THE ORDERS FOR THE DAY
"The orders for the day don't need much explanation," said Fitz.
"Merely see that there are six cartridges in your revolver; keep it in
your trouser pocket with your hand on it, and then follow the man from
Cook's."
"Like all schemes of the first magnitude," said I, "it appears to be
simplicity itself."
"It is this confounded revolver business," said Coverdale, "that I
should like to see dispensed with. It might so easily land us in
serious trouble."
"It is far more likely to land us out of serious trouble," said Fitz.
"But this I can promise: they will not be produced except in the last
resort."
It was clear that the question of the revolvers had made Coverdale as
uneasy as it had made me; but the only thing to be done now was to pin
implicit faith upon the saneness of Fitz's judgment. Certainly he had
aroused respect. His method of communicating to Alexander O'Mulligan
the nature of the cause, and the need for absolute obedience to the
word of command, appeared to kindle awe and admiration in equal parts
in the breast of the middle-weight champion of the United Kingdom.
"Do exactly as you are told, O'Mulligan, and do nothing without orders,
unless they begin to shoot, and then you begin to shoot too. By the
way, Arbuthnot, did I understand you to say you had forgotten to bring
a revolver?"
I admitted the impeachment.
"I have several spare ones in my overcoat"--the tone of reproof was
delicate. "Is there any one else who has forgotten to provide himself
with one?"
"There is also a spare one at my rooms round the corner," said
Alexander O'Mulligan, with an air of modest pride.
Fitz honoured the new recruit with a nod of curt approval. In any
assembly of law-breakers the Bayard from Jermyn Street would be sure of
a hearty welcome. His face had expanded to the most moonlike
proportions, which the freckles and the prominent ears set off
fantastically; and in the green eyes was a look of genuine ecstasy,
beside which the emotion in those of Brasset and Jodey was mere hopeful
expectation.
Fitz took out his watch and studied it with the air of the Man of
Destiny.
"Fourteen minutes to nine," said he. "At nine o'clock I shall drive
alone to No. 300 Portland Place, in a taxi. At four minutes past nine
Coverdale and Arbuthnot will follow. They will ask for the Ambassador,
Coverdale giving the name of General Drago, and Arbuthnot the name of
Count Alexis Zbynska. You will be shown into a waiting-room while your
names are taken in to his Excellency. If he is in, he will receive
you; if he is not, Grindberg, or one of the other secretaries, or one
of the Attachés will have a word with you. Keep your mufflers up to
your ears and have the collars of your overcoats turned up. If von
Arlenberg is not in, say you will wait for him. You can use Illyrian,
or French, or broken English. Of course your object, in any case, will
be to gain time and keep in the house until you receive further
instructions. Am I clear?"
"Reasonably clear," said Coverdale. "If we gain access to the house we
are not to leave it until we hear from you?"
"That is so."
"And what about Alec and Brasset and me?" The earnestness of my
relation by marriage was wistful.
"O'Mulligan will leave four minutes after Coverdale and Arbuthnot. He
will merely give his name as Captain Forbes, who desires to fix an
appointment with von Arlenberg upon a private matter of importance. He
won't be able to fix it; but they will send a chap to talk to you,
O'Mulligan. You must be very long-winded and you must use your best
English, and you must waste as much time as you can. Understand?"
O'Mulligan beamed like a seraph.
"And Brasset and me?" said the pleading voice.
"Brasset will leave four minutes after O'Mulligan. He will be Mr.
Bonser, a messenger from the Foreign Office, with a letter for von
Arlenberg. Here you are, Brasset, here is the letter for von
Arlenberg."
With a matter-of-factness which was really inimitable, Fitz tossed
across the tablecloth the missive in question, copiously daubed with
red sealing-wax.
"Brasset," said Fitz, "you will be careful not to give this most
important letter into the keeping of anybody save and except his
Excellency, Baron von Arlenberg, Ambassador and Plenipotentiary
Extraordinary to his Majesty the King of Illyria, at the Court of Saint
James."
