THE EMBELLISHMENT OF MR. MAITLAND
THERE was a concert that night at the Queen’s Hall, and the spacious
auditorium was crowded to hear the summer recital of a great violinist.
Dick Gordon, in the midst of an evening’s work, remembered that he had
reserved a seat. He felt fagged, baffled, inclined to hopelessness. A
note from Lord Farmley had come to him, urging instant action to recover
the lost commercial treaty. It was such a letter as a man, himself
worried, would write without realizing that in so doing he was passing
on his panic to those who it was very necessary should not be stampeded
into precipitate action. It was a human letter, but not statesmanlike.
Dick decided upon the concert.
He had finished dressing when he remembered that it was more than likely
that the omniscient Frogs would know of his reservation. He must take
the risk, if risk there was. He ’phoned to the garage where his own
machine was housed and hired a closed car, and in ten minutes was one of
two thousand people who were listening, entranced, to the master. In the
interval he strolled out to the lobby to smoke, and almost the first
person he saw was a Central Office man who avoided his eye. Another
detective stood by the stairway leading to the bar, a third was smoking
on the steps of the hall outside. But the sensation of the evening was
not this evidence of Elk’s foresight. The warning bell had sounded, and
Dick was in the act of throwing away his cigarette, when a magnificent
limousine drew up before the building, a smart footman alighted to open
the door, and there stepped heavily to the pavement—Mr. Ezra Maitland!
Dick heard a gasp behind him, and turned his head to see Elk in the one
and only dress suit he had ever possessed.
“Mother of Moses!” he said in an awed voice.
And there was reason for his astonishment. Not only was Mr. Maitland’s
equipage worthy of a reigning monarch, with its silver fittings,
lacquered body and expensively uniformed servants, but the old man was
wearing a dress suit of the latest fashion. His beard had been shortened
a few inches, and across the spotless white waistcoat was stretched a
heavy gold chain. On his hand many rings blazed and flashed in the light
of the street standard. There was a camellia in his perfect lapel, and
on his head the glossiest of silk hats. Leaning on a stick of ebony and
ivory, he strutted across the pavement.
“Silk socks . . . patent leather shoes. My God! Look at his _rings_,”
hissed Elk.
His profanity was almost excusable. The vision of splendour passed
through the doors into the hall.
“He’s gone gay!” said Elk hollowly, and followed like a man in a dream.
From where he was placed, Dick had a good view of the millionaire. He
sat throughout the second part of the programme with closed eyes, and so
slow was he to start applauding after each item, that Dick was certain
that he had been asleep and the clapping had awakened him.
Once he detected the old man stifling a yawn in the very midst of the
second movement of Elgar’s violin concerto, which held the audience
spellbound by its delicate beauty. With his big hands, now enshrined in
white kid gloves, crossed on his stomach, the head of Mr. Maitland
nodded and jerked.
When at last the concert was over, he looked round fearfully, as though
to make absolutely certain that it _was_ over, then rose and made his
way out of the hall, his silk hat held clumsily in his hand.
A manager came in haste to meet him.
“I hope, Mr. Maitland, you enjoyed yourself?” Dick heard him say.
“Very pooty—very pooty,” replied Maitland hoarsely. “That fiddler ought
to play a few toons, though—nothing like a hornpipe on a fiddle.”
The manager looked after him open-mouthed, then hurried out to help the
old man into his car.
“Gay—he’s gay!” said Elk, as bewildered as the manager. “Jumping
snakes! Who was that?”
He addressed the unnecessary question to the manager, who had returned
from his duty.
“That is Maitland, the millionaire, Mr. Elk,” said the other. “First
time we’ve had him here, but now that he’s come to live in town——”
“Where is he living?” asked Elk.
“He has taken the Prince of Caux’s house in Berkeley Square,” said the
manager.
Elk blinked at him.
“Say that again?”
“He has taken the Prince of Caux’s house,” said the manager. “And what
is more, has bought it—the agent told me this afternoon.”
Elk was incapable of comment, and the manager continued his surprising
narrative.
“I don’t think he knows much about music, but he has booked seats for
every big musical event next season—his secretary came in this
afternoon. He seemed a bit dazed.”
Poor Johnson! thought Dick.
“He wanted me to fix dancing lessons for the old boy——”
Elk clapped his hand to his mouth—he had an insane desire to scream.
“And as a matter of fact, I fixed them. He’s a bit old, but Socrates or
somebody learnt Greek at eighty, and maybe Mr. Maitland’s regretting the
wasted years of his life. I admit it is a bit late to start night
clubs——”
Elk laid a chiding hand upon the managerial shoulder.
“You certainly deceived me, brother,” he said. “And here was I, drinking
it all in, and you with a face as serious as the dial of a poorhouse
clock! You’ve put it all over Elk, and I’m man enough to admit you
fooled me.”
“I don’t think our friend is trying to fool you,” said Dick quietly.
“You really mean what you say—old Maitland has started dancing and
night clubs?”
“Certainly!” said the other. “He hasn’t started dancing, but that is
where he has gone to-night—to the Heron’s. I heard him tell the
chauffeur.”
