METAMORPHOSIS
It was a clear, cold night. A knife-edge icy wind blew from the
north-east and kept the lanyards dismally flapping on the flag-mast
over the customs house. The leave train lay in the station within a
biscuit’s throw of the quayside and the black, blank Channel beyond, a
long line of cheerfully illuminated windows that to those returning
from leave seemed as the last link with home.
The Corporal of Military Police, who stood at the gangway examining the
passes, stopped Desmond Okewood as the latter held out his pass into
the rays of the man’s lantern.
“There was a message for you, sir,” said the Corporal. “The captain of
the Staff boat would h-esteem it a favor, sir, if you would kindly go
to his cabin immediately on h-arriving on board, sir!”
“Very good, Corporal!” answered the officer and passed up the gang
plank, enviously regarded by the press of brass-hats and red-tabs who,
for the most part, had a cramped berth below or cold quarters on deck
to look forward to.
A seaman directed Desmond to the Captain’s cabin. It was built out just
behind the bridge, a snug, cheery room with bright chintz curtains over
the carefully screened portholes, a couple of comfortable benches with
leather seats along the walls, a small bunk, and in the middle of the
floor a table set out with a bottle of whiskey, a siphon and some
glasses together with a box of cigars.
The Captain was sitting there chatting to the pilot, a short,
enormously broad man with a magenta face and prodigious hands which
were folded round a smoking glass of toddy.
“Pick ’em up? Rescue ’em?” the pilot ejaculated, as Desmond walked in,
“I’d let ’em sink, every man Jack o’ them, the outrageous murderin’
scoundrels. I don’t like to hear you a-talking of such nonsense,
Cap’en!”
On Desmond’s entrance the Captain broke off the conversation. He proved
to be a trimly-built man of about fifty with a grizzled beard, and an
air of quiet efficiency which is not uncommonly found in seamen. The
pilot drained his glass and, scrambling to his feet, nodded to Desmond
and stumped out into the cold night air.
“Jawin’ about the U boats!” said the Captain, with a jerk of his head
towards the cabin door, “I don’t know what the feelings of your men in
the trenches are towards Fritz, Major, but I tell you that no German
will dare set foot in any coast port of the United Kingdom in my
life-time or yours, either! Accommodation’s a bit narrow on board. I
thought maybe you’d care to spend the night up here!”
“Any orders about me?” asked Desmond.
The Captain went a shade deeper mahogany in the face.
“Oh no,” he replied, with an elaborate assumption of innocence. “But
won’t you mix yourself a drink? And try one of my cigars, a present
from a skipper friend of mine who sailed into Tilbury from Manila last
week.”
Desmond sat in the snug cabin, puffing a most excellent cigar and
sipping his whiskey and soda while, amid much shouting of seamen and
screaming of windlasses, the staff boat got clear. Presently they were
gliding past long low moles and black, inhospitable lighthouses,
threading their way through the dark shapes of war craft of all kinds
into the open Channel. There was a good deal of swell, but the sea was
calm, and the vessel soon steadied down to regular rise and fall.
They had been steaming for nearly an hour when, through the open door
of the cabin, Desmond saw a seaman approach the captain on the bridge.
He handed the skipper a folded paper.
“From the wireless operator, sir!” Desmond heard him say.
The skipper scanned it. Then the engine telegraph rang sharply, there
was the sound of churning water, and the vessel slowed down. The next
moment the Captain appeared at the door of the cabin.
“I’m afraid we’re going to lose you, Major,” he said pleasantly, “a
destroyer is coming up to take you off. There was a wireless from the
Admiral about you.”
“Where are they going to take me, do you know?” asked Desmond.
The Captain shook his head.
“I haven’t an idea. I’ve only got to hand you over!”
He grinned and added:
“Where’s your kit?”
“In the hold, I expect!” answered Desmond. “The porter at Victoria told
me not to worry about it, and that I should find it on the other side.
And, oh damn it!—I’ve got a hundred cigarettes in my kit, too! I bought
them specially for the journey!”
“Well, take some of my cigars,” said the skipper hospitably, “for your
traps’ll have to go to France this trip, Major. There’s no time to get
’em up now. I’ll pass the word to the Military Landing Officer over
there about ’em, if you like. He’ll take care of ’em for you. Now will
you come with me?”
