fantastic; seemed like the game of cross-purposes and crooked answers
she had played as a child. “Here”—she reasoned—“were two men, one of
whom obviously wanted to buy, the other to sell. Why, then, all this
finessing?”
Gradually, she lost interest; began to think of her kiddies. What a
shame they should be left alone for Christmas. She blamed herself a
little, her desire to be alone with Peter. . . . Six o’clock! And she
hadn’t unpacked yet. . . .
Both men got up to bid her _au revoir_: sat down again. She could hear
their voices as she waited for the lift.
“_You_ don’t want to be bothered with it, Mr. Jameson. Not now you’re in
the Army. And I’d pay you a good price. I would _reelly_.”
§ 5
Unpacking Peter’s haversack in the warm, lighted bedroom with the drawn
blue curtains and the two brass bedsteads, Patricia found a bundle of
correspondence addressed “Francis Gordon, Esq., 10 Mecklinburgh Square.”
A postcard, an American picture-post-card, dropped out of the bundle:
lay, address downwards, on the carpet. The colouring and design—a large
white hotel set among palm-trees—caught her eyes; and she could not
help reading the handwriting underneath: “_A happy Christmas. It’s a
long time since you’ve written. Why? B.C._”
Patricia had asked herself the same question many times in the last
months. Nobody knew exactly what had happened to Francis Gordon. Except
Peter. She felt certain that Peter knew. But Peter wouldn’t say;
contented himself, in reply to verbal enquiries with: “All I can tell
you, is that he’s all right.” Her letters on the subject, he had calmly
ignored. . . .
§ 6
Colonel Stark’s Christmas Eve dinner-party at the Metropole did not
belie his reputation for bibulous hospitality. A tray of cocktails,
poised unsteadily on a tiny table, opened the proceedings; sherry
accompanied the soup; Chambertin followed Niersteiner (“patriotism,”
announced the Weasel, quoting Bismarck, “stops at the palate”),
Bollinger preceded port and brandy.
They sat down, a round dozen of them, to a round table, red with holly
and white with mistletoe, in a private sitting-room on the first floor:
three married couples, the Starks, the Jamesons, Colonel and Mrs.
Mallory (a jolly old Artillery “dug-out,” well over seventy, with red
cheeks, white moustaches, and a pink and white wife, five years his
junior, to match): Harold Bromley, very shy with Mrs. Armitage, a
sprightly middle-aged widow, alternately horsy and languorous:
Torrington, a fair pale dark-eyed boy, who wore the three stars of a
Captain, and told Patricia, when she asked what his brick-red
medal-ribbon betokened, “That’s the Vic. C.,[3] Mrs. Jameson”: Purves,
fresh from Oxford, with a budding moustache and a Balliol drawl, still
self-conscious about his subaltern’s kit: Lodden, a fierce-looking
black-moustached Major of Territorials, who appeared in a frightful rage
about the world in general: and Pettigrew, a silent youngster, not in
the least shy, who twinkled whenever one spoke to him.
They ate; and they drank; and they talked; slowly, and except for
Lodden, without any undue excitement.
Said Lodden to Mrs. Mallory, stabbing furiously at his last morsel of
fish: “But the thing’s a scandal. A positive scandal.”
“What’s a scandal?” asked the Weasel from the opposite end of the table.
“I was talking about the Foreign Office, Colonel. They tell me that
cotton’s pouring into Germany, simply pouring in, through Holland.”
“Oh, I thought you meant a really amusing scandal, Major,” put in Mrs.
Armitage.
“Plenty of that about in Brighton, if one looks for it,” scowled the
Major.
Everybody laughed: and Lodden, distinctly pleased with himself, attacked
the next course. The Burgundy arrived: and with its outpouring, talk
quickened. The two Colonels fell into an argument about who won the
Grand Military Steeplechase in ’93; Mrs. Armitage, abandoning Bromley as
hopeless, turned her attention to Pettigrew and Purves,—repartees
snapping back and forwards between the three of them; Mrs. Mallory did
her best to smooth another grievance of Lodden’s; Peter and Alice talked
Devonshire, her county.
Said Torrington to Patricia, “I hear your husband may be coming to us,
Mrs. Jameson. If he does you must come down to Brighton and
stay.”—_sotto voce_—“I’ll find you a horse to ride. It’s against
regulations, of course. . . .”
“How did you know about Peter?” smiled Patricia, looking her stateliest
in black velvet.
“I’m helping the Colonel in the office. Light duty, you know. He told me
he meant to get your husband and that other chap, Bromley. The Colonel
usually gets what he goes for.” He looked meaningly across at Alice, and
added maliciously. “By the way, aren’t you Jacky Baynet’s sister?”
