THE train was crowded, but he secured a corner seat in one of the
cell-like compartments. It was empty when he entered, but immediately
after, to his surprise, Brown and Chelwyn followed him in and deposited
their goods upon three seats that they might in the manner of all
experienced travellers, occupy breathing space for three at the cost of
two tickets.
They took no notice of Timothy until the train drew out and he wondered
what their game was. It was hardly likely that they would start any
rough work with him after their experience of the morning and less
likely because these boat trains were well policed.
Clear of the Riverside Station the smooth Englishman leant forward.
“I hope, Mr. Anderson,” he said, “that you will forget and forgive.”
“Surely,” said Timothy, “I have nothing to forgive.”
“My friend,” said Mr. Brown with a smile, “is very precipitate—which
means hasty,” he explained.
“Thank you,” said Timothy, “I thought it meant crooked.”
A spasm contorted the features of Mr. Chelwyn, but he said nothing. As
for Brown, he laughed. He laughed heartily but spuriously.
“That’s not a bad joke,” he said, “but to tell you the truth, we mistook
you for—one of us, and my friend and I thought it would be a good joke
to get the better of you.”
“And was it?” asked Timothy.
“It was and it wasn’t,” said Mr. Brown, not easily nonplussed. “Of
course, we intended restoring the money to you before you left the
ship.”
“Naturally,” said Timothy. “I never thought you would do anything else.”
“Only you know you rather spoilt our little _esprit_.”
“If the conversation is to develop in a foreign language,” said Timothy,
“I would only remark: _Honi soit qui mal y pense_,” and the polite Mr.
Brown laughed again.
“You do not mind if my friend and I have a little quiet game by
ourselves, if,” he said humorously, “we swindle one another.”
“Not at all,” said Timothy. “I have no objection to watching, but if,”
he said cheerfully, “you should suddenly draw my attention whilst your
friend’s head is turned, to the ease with which I could win a hundred
pounds by picking the lady, or discovering the little pea under the
little shell, or show me a way of getting rich from any of the other
devices which the children of the public schools find so alluring at the
country fair, I shall be under the painful necessity of slapping you
violently on the wrist.”
Thereafter the conversation languished until the train had run through
Crewe and was approaching Rugby. It was here that Mr. Brown stopped in
the midst of a long, learned discussion on English politics to offer his
cigarette-case to Timothy. Timothy chose a cigarette and put it in his
pocket.
“That is one of the best Egyptian brands made,” said Mr. Brown casually.
“Best for you or best for me?” asked Timothy.
“Bah!” It was the red-haired Chelwyn who addressed him for the first
time. “What have you to be afraid of? You’re as scared as a cat! Do you
think we want to poison you?”
Mr. Brown produced a flask and poured a modicum of whisky into the cup
and handed it to his companion, then he drank himself. Then, without
invitation he poured a little more into the cup and offered it to
Timothy.
“Let bygones be bygones,” he said.
“I have no desire to be a bygone,” said Timothy, “I would much rather be
a herenow.”
Nevertheless, he took the cup and smelt it.
“Butyl chloride,” he said, “has a distinctive odour. I suppose you don’t
call it by its technical name, and to you it is just vulgarly ‘a
knock-out drop.’ Really,” he said, handing back the cup, “you boys are
so elementary. Where did you learn it all—from the movies?”
The red-haired man half rose from his seat with a growl.
“Sit down,” said Timothy sharply, and with a jerk of his hand he flung
open the carriage door.
The men shrank back at the sight of the rapidly running line, and at the
certainty of death which awaited any who left the train on that side of
the carriage.
“Start something,” said Timothy, “and I’ll undertake to put either one
or both of you on to the line. We’re going at about sixty miles an hour,
and a fellow that went out there wouldn’t be taking a chance. Now is
there going to be a rough house?”
“Close the door, close the door,” said Mr. Brown nervously. “What a
stupid idea, Mr. Anderson!”
Timothy swung the door to and the man moved up towards him.
