TERMS WITH THE ENEMY
I had noted a loose floor board in my room. With the aid of a knife
blade, I succeeded in lifting it, revealing a dusty cavity. Here I hid
the portfolio. I replaced the board and slipped the key on to my ring
with others that I habitually carried.
That I was destined to be present at the interview with Macalister, I
foresaw clearly enough. How best to prepare myself it was not easy to
determine. Primarily I had to focus upon keeping my temper. O’Shea
plainly wanted to be alone.
I looked into the cocktail bar. Two men whom I knew were drinking
highballs, and:
“Hullo, Decies,” said one, “what’s this crazy rumour about your little
friend?”
The words offended me. I suppose I was in a mood for it. Since the
fateful morning that Nanette had missed the boat, many questionable
glances had been cast upon me.
“It’s what you say,” I answered shortly: “a crazy rumour.”
Then I went out.
I crossed the lobby and stood in the porch for a while, breathing the
warm perfume of the gardens. A man and a girl were walking down the
slope toward the terraces. He had his arm about her waist.
The open road called to me. Lighting my pipe, I set out. Drivers of
bullock carts solicited my patronage, but I ignored them and walked
on. I had no idea where I was going. I think I was merely running away
from myself. I could not banish the illusion that Nanette was hiding
behind some tree; that she would suddenly leap out at me with mock
reproaches for my neglect of the grass orphan.
Twice I thought I saw her slender figure in the distance.
O’Shea was ruined. This was the idea that ultimately came to the top
and stayed there. O’Shea was ruined. The blind love of a child-woman
had wrecked the best man it had ever been my lot to know. She had
stayed for O’Shea. No one suspected it. But I knew.
This was the sequel.
Lonely in my knowledge of all it might mean--when, willy-nilly, I
should have surrendered the portfolio--I tramped on. A great, cold
jewel, the moon lighted my way. By a stagnant cistern, green with
slime, I pulled up. I had walked half the distance to the Casino.
This cistern was infested by poisonous insects with nasty habits in
their tails and a social custom of leaving red-hot visiting cards. I
turned back, scratching viciously.
A party homeward bound to Reid’s in a car offered me a lift.
I thanked them but preferred to walk.
“… Having no further use for this officer’s services.” Yes, I could
save him from that.
The hall porter said that Major O’Shea was in his room. Therefore,
having a curiosity respecting Macalister, I took up a strategic
position on a shadowed bench in that miniature palm grove which
commands the porch. I told the porter where he could find me.
I had waited but a short time when Macalister arrived, in the pomp and
circumstance of a glorious Farman. A chauffeur, whose pedigree
connected with apes more recently than usual, drove the red torpedo in
at the gate with much skill and even more noise. I stood up to see
Macalister alight.
He entered Reid’s proprietorially. He was in evening kit, wore a straw
hat boasting a band of well-known colours, to which he was not
entitled, and smoked a successful cigar decorated with what looked
like the Order of the Garter. If he was nervous he showed no sign of
the fact.
One has heard many jokes aimed at the courage of the Jew. Sometimes
from members of his own race. In justice to one whom I shall always
dislike, I wish to say that Julian Macalister, bearing a Scottish
name, was fearless as any man who ever wore the tartan.
Caliban drove the Farman out into the road again, and I settled down
with my pipe to await O’Shea’s summons.
It came sooner than I had expected. Mr. Macalister was all of a man of
business.
“Major O’Shea asks you to step up to his room, sir,” said the hall
porter.
Knocking out my pipe, I made my way upstairs. On the side of the
angels though I might be, I found myself not wholly at ease. I rapped
at O’Shea’s door and walked in.
Macalister was seated in an armchair, a stump of fat cigar between his
teeth. The band was absent. I presumed that he had smoked it.
O’Shea stood, facing me, by the open window. “I hope I have not
dragged you from pleasant company. But Mr. Macalister here has
presumed to question a statement of mine.”
“Cut it out,” said Macalister. “This is business.”
“Mr. Macalister,” O’Shea resumed blandly--and now I noted that he wore
his monocle--“is not personally responsible for his defects of
education. Forgive him, Decies. The facts, briefly, are these: You may
recall that I recently placed in your care a certain portfolio, the
contents of which you know?”
“You did,” said I.
“My reason,” O’Shea continued, “was that I feared an attempt by Mr.
Macalister or his friends to recover this portfolio. I mentioned my
fears to you at the time.”
“You did,” I repeated.
“Mr. Macalister,” O’Shea turned to him, “Mr. Decies, here, has the
portfolio and a new key which I have had made. The portfolio is
locked. I don’t know what he has done with it. Therefore your
proposals are useless.”
Macalister rolled the cigar stump. With a thumb and forefinger he
removed fragments from his mouth--of what, I cannot say; possibly the
band. Then:
“I believe you,” he granted. “I never doubted your word. You’re damned
up-stage but you don’t lie.”
“Thank you,” said O’Shea.
The tone in which he spoke puzzled me at the time. It was so oddly
sincere.
“But, you see,” Macalister went on, “I know why you’ve done it!”
O’Shea did not exactly start. But his glance, as Macalister spoke, was
dagger-like in its intensity.
“You’re an officer and a gentleman. The two aren’t always twins, but
you happen to be both. I’ve got to deal with Mr. Decies? If he lets
you down, the disgrace is his. You’re just branded a fool, but you
save your ‘British honour.’ Am I right?”
By heavens! I knew he was right! And, studying the low brow, the
small, Semitic skull, the gross person of the man, I wondered. If a
Julian Macalister could read human nature so clearly, small wonder
that the cream of his race ruled the Rialtos of the world. So I
reflected.
“Very well, Mr. Decies.” He diverted the cigar stump in my direction.
“As it’s turned out, I’m not sorry. You’re sweet on the little lady
who’s disappeared. I don’t blame you. I fancy her, myself. But
business is business.”
Only O’Shea’s frigid stare held me in my place. I plunged my hands in
my trouser pockets and clenched them tightly.
“Do not permit Mr. Macalister’s vulgarity to upset your judgment,”
said O’Shea. “Also, make due allowances for him.”
“I don’t say I know where she is,” Macalister resumed unmoved, “but
I’m prepared to promise that she’ll be home by midnight if you, Mr.
Decies, will double on the major and hand over to me that portfolio!”
“One moment!”
O’Shea broke in so violently that he startled me.
“Well?” said Macalister.
“You fully appreciate the value of what the portfolio contains?”
O’Shea challenged.
“Fully,” I answered.
“You know what is at stake--on both sides?”
“I do.”
“So do I. Therefore I am going to leave you alone with Mr. Macalister.
Make your terms, Decies. I shall never reproach you. Communism is a
powerful movement. To-night it conquers.”
He walked quickly to the door and went out.
“Very pretty,” said Macalister. “When he’s fired from the Guards he
should do well in the movies.”