A SCRIBBLED WARNING
I have never been slow to act in moments of sudden emergency, and in
rather less than a second I had made up my mind. The mere idea
of stalking one's own shadower was a distinctly attractive one;
surrounded as I was by a baffling sense of mystery and danger I jumped
at the chance with an almost reckless enthusiasm.
Coming up behind was another taxi--an empty one, the driver leaning
back in his seat puffing lazily at a pipe. I stepped out into the road
and signalled to him to pull up.
"Follow that taxi in front," I said quickly. "If you keep it in sight
till it stops I'll give you five shillings for yourself."
All the languor disappeared from the driver's face. Hastily knocking
out his pipe, he stuffed it into his pocket, and the next moment we
were bowling up Victoria Street hard on the track of our quarry.
I sat back in the seat, filled with a pleasant exhilaration. Of course
it was just possible that I was making a fool of myself--that the
gentleman in front was as innocent of having spied on my movements as
the Bishop of London. Still if that were the case there could be no
harm in following him, while if he were really one of McMurtrie's
friends a closer acquaintance with his methods of spending the evening
seemed eminently desirable.
Half way along Whitehall my driver quickened his pace until we were
only a few yards behind the other taxi. I was just going to caution
him not to get too near, when I realized that unless we hung on as
close as possible we should probably lose it in the traffic at the
corner of the Strand. The soundness of this reasoning was apparent a
moment later, when we only just succeeded in following it across the
Square before a policeman's hand peremptorily barred the way.
Past the Garrick Theatre, across Long Acre, and up Charing Cross Road
the chase continued with unabated vigour. At the Palace the other
driver turned off sharp to the left, and running a little way along
Old Compton Street came to a halt outside Parelli's, the well-known
restaurant. As he began to slow down I picked up the speaking tube and
instructed my man to go straight past on the other side of the street,
an order which he promptly obeyed without changing his pace. I didn't
make the mistake of looking round. I just sat still in my seat until
we had covered another thirty yards or so, and then gave the signal to
stop.
The driver, who seemed to have entered thoroughly into the spirit of
the affair, at once clambered out of his seat and came round as though
to open the door.
"Gent's standin' on the pavement payin' 'is fare, sir," he observed in
a hoarse whisper. "Thought ye might like to know before ye gets out."
"Thanks," I said; "I'll take the chance of lighting a cigarette."
I was about to suit the action to the word, when with a sudden
exclamation the man again interrupted me.
"There's another gent just come up in a taxi, sir--proper toff too
from 'is looks. 'E's shakin' 'ands with our bloke."
"Is he an old man?" I asked quickly--"an old man with glasses?"
"'E don't look very old, but 'e's got a glass right enough--leastways
one o' them bow-winder things in 'is eye." He paused. "They've gone
inside now, Guv'nor; they won't spot ye if you want to 'op it."
He opened the door, and stepping out on to the pavement I handed him
half a sovereign, which I was holding in readiness.
He touched his cap. "Thank ye, sir. Thank ye very much." Then,
fumbling in his pocket, he produced a rather dirty and crumpled card.
"I don't rightly know what the game is, Guv'nor," he went on in a
lowered tone, "but if you should 'appen to want to call on me for
evidence any time, Martyn's Garridge, Walham Green, 'll always find
me. Ye only need to ask for Dick 'Arris. They all knows me round
there."
I accepted the card, and having assured Mr. Harris that in the event
of my needing his testimony I would certainly look him up, I lit
my delayed cigarette and started to stroll back towards Parelli's.
Whoever my original friend and his pal with the eyeglass might be, I
was anxious to give them a few minutes' law before thrusting myself
upon their society. I had known Parelli's well in the old days, and
remembering the numerous looking-glasses which decorated its walls, I
thought it probable that I should be able to find some obscure seat,
from which I could obtain a view of their table without being too
conspicuous myself. Still, it seemed advisable to give them time to
settle down to dinner first, so, stopping at a newspaper shop at the
corner, I spun out another minute or two in buying myself a copy of
_La Vie Parisienne_ and the latest edition of the _Pall Mall_. With
these under my arm and a pleasant little tingle of excitement in my
heart I walked up to the door of the restaurant, which a uniformed
porter immediately swung open.
I found myself in a brightly lit passage, inhabited by a couple of
waiters, one of whom came forward to take my hat and stick. The other
pushed back the glass door which led into the restaurant, and then
stood there bowing politely and waiting for me to pass.
I stopped for a moment on the threshold, and cast a swift glance round
the room. It was a large, low-ceilinged apartment, broken up by square
pillars, but as luck would have it I spotted my two men at the very
first attempt. They were sitting at a table in one of the farther
corners, and they seemed to be so interested in each other's company
that neither of them had even looked up at my entrance.