It was incredible, but a little amusing—most amusing of all to see
Elk’s face.
The detective was frankly dumbfounded by the news.
“Heron’s is my idea of a good finish to a happy evening,” said Elk at
last, drawing a long breath. He beckoned one of his escort. “How many
man do you want to cover Heron’s Club?” he asked.
“Six,” was the prompt reply. “Ten to raid it, and twenty for a rough
house.”
“Get thirty!” said Elk emphatically.
Heron’s from the exterior was an unpretentious building. But once under
the curtained doors, and the character of its exterior was forgotten. A
luxurious lounge, softly lit and heavily carpeted, led to the large
saloon, which was at once restaurant and dance-hall.
Dick stood in the doorway awaiting the arrival of the manager, and
admired the richness and subtle suggestion of cosiness which the room
conveyed. The tables were set about an oblong square of polished
flooring; from a gallery at the far end came the strain of a coloured
orchestra; and on the floor itself a dozen couples swayed and glided in
rhythm to the staccato melody.
“Gilded vice,” said Elk disparagingly. “A regular haunt of sin and
self-indulgence. I wonder what they charge for the food—there’s
Mathusalem.”
“Mathusalem” was sitting, a conspicuous figure, at the most prominent
table in the room. His polished head glistened in the light from the
crystal candelabras, and in the shadow that it cast, his patriarchal
beard so melted into the white of his snowy shirt front that for a
moment Dick did not recognize him.
Before him was set a large glass mug filled with beer.
“He’s human anyway,” said Elk.
Hagn came at that moment, smiling, affable, willing to oblige.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Captain,” he said. “You want me to pass
you in? Gentlemen, there is no necessity! Every police officer of rank
is an honorary member of the club.”
He bustled in, threading his way between the tables, and found them a
vacant sofa in one of the alcoves. There were revellers whose faces
showed alarm at the arrival of the new guests—one at least stole forth
and did not come back.
“We have many notable people here to-night,” said Hagn, rubbing his
hands. “There are Lord and Lady Belfin” . . . he mentioned others; “and
that gentleman with the beard is the great Maitland . . . his secretary
is here somewhere. Poor gentleman, I fear he is not happy. But I invited
him myself—it is sometimes desirable that we should elect the . . .
what shall I say? . . . higher servants of important people?”
“Johnson?” asked Dick in surprise. “Where?”
Presently he saw that plump and philosophical man. He sat in a remote
corner, looking awkward and miserable in his old-fashioned dress
clothes. Before him was a glass which, Dick guessed, contained an orange
squash.
A solemn, frightened figure he made, sitting on the edge of his chair,
his big red hands resting on the table. Dick Gordon laughed softly and
whispered to Elk:
“Go and get him!”
Elk, who was never self-conscious, walked through the dancers and
reached Mr. Johnson, who looked up startled and shook hands with the
vigour of one rescued from a desert island.
“It was good of you to ask me to come over,” said Johnson, as he greeted
Dick. “This is new to me, and I’m feeling about as much at home as a
chicken in a pie.”
“Your first visit?”
“And my last,” said Johnson emphatically. “This isn’t the kind of life
that I care for. It interferes with my reading, and it—well, it’s sad.”
His eyes were fixed on a noisy little party in the opposite alcove.
Gordon had seen them almost as soon as he had sat down. Ray, in his most
hectic mood, Lola Bassano, beautifully and daringly gowned, and the
heavy-looking ex-pugilist, Lew Brady.
Presently, with a sigh, Johnson’s eyes roved toward the old man and
remained fixed on him, fascinated.
“Isn’t it a miracle?” he asked in a hushed voice. “He changes his habits
in a day! Bought the house in Berkeley Square, called in an army of
tailors, sent me rushing round to fix theatre seats, bought jewellery
. . .”
He shook his head.
“I can’t understand it,” he confessed, “because it has made no
difference to him in the office. He’s the same old hog. He wanted me to
become his resident secretary, but I struck at that. I must have some
sort of life worth living. What scares me is that he may fire me if I
don’t agree. He’s been very unpleasant this week. I wonder if Ray has
seen him?”
Ray Bennett had not seen his late employer. He was too completely
engrossed in the joy of being with Lola, too inspired and stimulated
from more material sources, to take an interest in anything but himself
and the immediate object of his affections.
“You are making a fool of yourself, Ray. Everybody is looking at you,”
warned Lola.
He glanced round, and for the first time began to notice who was in the
room. Presently his eyes fell upon the shining pate of Mr. Maitland, and
his jaw dropped. He could not believe the evidence of his vision, and,
rising, walked unsteadily across the floor, shouldering the other
guests, stumbling against chairs and tables, until he stood by the table
of his late employer.
“Gosh!” he gasped. “It _is_ you!”
The old man raised his eyes slowly from the cloth which he had been
contemplating steadily for ten minutes, and his steely eyes met the gaze
steadily.
“You hoary old sinner!” breathed Ray.
“Go away,” snarled Mr. Maitland.
