LADY MOYA WAS CURIOUSLY UNLIKE
HERSELF
There was a greater reason for Sir Ralph’s perturbation than either
he knew or Michael guessed. Both might have been enlightened, had they
stood on Cannon Street Station one Sunday morning and seen the
distress of Mr. Alphonso Blaxton as the big minute hand of the station
clock grew nearer to nine. The guard was closing the doors of the
carriages and the collector was preparing to shut the gate, when Moya
came flying breathlessly through the barrier.
“Oh, I _am_ so sorry!” she gasped; “my watch stopped.”
Mr. Alphonso Blaxton bundled her into an empty first-class carriage
and jumped in himself as the train moved.
“There’s not another train for three hours,” he said severely.
“We could have gone to church.”
“What a mind!” said the young man in admiration. “I never thought of
church!”
“Anyway, I didn’t lose the train,” she said tartly. “Have you brought
everything?”
She looked round for the collapsible easel, the paint boxes and the
paraphernalia which usually accompanied their sketching tours.
“I have brought nothing,” he said frankly.
“But how can you sketch?”
“I am not going to sketch,” he said. “I decided that it was too nice a
day to waste.”
She looked up at him and laughed.
“You will never be an artist,” she said, suddenly severe. “To what
part of the country are we going?”
“I thought we would go to Maidstone. There are some lovely drives from
there. I’ve hired a motor car to meet us at the station and I thought
we would go through Sussex and lunch at Seahampton.”
“Not Seahampton,” she said quickly; “my father is at Seahampton
to-day.”
She might have added that Sir Ralph was also at Seahampton, but, for
reasons of her own, she kept that information to herself because Sir
Ralph was not a subject which she had found it necessary to discuss.
She looked at her companion approvingly.
“You are ever so much more presentable than I have ever seen you,
before,” she said, “and you have actually shaved! You are getting less
and less like an artist every day.”
He had a peculiarly sweet smile and a laugh which was all bubbling
youth and happiness. He laughed like a girl, indeed it nearly
approached a giggle. He laughed now as the train sped through the
suburban stations, stretched out his feet on the cushions opposite and
searched for a cigarette. She watched him with glee as he produced,
not the ornate case in which the men of her acquaintance carried the
expensive products of Egypt and Syria, but a gaudy yellow carton
containing fifty of the cheapest cigarettes that ever brought
discredit to the fair State of Virginia.
“Do you like those things?” she asked.
“These ‘yellow perils’? Rather!”
“Your taste is awfully uncultivated, isn’t it?” she bantered; “why
don’t you--” she abruptly attempted to change the subject by an
incoherent reference to a cow which was gazing in a field by the side
of the line.
“Why don’t I smoke gold-laced Machinopolos through an amber and
diamond cigarette holder?” he suggested. “Because, little Moya, I am a
poor hard-working artist who has been saving up all the week for this
bust.”
“I am so sorry,” she said; “I am awfully thoughtless. Won’t you
forgive me?”
“I won’t forgive you,” he said, “unless you keep in your mind the big
fact that I am as immensely poor, as you are immensely rich.”
“Why should I keep that in my mind?” she asked.
“Because,” he said slowly, “until you are immensely poor or I am
immensely rich we shall meet very occasionally and indulge in very
infrequent busts.”
“But what difference does money make?” she faltered.
She found it difficult to speak plainly or even clearly. There was a
lump in her throat which made her voice sound unnaturally hoarse. She
had a strange sinking feeling within her and to her amazement she
found the hand that she put up to brush back a stray curl trembling.
She had never experienced any such sensation before. Her heart was
thumping quickly; she was breathless, hot and cold by turns.
He did not answer. She was seated by his side and she could only see
his face out of the corner of her eyes, then she felt his arm slipping
about her and before she knew what had happened, his lips were pressed
to hers.
This happened in a first-class railway carriage on a non-stop train.
