THE TWO DESERTERS
Desmond drove to Wentfield Station in an angry and defiant mood. He was
incensed against Francis, incensed against the Chief, yet, if the truth
were told, most of all incensed against himself.
Not that he admitted it for a moment. He told himself that he was very
hardly used. He had undergone considerable danger in the course of
discharging a mission which was none of his seeking, and he had met
with nothing but taunts from his brother and abuse from the Chief.
“I wash my hands of the whole thing,” Desmond declared, as he paced the
platform at Wentfield waiting for his train. “As Francis is so precious
cocksure about it all, let him carry on in my place! He’s welcome to
the Chief’s wiggings! The Chief won’t get me to do his dirty work again
in a hurry! That’s flat!”
Yet all the while the little gimlet that men call conscience was
patiently drilling its way through the wall of obduracy behind which
Desmond’s wounded pride had taken cover. Rail as he would against his
hard treatment at the hands of the Chief, he knew perfectly well that
he could never wash his hands of his mission until Barbara Mackwayte
had been brought back into safety. This thought kept thrusting itself
forward into the foreground of his mind; and he had to focus his
attention steadfastly on his grievances to push it back again.
But we puny mortals are all puppets in the hands of Fate. Even as the
train was bearing Desmond, thus rebellious, Londonwards, Destiny was
already pulling the strings which was to force the “quitter” back into
the path he had forsaken. For this purpose Fate had donned the disguise
of a dirty-faced man in a greasy old suit and a spotted handkerchief in
lieu of collar... but of him presently.
On arriving at Liverpool Street, Desmond, painfully conscious of his
unkempt appearance, took a taxi to a Turkish bath in the West End.
There his first care was to submit himself to the hands of the barber
who, after a glance at his client’s bandaged head, muddy clothes and
shaggy beard, coughed ominously and relapsed into a most unbarber-like
reserve.
Desmond heard the cough and caught the look of commiseration on the
man’s face.
“I rather think I want a shave!” he said, weakly. “I rather think you
do, sir!” replied the man, busy with his lather.
“... Had a nasty accident,” murmured Desmond, “I fell down and cut my
head...”
“We’re used to that here, sir,” answered the barber, “but the bath’ll
make you as right as, rain. W’y we ’ad a genel’man in ’ere, only lars’
week it was, as ’adn’t been ’ome for five days and nights and the coat
mos tore off ’is back along with a bit of turn-up ’e’d ’at one o’ them
night clubs. And drunk!... w’y ’e went to bite the rubber, so they wos
tellin’ me! But, bless you, ’e ’ad a nice shave and a couple of hours
in the bath and a bit of a nap; we got him his clothes as was tore
mended up fine for ’im and ’e went ’ome as sober as a judge and as
fresh as a daisy!”
Desmond had it in his mind to protest against this material
interpretation of his disreputable state; but the sight in the mirror
of his ignominiously scrubby and battered appearance silenced him. The
barber’s explanation was as good as any, seeing that he himself could
give no satisfactory account of the circumstances which had reduced him
to his sorry pass. So Desmond held his peace though he felt constrained
to reject the barber’s offer of a pick-me-up.
From the shaving saloon, Desmond sent a messenger out for some clothes,
and for the next three hours amused himself by exhausting the resources
of the Turkish bath. Finally, about the hour of noon, he found himself,
considerably refreshed, swathed in towel, reposing on a couch, a cup of
coffee at his elbow and that morning’s _Daily Telegraph_ spread out
before him.
Advertisements, so the experts say, are printed on the front and back
of newspapers in order to catch the eye of the indolent, on the chance
that having exhausted the news, they may glance idly over the front and
back of the paper before laying it aside. So Desmond, before he even
troubled to open his paper, let his gaze wander down the second column
of the front page whence issue daily those anguishing appeals,
mysterious messages, heart-rending entreaties and barefaced begging
advertisements which give this column its characteristic name.
There his eye fell on an advertisement couched in the following terms:
“If Gunner Martin Barling, 1820th Battery, R.F.C., will communicate
with Messrs. Mills & Cheyne, solicitors 130 Bedford Row, W. C., he will
hear of something to his advantage. Difficulties with the military can
be arranged.”
