cross-examining counsel who has dexterously trapped a reluctant witness
into a damaging admission, “that’s where you make your ruddy error.
Because ’e ain’t got no smorl clipped moustache.”
It seemed to Sam that a little adroit diplomacy at this point would be
in his best interests. He had not the pleasure of the duke’s
acquaintance and so was not really entitled to speak as an expert, but
he decided to support the man in uniform. The good graces of a fellow of
his careless opulence were worth seeking. In a soaring moment of
optimism it seemed to him that a hard-boiled egg and a cup of coffee
were the smallest reward a loyal supporter might expect. He advanced
into the light of the naphtha flare and spoke with decision.
“This gentleman is right,” he said. “The Duke of York has a small
clipped moustache.”
The interruption appeared to come on the three debaters like a
bombshell. It had on them an effect much the same as an uninvited
opinion from a young and newly joined member would have on a group of
bishops and generals in the smoking-room of the Athenæum Club. For an
instant there was a shocked silence; then the man in uniform spoke.
“Wot do you want, stickin’ your ugly fat ’ead in?” he demanded coldly.
Shakespeare, who knew too much ever to be surprised at man’s
ingratitude, would probably have accepted this latest evidence of it
with stoicism. It absolutely stunned Sam. A little peevishness from the
two gentlemen of leisure he had expected, but that his sympathy and
support should be received in this fashion by the man in uniform was
simply disintegrating. It seemed to be his fate to-night to lack appeal
for men in uniform.
“Yus,” agreed the leader of the opposition, “’oo arsked you to shove
in?”
“Comin’ stickin’ ’is ’ead in!” sniffed the man in uniform.
All three members of the supper party eyed him with manifest disfavour.
The proprietor of the stall, a silent hairy man, said nothing: but he,
too, cast a chilly glance of hauteur in Sam’s direction. There was a
sense of strain.
“I only said----” Sam began.
“And ’oo arsked you to?” retorted the man in uniform.
The situation was becoming difficult. At this tense moment, however,
there was a rattling and a grinding of brakes and a taxicab drew up at
the kerb, and out of its interior shot Mr. Willoughby Braddock.
“Getta cuppa coffee,” observed Mr. Braddock explanatorily to the
universe.
CHAPTER SIX
A FRIEND IN NEED
Of certain supreme moments in life it is not easy to write. The workaday
teller of tales, whose gifts, if any, lie rather in the direction of
recording events than of analysing emotion, finds himself baffled by
them. To say that Sam Shotter was relieved by this sudden reappearance
of his old friend would obviously be inadequate. Yet it is hard to find
words that will effectually meet the case. Perhaps it is simplest to say
that his feelings at this juncture were to all intents and purposes
those of the garrison besieged by savages in the final reel of a
motion-picture super-super-film when the operator flashes on the screen
the subtitle, “Hurrah! Here come the United States Marines!”
And blended with this heart-shaking thankfulness, came instantaneously
the thought that he must not let the poor fish get away again.
“Here, I say!” said Mr. Braddock, becoming aware of a clutching hand
upon his coat sleeve.
“It’s all right, Bradder, old man,” said Sam. “It’s only me.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
“Who are you?”
“Sam Shotter.”
“Sam Shotter?”
“Sam Shotter.”
“Sam Shotter who used to be at school with me?”
“The very same.”
“Are you Sam Shotter?”
“I am.”
“Why, so you are!” said Mr. Braddock, completely convinced. He displayed
the utmost delight at this re-union. “Mosestraornary coincidence,” he
said as he kneaded Sam lovingly about the shoulder. “I was talking to a
fellow in the Strand about you only an hour ago.”
“Were you, Bradder, old man?”
“Yes; nasty ugly-looking fellow. I bumped into him, and he turned round
and the very first thing he said was, ‘Do you know Sam Shotter?’ He told
me all sorts of interesting things about you too--all sorts of
interesting things. I’ve forgotten what they were, but you see what I
mean.”
“I follow you perfectly, Bradder. What’s become of your hat?”
A look of relieved happiness came in to Willoughby Braddock’s face.
“Have you got my hat? Where is it?”
“I haven’t got your hat.”
“You said you had my hat.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Oh!” said Mr. Braddock, disappointed. “Well, then, come and have a
cuppa coffee.”
It was with the feelings of a voyager who after much buffeting comes
safely at last to journey’s end that Sam ranged himself alongside the
counter which for so long had been but a promised land seen from some
distant Mount Pisgah. The two gentlemen of leisure had melted away into
the night, but the uniformed man remained, eating seedcake with a touch
of bravado.