It had happened before to quite common people (as Moya had heard), but
she never thought it would possibly happen to her, or that so vulgar a
proceeding could be so wonderfully sweet.
Sir Ralph and Lord Flanborough had met the local authorities. There
had been a lunch and speeches in which Sir Ralph had distinguished
himself by likening the forthcoming arrival of the Austral-African
mail ship to the return of Ulysses and the landing of the Pilgrim
Fathers. A wireless message from the ship stated that she did not
expect to make harbour until nine o’clock in the evening, and this
explained the earlier festivities. That they were of a sober and
restricted nature, was explained by the fact that the day was Sunday.
Later, it was intended that the sailings of the Austral-African line
from Cape Town should be timed to bring the ships to port on the
Saturday, but there had been no time to alter the arrangements for the
_Charter Queen_ had sailed before Lord Flanborough and Sir Ralph had
definitely decided the date on which the new service should be
inaugurated.
A few press-men who had come down from London for the purpose, with
certain directors and their wives, were shown over the docks; the new
trains were admired and particularly two brand new trucks, the
peculiar character of which was exhibited by Sir Ralph to a select few
of his fellow directors. A safe on wheels was an excellent description
for one of these. Specially strengthened under-carriages, each truck
supported by two bogies, they were designed to carry a tremendous
weight.
“I am sure Lord Flanborough doesn’t mind my telling you,” said Sir
Ralph to the little party, “that this will carry twenty tons of bar
gold to-night.”
“What will be the value of that?” asked one of the interested
audience.
“£2,867,200,” said Sir Ralph impressively; “representing six months’
output of the whole of Lord Flanborough’s gold properties.”
The directors made appropriate noises to signify their astonishment.
There were visitors to Seahampton interested in this great
transportation, who were not invited to participate in the function.
One of these, a dark foreign looking man, went no nearer to the docks
than a little public house in the ancient High Street. He was visited
by a man who was pallid of face and laconic of speech.
“It’s all up!” he said under his breath.
“What is wrong?” said the other in the same tone.
“It is quite impossible to get the driver or the fireman. They are two
old servants of the company, both have money saved and would no more
think of accepting a bribe than Flanborough himself.”
“You didn’t press the matter, I hope?” asked the other quickly.
The pallid man shook his head.
“I went as far as I dared with the driver,” he said. “I found out he
had a son in the army in India and I told him that I had met the boy
and got quite friendly with the old chap--but he is a sea-green
incorruptible, Gregori.”
“I will get on the ’phone to Kate,” said the other. “I suppose we
shall have to hold up the train somewhere--I don’t want to do any
shooting if it can be avoided. Are the drivers armed?”
“It is funny you should ask that,” said the pallid man, sipping his
beer. “The old man is armed for the first time in his life. He was
full of it and quite proud of his ability to loose off a gun.”
Gregori looked very serious.
“Kate must be prepared with the alternative scheme,” he said. “Anyway,
you will join me here with Cunningham at eight o’clock. I am perfectly
prepared for almost all contingencies. Millet has given me a dozen
authorities to meet almost any developments. Did you see the train?”
“I couldn’t get near it,” said the other. “I left just before Sapson
brought his party to make their inspection.”
Sir Ralph had carried his guests from the siding to the engine shed
and shown them the brand new Atlantic locomotive which was to draw the
train to London.
“They don’t seem to have finished it yet,” said one of the guests, and
pointed to a workman busily drilling a hole in the front plate.
Ralph laughed.
“They omitted to put a bracket for the lamp. You see, I wanted three
green lights in a line for the Gold Train--it is very necessary that
it should be very accurately and easily distinguished and signalled.
By some chance only two of the brackets were in place when the engine
came from the works. It is all the more annoying, because I had
already given definite instructions upon that point, but we shall not
go wrong for a lamp,” he said humorously.