Desmond read this advertisement over once and then, starting at the
beginning, read it over again. Gunner Barling... the name conjured up a
picture of a jolly, sun-burned man, always very spick and span, talking
the strange lingo of our professional army gleaned from India, Aden,
Malta and the Rock, the type of British soldier that put the Retreat
from Mons into the history books for all time.
Advertisements like this; Desmond reflected dreamily, meant legacies as
a rule; he was glad of it, for the sake of Barling whom he hadn’t seen
since the far-away days of Aldershot before the war.
“Buzzer” Barling was the brother of one Private Henry Barling who had
been Desmond’s soldier-servant. He derived the nickname of “Buzzer”
from the fact that he was a signaller. As the vicissitudes of service
had separated the two brothers for many years, they had profited by the
accident of finding themselves at the same station to see as much of
one another as possible, and Desmond had frequently come across the
gunner at his quarters in barracks. Henry Barling had gone out to
France with Desmond but a sniper in the wood at Villers Cotterets had
deprived Desmond of the best servant and the truest friend he had ever
had. Now here was Henry’s brother cropping up again. Desmond hoped that
“Buzzer” Barling would see the advertisement, and half asleep, formed a
mental resolve to cut out the notice and send it to the gunner who, he
felt glad to think, was still alive. The rather curiously worded
reference to difficulties with the military must mean, Desmond thought,
that leave could be obtained for Martin Barling to come home and
collect his legacy.
At this point the _Daily Telegraph_ fell to the ground and Desmond went
off to sleep. When he awoke, the afternoon hush had fallen upon the
bath. He seemed to be the only occupant of the cubicles. His clothes
which had arrived from the shop during his slumbers, were very neatly
laid out on a couch opposite him.
He dressed himself leisurely. The barber was quite right. The bath had
made a new man of him. Save for a large bump on the back of his head he
was none the worse for Strangwise’s savage blow. The attendant having
packed Bellward’s apparel in the suit-case in which Desmond’s clothes
had come from the club, Desmond left the suit-case in the man’s charge
and strolled out into the soft air of a perfect afternoon. He had
discarded his bandage and in his well fitting blue suit and brown boots
he was not recognizable as the scrubby wretch who had entered the bath
six hours before.
Desmond strolled idly along the crowded streets in the sunshine. He was
rather at a loss as to what his next move should be. Now that his
mental freshness was somewhat restored, his thoughts began to busy
themselves again with the disappearance of Barbara Mackwayte. He was
conscious of a guilty feeling towards Barbara. It was not so much the
blame he laid upon himself for not being at the Mill House to meet her
when she came as the sense that he had been unfaithful to the cause of
her murdered father.
Now that he was away from Nur-el-Din with her pleading eyes and pretty
gestures, Desmond’s thoughts turned again to Barbara Mackwayte. As he
walked along Piccadilly, he found himself contrasting the two women as
he had contrasted them that night he had met them in Nur-el-Din’s
dressing room at the Palaceum. And, with a sense of shame; he became
aware of how much he had succumbed to the dancer’s purely sensual
influence; for away from her he found he could regain his independence
of thought and action.
The thought of Barbara in the hands of that woman with the cruel eyes
or a victim to the ruthlessness of Strangwise made Desmond cold with
apprehension. If they believed the girl knew where the jewel had
disappeared to, they would stop at nothing to force a confession from
her; Desmond was convinced of that. But what had become of the trio?
In vain he cast about him for a clue. As far as he knew, the only
London address that Strangwise had was the Nineveh; and he was as
little likely to return there as Bellward was to make his way to his
little hotel in Jermyn Street. There remained Mrs. Malplaquet who, he
remembered, had told him of her house at Campden Hill.
For the moment, Desmond decided, he must put both Strangwise and
Bellward out of his calculations. The only direction in which he could
start his inquiries after Barbara Mackwayte pointed towards Campden
Hill and Mrs. Malplaquet.