“This gentleman a friend of yours, Sam?” asked Mr. Braddock, having
ordered coffee and eggs.
“I should say not,” said Sam with aversion. “Why, he thinks the Duke of
York has a small clipped moustache!”
“No!” said Mr. Braddock, shocked.
“He does.”
“Man must be a thorough ass.”
“Dropped on his head when a baby, probably.”
“Better have nothing to do with him,” said Mr. Braddock in a
confidential bellow.
The meal proceeded on its delightful course. Sam had always been fond of
Willoughby Braddock, and the spacious manner in which he now ordered
further hard-boiled eggs showed him that his youthful affection had not
been misplaced. A gentle glow began to steal over him. The coffee was
the kind of which, after a preliminary mouthful, you drink a little more
just to see if it is really as bad as it seemed at first, but it was
warm and comforting. It was not long before the world appeared very good
to Sam. He expanded genially. He listened with courteous attention to
Mr. Braddock’s lengthy description of his speech at the Old Wrykynian
dinner, and even melted sufficiently to extend an olive branch to the
man in uniform.
“Looks like rain,” he said affably.
“Who does?” asked Mr. Braddock, puzzled.
“I was addressing the gentleman behind you,” said Sam.
Mr. Braddock looked cautiously over his shoulder.
“But are we speaking to him?” he asked gravely. “I thought----”
“Oh, yes,” said Sam tolerantly. “I fancy he’s quite a good fellow
really. Wants knowing, that’s all.”
“What makes you think he looks like rain?” asked Mr. Braddock,
interested.
The chauffeur of the taxicab now added himself to their little group. He
said that he did not know about Mr. Braddock’s plans, but that he
himself was desirous of getting to bed. Mr. Braddock patted him on the
shoulder with radiant bonhomie.
“This,” he explained to Sam, “is a most delightful chap. I’ve forgotten
his name.”
The cabman said his name was Evans.
“Evans! Of course. I knew it was something beginning with a G. This is
my friend Evans, Sam. I forget where we met, but he’s taking me home.”
“Where do you live, Bradder?”
“Where do I live, Evans?”
“Down at Valley Fields, you told me,” said the cabman.
“Where are you living, Sam?”
“Nowhere.”
“How do you mean--nowhere?”
“I have no home,” said Sam with simple pathos.
“I’d like to dig you one,” said the man in uniform.
“No home?” cried Mr. Braddock, deeply moved. “Nowhere to sleep to-night,
do you mean? I say, look here, you must absolutely come back with me.
Evans, old chap, do you think there would be room for one more in that
cab of yours? Because I particularly want this gentleman to come back
with me. My dear old Sam, I won’t listen to any argument.”
“You won’t have to.”
“You can sleep on the sofa in the drawing-room. You ready, Evans, old
man? Splendid! Then let’s go.”
From Lupus Street, Pimlico, to Burberry Road, Valley Fields, is a
distance of several miles, but to Sam the drive seemed a short one. This
illusion was not due so much to the gripping nature of Mr. Braddock’s
conversation, though that rippled on continuously, as to the fact that,
being a trifle weary after his experiences of the night, he dozed off
shortly after they had crossed the river. He awoke to find that the cab
had come to a standstill outside a wooden gate which led by a short
gravel path to a stucco-covered house. A street lamp, shining feebly,
was strong enough to light up the name San Rafael. Mr. Braddock paid the
cabman and ushered Sam through the gate. He produced a key after a
little searching, and having mounted the steps opened the door. Sam
found himself in a small hall, dimly lighted by a turned-down jet of
gas.
“Go right in,” said Mr. Braddock. “I’ll be back in a moment. Got to see
a man.”
“Got to what?” said Sam, surprised.
“Got to see a man for a minute. Fellow named Evans, who was at school
with me. Most important.”
And with that curious snipelike abruptness which characterised his
movements to-night, Willoughby Braddock slammed the front door violently
and disappeared.
Sam’s feelings, as the result of his host’s impulsive departure, were
somewhat mixed. To the credit side of the ledger he could place the fact
that he was safely under the shelter of a roof, which he had not
expected to be an hour ago; but he wished that, before leaving, his
friend had given him a clew as to where was situated this drawing-room
with its sofa whereon he was to spend the remainder of the night.
However, a brief exploration would no doubt reveal the hidden chamber.
It might even be that room whose door faced him across the hall.
He was turning the handle with the view of testing this theory, when a
voice behind him, speaking softly but with a startling abruptness, said,
“Hands up!”