"I hope the superscription is correct," said I, misguidedly.
Fitz looked me down with the eye of a Frederick. The sympathy of the
table was with him entirely.
"Somebody will want to take it to the Ambassador," said Fitz. "But
Brasset, your instructions are that you deliver this document to his
Excellency in person."
With an air of reverence, Brasset inserted the letter with its
portentous red seal in his cigar-case. The most exacting of ministers
could not have desired a more trustworthy or a more eminently discreet
custodian for an epoch-making document than the Master of the
Crackanthorpe.
"How shall I know old von Thingamy when I see him?" inquired the
messenger from the Foreign Office.
"You won't see him," said Fitz. "But you must make it appear that you
want to see him particularly."
"But if I should happen to see him?"
The Master of the Crackanthorpe was awed into silence by a Napoleonic
gesture.
"Where do I come in?" said the pleading voice from the wilderness.
"You come in, Vane-Anstruther," said Fitz to my relation by marriage,
"four minutes after Brasset. You are Lieutenant von Wildengarth-Mergle
from Blaenau, with a letter of introduction to the Illyrian Ambassador.
Here is your card, and you can give it to anybody you like."
The recipient was immensely gratified by the card of Lieutenant von
Wildengarth-Mergle of the Ninth Regiment of Hussars when it was
bestowed upon him. His manner of disposing of it was precisely similar
to that adopted by Brasset in the case of the letter from the Foreign
Office. His bearing also was modelled obviously upon that of that
ornament of high diplomacy.
"I assume," said I, "that we are all to bluff our way into the Illyrian
Embassy; and once we are there we are to take care to stay until we are
advised further?"
"That is so."
"But let us assume for a moment that we get no advice?"
"If I do not come to you by ten minutes to ten, or you are not sent for
by then, you are all to leave any ante-room you may be in, and you are
to walk straight up the central staircase, taking notice of nobody. If
they try to stop you, merely say you wish to see the Ambassador."
"And if they use force?"
"Make use of it yourself, with as much noise as you can. And if you
still fail to hear from me, then will be the time to think about
retirement. Does everybody understand?"
Everybody did apparently.
"It is seven minutes to nine. Time we began to collect our taxis."
Fitz rose from the table, and in a body we went in search of our coats
and hats. For my fellow conspirators I cannot speak, but my heart was
beating in the absurdest manner, and my veins were tingling. There was
that sense of exaltation in them which is generally reserved for a
quick twenty minutes over the grass.
"Give me that revolver," said I.
As Fitz smuggled the weapon into my hand, I could feel my pulses
leaping immorally. This sensation may have been due to my having dined
at Ward's; although doubtless it is more scientific to ascribe it to
some primeval instinct which has resisted civilisation's ravages upon
human nature.
As I stealthily inserted the weapon into the pocket of my trousers, I
stole a covert glance at the solemn visage of the Chief Constable. The
great man was smiling benignly at his thoughts, and smoking a big cigar
with an air of Homeric enjoyment.
As Fitz, tall-hatted and fur-coated, picked his way delicately down the
slush-covered steps to where his taxi awaited him, he turned to offer a
word of final instruction to his followers.
"Coverdale and Arbuthnot 9.4; O'Mulligan 9.8; Brasset 9.12;
Vane-Anstruther 9.16. If you hear nothing in the meantime, at 9.50 you
go upstairs."
"Righto," we chorussed, as Fitz boarded his chariot with a
self-possession that was even touched with languor.
We watched him turn into Piccadilly, and then proceeded solemnly to
invest ourselves in coats and mufflers. Four minutes is not a long
space of time, yet it is quite possible for it to seem an age. Before
the hall clock pointed to 9.4, one might have had a double molar drawn,
or one's head cut off by the guillotine.
"300 Portland Place," said the Chief Constable in tones which somehow
seemed astonishingly loud, while I squeezed as far as possible into the
far corner of the vehicle for the better accommodation of my stalwart
companion.