It is agreed that the three hours between two and five on a Sunday
afternoon are the three dullest in the hundred and sixty-eight which
constitute a week. After the guests had left for London Sir Ralph and
Lord Flanborough remained at the little station hotel--Ralph had
already projected a more palatial establishment to meet the increased
traffic--for it had been arranged that they should greet the _Charter
Queen_ on her arrival.
At three o’clock that afternoon Ralph burst unceremoniously into Lord
Flanborough’s private sitting room where his lordship sat dozing.
“Have you had a wire?” he said.
He held a pink form in his own hand.
“A wire! What about?” asked Lord Flanborough startled.
“Read this.”
The telegram was signed “Michael,” and read:
“Simultaneous attempt made to burgle your strong room at
Austral-African office and Flanborough’s safe at headquarters of
mining corporation. Both unsuccessful. Both doors blown out by
nitro-gelatine. Will confirm by ’phone.”
Lord Flanborough looked at the other open-mouthed.
“This is very serious,” he said.
“I have ordered a special to take us to town. We will wait till we get
the ’phone message through.”
Ten minutes after they were in communication with Michael.
“Both doors have been blown out,” he repeated, “and there are one or
two very puzzling features about the burglaries. Nobody could have
been present in either office when the explosions occurred. There was
no fire and, so far as I can see, nothing has been taken away. You had
better come up and examine things for yourself.”
“It is rather awkward,” said Sir Ralph thoughtfully as he hung up the
receiver; “my ‘special’ driver is also the driver of the gold
special.”
“It doesn’t require any great genius to drive a gold special,” snapped
Flanborough; “put another man on to work to-night’s train and let us
get up to town as soon as we can.”
The special was waiting in the station by the time they had reached
the platform. Sir Ralph stayed long enough to give a few instructions
to the superintendent and then boarded the train and was soon flying
northward.
That Sunday morning had been an interesting one for Michael. He had
been aroused by telephone at five o’clock only to learn from an
apologetic operator that the wrong number had been called. Although it
was two hours before he usually rose, he had his bath and dressed and
not waking his servants made himself some coffee.
It was a bright morning, such as so often precedes a day of rain, when
he turned into the deserted street. He had no particular aim or
destination but he was in that mood which invites exercise. He walked
down the Marylebone Road and through Portland Place without meeting
anybody save an occasional policeman and so came to Piccadilly Circus
where he bought a Sunday newspaper from an early vendor and passed
down through Waterloo Place to the Park.
The gates had only just been opened and beyond the park-keepers and a
slouching tramp he met nobody. He sat on one of the garden seats by
the side of the lake, pulled his overcoat about his legs for the
morning was chilly and began to scan the headlines in the newspaper.
There was nothing startling here, but he read the columns
conscientiously.
There was nothing in life which did not interest Michael Pretherston.
He might have taken for his motto _homo sum_; _humani nihil a me
alienum puto_. It was a saying of T.B. Smith’s that Michael could even
write a readable volume on the psychology of dog-fights. Every little
larceny, however sordid, every tiny embezzlement however paltry, every
swindle whether it was carried out by the great confidence men who
“worked London” or by the smaller fry in the half-crown line of
business gave him food for reflection and some little scrap of
information which he stored away for future use.
He was in the midst of a long account of an East End arson charge when
he heard his name called softly and looked up. He jumped to his feet.
“Why, Kate,” he said, “haven’t you got any home?”
The girl was standing a few feet from him with an odd look on her
face.
“I think it must be fate that brought me out this morning,” she said;
“sit down, Mike, and tell me all the news.”
She showed no sign of resentment of his uncavalier treatment.
“Did you follow me here, or did I follow you?”
“I tell you it was fate,” she said. “I could not sleep and I drove my
Mercedes down.”
“And how is the Princess Bacheffski?” he asked as she seated herself
by his side.
“The Princess--?”
“Bacheffski--poor old Ralph! What a thing to put over him!”
She leant forward, her chin on her palm, her elbow on her crossed
knee.
“You frighten me sometimes,” she said. “I have not been able to make
up my mind whether you are clever or whether you are lucky.”