I didn't wait for them to do it either. Quickly and unobtrusively I
walked to the corner table on the left of the floor, and sat down with
my back towards them. I was facing a large mirror which reflected the
other side of the room with admirable clearness.
A waiter handed me the menu, and after I had ordered a light dinner I
spread out _La Vie Parisienne_ on the table, and bending over it made
a pretence of admiring its drawings. As a matter of fact I kept my
entire attention focused on the looking-glass.
I could only see the back of the man with the scar, but the face of
his companion, who was sitting sideways on, was very plainly
visible. It was a striking-looking face, too. He seemed to be about
thirty-five--a tall, clean-shaven, powerfully built man, with bright
blue eyes and a chin like the toe of a boot. His hair was prematurely
grey, and this, together with the monocle that he was wearing, gave
him a curious air of distinction. He looked like a cross between a
successful barrister and a retired prize-fighter.
I watched him with considerable interest. If he was another of
McMurtrie's mysterious circle, I certainly preferred him to any of the
ones I had previously come across. His face, though strong and hard,
had none of Savaroff's brutality in it, and he was quite lacking in
that air of sinister malevolence that seemed to hang about the doctor.
As far as I could see, most of the talking was being done by the man
with the scar. He also appeared to be the host, for I saw him pick
up the wine list, and after consulting his companion's taste give a
carefully selected order to the waiter. Then my own dinner began to
arrive, and putting aside _La Vie_, I propped up the _Pall Mall_ in
front of me and started to attack the soup.
All through the meal I divided my attention between the paper and the
looking-glass. I was careful how I made use of the latter, for the
waiter was hovering about most of the time, and I didn't want him
to think that I was spying on some of the other customers. So quite
genuinely I waded through the news, keeping on glancing in the mirror
over the top of the paper from time to time just to see how things
were progressing behind me.
That my two friends were getting along together very well was evident
not only from their faces but from the sounds of laughter which at
intervals came floating down the room. Indeed, so animated was their
conversation, that although I had begun my dinner later, I had
finished some little time before they had. I had no intention of
leaving first, however, so ordering myself some coffee, I sat back in
my chair, and with the aid of a cigar, continued my study of the _Pall
Mall_.
I was in the middle of a spirited article on the German trouble,
headed "What Does the Kaiser Mean?" when glancing in the mirror I saw
a waiter advance to the table behind me, carrying a bottle of port
in a basket, with a care that suggested some exceptional vintage. He
poured out a couple of glasses, and then placing it reverently on the
table, withdrew from the scene.
I watched both men take a sip, and saw them set down their glasses
with a thoroughly satisfied air. Then the man with the scar made a
sudden remark to the other, who, turning his head, looked away over
his shoulder into the restaurant. His attention could only have been
withdrawn from the table for a couple of seconds at the most, but in
that fraction of time something happened which set my heart beating
rapidly in a kind of cold and tense excitement.
So swiftly, that if I had not been looking straight in the mirror I
should have missed seeing it, the man with the scar brought his hand
down over his companion's glass. Unless my eyes were playing me a
trick, I distinctly saw him empty something into the wine.
There are rare occasions in life when one acts instinctively in the
right way before one's mind has had time to reason matters out. It was
so with me now. Without stopping to think, I whipped out a pencil from
my pocket, and snatched away a piece of white paper from underneath
the small dish of candied fruit in front of me. Spreading it out on
the table I hastily scribbled the following words:
"Don't drink your wine. The man with you has just put something into
it."
I folded this up, and beckoned to one of the waiters who was standing
by the door. He came forward at once.
"Do you want to earn half a sovereign?" I asked.
"Yes, sir," he answered, without the faintest air of surprise.
"Listen to me, then," I said, "and whatever you do don't look round.
In the farther corner behind us there's a gentleman with an eyeglass
dining with another man. Go up the centre of the room and give him
this note. If he asks you who it's from, say some one handed it you in
the hall and told you to deliver it. Then go and get my bill and bring
it me here."
The waiter bowed, and taking the note departed on his errand, as
casually as though I had instructed him to fetch me a liqueur. All the
time I had been speaking I had kept a watchful eye on the mirror,
and as far as I could tell neither of the two men had noticed our
conversation. They were talking and laughing, the man I had sent the
message to lightly fingering the stem of his wine-glass, and blowing
thin spirals of cigarette smoke into the air. Even as I looked he
raised the glass, and for one harrowing second I thought I was too
late. Then, like a messenger from the gods, the waiter suddenly
appeared from behind one of the pillars and handed him my note on a
small silver tray.