The delightful weather suggested to his mind the idea of walking out to
Campden Hill to pursue his investigations on the spot. So he made his
way across the Park into Kensington Gardens heading for the pleasant
glades of Notting Hill. In the Bayswater Road he turned into a
postoffice and consulted the London Directory. He very quickly
convinced himself that among the hundreds of thousands of names
compiled by Mr. Kelly’s indefatigable industry Mrs. Malplaquet’s was
not to be found. Neither did the street directory show her as the
tenant of any of the houses on Campden Hill.
I don’t know that there is a more pleasant residential quarter of
London than the quiet streets and gardens that straggle over this airy
height. The very steepness of the slopes leading up from the Kensington
High Street on the one side and from Holland Park Avenue on the other
effectually preserves the atmosphere of old-world languor which
envelops this retired spot. The hill, with its approaches so steep as
to suggest to the imaginative the pathway winding up some rock-bound
fastness of the Highlands, successfully defies organ-grinders and
motor-buses and other aspirants to the membership in the great society
for the propagation of street noises. As you near the summit, the quiet
becomes more pronounced until you might fancy yourself a thousand
leagues, instead of as many yards, removed from the busy commerce of
Kensington or the rather strident activity of Notting Hill.
So various in size and condition are the houses that it is as though
they had broken away from the heterogeneous rabble of bricks and mortar
that makes up the Royal Borough of Kensington, and run up in a crowd to
the summit of the hill to look down contemptuously upon their less
fortunate brethren in the plain. On Campden Hill there are houses to
suit all purses and all tastes from the vulgar mansion with its private
garden to the little one-story stable that Art (which flourishes in
these parts) and ten shillings worth of paint has converted into a
cottage.
For half an hour Desmond wandered in a desultory fashion along the
quiet roads of natty houses with brightly painted doors and shining
brass knockers. He had no definite objective; but he hoped rather
vaguely to pick up some clue that might lead him to Mrs. Malplaquet’s.
He walked slowly along surveying the houses and scrutinizing the faces
of the passers-by who were few and far between, yet without coming any
nearer the end of his search.
It was now growing dusk. Enthroned on the summit of the hill the
water-tower stood out hard and clear against the evening sky. Desmond,
who had lost his bearings somewhat in the course of his wanderings,
came to a full stop irresolutely, where two streets crossed, thinking
that he would retrace his footsteps to the main-road on the chance of
picking up a taxi to take him back to town. He chose one of the streets
at random; but it proved to be a crescent and brought him back
practically to the spot he had started from. Thereupon, he took the
other and followed it up, ignoring various side-turnings which he
feared might be pitfalls like the last: But the second road was as bad
as the first. It was a _cul de sac_ and brought Desmond face to face
with a blank wall.
He turned and looked about him for somebody of whom to ask the way. But
the street was entirely deserted. He seemed to be on the very summit of
the hill; for all the roads were a-tilt. Though the evening was falling
fast, no light appeared in any of the houses and the street lamps were
yet unlit. Save for the distant bourdon of the traffic which rose to
his ears like the beating of the surf, the breeze rustling the bushes
in the gardens was the only sound.
Desmond started to walk back slowly the way he had come. Presently, his
eyes caught the gleam of a light from above a front door. When he drew
level with it, he saw that a gas-jet was burning in the fanlight over
the entrance to a neat little two-story house which stood by itself in
a diminutive garden. As by this time he was thoroughly sick of
wandering aimlessly about, he went up to the neat little house and rang
the bell.
A maid-servant in a cap and apron who seemed to be drawn to the scale
of the house, such an insignificant little person she was, opened the
door.
“Oh, sir,” she exclaimed when she saw him, “was it about the rooms?”
And she pointed up at the fan-light where, for the first time, Desmond
noticed a printed card with the inscription-:
“Furnished Rooms to Let.”
The servant’s unexpected question put an idea into Desmond’s head. He
could not return to the club, he reflected, since he was supposed to be
killed in action. Why not take a room in this house in the heart of the
enemy’s country and spend some days on the watch for Mrs. Malplaquet or
for any clue that might lead him to her?
So Desmond answered, yes, it was about the rooms he had come.