"Dirty night," said the Chief Constable. "Not fit for a dog to be out.
Have the glass down?"
It may have been an overwrought fancy, but I thought I perceived a
slight, but unmistakable tremor in the voice of the head of the
Middleshire Constabulary.
"Not for me, thanks," said I. "These things are so stuffy."
The head of the Middleshire Constabulary agreed with me. The
impression may have been due to a disordered fancy, but I thought I
detected a note of embarrassment in the Chief Constable's laugh.
From Saint James's Street to Portland Place is not far, and this
evening we seemed to accomplish the journey in a very short time.
Having dismissed our taxi at the door of the Ambassador's imposing
residence, we each looked to the other to ring his Excellency's
door-bell.
"General," said I, "you are my senior, and I feel that your Illyrian,
or your French, or your broken English or any other language in which
you may be moved to indulge, will carry more weight than mine."
"Oh, do you! By the way; I have forgotten my name."
"General Drago."
"And yours?"
"Count Alexis Zbynska."
"Well, here goes."
The gallant warrior gave a mighty tug at the bell. This met with no
attention; but at the second assault on the ambassadorial door-bell,
the massive portal was swung back, slowly and solemnly, by a gorgeous
menial. In the immediate background there were others.
"I am General Drago, and I wish to see the Ambassador." The Chief
Constable's precision of phrase was really majestic.
The stalwart Illyrian, who seemed to be quite seven feet high from the
crown of his wig to the soles of his silk stockings, bowed and led the
way within.
When we had crossed his Excellency's threshold, and just as a gorgeous
interior had unfolded itself to our respectful gaze, a very
urbane-looking personage in evening clothes and a pair of white kid
gloves took charge of us. He led us through a spacious hall containing
pillars of white marble, whence we passed into a waiting-room,
immediately to the right of a distinctly imposing alabaster staircase.
In this apartment the light was dim and religious, and the atmosphere
had a chill solemnity. Our friend of the white kid gloves presented us
with a slip of paper apiece, and indicated an inkstand on the table.
"Write our names in Illyrian," I whispered to my fellow conspirator.
"They will carry more weight."
The Chief Constable inscribed his own name on the slip of paper very
laboriously, in the Illyrian character. When he had accomplished this
feat, I proceeded as well as in me lay, and with a deliberation quite
equal to his own, to commit to paper the name of the Herr Graf Alexis
von Zbynska. I was beset with much misgiving as to the correct manner
of spelling it, and therefore had recourse to a number of superfluous
flourishes in order to conceal my ignorance as far as possible.
When the gentleman of the white kid gloves had solemnly borne away the
slips of paper, the Chief Constable proceeded to remove a bead of
honest perspiration from his manly forehead.
"Of all the cursed crackbrained schemes!" he muttered. "What does the
madman expect us to do now!"
"Say as little and waste as much time as we can," said I, "and at ten
minutes to ten, if we are still alive, we are to make our way up that
staircase."
The head of the Middleshire Constabulary subsided into incoherence
mingled with profanity.
The gentleman of the white kid gloves had closed the door upon us. The
gloom and the silence of the room was terribly oppressive. With
ticking nerves, I made a survey of its contents. The furniture
appeared to consist of a large table with massive legs, half a dozen
chairs covered in red leather, a full-length portrait in oils, by
Bruffenhauser, of his Illyrian Majesty, Ferdinand the Twelfth, in which
the victor of Rodova appeared in full regalia in a gilt frame, a really
magnificent-looking old gentleman; while on a separate table at the far
end of the room was the Almanach de Gotha.
It began to seem that our suspense was going to last for ever. Not a
sound penetrated to us from beyond the closed door. At last Coverdale
took out his watch.
"Is it ten minutes to ten yet?" I inquired anxiously.
"No; it still wants a couple of minutes to half-past nine."
To be condemned to support such tension for a whole twenty minutes
longer was to place a term upon eternity.