“Yes.”
“Jacky was devilish cut-up when the old man married Alice. . . .”
Waiters brought in the champagne, three magnums.
“I am perfectly certain,” drawled Purves—in the middle of a hush—to
the widow, “that any more wine will have a most intoxicating affect on
the party.”
“Turn his glass down, Mrs. Armitage.” This from the Weasel. “We musn’t
let the children get into bad habits.”
Mrs. Armitage obeyed: and the two struggled amiably together, Pettigrew
twinkling over the fray.
“Peter,” lisped Alice, bubbling glass at red lips, “Douglas is so keen
on you and your friend coming to _us_.”
Our Mr. Jameson, whose head was very nearly as good as the Weasel’s own,
drained his bumper before replying. “Oh, we’re coming,” he said.
“Douglas will be pleased. Douglas dear,” she called across to her
husband, “I’ve got you two new officers.”
By now the whole table, not excepting Bromley, were in that pleasant
state when the better-class Englishman becomes almost as talkative as
the average foreigner.
“Don’t talk shop in mess, me dear,” beamed Stark: and to Mallory, “How
long did it take you to discipline your wife, sir?”
Mallory, (“Sir” by right of age), looked across at his Hetty, said:
“Hopeless task, Stark. Hopeless task.”
By general request, the ladies did not rise with the port. They drank
the King-Emperor’s health, proposed by Purves as the most junior officer
present: a Merry Christmas (Colonel Mallory); and “_Gott strafe_
Germany,” (Major Lodden).
The Weasel looked at his watch. “If you youngsters”—he winked at
Mallory—“want to dance, it’s about time we went downstairs.”
Alice rustled out with the ladies: her husband came over to Peter and
Bromley; said: “Better come to my office, both of you, the day after
tomorrow.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to manage it, sir,” replied Bromley. “I
may be on duty.”
“Then get some one else to do your duty,” snapped the Weasel. It was the
only sign he gave, during the whole evening, of an alcoholic consumption
which would have put any ordinary man under the table.
“Rummy devil,” confided Torrington to Peter and Bromley, as they
strolled downstairs. “I was in his battery at Le Cateau. Brave! My
hat—” this from a V.C.—“if his wife knew how he really got that D.S.O.
she’d have a fit.”
“Tell me,” said Peter. But Torrington, who won his own “gong” at the
same time, grew suddenly shy; broke off the conversation.
They descended to the cellar-like dancing-room, found it crowded.
Rag-time thumped; lights blazed; couples slithered. Purves, too
gentlemanly for words, was already partnering Mrs. Armitage: Pettigrew
had taken the Colonel’s wife: Mrs. Mallory, despite her husband’s
jocular entreaties, refused to dance: Major Lodden was grousing to
Patricia.
“How about another liqueur?” suggested Torrington.
“I don’t think we’d better join the Gunners after all,” laughed Bromley
to Peter: but he went to the bar with them just the same. There, they
found the Weasel, drinking brandy-and-soda.
“You youngsters had better not drink any more tonight,” he commanded.
“Why aren’t you dancing?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” from Torrington, “that I quite approve of officers
dancing in their khaki.”
“I’m quite sure I _don’t_”—the Colonel’s blue eyes hardened—“but the
ladies insist.”
They stood chatting till the music stopped. None of the four had drunk
too much: but each of them, according to his capacity, had had quite
enough. Bromley detailed a South African experience; Torrington capped
it with a story of the Retreat; the Colonel listened professionally.
Peter had arrived at that mellow stage when he could regard the failures
of our Mr. Jameson from a standpoint of pleasant detachment: in which
state he decided that our Mr. Jameson was inclined to take life a little
too seriously. During the remainder of the evening—except for the last
“John Peel” which Torrington claimed—he and Patricia danced accurately
with each other. . . .
-----
[3] Victoria Cross medal.
§ 7
They walked home together, arm-in-arm, down the darkling sea-front. A
moist breeze blew in their faces: and she clung to him. Their old-time
friendship seemed to have renewed itself. The man felt supremely
contented: the woman—a trifle off her guard. . . .
And then, they found Marcus Bramson waiting up for them!
He was prowling about the half-lit lounge, purpose in his eye; insisted
they must come to his sitting-room; be introduced to Mrs. Bramson; have
“one little glass of something, just to celebrate Christmas Day.”
“Confound Marcus,” yawned Peter as—some hours later—he struggled
sleepily between cool sheets, “it must be about two G. M.”
