MR. BELLWARD ARRANGES A BRIDGE EVENING
Oblivious of the voices in the room below, Desmond stood with his face
pressed against the glass of the window. Was Strangwise staying at “The
Dyke Inn”? Nothing was more probable; for the latter had told him that
he was going to spend his leave shooting in Essex, and Morstead Fen
must abound in snipe and duck.
But he and Strangwise must not meet. Desmond was chary of submitting
his disguise to the other’s keen, shrewd eyes. Strangwise knew
Nur-el-Din: indeed, the dancer might have come to the inn to be with
him. If he recognized Desmond and imparted his suspicions to the
dancer, the game world be up; on the other hand, Desmond could not take
him aside and disclose his identity; for that would be breaking faith
with the Chief. There was nothing for it, he decided, but flight.
Yet how could he get away unobserved? There was no exit from the
staircase by the door into the tap-room where Nur-el-Din was, and to go
through the tap-room was to risk coming face to face with Strangwise.
So Desmond remained where he was by the window and watched. Presently,
the woman turned and began to cross the yard, Strangwise, carrying his
gun, following her. Desmond waited until he heard a door open somewhere
below and then he acted.
Beside the window ran an old lead water-pipe which drained the roof
above his head. On a level with the sill of the landing below, this
pipe took a sharp turn to the left and ran diagonally down to a tall
covered-in water-butt that stood on the flat roof of an outhouse in the
little yard.
Desmond raised the window very gently and tested the pipe with his
hand. It seemed rather insecure and shook under his pressure. With his
eye he measured the distance from the sill to the pipe; it was about
four feet. Desmond reckoned that, if the pipe would hold, by getting
out of the window and hanging on to the sill, he might, by a
pendulum-like motion, gain sufficient impulse to swing his legs across
the diagonally-running pipe, then transfer his hands and so slide down
to the outhouse roof.
He wasted no time in debating the chances of the pipe collapsing under
his weight. All his life it had been his practice to take a risk, for
such is the Irish temperament—if the object to be attained in any way
justified it; and he was determined to avoid at all costs the chance of
a meeting with Strangwise. The latter had probably read the name of
Okewood in that morning’s casualty list, but Desmond felt more than
ever that he distrusted the man, and his continued presence in the
neighborhood of Nur-el-Din gravely preoccupied him.
He stood a moment by the open window and listened. The murmur of voices
went on in the taproom, but from another part of the house he heard a
deep laugh and knew it to be Strangwise’s. Trusting to Providence that
the roof of the outhouse would be out of sight of the yard door,
Desmond swung his right leg over the window-sill and followed it with
the other, turning his back on the yard. The next moment he was
dangling over the side of the house.
Then from the yard below he heard Strangwise call:
“Rufus! Rufus!”
A heavy footstep sounded on the flags. Desmond remained perfectly
still. The strain on his arms was tremendous. If Strangwise should go
as far as the gate, so as to get clear of the yard, he must infallibly
see that figure clinging to the window-sill.
“Where the devil is that doggy” said Strangwise. Then he whistled, and
called again:
“Rufus! Rufus!”
Desmond made a supreme effort to support the strain on his muscles. The
veins stood out at his temples and he felt the blood singing in his
ears. Another minute and he knew he must drop. He no longer had the
power to swing himself up to the window ledge again.
A bark rang out in the courtyard, followed by the patter of feet.
Desmond heard Strangwise speak to the dog and reenter the house. Then
silence fell again. With a tremendous effort Desmond swung his legs
athwart the pipe, gripped it with his right hand, then his left, and
very gently commenced to let himself down. The pipe quivered beneath
his weight, but it held fast and in a minute he was standing on the
roof of the outhouse, cautiously peering through the dank fog that hung
about the yard.
Screening himself from view behind the tall waterbutt, he reconnoitred
the back of the inn. The upper part of the house was shrouded in
darkness, but a broad beam of light from a half-open door and a tall
window on the ground floor cleft the pall of fog. The window showed a
snug little bar with Strangwise standing by the counter, a glass in his
hand. As Desmond watched him, he heard a muffled scream from somewhere
within the house. Strangwise heard it too, for Desmond saw him put his
glass down on the bar and raise his head sharply. There followed a dull
crash from the interior of the inn and the next moment the yellow-faced
man, whom Desmond judged to be Rass, stepped into the circle of light
inside the window. He said something to Strangwise with thumb jerked
behind him, whereupon the latter clapped him, as though in approval, on
the shoulder, and both hurried out together.
Puzzled though he was by the scene he had just witnessed, Desmond did
not dare to tarry longer. The roof of the outhouse was only some ten
feet from the ground, an easy drop. He let himself noiselessly down and
landing on his feet without mishap, darted out of the yard gate. As he
did so, he heard the inn door open and Strangwise’s voice cry out:
“Who’s that?”