He took it casually with his left hand; at the same time setting down
his wine-glass on the table. I saw him make an excuse to his host, and
then open it and read it. I don't know exactly what I had expected
him to do next, but the result was certainly surprising. Instead of
showing any amazement or even questioning the waiter, he made some
laughing remark to his companion, and putting his hand in his pocket
pulled out a small leather case from which he extracted a card.
Bending over the table he wrote two or three words in pencil, and
handed it to the waiter. As he did so the edge of his sleeve just
caught the wine-glass. I saw the other man start up and stretch out
his hand, but he was too late to save it. Over it went, breaking into
pieces against one of the plates, and spilling the wine all across the
table-cloth.
It was done so neatly that I could almost have sworn it was an
accident. Indeed the exclamation of annoyance with which the culprit
greeted his handiwork sounded so perfectly genuine that if I hadn't
known what was in the note I should have been completely deceived.
I saw the waiter step forward and dab hurriedly at the stain with a
napkin, while the author of the damage, coolly pulling up another
glass, helped himself to a fresh supply from the bottle. A more
beautifully carried out little bit of acting it has never been my good
luck to witness.
If the man with the scar suspected anything (which I don't think he
did) he was at least intelligent enough to keep the fact to himself.
He laughed heartily over the contretemps, and taking out his
cigar-case offered his companion a choice of the contents. I saw the
latter shake his head, raising his half-finished cigarette as much as
to indicate his preference for that branch of smoking. It struck me,
however, that his refusal was possibly dictated by other motives.
Full of curiosity as I was, I thought it better at this point not to
tempt Fate any further. At any moment the man with the scar might look
round, and although I was some distance away, it was quite likely that
if he did he would recognize my reflection in the mirror. I was doubly
anxious now to avoid any such mischance, so, picking up _La Vie_, I
opened its immoral but conveniently spacious pages, and from behind
their shelter waited for my bill.
It was not long in coming. Impassive as ever, the waiter reappeared
with his little silver tray, which this time contained a white slip
folded across in the usual fashion. As I took it up I felt something
inside, and opening it I discovered a small visiting card with the
following inscription:
MR. BRUCE LATIMER
145 _Jermyn Street, W_.
Scribbled across the top in pencil were the following words:
"Thanks. I shall be still more grateful if you will look me up at the
above address."
Quickly and unobtrusively I tucked it away in my waistcoat pocket,
and glancing at the total of the bill, which came to about fifteen
shillings, put down a couple of my few remaining sovereigns. It pays
to be a little extravagant when you have been well served.
A swift inspection of the mirror showed me that neither of the
occupants of the end table was looking in my direction, so taking
my chance I rose quickly to my feet and stepped forward behind the
shelter of the nearest pillar. Here I was met by another waiter who
handed me my hat and stick, while his impassive colleague, pocketing
the two pounds, advanced to the door and opened it before me with a
polite bow. I felt rather like the hero of a melodrama making his exit
after the big scene.
Once in the street, the full realization of what I had just been
through came to me with a sort of curious shock. It seemed an almost
incredible thing that a man should make an attempt to drug or poison
another in a public restaurant, but, unless I was going off my head,
that was what had actually occurred. Of course I might possibly have
been mistaken in what I saw in the glass, but the readiness with which
Mr. Latimer (somehow the name seemed vaguely familiar to me) had
accepted my hint rather knocked that theory on the head. It showed
that he, at all events, had not regarded such a contingency as being
the least bit incredible.
I began to try and puzzle out in my mind what bearings this amazing
incident could have on my own affairs. I was not even sure as yet
whether the man with the scar had been really spying on my movements
or whether my seeing him twice on the night of my arrival in Town
had been purely a matter of coincidence. If he was a friend of
McMurtrie's, it seemed to stand to reason that' Mr. Bruce Latimer
was not. Even in such a weird sort of syndicate as I had apparently
stumbled against it was hardly probable that the directors would
attempt to poison each other in West End restaurants.
The question was should I accept the invitation pencilled across the
card? I was anxious enough in all conscience to find out something
definite about McMurtrie and his friends, but I certainly had no wish
to mix myself up with any mysterious business in which I was not quite
sure that they were concerned. For the time being my own affairs
provided me with all the interest and excitement that I needed.
Besides, even if the man with the scar was one of the gang, and had
really tried to poison or drug his companion, I was scarcely in a
position to offer the latter my assistance. Apart altogether from
the fact that I had given my promise to the doctor, it was obviously
impossible for me to explain to a complete stranger how I came to be
mixed up with the matter. An escaped convict, however excellent his
intentions may be, is bound to be rather handicapped in his choice of
action.
With my mind busy over these problems I pursued my way home, only
stopping at a small pub opposite Victoria to buy myself a syphon of
soda and a bottle of drinkable whisky. With these under my arm (it's
extraordinary how penal servitude relieves one of any false pride) I
continued my journey, reaching the house just as Big Ben was booming
out the stroke of half-past nine.