"Hadn't we better open the door," said I, "so that we can hear if
anything happens?"
My fellow conspirator concurred.
I opened the door accordingly and looked out in the direction, of the
alabaster staircase. A man was descending it in a rather languid
manner. There was something curiously familiar about his appearance.
As soon as he saw me standing at the foot of the stairs he quickened
his pace. It was clear that he wished to speak to me.
"Keep cool," he said, and to my half-joyful bewilderment I recognised
the voice of Fitz. "You and Coverdale had better leave your overcoats
in that room and go up. Go into the first room on the left on the
first floor!"
With a coolness that was almost incredible, Fitz sauntered away across
the wide vestibule with his hands in his pockets, while I returned to
Coverdale with this latest command.
We obeyed it with a sense of relief. Anything was better than to sit
counting the seconds in that funereal waiting-room. Divested of our
overcoats, we went forth up the staircase, doing our best to appear
quite at ease, as though there was nothing in the least unusual in the
situation.
Half-way up we were confronted with two men coming down. They looked
at us with quiet intentness and seemed inclined to speak. Coverdale
passed on with set gaze and rigid facial muscles, an art in which, like
so many of his countrymen, he is greatly accomplished. His
"Speak-to-me-if-you-dare" expression stood us in excellent stead. The
two men passed down the stairs without venturing to address us, and we
went up.
The first room on the left, on the first floor, was a larger and more
cheerful apartment than the one from which we had come. It was better
lit; there was a bright fire, and it was furnished with taste, after
the fashion of a drawing-room. There were books, photographs, and a
piano.
The room was empty, but we had been in it scarcely a minute when a
servant entered to offer us coffee. We did not disdain the
ambassadorial bounty. Excellent coffee it was.
We were toying with this refreshment when a stealthy rustle apprised us
that we were also about to receive the indulgence of feminine society.
A young woman, tall and graceful, fair to the eye and charmingly
gowned, came into the room with a sheet of music in her hand. The
presence of a pair of total strangers did not embarrass her.
"Do you like Schubert?" said she, with a delightful foreign intonation.
"I think Schubert is charming," said I, with heartiness and promptitude.
The lady flashed her teeth in a rare smile and sat down at the piano.
I arranged her music with a care that was rather elaborate.
It was not Schubert, however, that she began to play, but a haunting
little "Impromptu" of Schumann's. Her playing was good to listen to,
for her touch was highly educated; also it was fascinating to watch her
movements, since she was an extremely graceful and vivid work of nature.
Very assiduously I turned over her music. The occupation in itself was
pleasant; also it seemed to give some sort of sanction to our unlawful
presence. Coverdale, with his hands tucked deep in his pockets,
appeared to listen most critically to the lady's playing; although, as
I have heard him declare himself, the only form of music that appeals
to him is "a really good brass band."
In the course of the performance of Schumann's "Impromptu" the audience
of the fair pianist gained in number and authority. Like the famous
Pied Piper of Hamelin, the thrilling delicacy of her touch began to
entice quaint beasts from their lair. Alexander O'Mulligan sauntered
into the drawing-room at about the fourth bar. He wore his most
seraphic grin, and his ears were spread to catch the most illusive
chords of melody. He gave Coverdale a jovial nod and winked at me. It
was clear that the amateur middle-weight champion of Great Britain was
enjoying himself immensely.
Hardly had Alexander O'Mulligan advised us of his genial presence, when
Brasset and my relation by marriage came in upon tiptoe. The sight of
us all with an unknown lady discoursing Schumann for our benefit was
doubtless as reassuring as it was unexpected. In the emotion of the
moment Jodey gave the amateur middle-weight champion a fraternal dig in
the ribs.
However, our party could not be considered complete without the
presence of the chief gamester. The "Impromptu" had run its course and
the gracious lady at the piano had been prevailed upon to play
something of Brahms', when the master mind, whose arrival we were
nervously awaiting, appeared once more upon the scene. Fitz came into
the room looking every inch the Man of Destiny.