But Desmond heeded not. He dashed out upon the fen. Before he had gone
a dozen paces the fog had swallowed up inn and all. Out of the white
pall behind him he heard confused shouts as he skirted swiftly round
the house and reached the road.
Once he had gained the freedom of the highway; Desmond breathed again.
The dense fog that enveloped him, the hard road beneath his feet, gave
him a sense of security that he had missed as long as he was in the
atmosphere of that lonely, sinister place. He struck out at a good pace
for home, intent upon one thing, namely, to send an immediate summons
for help to surround the Dyke Inn and all within it. Nur-el-Din, it was
clear, whether a spy or no (and Desmond believed her story), was the
only person who could throw any light on the mysterious circumstances
surrounding old Mackwayte’s murder. Besides, her arrest would safeguard
her against further machinations on the part of Mortimer, though
Desmond suspected that the latter, now that he had secured the jewel,
would leave the dancer in peace. As for Strangwise, it would be for him
to explain as best he could his continued association with a woman for
whose arrest a warrant had been issued.
Desmond let himself in with his key. The housekeeper had returned and
was laying the dinner-table. In the library the curtains were drawn and
a fire burned brightly in the grate. The room looked very snug and cosy
by contrast with the raw weather outside.
Desmond shut and locked the door and then went to the telephone at the
desk. “Ring up 700 Stanning”—he repeated his instructions to himself
“and ask for Mr. Elias. Assistance’ll be with you within fifteen
minutes afterwards.”
By the clock on the mantelpiece it was a quarter to seven. If aid
arrived promptly, with a car they could be at the Dyke Inn by a quarter
past seven.
The telephone gave no sign of life. Desmond impatiently jerked the
receiver hook up and down. This time, at least, he would not fail, he
told himself. Before he went to bed that night Nur-el-Din, her maid,
Rass, and if needs be, Strangwise (who needed a lesson to teach him
discretion), should be in custody.
Still no reply.
“Hullo! Hullo!” cried Desmond, depressing the hook repeatedly. “Hullo,
Exchange!”
But there was no answer. Then it struck Desmond that the line was dead:
his ear detected none of that busy whirr which is heard in the
telephone when one is waiting to get a number.
He spent five minutes in vain attempts to obtain a reply, then
abandoned the endeavor in disgust.
“I shall have to take the motor-bike and go over to Stunning,” he said
to himself, “how I shall find my way there in this fog, the Lord only
knows! And I don’t know whom to apply to when I get there. The
police-station, I suppose!”
He unlocked the door and rang for Martha.
“I have to go over to Stunning, Martha,” he said, “I will try and be
back for dinner at eight!”
He had no intention of accompanying the party to the Dyke Inn. He must
preserve his incognito until Mortimer, the main quarry, had been run
down.
He filled his case from the box of cigarettes on the table and thrust a
box of matches into his pocket to light his head-lamp. Then, taking a
cap from the hat-stand, he opened the front door. Even as he did so a
big open car slowed down throbbing outside the porch. A man sprang out
and advanced into the light streaming from the front door into the
eddying mist. It was Mortimer.
“Fortune,” thought Desmond, “has broken her rule. She has given me a
second chance!”
“Well met, Bellward!” cried Mortimer, blinking at the other through his
thick glasses. “Tut, tut! What a night! You were never going out, I
swear.”
Already Desmond had decided in his mind the course of action he would
pursue. For the moment he must let the party at the Dyke Inn slide in
favor of the bigger catch. He must slip away later and have another try
at the telephone and if it were still out of order, he must endeavor to
overpower Mortimer and then go for assistance himself. On a night like
this it was useless to think of employing a half-blind old dolt like
Martha to take a message. As for the odd man, he lived at Wakefield,
and went away at dusk every evening.
So Desmond muttered some plausible lie about wanting to have a look at
the weather and cordially invited Mortimer in.
“You will stay for dinner” he said.
“Gladly,” replied the other, sinking with a grunt into the settee. “And
I should be glad if we might dine early.”
Desmond raised his eyebrows.
“... Because,” Mortimer resumed, “I have ventured to ask a few friends
round here to... to have an evening at bridge. Doubtless, you have
cards, eh?”
Desmond pointed to a card-table standing in the corner with several
packs of cards and markers. Then he rang and told the housekeeper that
they would dine as soon as possible.
“The coming fortnight,” said Mortimer, tucking his napkin into his
collar as they sat at the dinner table, “is pregnant with great events.
No less than ten divisions are, I understand, to be transferred to the
other side. I have waited to communicate with you until I had
confirmation of this report. But now that the matter has been decided,
it only remains for us to perfect our arrangements for communicating
these plans to our friends beyond the North Sea. Therefore, I thought a
friendly bridge evening at the hospitable home of our dear colleague
Bellward would be in place.”