Desmond scrambled into his coat and followed the Captain down the steps
to the deck. A little distance away from the vessel, the long shape of
a destroyer was dimly visible tossing to and fro in the heavy swell. A
ladder had been let down over the side of the steamer, and at its foot
a boat, manned by a number of heavily swathed and muffled forms, was
pitching.
A few officers stood by the rail watching the scene with interest. The
skipper adroitly piloted Desmond past them and fairly thrust him out on
to the ladder.
Desmond took the hint and with a hasty “Good night” to the friendly
captain, staggered down the swaying ladder and was helped into the
boat. The boat shoved off, the bell of the engine telegraph on the
steamer resounded sharply, and the vessel resumed her interrupted
voyage whilst the rowing boat was headed towards the destroyer. On
board the latter vessel an officer met Desmond at the rail and piloted
him to the ward-room. Almost before they got there, the destroyer was
under way.
The officer who had welcomed him proved to be the second in command, a
joyous person who did the honors of the tiny ward-room with the aplomb
of a Commander in a super-Dreadnought. He mixed Desmond a drink and
immediately started to converse about life at the front without giving
the other a chance of asking whither they were bound.
The suspense was not of long duration, however, for in about half an
hour’s time, the destroyer slowed down and Desmond’s host vanished.
When he reappeared, it was to summon Desmond on deck.
They lay aside a mole by some steps cut in the solid concrete. Here
Desmond’s host took leave of him.
“There should be a car waiting for you up there,” he said.
There on top of the mole, exposed to the keen blast of the wind, a
large limousine was standing. A chauffeur, who looked blue with cold,
got down from his seat as Desmond emerged from the stairs and touched
his cap.
“Major Okewood?” he asked.
“That’s my name!” said Desmond.
“If you’ll get in, sir, we’ll start at once!” the man replied.
Befogged and bewildered, Desmond entered the car, which cautiously
proceeded along the breakwater, with glimpses of black water and an
occasional dim light on either hand. They bumped over the railway-lines
and rough cobblestones of a dockyard, glided through a slumbering town,
and so gradually drew out into the open country where the car gathered
speed and fairly raced along the white, winding road. Desmond had not
the faintest idea of their whereabouts or ultimate destination. He was
fairly embarked on the great adventure now, and he was philosophically
content to let Fate have its way with him. He found himself wondering
rather indolently what the future had in store.
The car slowed down and the chauffeur switched the headlights on. Their
blinding glare revealed some white gate-posts at the entrance of a
quiet country station. Desmond looked at his watch. It was half-past
one. The car stopped at the entrance to the booking-office where a man
in an overcoat and bowler was waiting.
“This way, Major, please,” said the man in the bowler, and led the way
into the dark and silent station. At the platform a short train
consisting of an engine, a Pullman car and a brakesman’s van stood, the
engine under steam. By the glare from the furnace Desmond recognized
his companion. It was Matthews, the Chief’s confidential clerk.
Matthews held open the door of the Pullman for Desmond and followed him
into the carriage. A gruff voice in the night shouted:
“All right, Charley!” a light was waved to and fro, and the special
pulled out of the echoing station into the darkness beyond.
In the corner of the Pullman a table was laid for supper. There was a
cold chicken, a salad, and a bottle of claret. On another table was a
large tin box and a mirror with a couple of electric lights before it.
At this table was seated a small man with gray hair studying a large
number of photographs.
“If you will have your supper, Major Okewood, sir,” said Matthews, “Mr.
Crook here will get to work. We’ve not got too much time.”
The sea air had made Desmond ravenously hungry. He sat down promptly
and proceeded to demolish the chicken and make havoc of the salad. Also
he did full justice to the very excellent St. Estephe.
As he ate he studied Matthews, who was one of those undefinable
Englishmen one meets in tubes and ’buses, who might be anything from a
rate collector to a rat catcher. He had sandy hair plastered limply
across his forehead, a small moustache, and a pair of watery blue eyes.
Mr. Crook, who continued his study of his assortment of photographs
without taking the slightest notice of Desmond, was a much more alert
looking individual, with a shock of iron gray hair brushed back and a
small pointed beard.
“Matthew’s,” said Desmond as he supped, “would it be indiscreet to ask
where we are?”
“In Kent, Major,” replied Matthews.
“What station was that we started from?”
“Faversham.”