Promising that she would tell “the missus,” the little servant showed
him into a tiny sitting-room, very clean and bright, with blue cretonne
curtains and a blue carpet and an engraving of “King Cophetua and The
Beggar Maid” over the mantelpiece. Directly you came into the room,
everything in it got up and shouted “Tottenham Court Road.”
Then the door opened and, with a great tinkling and rustling, a
stoutish, brisk-looking woman sailed in. The tinkling proceeded from
the large amount of cheap jewelry with which she was adorned; the
rustling from a black and shiny glacé silk dress. With every movement
she made the large drops she wore in her ears chinked and were answered
by a melodious chime from the charm bangles she had on her wrists.
She measured Desmond in a short glance and his appearance seemed to
please her for she smiled as she said in rather a mincing voice:
“My (she pronounced it ‘may’) maid said you wished to see the rooms!”
Desmond intimated that such was his desire.
“Pray be seated,” said the little woman: “You will understand, I’m
sure, that ay am not in the habit of taking in paying guests, but may
husband being at the front, ay have a bedroom and this sitting-room
free and ay thought...”
She stopped and looked sharply at Desmond.
“You are an officer, I think” she asked.
Desmond bowed.
“May husband is also an officer,” replied the woman, “Captain
Viljohn-Smythe; you may have met him. No? Of course, had you not been
of commissioned rank, ay should not...”
She trailed off vaguely.
Desmond inquired her terms and surprised her somewhat by accepting them
on the spot.
“But you have not seen the bedroom!” protested Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe.
“I will take it on trust,” Desmond replied, “and here,” he added,
pulling out his note-case, “is a week’s rent in advance. I’ll go along
now and fetch my things. By the way,” he went on, “I know some people
here at Campden Hill but very foolishly, I’ve mislaid the address.
Malplaquet... Mrs. Malplaquet. Do you happen to know her house?”
“Ay know most of the naice people living round about here,” replied the
lady, “but for the moment, ay cannot recollect... was it one of the
larger houses on the hill, do you know?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Desmond. “You see, I’ve lost the
address!”
“Quayte!” returned Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe. “Ay can’t say ay know the
name!” she added.
However, she consented to consult the handmaiden, who answered to the
name of Gladays, as to Mrs. Malplaquet’s address, but she was as
ignorant as her mistress.
Promising to return in the course of the evening with his things and
having received exact instructions as to the shortest way to Holland
Park Avenue, Desmond took his leave. He felt that he had embarked on a
wild goose chase; for, even if the fugitives had made their way to Mrs.
Malplaquet’s (which was more than doubtful) he imagined they would take
care to lie very low so that his chances of coming across any of them
were of the most meager.
Following the directions he had received, he made his way easily back
to the main road. He halted under a street-lamp to catch the eye of any
passing taxi which might happen to be disengaged. A dirty faced man in
a greasy old suit and a spotted handkerchief knotted about his throat
came slouching along the pavement, keeping close to the wall. On
catching sight of Desmond’s face by the light of the lamp, he stopped
irresolutely and then advanced slowly towards him.
“Excuse me, sir!” he said falteringly.
Desmond looked round at the sound of the man’s voice and seeing a
typical street loafer, asked the fellow to get him a taxi.
“It _is_ Captain Okewood,” said the loafer, “you don’t remember me,
sir?”
Desmond looked at the dirty, rather haggard face with its unshaven chin
and shook his head.
“I don’t think I do,” he answered, “though you seem to know _my_ name!”
The vagrant fumbled in his pocket for a minute and extracting a scrap
of paper, unfolded it and held it out to Desmond.
“That’s me, sir!” he said, “and, oh, sir! if you would kindly help me
with a word of good advice, just for old times’ sake, I’d be very
grateful!”
Desmond took the scrap of paper which the man tendered and held it so
as to catch the rays of the lamp. It was a fragment torn from a
newspaper. He had hardly set eyes on the cutting than he stretched out
his hand to the vagrant.
“Why, Gunner Barling,” he cried, “I didn’t know you! How on earth do
you come to be in this state?”
The man looked shamefacedly down on the ground.
“I’m a deserter, sir!” he said in a low voice.
“Are you, by George?” replied Desmond, “and now I come to think of it,
so am I!”