He smiled affably and bent over his soup-plate.
“I shall be delighted to receive our friends,” Desmond replied, “a
glass of sherry?”
“Thank you,” said Mortimer.
“I shall have to provide a few refreshments,” said Desmond. “May I ask
how many guests I may expect?”
Mortimer reckoned on his fingers.
“Let’s see,” he answered, “there’s Max, that’s one, and Madame
Malplaquet, that’s two. No. 13 and Behrend makes four and myself,
five!”
“And Madame Nur-el-Din?” queried Desmond innocently, but inwardly
quaking at his rashness.
Mortimer genially shook a finger at him.
“Sly dog!” he chuckled, “you’re one too many for me in that quarter, I
see! I know all about your tête-à-tête with our charming young friend
this afternoon!”
Desmond felt the blood rush to his face. He thought of Nur-el-Din’s
words: “Mortimer sees and knows all.” He picked up his sherry glass and
drained it to cover his confusion.
“... It was hardly gallant of you to bolt so suddenly and leave the
lady!” Mortimer added.
_How much did this uncanny creature know?_
Without waiting for him to reply, Mortimer went on.
“I suppose she told you a long story of my persecution, eh, Bellward?
You needn’t shake your head. I taxed her with it and she admitted as
much.”
“I had no idea that you were staying at the Dyke Inn!” said Desmond at
a venture.
“My friend,” replied Mortimer, lowering his voice, “your fair charmer
is showing a decided inclination to make a nuisance of herself. I have
had to keep an eye on her. It’s been a very serious inconvenience to my
plans, I can assure you. But you haven’t answered my question. What
sent you away in such a hurry this afternoon? and in so romantic a
fashion? By the window, was it not?”
Through sheer apprehension, Desmond was now keyed up to a kind of
desperate audacity. The truth is sometimes a very effective weapon in
the game of bluff, and Desmond determined to employ it.
“I saw someone I didn’t want to meet,” he replied.
“Ah!” said Mortimer, “who was that, I wonder? The Dyke Inn could hardly
be described as a frequented resort, I imagine!”
The entry of old Martha to change the plates prevented Desmond from
replying. He used the brief respite to review the situation. He would
tell Mortimer the truth. They were man to man now and he cared nothing
even if the other should discover the fraud that had been practised
upon him. Come what might, Mortimer, dead or alive, should be delivered
up to justice that night.
The housekeeper left the room and Desmond spoke.
“I saw an officer I knew in the courtyard,” he said.
“Oh, Strangwise, I suppose!” said Mortimer carelessly. “There’s nothing
to fear from him, Bellward. He’s of the beef and beer and no brains
stamp of British officer. But how do you know Strangwise?”
“I met him at the Nineveh Hotel in town one night,” replied Desmond. “I
don’t care about meeting officers, however, and that’s a fact!”
Mortimer looked at him keenly for a brief instant. “What prudence!” he
cried. “Bellward, you are the very model of what a secret agent should
be! This pheasant is delicious!”
He turned the conversation into a different channel but Desmond could
not forget that brief searching look. His mind was in a turmoil of
half-digested facts, of semi-completed deductions. He wanted to go away
somewhere alone and think out this mystery and disentangle each
separate web of this baffling skein of intrigue.
He must focus his attention on Mortimer and Nur-el-Din. If Mortimer and
Strangwise were both staying at the Dyke Inn, then they were probably
acquainted. Strangwise knew Nur-el-Din, too, knew her well; for Desmond
remembered how familiarly they had conversed together that night in the
dancer’s dressing-room at the Palaceum. Strangwise knew Barbara
Mackwayte also. Nur-el-Din had introduced them, Desmond remembered, on
that fateful night when he had accompanied Strangwise to the Palaceum.
Strange, how he was beginning to encounter the man Strangwise at every
turn in this sinister affair.
And then, with a shock that struck him like a blow in the face, Desmond
recalled Barbara’s parting words to him in the taxi. He remembered how
she had told him of seeing Nur-el-Din’s face in the mirror as the
dancer was talking to Strangwise that night at the Palaceum, and of the
look of terror in the girl’s eyes. Nur-el-Din was terrified of
Mortimer; for so much she had admitted to Desmond that very afternoon;
she was terrified of Strangwise, too, it seemed, of this Strangwise
who, like Mortimer, kept appearing at every stage of this bewildering
affair. What confession had been on Nur-el-Din’s lips when she had
broken off that afternoon with the cry:
“Already I have said too much!”
Thereafter Desmond’s eyes were never long absent from Mortimer’s face,
scrutinizing each feature in turn, the eyes, set rather close together,
grotesquely shielded by the thick spectacles, the narrow cheeks, the
rather cynical mouth half hidden by the heavy, drooping moustache, the
broad forehead broken by a long lock of dark hair brushed out flat in a
downward direction from an untidy, unkempt crop.