“And where are we going, might I inquire?”
“To Cannon Street, sir!”
“And from there?”
Mr. Matthews coughed discreetly.
“I can’t really say, sir, I’m sure! A car will meet you there and I can
go home to bed.”
The ends sealed again! thought Desmond. What a man of caution, the
Chief!
“And this gentleman here, Matthews?” asked Desmond, lighting one of the
skipper’s cigars.
“That, sir, is Mr. Crook, who does any little jobs we require in the
way of make-up. Our expert on resemblances, if I may put it that way,
sir, for we really do very little in the way of disguises. Mr. Crook is
an observer of what I may call people’s points, sir, their facial
appearance, their little peculiarities of manner, of speech, of gait.
Whenever there is any question of a disguise, Mr. Crook is called in to
advise as to the possibilities of success. I believe I am correct in
saying, Crook, that you have been engaged on the Major here for some
time. Isn’t it so?”
Crook looked up a minute from his table.
“That’s right,” he said shortly, and resumed his occupation of
examining the photographs.
“And what’s your opinion about this disguise of mine?” Desmond asked
him.
“I can make a good job of you, Major,” said the expert, “and so I
reported to the Chief. You’ll want to do your hair a bit different and
let your beard grow, and then, if you pay attention to the lessons I
shall give you, in a week or two, you’ll be this chap here,” and he
tapped the photograph in his hand, “to the life.”
So saying he handed Desmond the photograph. It was the portrait of a
man about forty years of age, of rather a pronounced Continental type,
with a short brown beard, a straight, rather well-shaped nose and
gold-rimmed spectacles. His hair was cut _en brosse_, and he was rather
full about the throat and neck. Without a word, Desmond stretched out
his hand and gathered up a sheaf of other photos, police photos of Mr.
Basil Bellward, front face and profile seen from right and left, all
these poses shown on the same picture, some snapshots and various
camera studies. Desmond shook his head in despair. He was utterly
unable to detect the slightest resemblance between himself and this
rather commonplace looking type of business man.
“Now if you’d just step into the compartment at the end of the Pullman,
Major,” said Crook, “you’ll find some civilian clothes laid out. Would
you mind putting them on? You needn’t trouble about the collar and tie,
or coat and waistcoat for the moment. Then we’ll get along with the
work.”
The train rushed swaying on through the darkness. Desmond was back in
the Pullman car in a few minutes arrayed in a pair of dark gray tweed
trousers, a white shirt and black boots and socks. A cut-away coat and
waistcoat of the same tweed stuff, a black bowler hat of rather an
old-fashioned and staid pattern, and a black overcoat with a velvet
collar, he left in the compartment where he changed.
He found that Crook had opened his tin box and set out a great array of
grease paints, wigs, twists of tow of various colors, and a number of
pots and phials of washes and unguents together with a whole battery of
fine paint brushes. In his hand he held a pair of barber’s clippers and
the tips of a comb and a pair of scissors protruded from his vest
pocket.
Crook whisked a barber’s wrap round Desmond and proceeded, with
clippers and scissors, to crop and trim his crisp black hair.
“Tst-tst” he clicked with his tongue. “I didn’t realize your hair was
so dark, Major. It’ll want a dash of henna to lighten it.”
The man worked with incredible swiftness. His touch was light and sure,
and Desmond, looking at his reflection in the glass, wondered to see
what fine; delicate hands this odd little expert possessed. Matthews
sat and smoked in silence and watched the operation, whilst the special
ran on steadily Londonwards.
When the clipping was done, Crook smeared some stuff on a towel and
wrapped it round Desmond’s head.
“That’ll brighten your hair up a lot, sir. Now for a crepe beard just
to try the effect. We’ve got to deliver you at Cannon Street ready for
the job, Mr. Matthews and me, but you won’t want to worry with this
nasty messy beard once you get indoors. You can grow your own beard,
and I’ll pop in and henna it a bit for you every now and then.”
There was the smart of spirit gum on Desmond’s cheeks and Crook gently
applied a strip of tow to his face. He had taken the mirror away so
that Desmond could no longer see the effect of the gradual
metamorphosis.
“A mirror only confuses me,” said the expert, breathing hard as he
delicately adjusted the false beard, “I’ve got this picture firm in my
head, and I want to get it transferred to your face. Somehow a mirror
puts me right off. It’s the reality I want.”