“I am both lucky and clever,” he said. “Tell me something about your
property in the Ural Mountains,” he said.
“In Poland,” she corrected him.
“Mines, I suppose?”
“There are no mines on my property,” she said calmly; “would you be
greatly surprised if I told you I had an estate in Poland?”
“Nothing you said would surprise me, unless you told me you were going
to be a good girl and respect the law relating to property.”
He folded his paper and dropped it into a wire receptacle provided for
that purpose and she followed the operations with amusement.
“What a tidy soul you are,” she said; “fancy doing things you are told
and obeying even by-laws.”
“We all obey by-laws. You are not so original as you think. For
instance, I observe that you are wearing a little toque--is that the
word?”
“That is the word,” she agreed.
“Toques are fashionable at this present moment. You are obeying the
by-laws. You haven’t the courage to come out in a sky-blue
tam-o’shanter with an ostrich feather because it is against the
by-laws. Also I remark that your dress is very short and very full.
You are not wearing a Roman toga or a Grecian gown, or even a hobble
skirt. Why? Because it is against the by-laws. It is absurd to disobey
one set and slavishly obey another.”
“You are quaint!” was the only answer she gave.
“Will you tell me, Princess?”
“Don’t call me ‘Princess’ if you please,” she said quietly.
“Well, will you tell me, my land-owner, what was the game with Ralph?
He described you with the greatest enthusiasm by-the-way. The night
you met him you were all dolled up to kill. Did you bring down your
birds?”
“I got him,” she admitted.
She was not as bright as usual.
“You are over-doing it,” said Michael; “you are trying to do too much.
Your doctor would probably tell you that you ought not to commit more
than one burglary a month.”
She laughed softly.
“You are very quaint,” she said again.
“You don’t feel like making a full and frank confession, I suppose,”
he suggested; “you would not like to burst into tears and sob out your
young heart on my shoulder?”
“That sob stuff never did agree with me.”
He raised a disapproving hand.
“Kate,” he said, “I have noticed a disposition in you to adopt the
slang which is employed exclusively by American newspaper reporters,
vaudeville artistes and other members of the criminal classes.”
“I will tell you this,” she said sitting upright and looking him fully
in the face, “we are going to do a big thing. The most colossal, the
most daring that has ever been done and we are going to do it to-day.
You want to know why I went to Flanborough’s, why I made up to that
unspeakable person, Ralph Sapson? Those are my two victims. I will
tell you more than this,” she said after a moment’s thought, “in order
to ensure the success of my scheme I have arranged for those two
gentlemen to be out of London on this bright Sabbath day. I can’t tell
you any more, Mike.”
“You are like a serial story, you finish off at the most interesting
place,” he grumbled.
His keen grey eyes searched hers and she met them fairly.
“I wish you weren’t,” he said.
“Weren’t what?” she asked.
“In this business,” he nodded. “I wish you weren’t.”
“Perhaps I will be good one of these days,” she said, “and then you
can recommend me for a job at two-ten-per. I’d make an ideal secretary
for you, Mike. I know all the underworld by name. You could cut out
your finger print department and leave it to Kate. What would happen,
do you think,” she went on, “if I went to a Salvation Army officer and
said, ‘I have been very wicked but now I am going to be good. Will you
please assist me. I have no money but I’ve a good heart--’ Mike, he
would put me to chopping wood for a week and then he would find me a
place as under-secretary to a housemaid in a strictly religious family
which gave me two evenings and one Sunday a month. You see, Mike, even
at goodliness one has to start at the bottom of the ladder; you can’t
break in on the roof. I hate good people.”
Michael nodded.
“I hate good people, too,” he said, “if they advertise their goodness,
but goodness is not hardness or sourness, it is just--goodness. For
example,” he went on, “I am good.”
“And I am wicked,” she said and appealed with outstretched hands to a
startled duck who had waddled to the railings, “choose between us!”
He laughed but was instantly serious again.