They talked no more of Strangwise or of Nur-el-Din. The rest of dinner
was passed in conversation of a general order in which Mr. Mortimer
showed himself to great advantage. He appeared to be a widely traveled,
well-read man, with a fund of dry, often rather grim humor. And all the
time Desmond watched, watched, unobtrusively but unceasingly, looking
out for something he was confident of detecting through the suave,
immobile mask of this brilliant conversationalist.
Skillfully, almost imperceptibly, Desmond edged the talk on to the war.
In this domain, too, Mortimer showed himself a man of broad views, of
big, comprehensive ideas. Towards the strategy and tactics of the two
sides, he adopted the attitude of an impartial onlooker, but in his
comments he proved himself to have a thorough grasp of the military
situation. He talked freely and ably of such things as tanks, the
limited objective in the attack and the decentralization of
responsibility in the field.
Encouraged by his volubility, for he was a man who delighted in
conversation, Desmond gradually gave the talk a personal turn. But
willing as Mortimer showed himself to discuss the war generally, about
his personal share he was as mute as a fish. Try as he would Desmond
could get nothing out of him. Again and again, he brought the
conversation round to personal topics; but every time his companion
contrived to switch it back to general lines.
At last Desmond risked a direct question. By this time a pint of
Pommery and Gréno was tingling in his veins and he felt he didn’t care
if the roof fell in.
“Ever since Nur-el-Din told me you were of the Crown Prince’s personal
service,” he said, “I have been devoured with curiosity to know what
you were doing before you came to England. Were you at Metz with his
Imperial Highness? Did you see the assault at Verdun? Were you present
at the capture of the Fort of Douaumont?”
Mortimer shook his head, laughing, and held up a deprecating hand.
“Professional discretion, my dear fellow, professional discretion!” he
retorted. “You know what it is!”
Then lowering his voice, he added:
“Between ourselves the less said about my connection with Master Willie
the better. Our colleagues are already restless at what they consider
my neglect of my professional work. They attribute it to the wiles of
Nur-el-Din. They may if they like and I don’t propose to disillusion
them. You understand, Bellward?”
His voice was commanding and he bent his brows at Desmond, who hastened
to protest that his discretion in the matter would be absolute.
When they had had their coffee and Mortimer was contentedly puffing one
of Bellward’s excellent double Coronas, Desmond rose from the table.
“If you will excuse me a minute,” he said, “I will just go across to
the library and see if my housekeeper has put all in order for our
guests!”
Instantly Mortimer got up from the table.
“By all means,” he said, and emptied his glass of brandy, “so, I will
come with you!”
Mortimer meant to stick to him, thought Desmond; that was evident. Then
an idea struck him. Why should he not telephone in Mortimer’s presence?
To ask for Mr. Elias was in no way incriminating and if help came
promptly, Mortimer could be secured and the other spies pounced upon in
their turn as they arrived.
Therefore, as soon as they reached the library, Desmond walked over to
the desk and picked up the telephone receiver from its hook.
“Excuse me,” he said to Mortimer, “I had forgotten I had to ring up
Stanning!”
“Oh, dear,” said Mortimer from his place on the hearth rug where he was
warming his coat tails in front of the fire, “isn’t that unfortunate? I
wish I had known! Tut, tut, how annoying for you!”
The telephone seemed quite dead.
“I don’t understand!” said Desmond to Mortimer. “What’s annoying?”
“The telephone, my dear Bellward,”—Mortimer spoke in a pompous
voice—“the telephone is the symbol of the age in which we live, the age
of publicity but also of indiscretion. It is almost as indiscreet to
have a telephone in your house as to keep a diary. Therefore, in view
of our little party here this evening, to prevent us from being
disturbed in any way, I took the liberty of... of severing the
connection... temporarily, mind you, only temporarily; it shall be
restored as soon as we break up. I have some small acquaintance with
electrical engineering.”
Desmond was silent. Disappointment had deprived him for the moment of
the power of speech. It was to be man to man then, after all. If he was
to secure Mortimer and the rest of the gang that night, he must do it
on his own. He could not hope for aid. The prospect did not affright
him. If Mortimer could have seen the other’s eyes at that moment he
might have remarked a light dancing in them that was not solely of
Messrs. Pommery and Gréno’s manufacture.
“If I had known you wanted to use the instrument, my dear fellow,”
Mortimer continued in his bland voice, “I should certainly have waited
until you had done your business!”
“Pray don’t mention it,” replied Desmond, “you do well to be prudent,
Mr. Mortimer!”
Mortimer shot a sudden glance at him. Desmond met it with a frank, easy
smile.
“I’m a devil for prudence myself!” he observed brightly.