“Now, I’m just going to put it to you plainly,” said Brown. “We’ve made
the voyage out to the Cape and the voyage back and the only mug we met
was you. What we won from you just about paid our expenses, and I’m
putting it to you, as a sportsman and a gentleman, that you should let
us have half of that stuff back.”
“The sportsman in me admires your nerve,” said Timothy, “but I suppose
it is the gentleman part that returns an indignant ‘No!’ to your
interesting observation.”
Brown turned to his companion.
“Well, that’s that, Len,” he said, “you’ll just have to let the money
go. It is a pity,” he said wistfully and his companion grunted.
That ended the conversation so far as the journey was concerned, and
Timothy heard no more until he was in the gloomy courtyard at Euston
Station and stepping into his taxi.
To his surprise it was the red-haired man who approached him, and
something in his manner prevented Timothy from taking the action which
he otherwise would have thought necessary.
“Look here, young fellow,” he said, “you watch Brown—he’s wild.”
“You’re not exactly tame,” smiled Timothy.
“Don’t take any notice of me,” said the man a little bitterly. “I am
engaged in the rough work. I should have got two hundred out of your
money—that’s what made me so wild. Brown paid all my expenses and gives
me ten pound a week and a commission. It sounds funny to you, doesn’t
it, but it is the truth,” and somehow Timothy knew that the man was not
lying.
“He’s finished with me—says I am a hoodoo,” said the little man. “Do
you know what I’ve got out of five weeks’ work? Look!”
He held out his hand and disclosed two ten-pound notes.
“Brown’s dangerous,” he warned Timothy. “Don’t you make any mistake
about that. I was only wild because I was losing my money, but he’s wild
because you’ve got fresh with him and caught him out every time. Good
night!”
“Here, wait,” said Timothy.
He felt in his pocket.
“If you’re lying, it is a plausible lie and one that pleases me,” he
said. “This will salve my conscience.”
He slipped two notes into the man’s hands.
Chelwyn was speechless for a moment. Then he asked:
“And where are you staying in London, Mr. Anderson?”
“At the Brussell Hotel.”
“At the Brussell Hotel,” repeated the other, “I’ll remember that. I
shall hear if anything is going on and I’ll ’phone you. You’re a
gentleman, Mr. Anderson.”
“So Mr. Brown said,” remarked Timothy and drove off, feeling unusually
cheerful.
If Timothy could be cheerful under the depressing conditions which
prevailed on the night of his arrival in London, he was a veritable
pattern of cheer. A drizzling rain was falling as the taxi squeaked its
way through a labyrinth of mean streets. He had glimpses of
wretched-looking people, grotesque of shape and unreal, through the
rain-blurred window of the cab.
Then suddenly the character of the streets changed, and he was in a
broad street twinkling with light. There was a glimpse of trees, wide
open spaces, dotted with light. The street grew busier and the traffic
thicker, then suddenly the cab turned again into semi-darkness and
pulled up before the hotel.
A porter opened the door.
“What do I think of Madeira?” asked Timothy of the astonished man. “I
haven’t had time to think. Will I be staying long in London? No. What
are my opinions of the political crisis which has arisen in my absence?
I would rather not say.”
It takes a great deal to upset the equilibrium of a well-conducted hall
man.
“Have you booked your room?” he asked.
Timothy meekly admitted that he had.
He woke to a London much more beautiful, to a vista of old-world
buildings such as Cruikshank loved to draw, to a green square and
glimpses of greener trees.
Mary was staying at the Carlton, but he had arranged to meet her for
lunch. He had not arranged to meet her dragon, but he knew she would be
there. He had breakfasted, and was on the point of leaving the hotel,
when Chelwyn came.
To say that Timothy regretted his generosity of the night before would
be to do him an injustice. Nevertheless, he had some misgivings as to
whether he had not been a little too generous. The appearance of Mr.
Chelwyn, early in the morning, looking so spruce and confident, was in
itself a suspicious happening, though events proved that the suspicion
was unfounded.
“Can I see you alone for a moment, Mr. Anderson?” asked the red-haired
man.