As he grew more absorbed in his work, he ceased to speak altogether. He
finished the beard, trimmed the eyebrows, applied a dash of henna with
a brush, leaning backwards continually to survey the effect. He
sketched in a wrinkle or two round the eyes with a pencil, wiped them
out, then put them in again. Then he fumbled in his tin box, and
produced two thin slices of grey rubber.
“Sorry,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wear these inside your
cheeks to give the effect of roundness. You’ve got an oval face and the
other man has a round one. I can get the fullness of the throat by
giving you a very low collar, rather open and a size too large for
you.”
Desmond obediently slipped the two slices of rubber into his mouth and
tucked them away on either side of his upper row of teeth. They were
not particularly uncomfortable to wear.
“There’s your specs,” said Crook, handing him a spectacle case, “and
there’s the collar. Now if you’ll put on the rest of the duds, we’ll
have a look at you, sir.”
Desmond went out and donned the vest and coat and overcoat, and, thus
arrayed, returned to the Pullman, hat in hand.
Crook called out to him as he entered
“Not so springy in the step, sir, if you please. Remember you’re
forty-three years of age with a Continental upbringing. You’ll have to
walk like a German, toes well turned out and down on the heel every
time. So, that’s better. Now, have a look at yourself!”
He turned and touched a blind. A curtain rolled up with a click,
disclosing a full length mirror immediately opposite Desmond.
Desmond recoiled in astonishment. He could scarcely credit his own
eyes. The glass must be bewitched, he thought for a moment, quite
overwhelmed by the suddenness of the shock. For instead of the young
face set on a slight athletic body that the glass was wont to show him,
he saw a square, rather solid man in ugly, heavy clothes, with a brown
silky beard and gold spectacles. The disguise was baffling in its
completeness. The little wizard, who had effected this change and who
now stood by, bashfully twisting his fingers about, had transformed
youth into middle age. And the bewildering thing was that the success
of the disguise did not lie so much in the external adjuncts, the false
beard, the pencilled wrinkles, as in the hideous collar, the thick
padded clothes, in short, in the general appearance.
For the first time since his talk with the Chief at the United Service
Club, Desmond felt his heart grow light within him. If such miracles
were possible, then he could surmount the other difficulties as well.
“Crook,” he said, “I think you’ve done wonders. What do you say,
Matthews?”
“I’ve seen a lot of Mr. Crook’s work in my day, sir,” answered the
clerk, “but nothing better than this. It’s a masterpiece, Crook, that’s
what it is.”
“I’m fairly well satisfied,” the expert murmured modestly, “and I must
say the Major carries it off very well. But how goes the enemy,
Matthews?”
“It’s half past two,” replied, the latter, “we should reach Cannon
Street by three. She’s running well up to time, I think.”
“We’ve got time for a bit of a rehearsal,” said Crook. “Just watch me,
will you please, Major, and I’ll try and give you an impression of our
friend. I’ve been studying him at Brixton for the past twelve days, day
and night almost, you might say, and I think I can convey an idea of
his manner and walk. The walk is a very important point. Now, here is
Mr. Bellward meeting one of his friends. Mr. Matthews, you will be the
friend!”
Then followed one of the most extraordinary performances that Desmond
had ever witnessed. By some trick of the actor’s art, the shriveled
figure of the expert seemed to swell out and thicken, while his low,
gentle voice deepened into a full, metallic baritone. Of accent in his
speech there was none, but Desmond’s ear, trained to foreigners’
English, could detect a slight Continental intonation, a little roll of
the “r’s,” an unfamiliar sound about those open “o’s” of the English
tongue, which are so fatal a trap for foreigners speaking our language.
As he watched Crook, Desmond glanced from time to time at the
photograph of Bellward which he had picked up from the table. He had an
intuition that Bellward behaved and spoke just as the man before him.
Then, at Crook’s suggestion, Desmond assumed the role of Bellward. The
expert interrupted him continually.
“The hands, Major, the hands, you must _not_ keep them down at your
sides. That is military! You must move them when you speak! So and so!”
Or again:
“You speak too fast. Too... too youthfully, if you understand me, sir.
You are a man of middle age. Life has no further secrets for you. You
are poised and getting a trifle ponderous. Now try again!”
