odd one to merit a little further investigation.
I drank up my whisky, and after waiting a minute or two, ordered
another. I had just got this and was taking my first sip, when quite
suddenly I saw in the mirror the reflection of George emerging from
the doorway opposite.
I didn't stop to finish my drink. I put down the tumbler, and nodding
to the landlord walked straight out into the street. The pavement was
thronged with the usual midday crowd, but pushing my way through I
dodged across the road and reached the opposite side-walk just in
time to see George stepping into a taxi a few yards farther down the
street.
I was not close enough to overhear the directions which he gave to the
driver, but unless his habits had changed considerably the chances
were that he was off to lunch at his club. Anyhow I felt pretty
certain that I could pick up his trail again later on at the office if
I wanted to. For the moment I had other plans; it was my intention
to follow George's example and pay a short call upon "Mademoiselle
Vivien."
I walked back, and throwing away the end of my cigar, entered the
doorway again and started off up the stairs. I imagined that by going
as an ordinary client I should find no difficulty in getting admitted,
but if I did I was fully prepared to bribe or bluff, or adopt any
method that might be necessary to achieve my purpose. I would not
leave until I had at least seen the gifted object of George's midday
rambles.
I reached the second landing, where I was faced by a green door with a
quaintly carved electric bell in the shape of an Egyptian girl's head,
a red stone in the centre of the forehead forming what appeared to be
the button. Anyhow I pressed it and waited, and a moment later the
door swung silently open. A small but very alert page-boy who looked
like an Italian was standing on the mat.
"Is Mademoiselle at home?" I inquired.
He looked me up and down sharply. "Have you an appointment, sir?"
"No," I said, "but will you be good enough to ask whether I can
see her? My name is Mr. James Nicholson. I wish to consult her
professionally."
"If you will step in here, sir, I will inquire. Mademoiselle very
seldom sees any one without an appointment."
He opened a door on the right and ushered me into a small
sitting-room, the chief furniture of which appeared to be a couch, one
or two magnificent bowls of growing tulips and hyacinths, and an oak
shelf which ran the whole length of the room and was crowded with
books.
While the boy was away I amused myself by examining the titles. There
were a number of volumes on palmistry and on various branches of
occultism, interspersed with several books of poetry and such unlikely
works as _My Prison Life_, by Jabez Balfour, and Melville Lee's
well-known _History of Police_.
It gave me rather an uncanny feeling for the moment to be confronted
by the two latter, and I was just wondering whether a Bond Street
palmist's cliéntèle made such works of reference necessary, when the
door opened and the page-boy reappeared.
"If you will kindly come this way, sir, Mademoiselle will see you," he
announced.
I followed him down the passage and into another room hung with heavy
curtains that completely shut out the daylight. A small rose-coloured
lamp burning away steadily in the corner threw a warm glow over
everything, and lit up the low table of green stone in the centre, on
which rested a large crystal ball in a metal frame. Except for two
curiously carved chairs, there was no other furniture in the room.
Closing the door noiselessly behind him, the boy went out again. I
stood there for a little while looking about me; then pulling up
a chair I was just sitting down when a slight sound attracted my
attention. A moment later a curtain at the end of the room was drawn
slowly aside, and there, standing in the gap, I saw the slim figure of
a girl, dressed in a kind of long dark Eastern tunic.
I jumped to my feet, and as I did so an exclamation of amazement broke
involuntarily from my lips. For an instant I remained quite still,
clutching the back of the chair and staring like a man in a trance.
Unless I was mad the girl in front of me was Joyce.