Timothy hesitated.
“Come along to the drawing-room,” he said.
It was the one public room which would be empty at that time of the
morning. Mr. Chelwyn deposited his hat and stick and brand-new yellow
gloves before he spoke.
“Now, Mr. Anderson, I’ve come to tell you a few facts which will
surprise you.”
“You haven’t had a gold brick sent to you by your Uncle George in
Alaska, have you?” asked Timothy dubiously. “Because I’m not buying that
kind of fact.”
The man smiled and shook his head.
“It is hardly likely I should try that stuff on you, sir,” he said. “No,
this is a much more serious matter. Before I go any farther I’ll tell
you that I am not asking for money. I am grateful to you for what you
did to me last night, Mr. Anderson. A crook has a wife and children the
same as anybody else. I have been in this funny business for ten years,
but now I’m out of it for good.” He looked round and dropped his voice,
“Mr. Anderson, I told you last night that we’ve been five or six weeks
away from England. Didn’t that sound strange to you?”
“Not to me,” said Timothy.
“That is because you don’t know the game,” said the man. “As a rule,
when we’re working these liners, we go out to Cape Town and come back by
the next ship that sails. What do you think we stayed at Funchal
for—there’s no money in short voyages—it’s all on the long run from
Madeira to Cape Town.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Timothy wearily. “I don’t even
remember seeing you in Funchal——”
“We laid low,” interrupted the man.
“That may be, but if you’ve come to tell me the interesting story of
your life, Ginger, I beg that you will cut it short—the history, I
mean, not necessarily your life.”
“Well, I’ll tell it to you as quickly as possible,” said the man. “I
don’t always work with Brown. In fact, I’ve only worked with him about
three times before. I’m not as good a man with the broads——”
“The broads?” said the puzzled Timothy.
“With the cards,” corrected the man. “I say that I’m not as good a man
with the broads as some of the others. I’ve got a bit of a reputation
for scrapping. I’ve never left a pal in the lurch and I’ve always been
ready for any ‘rough house’ that came along. About two months ago Brown
sent for me—he’s got a flat off Piccadilly and lives like a lord. He
told me he was going to Madeira on a special job, that he’d been
employed by a lady in Paris—a Madame Serpilot (you’d better write that
down in your pocket-book)—to shepherd a young lady who was coming over.
Mind you, there was no harm intended to the young lady, but the general
idea was that she might be accompanied by a man, and he was the fellow
who had to be looked after.”
“What was the lady’s name?” asked Timothy quickly.
“Miss Maxell,” said the man without hesitation, “and you were the fellow
we were asked to put out of business. Brown’s idea was to break you;
then, when you got to London, one of his pals would have met you and
offered to lend you money. They’d have framed up a charge against you of
obtaining money by false pretences, and you would have been pinched.”
Timothy’s eyebrows rose.
“Was this Mrs. Serpilot’s plan?” he asked, but the man shook his head.
“No, sir, she gave just the details to Brown. She never said what was to
be done to you, according to him, but you were to be stopped going
around with the young lady.”
“Who is Madame Serpilot?”
“There you’ve got me,” said Chelwyn. “I believe she’s an old widow, but
Brown never told me much about her. He got instructions from her while
he was in Paris, but I never discovered how. I went to Madeira with him
because he knew I was tough—but I wasn’t tough enough,” he added with a
dry smile.
Timothy held out his hand.
“Ginger,” he said solemnly, “please forgive the orange!”
“Oh, I didn’t mind that,” said the man, “that’s all in the day’s work.
It made me a bit wild, and my eye’s feeling sore, but don’t let that
worry you. What you’ve got to do now is to look out for Brown, because
he’ll have you as sure as death.”
“I’ll look out for Madame Serpilot, too,” said Timothy. “I think I’ll go
to Paris.”
“She’s not in Paris now, I can tell you that,” said the man. “The wire
Brown got at Liverpool was from Monte Carlo.”
“Monte Carlo,” said Timothy, “is even more attractive than Paris.”