“Half-past,” corrected Patricia, combing gold hair before the slanting
mirror. She came over; kissed him according to custom; climbed into her
own bed; switched off the lights.
§ 8
Peter’s leave lasted four days; and Marcus Bramson haunted every hour of
it.
They found him in the lounge when they came down to breakfast, still
there—eager for a chat—when they had finished; they ran into him,
asking for letters at the porter’s lodge, as they went out for their
morning walk; he and Mrs. Bramson, an over-awed woman of the
middle-fifties, met them on the Front; trailed them back to lunch;
followed them to the Metropole for tea; sat next to them at dinner;
pursued them to the Hippodrome; waited up for them late, prevented them
going to bed early.
On Boxing Day, when Peter and Bromley returned to the hotel from their
first official interview with Colonel Stark, eager to discuss the
arrangements made—the letter Stark had written to Andrews, the letters
they must write to Andrews, their interview with General Blacklock,
Commanding Southdown Divisional Artillery—it was to find Patricia
wedged between Marcus and his wife, virtually a prisoner.
Escape, except in the car—and it rained two days out of the four—was
impossible.
Once even, the persistent old man waylaid Patricia alone; and she had to
listen, for a long half hour, to his protestations: “You see, Mrs.
Jameson, it’s like this. I know my cousin, Sam. He’s a waster. A good
fellow, but no head for figures. And your husband had much better sell
that business now. He’ll lose a bit; but he’ll lose more if he waits.
Honestly, Mrs. Jameson, I’m not thinking only of myself—nor Sam
neither. I like your husband. He’s a patriotic chap. And I’ll pay him a
good price. I will _reelly_. Only he’s so obstinate. Won’t you use your
influence with him, Mrs. Jameson. . . .”
“The funny thing about Marcus,” laughed Peter when she told him of the
interview, “is that he feels he’ll be doing me a kindness. Marcus isn’t
a bad old boy at heart: but my word, he is a bore.”
* * * * *
Patricia, driving Londonwards through the rain, could not make up her
mind whether the Bramsons had been a bore or a godsend. Falling in love
with one’s own husband has its disadvantages!
PART TEN
GUNS, COUNTING-HOUSES, AND COUNTER-ESPIONAGE
§ 1
If ever man needed power of concentration on the immediate job, and,
allied thereto, that particular quality only described by the crude
Anglo-Saxon word “guts,” it was Peter Jameson during the two months
during which the War Office dilly-dallied over his transfer from the
10th Chalkshire Battalion of the Line to 4th Southdown Brigade, Royal
Field Artillery.
The year’s figures and a conference with Reid confirmed the worst about
Nirvana Ltd. Their export-trade had begun to feel the
shipping-difficulties; dropped weekly. Home sales were stationary;
tending downward. The thing had lost momentum. Without more capital it
must continue to slow down, eventually stop. Capital at the moment
preferred war-bonds to cigarette-partnerships. The Bank pressed for a
reduction of overdraft. And “Pretty” Bramson, as Peter phrased it, had
“barely enough spunk to endorse his salary-cheque.”
So Marcus got his way. Peter fought him, pound by pound, and clause by
clause, to the last farthing, the last signature. The agreement, as
finally drafted, was flawless; the price, all things considered, a
liberal one. But the gamble had cost, not including interest which the
money might have been earning for years, ten thousand pounds—a third of
Peter’s original fortune. In addition, it cost part of a man’s soul!
They signed the ultimate document at Brixton: Marcus friendlier than
ever; Peter, biting on an unlit cigar—the good gambler, taking loss
with a smile. Afterwards, they walked the factory together, old
proprietor introducing new proprietor—explaining this labour-saving
dodge, suggesting that improvement. And nobody, not even Patricia,
realized the bitterness fought down, the courage that had to be nailed
to the mast.
Bitter work, bidding one’s dreams good-bye!
The Jameson position, too, required concentration. The partnership deed
between Peter and Simpson—a deed by which in case of one’s death the
survivor could retain all the capital in the firm, paying out only
interest—had expired. Under the peculiar circumstances, Peter wanted it
to continue as before, for the “duration.” He was heavily insured,
heavily enough to make good the Nirvana loss: and the balance of his
fortune, should he be killed, would be safe under Simpson’s management.
Simpson objected. “In the unlikely event of _his_ dying, with Peter
still on service, who would manage the business?”
They compromised by renewing for two years, subject only to the
condition that, if Simpson died first, Peter must pay out his widow in
cash. “Payment to be made within twelve months of the valuation of the
estate being completed.”