“‘Go away,’ is it? I’m going to talk to you and give you a few words of
advice and warning, Moses!”
Ray sat down suddenly in a chair, and faced his glaring victim with
drunken solemnity. His words of warning remained unuttered. Somebody
gripped his arm and jerked him to his feet, and he looked into the dark
face of Lew Brady.
“Here, what——” he began. But Brady led him and pushed him back to his
own table.
“You fool!” he hissed. “Why do you want to advertise yourself in this
way? You’re a hell of a Secret Service man!”
“I don’t want any of that stuff from you,” said Ray roughly as he jerked
his arm free.
“Sit down, Ray,” said Lola in a low voice. “Half Scotland Yard is in the
club, watching you.”
He followed the direction of her eyes and saw Dick Gordon regarding him
gravely, and the sight and knowledge of that surveillance maddened him.
Leaping to his feet, he crossed the room to where they sat.
“Looking for me?” he asked loudly. “Want me for anything?”
Dick shook his head.
“You damned police spy!” stormed the youth, white with unreasoning
passion. “Bringing your bloodhounds after me! What are you doing with
this gang, Johnson? Are you turned policeman too?”
“My dear Ray,” murmured Johnson.
“My dear Ray!” sneered the other. “You’re jealous, you poor
worm—jealous because I’ve got away from the bloodsucker’s clutches! As
to you”—he waved a threatening finger in Dick’s face—“you leave me
alone—see? You’ve got a whole lot of work to do without carrying tales
to my sister.”
“I think you had better go back to your friends,” said Dick coolly. “Or,
better still, go home and sleep.”
All this had occurred between the dances, and now the band struck up,
but if the attention of the crowded clubroom was in no wise relaxed,
there was this change, that Ray’s high voice now did not rise above the
efforts of the trap drummer.
Dick looked round for the watchful Hagn. He knew that the manager, or
one of the officials of the club, would interfere instantly. It was not
Hagn, but a head waiter, who came up and pushed the young man back.
So intent was everybody on that little scene that followed, in the
spectacle of that flushed youth struggling against the steady pressure
which the head waiter and his fellows asserted, that nobody saw the man
who for a while stood in the doorway surveying the scene, before pushing
aside the attendants he strode into the centre of the room.
Ray, looking round, was almost sobered by the sight of his father.
The rugged, grey-haired man, in his worn, tweed suit, made a striking
contrast to that gaily-dressed throng. He stood, his hands behind him,
his face white and set, surveying his son, and the boy’s eyes dropped
before him.
“I want you, Ray,” he said simply.
The floor was deserted; the music ceased, as though the leader of the
orchestra had been signalled that something was wrong.
“Come back with me to Horsham, boy.”
“I’m not going,” said Ray sullenly.
“He is not with you, Mr. Gordon?”
Dick shook his head, and at this intervention the fury of Ray Bennett
flamed again.
“With him!” he said scornfully. “Would I be with a sneaking policeman?”
“Go with your father, Ray.” It was Johnson’s urgent advice, and his hand
lay for a second on the boy’s shoulder.
Ray shook him off.
“I’ll stay here,” he said, and his voice was loud and defiant. “I’m not
a baby, that I can’t be trusted out alone. You’ve no right to come here,
making me look a fool.” He glowered at his father. “You’ve kept me down
all these years, denied me money that I ought to have had—and who are
you that you should pretend to be shocked because I’m in a decent club,
wearing decent clothes? I’m straight: can you say the same? If I wasn’t
straight, could you blame me? You’re not going to put any of that kind
father stuff over——”
“Come away.” John Bennett’s voice was hoarse.
“I’m staying here,” said Ray violently. “And in future you can leave me
alone. The break had to come some time, and it might as well come now.”
They stood facing one another, father and son, and in the tired eyes of
John Bennett was a look of infinite sadness.
“You’re a silly boy, Ray. Perhaps I haven’t done all I could——”
“Perhaps!” sneered the other. “Why, you know it! You get out!”
And then, as he turned his head, he saw the suppressed smiles on the
face of the audience, and the hurt to his vanity drove him mad.
“Come,” said John gently, and laid his hand on the boy’s arm.
With a roar of fury Ray broke loose . . . in a second the thing was
done. The blow that struck John Bennett staggered him, but he did not
fall.
And then, through the guests who thronged about the two, came Ella. She
realized instantly what had happened. Elk had slipped from his seat and
was standing behind the boy, ready to pin him if he raised his hand
again. But Ray Bennett stood, frozen with horror, speechless, incapable
of movement.
“Father!” The white-faced girl whispered the word.
The head of John Bennett dropped, and he suffered himself to be led
away.
Dick Gordon wanted to follow and comfort, but he saw Johnson going after
them and went back to his table. Again the music started, and they took
Ray Bennett back to his table, where he sat, head on hand, till Lola
signalled a waiter to bring more wine.
“There are times,” said Elk, “when the prodigal son and the fatted calf
look so like one another that you can’t tell ’em apart.”
Dick said nothing, but his heart bled for the mystery man of Horsham.
For he had seen in John Bennett’s face the agony of the damned.