I
SO Santa was “wanted!” Why she was wanted Hindwood did not dare to
question. And the police thought he could tell them something! He could,
but it would be something to put them off her track. After kissing a
woman, it wasn't likely he'd betray her. She might have committed every
crime on the calendar; it would make no difference. He had learned his
code of honor on the outskirts of civilization, where law is more often
defied than obeyed. By his standards of chivalry, after what had passed
between them, he had no option but to play the game by her. What did
they think he knew? Why should they think he knew anything?
He masked his anxiety with seeming unconcern. Without his assistance,
they could make little headway. He must let fall no hint that would
suggest a sentimental interest in her fortunes. He would be spied
on--probably he had been spied on already. For all he knew, the
clergyman in the train, the porter at Paddington, the taxi-driver who
had assured him that he wasn't followed, were detectives. Henceforward
he must live his life normally and in public, doing everything to disarm
suspicion. Any divergence from his usual habits, such as staying in
obscure quarters or canceling engagements that he might escape to the
Continent, would create the impression that he was possessed of guilty
knowledge. If he had to speak of her, he must refer to her as a charming
acquaintance and profess horror that such a charge should have been
brought against her.
Following this line, he left the Embassy with the promise that he would
consult with the police at their earliest convenience. From there he
drove to the Ritz, adhering to arrangements made before this sinister
thing had happened. To avoid being waylaid, he went straight to his
rooms, having ordered his trunks to be fetched from the station and his
dinner to be served in his apartment.
The suite allotted him was one which he had occupied on several previous
occasions. It soothed his ruffled pride to discover that his preferences
had been remembered. From the front windows he could gaze down
Piccadilly; from the side he could watch the green park, a lake of jade,
imprisoned between walls of granite. In the panes facing westward a
fairy city hung poised, tipped with flame and ensanguined by the sunset.
Leisurely he set to work to bathe and shave, stretching out the ritual
and reveling in the recovery of his self-respect. Slowly the sunset
faded. Before he had made an end, the golden September dusk was drifting
down. In the twilight he stretched himself on the bed, waiting for
his trunks with his wardrobe to arrive. He felt that he could face the
police with much more calmness if he was clad in the respectability of
evening dress.
He must have dozed, for the room was completely dark when he was brought
to his feet by the sharp ringing of the telephone. As he fumbled for
the receiver, he thought, “Well, I've a good reason for not seeing them.
Pajamas aren't dignified.”
Aloud he said: “Yes. Quite correct--Mr. Hind-wood. Yes, the Mr. Hindwood
who's just landed from the _Ryndam_. You traced me by my trunks! You
were expecting I'd claim them in person! The man from the Ritz is
there! That's all right. Thank you for telling me. What was my
reason?--Certainly not. I was avoiding no one. What did you say you
were?--A newspaper-man!--I guess not. I've nothing to tell--no. That's
final.”
He had scarcely hung up when the bell commenced ringing again. The next
half-hour was spent in refusing to be interviewed by invisible persons.
It seemed as though every journalist in London were waiting in queue
to get on to him. Some were suave, some bullying; all were persistent.
Didn't he know that he owed it to the public to say something? If a list
of questions was submitted to him, would he make a written statement?
To cut the clamor short, he instructed the hotel operator to allow no
one to speak with him who would not state his business. For the rest of
the evening he was “out” to any one who had to do with the press. After
that the telephone grew quiet.
He switched on the lights. As he did so, he noticed that he was
trembling with excitement. He was furious. This assault had made
him aware of the unseen wall of hostility by which he and Santa were
surrounded. She hadn't a chance; the whole of organized society was
against her. The odds were brutally unfair. Nothing that she had done
could warrant such unsportsmanly cruelty. So far it had not been proved
that she had done anything, yet every one was willing to prejudge her.
The pursuit was cowardly. Whether he loved her did not matter. It was
a problem in knight-errantry: to protect her he was willing to risk all
that he was and had.
The arrival of his trunks gave him something else to think about. When
he was dressed, he felt ready for every emergency. After all, he was not
the criminal.
He had his dinner spread against a window from which he could watch the
arc-lights of Piccadilly strung across the night like a rope of pearls.
He tried to be persuaded that he was enjoying himself. If the police
didn't call on him within the hour, he would saunter out to a music-hall
and rub shoulders with the crowd.
But would he? To what purpose? He would have to go alone, as he always
went. It would be different if she were with him. The last nine days had
spoiled him for loneliness; they had taught him the romance of a woman's
friendship. And yet, not friendship--she had asked for his affection.
All his life he had craved to give his love to some woman. Until he had
met Santa, his craving had been denied. No woman had seemed to care.
Because of that, in spite of success, he had reckoned himself a failure.
He had attained everything--power, position, wealth--everything except
his desire. There had been moments on the voyage when it had seemed to
him that his goal was in sight.
If she were to tap on his door, how would he greet her? If she did, it
would be like her; she could always be counted on to do the unexpected.
He told himself that he would ask her no questions. He would not upbraid
her. He would comfort her in the way that she understood best. When the
police came to interrogate him, he would place his arm about her and
answer:
“Gentlemen, if it is Santa Gorlof you are seeking, she is here. I have
asked her to be my wife.” The scene as he conjured it was worthy
of Dumas; he was thrilled by the gallantry of his imagination. His
ponderings were cut short by a sharp rap. He sprang to his feet; it
almost seemed that his dream was to be realized. The rap was repeated.
Outside the door a page was standing.
“There's a gentleman downstairs. He won't give his name. He says you
left word, sir, at the American Embassy, that you would be willing to
see him.”
“Show him up.”