And then there was the irritation of Beckmanns. Try as Simpson would to
replace it, many customers still insisted on the brand. Hartopp
(_geborener_ Hagenburg) in particular! Hartopp’s turnover had increased
threefold. “How he disposes of the stuff,” said Simpson, “is a perfect
mystery. I believe myself that half of the cases we ship to Copenhagen
and Amsterdam for him, eventually find their way to Germany. But what
can I do? The man’s got a Government export-licence—and I can’t stop
him taking advantage of it.”
“How much does he owe us?” asked Peter.
“Five thousand at the moment: but I’ve got some big orders pending.”
“You’re sure he’s all right.”
“Absolutely.” Simpson wagged brown beard. “He’s paying at ninety days to
the second.”
For the past year, thanks to seven warless months of excellent trading,
Jamesons had made almost their usual profits: but Peter’s capital
account—with the closing of the Nirvana gamble and the money lent to
his brother Arthur—showed a big drop; stood at considerably less than
twenty thousand pounds.
It seemed only prudent to try and let furnished the house in Lowndes
Square. The Rawlings’, hourly more prosperous, would have taken it
gladly: but Peter refused to negotiate with them. Eventually he secured
as tenant from March quarter-day a prominent Belgian _embusqué_ whose
rent barely covered expenses.
Add to these circumstances the arrival of Arthur Jameson, demanding
assistance of every kind from the loan of a dress-suit to the
introductions necessary for a commission in the Flying Corps—and it
will be seen that Peter’s civilian occupations (though he was honestly
pleased to see his brother again) were neither pleasant nor unstrenuous.
§ 2
Patricia felt she could help but little, console even less. For it must
be remembered that all such difficulties were dealt with in days of
leave, extorted from a sulkily-reluctant Adjutant; failing that
extortion, by telegraph, letter and long-distance telephone. The bulk of
those two months, Peter had to live with his regiment. And the regiment
provided no antidote for annoyances.
Major Fox-Goodwin’s promotion to the Command of the Chalkshires
newly-formed twelfth Battalion, and the transfer-application of his two
senior subalterns, gave Locksley, who accepted this answer to his
_pourparlers_ in silence, his chance. Bromley and Peter, Peabody and
Arkwright, found themselves swamped out with full lieutenants, all eager
for promotion to Captaincies.
It was already understood among the men that “Mr. ’Arold ’ad ’ad enough,
of that there Locksley; and ‘P.J.’ ’e’d thrown his ’and in too.” At the
slightest opening, the Cockneys would have shown on which side their
sympathies lay. But no such opening was provided.
The two friends carried on loyally, helping their not-too-competent
seniors towards efficiency.
And always, the Company improved. By now, it had khaki uniforms (though
not its equipment): and a long rifle, servicable though not “Service
Pattern,” for every man. It had, too, a band of its own—three flutes
and two drums—to which it marched merrily along the sea-front.
Bromley, less externally occupied than Peter, grew very grave those
days. It weighed on him to give up this weapon he had forged, to feel
that other hands would carry it into action. To Bromley—not realizing
his friend’s reticence in troubles—P.J. seemed positively heartless. He
cursed about Locksley every now and then; avoided him at Mess or on the
streets; drank rather more than usual; but gave no other sign of being
harassed either about the loss of “B” Company or the loss of Nirvana.
It was P.J. who suggested applying to Torrington for some “books about
this new gunnery game,” P.J. who insisted that they must study them
together, “so as not to look bally idiots when our transfer does come
through.”
And study they did—four hours an evening—for the whole two months.
It will be observed that the Weasel proved himself no mean judge of a
man’s keenness when he picked out these two over a magnum of champagne!
§ 3
About this time, there arrived at the Stazione Centrale of Milan—one
cold and foggy north Italian morning—an emaciated, unshaven priest,
dressed in dusty _soutane_ and a black shovel hat; a priest whose hands
were dusty and bleeding, whose eyes shone glassy with sleeplessness,
whose feet—as he limped down from the crowded third-class
carriage—were shod in cracked boots, soles worn to the welt, uppers
caked and terraced with layer on layer of drying mud.
Humbly, but in excellent Italian, the priest enquired of a surly
_facchino_ his way to the Via Rasori; and having been told in guttural
Milanese to make for the _Galleria_, to take the “_Via Dant’_,” and then
the “_Via Boccacc’_,” limped out into the fog. Had that fog been less
dense, the _facchino_ might have noticed a hole in the priest’s shovel
hat, a hole possibly made for ventilation purposes—for it had been
drilled clean through the black furry felt, in at one side and out the
other.