It seemed a bit early to turn in, but I had had such a varied and
emotional day that the prospect of a good night's rest rather appealed
to me. So, after mixing myself a stiff peg, I undressed and got into
bed, soothing my harassed mind with another chapter or two of H.G.
Wells before attempting to go to sleep. So successful was this
prescription that when I did drop off it was into a deep, dreamless
slumber which was only broken by the appearance of Gertie 'Uggins with
a cup of tea at eight o'clock the next morning.
Soundly and long as I had slept I didn't hurry about getting up.
According to Joyce, Tommy would not be back until somewhere about two,
and I had had so many grisly mornings of turning out at five o'clock
after a night of sleepless horror that the mere fact of being able to
lie in bed between clean sheets was still something of a novelty and
a pleasure. Lie in bed I accordingly did, and, in the process
of consuming several cigarettes, continued to ponder over the
extraordinary events of the previous evening.
When I did roll out, it was to enjoy another nice hot bath and an
excellent breakfast. After that I occupied myself for some time by
running over the various notes and calculations which I had made while
I was with McMurtrie, just in case I found it necessary to start the
practical side of my work earlier than I expected. Everything seemed
right, and savagely anxious as I was to stay in town till I could find
some clue to the mystery of George's treachery, I felt also an intense
eagerness to get to grips with my new invention. I was positively
hungry for a little work. The utter idleness, from any intelligent
point of view, of my three years in prison, had been almost the
hardest part of it to bear.
At about a quarter to two I left the house, and making my way down on
to the embankment set off for Chelsea. It was a delightful day, warm
and sunny as July; and this, combined with the fact that I was on my
way to see Tommy, lifted me into a most cheerful frame of mind. Indeed
I actually caught myself whistling--a habit which I don't think I had
indulged in since my eventful visit to Mr. Marks.
I looked up at George's house as I passed, but except for a black cat
sunning herself on the top of the gatepost there was no sign of life
about the place. My thoughts went back to Joyce, and I wondered how
the dinner party at the Savoy had gone off. I could almost see George
sitting at one side of the table with that insufferable air of
gallantry and self-satisfaction that he always assumed in the presence
of a pretty girl. Poor, brave little Joyce! If the pluck and loyalty
of one's friends counted for anything, I was certainly as well off as
any one in London.
As I drew near Florence Mansions I felt a sort of absurd inclination
to chuckle out loud. Much as I disliked the thought of dragging Tommy
into my tangled affairs, the prospect of springing such a gorgeous
surprise on him filled me with a mischievous delight. Up till now,
except for my arrest and sentence, I had never seen anything upset his
superb self-possession in the slightest degree.
A glance at the board in the hall as I turned in showed me that he
had arrived. I marched along the passage till I came to his flat, and
lifting the knocker gave a couple of sharp raps. There was a short
pause; then I heard the sound of footsteps, and a moment later Tommy
himself opened the door.
He was wearing the same dressing-gown that I remembered three years
ago, and at the sight of his untidy hair and his dear old badly-shaved
face I as nearly as possible gave the show away. Pulling myself
together with an effort, however, I made him a polite bow.
"Mr. Morrison?" I inquired in my best assumed voice.
"That's me all right," said Tommy.
"My name's Nicholson," I said. "I am an artist. I was asked to look
you up by a friend of yours--Delacour of Paris."
I had mentioned a man for whose work I knew Tommy entertained a
profound respect.
"Oh, come in," he cried, swinging open the door and gripping my hand;
"come in, old chap. Delighted to see you. The place is in a hell of a
mess, but you won't mind that. I've only just got back from sailing."
He dragged me into the studio, which was in the same state of
picturesque confusion as when I had last seen it, and pulling up a
large easy-chair thrust me down into its capacious depths.
"I'm awfully glad I was in," he went on. "I wouldn't have missed you
for the world. How's old Delacour? I haven't seen him for ages. I
never get over to Paris these days."
"Delacour's all right," I answered--"at least, as far as I know."
Tommy walked across the room to a corner cupboard. "You'll have a
drink, won't you?" he asked; "there's whisky and brandy, and Grand
Marnier, and I've got a bottle of port somewhere if you'd care for a
glass."
There was a short pause. Then in my natural voice I remarked quietly
and distinctly: "You were always a drunken old blackguard, Tommy."
The effect was immense. For a moment Tommy remained perfectly still,
his mouth open, his eyes almost starting out of his head. Then quite
suddenly he sat down heavily on the couch, clutching a bottle of
whisky in one hand and a tumbler in the other.
"Well, I'm damned!" he whispered.
"Never mind, Tommy," I said cheerfully; "you'll be in the very best
society."