But the train was slackening speed. They were running between black
masses of squalid houses. As the special thumped over the bridge across
the river, Mr. Crook gathered up his paints and brushes and photographs
and arranged them neatly in his black tin box.
To Desmond he said:
“I shall be coming along to give you some more lessons very soon,
Major. I wish you could see Bellward for yourself: you are very apt at
this game, and it would save us much time. But I fear that’s
impossible.”
Even before the special had drawn up alongside the platform at Cannon
Street, Crook and Matthews swung themselves out and disappeared. When
the train stopped, a young man in a bowler hat presented himself at the
door of the Pullman.
“The car is there, Mr. Bellward, sir!” he said, helping Desmond to
alight. Desmond, preparing to assume his new role, was about to leave
the carriage when a sudden thought struck him. What about his uniform
strewn about the compartment where he had changed? He ran back. The
compartment was empty. Not a trace remained of the remarkable scenes of
their night journey.
“This is for you,” said the young man, handing Desmond a note as they
walked down the platform.
Outside the station a motor-car with its noisy throbbing awoke the
echoes of the darkened and empty courtyard. Desmond waited until he was
being whirled over the smooth asphalt of the City streets before he
opened the letter.
He found a note and a small key inside the envelope.
“On reaching the house to which you will be conveyed,” the note said,
“you will remain indoors until further orders. You can devote your time
to studying the papers you will find in the desk beside the bed. For
the present you need not fear detection _as long as you do not leave
the house_.” Then followed a few rough jottings obviously for his
guidance.
“Housekeeper, Martha, half blind, stupid; odd man, John Hill, mostly
invisible, no risk from either. You are confined to house with heavy
chill. _Do not go out until you get the word._”
The last sentence was twice underlined.
The night was now pitch-dark. Heavy clouds had come up and obscured the
stars and a drizzle of rain was falling. The car went forward at a good
pace and Desmond, after one or two ineffectual attempts to make out
where they were going, was lulled by the steady motion into a deep
sleep. He was dreaming fitfully of the tossing Channel as he had seen
it but a few hours before when he came to his senses with a start. He
felt a cold draught of air on his face and his feet were dead with
cold.
A figure stood at the open door of the car. It was the chauffeur.
“Here we are, sir,” he said.
Desmond stiffly descended to the ground. It was so dark that he could
distinguish nothing, but he felt the grit of gravel under his feet and
he heard the melancholy gurgle of running water. He took a step forward
and groped his way into a little porch smelling horribly of mustiness
and damp. As he did so, he heard a whirr behind him and the car began
to glide off. Desmond shouted after the chauffeur. Now that he stood on
the very threshold of his adventure, he wanted to cling desperately to
this last link with his old self. But the chauffeur did not or would
not hear, and presently the sound of the engine died away, leaving
Desmond to the darkness, the sad splashing of distant water and his own
thoughts.
And then, for one brief moment, all his courage seemed to ooze out of
him. If he had followed his instinct, he would have turned and fled
into the night, away from that damp and silent house, away from the
ceaseless splashing of waters, back to the warmth and lights of
civilization. But his sense of humor, which is very often better than
courage, came to his rescue.
“I suppose I ought to be in the devil of a rage,” he said to himself,
“being kept waiting like this outside my own house! Where the deuce is
my housekeeper? By Gad, I’ll ring the place down!”
The conceit amused him, and he advanced further into the musty porch
hoping to find a bell. But as he did so his ear caught the distant
sound of shuffling feet. The shuffle of feet drew nearer and presently
a beam of light shone out from under the door. A quavering voice called
out:
“Here I am, Mr. Bellward, here I am, sir!”
Then a bolt was drawn back, a key turned, and the door swung slowly
back, revealing an old woman, swathed in a long shawl and holding high
in her hand a lamp as she peered out into the darkness.
“Good evening, Martha,” said Desmond, and stepped into the house.
Save for Martha’s lamp, the lobby was in darkness, but light was
streaming into the hall from the half open door of a room leading off
it at the far end. While Martha, wheezing asthmatically, bolted the
front door, Desmond went towards the room where the light was and
walked in.
It was a small sitting-room, lined with bookshelves, illuminated by an
oil lamp which stood on a little table beside a chintz-covered settee
which had been drawn up in front of the dying fire.
On the settee Nur-el-Din was lying asleep.