The hole was two days old; and had not happened to the hat in its
passage across the _south_ frontier of Switzerland—but considerably
further north, on one of those dark and rainy nights when sentries fire
first and challenge afterwards.
Our priest limped out of the station, thanking God for the fog, through
the dank gardens (from instinct he avoided main streets near railway
stations), past the Hotel Cavour, and Finzi’s shuttered dress-making
shop, past the dark bulk of the Scala Theatre, through the huge empty
Arcade, and across the Piazza del Duomo into the Via Dante. . . .
He had no more money in his pockets, having calculated to report at
Berne: but instructions as to compromising Consuls or Legations in
neutral countries were particularly explicit: and in the Swiss Capital a
gentleman with a turned-up moustache had evinced peculiar interest about
his movements. At the Franco-Swiss frontier, other moustached gentlemen
might be waiting. So the last of our priest’s notes—he experienced some
difficulty in getting change for the five German “marks”—had paid for
the journey from Chiasso to Milan.
It was ten years since his last visit to the city, but he managed to
find the Via Boccaccio which runs past the Dal Verme Theatre, and
followed it—rather painfully for he wanted to go to sleep on every
bench—till he saw, hung at the corner of a high stone house, a shield,
white lettered on a red ground, “His Britannic Majesty’s Consul General
for Lombardy and Venetia.”
“_Gott sei Dank_,” said the priest—and, then remembering that it was no
longer necessary to _think_ in German, “Thank God!”
He slinked past the porter’s lodge—the consulate is on the first
floor—dragged himself up the marble stairs; and rang the bell.
Mr. Towsey, brown-bearded, short of stature, determined of eye, opened
the door himself. He had just made his early cup of tea; his mother was
still in bed; their servant gossiping downstairs.
“_Ma cosa vuole a cuest’ ora?_” he said.
“_Console Inglese?_” asked the priest.
“_Si. Ma cosa vuole?_”
“_Lasc’ entrare. Non posso parlarvi qui._”
The door closed behind them.
Mr. Towsey led into a square bare room, safe in one corner, desk near
the window.
“_Ebbene?_” began the consul.
“For the Lord’s sake give me a cigarette,” said Francis Gordon.
* * * * *
He had no papers to prove his identity. His eyes kept closing all the
time he talked. The hand which held the cigarette shook like a jelly on
a plate. He would neither say whence he had come, nor why, nor how. But
he knew exactly what he wanted: he wanted Mr. Towsey—he said it over
and over again—to send a telegram, a telegram in Embassy cypher
addressed to the British Foreign Office for transmission to I. D. War
Office. Also, he wanted to go to bed until the answer arrived.
“But hang it all,” said the Consul, “I don’t know anything about you.
You turn up at seven o’clock in the morning. You start by talking
Italian. Then you ask for a cigarette in English. Now you want me to let
you use our secret code-book, and to pay for the cable out of government
funds. . . .”
“And after that,” yawned Francis, “I want to sleep in your spare
bed-room till the answer arrives.”
Mr. Towsey felt himself in an awkward position. Italy was still neutral;
the diplomatic situation growing hourly more complicated. Then he looked
sharply at the bedraggled weary man in the black _soutane_; decided to
take the risk.
“Here, write your telegram,” he said, pushing paper and pencil across
the desk. “I suppose you don’t want to code it yourself.”
“Oh, Lord, no.” Francis, eyes dizzy with sleep, wrote rapidly. “_Please
inform I.D.W.O. that No. 63 has arrived consulate Milan with important
information. Stop. Can arrangements be made for him to be met at Modane
by car and proceed direct to G.H.Q. France. Stop. Please request consul
here to advance one thousand lire for clothes and travelling expenses.
End._”
Said Mr. Towsey, reading it, “I think I’d better address this to Mr.
Montgomery. . . .”
But Francis Gordon had fallen fast asleep.
* * * * *
He awoke, some fifteen hours later, frightened out of his wits;
remembered that the need for fear had passed; crawled off a sofa;
fumbled about for the electric switch; clicked on the light.
The noise of his getting-up disturbed his host from the deciphering of a
cable which read, “_Please advance to person for whom you sent cable No.
3426 any monies he requires. Stop. Order him proceed Modane soonest
possible and report to French authorities who will have full
instructions. Montgomery._”
* * * * *
“I’m most awfully obliged to you, Mr. Towsey,” said Francis Gordon next
morning: a clean-shaven Francis Gordon dressed in a green ready-made
Italian suit, bright yellow boots on his feet, bright yellow bag in his
hand. “Just as a last favour, would you mind having these posted for
me.”