“Your confession puts me in a dilemma. As you are a lady I cannot
believe you are lying, as you are a criminal I dare not take your
word. I am sufficiently acquainted with your methods to know that your
presence is not essential to the committal of a crime, so I can gain
nothing by pulling you in.”
“Poor Mike,” she said mockingly.
“Poor Kate,” he said and the girl detected the note of sincerity in
his voice.
“Kate, you can’t get away with it,” he said; “you have got to fall
sooner or later. Think what it means. Think of that horrible drab life
in Aylesbury, where every minute is an hour and every hour an
eternity; think of the menial things they will set you to do,
scrubbing floors, washing shirts and sewing sacks. Think, how you will
be marshalled to church every Sunday and think how you will be stared
at and jeered at by friends of the Home Secretary who come to visit
the jail.”
“When that happens I shall be dead,” she said. “I believe you mean
kindly, Michael Pretherston, and I will tell you this, that you nor
any other human being can make me think or feel any different to what
I think and feel. There is no power on earth that can tear out the
foundations on which my life is built. I have read everything, all the
philosophies, Christian and pagan, and all the arguments from the
feeble evangelism of the tract writer, to the blatant nonsense of the
professional atheist, and I am just where I began. You can’t touch me
by reason or by devotion, by faith or by prayers. I am all
stone--here,” she laid her white hand upon her bosom and he saw the
mocking laughter in her eyes. “Poor Michael!” she said. “Why, if
devotion could change me, think of the chances I have had! I could
have taken Ralph Sapson and made of him a snake ring for my little
finger. I nearly had Flanborough on the point of proposing to me. He
is rather sentimental, did you know that?”
“All people with indigestion are sentimental between paroxysms,” said
Michael sagely.
He gave his hand to the girl though it was unnecessary and helped her
to her feet and they walked out of the park together. Her little
Mercedes was unattended and he cranked it up for her.
“Good-bye, Michael,” she said.
“Au revoir,” said Michael, “we shall meet at the sessions.”
At two o’clock that afternoon a constable on duty in Moorgate Street
heard the first of the two explosions which agitated police circles
that day. Michael was on the spot half-an-hour later and his brief
examination led to the view which he afterwards communicated to Ralph.
It was then he discovered that what the girl had told him was true and
that both Lord Flanborough and Sir Ralph Sapson were out of town.
Curiously enough, though he had been impressed at the time, he had
dismissed the girl’s statement as a piece of bravado on a par with the
badinage in which she usually indulged. He had cursed his folly in
ignoring the warning, all the way from Baker Street to the city and it
was a great relief to discover what was evident, that no attempt had
been made to rifle either the safe in Bartholomew Close or the strong
room in Moorgate Street. The outrages were similar in character; in
both cases the steel doors had been burst open by the application of
an infernal machine. In neither case had the thieves benefited by
their crime. The constable who heard the first explosion said he had
been admitted by the caretaker of the building within three minutes
but in that time had managed to send another policeman, who came up,
to guard the back of the premises. Nobody had either entered or left
in that period.
The explosion in Bartholomew Close had blown a sky-light into the
street. The safe was in a concrete cellar in which a light had been
burning day and night and although this had been extinguished by the
force of the explosion, it was possible for the constable who was
outside to see the safe and obtain a fairly comprehensive view of the
chamber. He, too, had asserted that nobody had entered the room or
left the building after the explosion.
“It is very curious,” said Michael.
T.B. Smith had come at his urgent request and the chief was as puzzled
as his subordinate.
“Did Flanborough say he would come up?”
“He is on his way now,” replied Michael.
“Do you know what I think?” said T.B. after a moment’s thought. “I
think that this is a blind. That there was never any intention of
rifling either the strong room or the safe. There is a big move on
somewhere, Mike, call in all the reserves.”
This was an order which Michael heard with pleasure, for he had
already anticipated these instructions, and detectives were at that
moment flocking to Scotland Yard from every point of the compass.