At the foot of the stairs, her wide mouth set in a determined line, her
tow-coloured hair adorned with gleaming curling pins, there was standing
a young woman in a pink dressing gown and slippers. In her right hand,
pointed at his head, she held a revolver.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SAM AT SAN RAFAEL
It is not given to every girl who makes prophecies to find those
prophecies fulfilled within a few short hours of their utterance; and
the emotions of Claire Lippett, as she confronted Sam in the hall of San
Rafael, were akin to those of one who sees the long shot romp in ahead
of the field or who unexpectedly solves the cross-word puzzle. Only that
evening she had predicted that burglars would invade the house, and here
one was, as large as life. Mixed, therefore, with her disapproval of
this midnight marauder, was a feeling almost of gratitude to him for
being there. Of fear she felt no trace. She presented the pistol with a
firm hand.
One calls it a pistol for the sake of technical accuracy. To Sam’s
startled senses it appeared like a young cannon, and so deeply did he
feel regarding it that he made it the subject of his opening
remark--which, by all the laws of etiquette, should have been a graceful
apology for and explanation of his intrusion.
“Steady with the howitzer!” he urged.
“What say?” said Claire coldly.
“The lethal weapon--be careful with it. It’s pointing at me.”
“I know it’s pointing at you.”
“Oh, well, so long as it only points,” said Sam.
He felt a good deal reassured by the level firmness of her tone. This
was plainly not one of those neurotic, fluttering females whose fingers
cannot safely be permitted within a foot of a pistol trigger.
There was a pause. Claire, still keeping the weapon poised, turned the
gas up. Upon which, Sam, rightly feeling that the ball of conversation
should be set rolling by himself, spoke again.
“You are doubtless surprised,” he said, plagiarising the literary style
of Mr. Todhunter, “to see me here.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re not?”
“No. You keep those hands of yours up.”
Sam sighed.
“You wouldn’t speak to me in that harsh tone,” he said, “if you knew all
I had been through. It is not too much to say that I have been
persecuted this night.”
“Well, you shouldn’t come breaking into people’s houses,” said Claire
primly.
“You are labouring under a natural error,” said Sam. “I did not break
into this charming little house. My presence, Mrs. Braddock, strange as
it may seem, is easily explained.”
“Who are you calling Mrs. Braddock?”
“Aren’t you Mrs. Braddock?”
“No.”
“You aren’t married to Mr. Braddock?”
“No, I’m not.”
Sam was a broad-minded young man.
“Ah, well,” he said, “in the sight of God, no doubt----”
“I’m the cook.”
“Oh,” said Sam, relieved, “that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Well, you know, it seemed a trifle odd for a moment that you should be
popping about here at this time of night with your hair in curlers and
your little white ankles peeping out from under a dressing gown.”
“Coo!” said Claire in a modest flutter. She performed a swift adjustment
of the garment’s folds.
“But if you’re Mr. Braddock’s cook----”
“Who said I was Mr. Braddock’s cook?”
“You did.”
“I didn’t any such thing. I’m Mr. Wrenn’s cook.”
“Mr. who?”
“Mr. Wrenn.”
This was a complication which Sam had not anticipated.
“Let us get this thing straight,” he said. “Am I to understand that this
house does not belong to Mr. Braddock?”
“Yes, you are. It belongs to Mr. Wrenn.”
“But Mr. Braddock had a latchkey.”
“He’s staying here.”
“Ah!”
“What do you mean--ah?”
“I intended to convey that things are not so bad as I thought they were.
I was afraid for a moment that I had got into the wrong house. But it’s
all right. You see, I met Mr. Braddock a short while ago and he brought
me back here to spend the night.”
“Oh?” said Claire. “Did he? Ho! Oh, indeed?”
Sam looked at her anxiously. He did not like her manner.
“You believe me, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“But surely----”
“If Mr. Braddock brought you here, where is he?”
“He went away. He was, I regret to say, quite considerably squiffed.
Immediately after letting me in he dashed off, banging the door behind
him.”
“Likely!”
“But listen, my dear little girl----”
“Less of it!” said Claire austerely. “It’s a bit thick if a girl can’t
catch a burglar without having him start to flirt with her.”
“You wrong me!” said Sam. “You wrong me! I was only saying----”
“Well, don’t.”
“But this is absurd. Good heavens, use your intelligence! If my story
wasn’t true, how could I know anything about Mr. Braddock?”
“You could easily have asked around. What I say is if you were all right
you wouldn’t be going about in a suit of clothes like that. You look
like a tramp.”
“Well, I’ve just come off a tramp steamer. You mustn’t go judging people
by appearance. I should have thought they would have taught you that at
school.”
“Never you mind what they taught me at school.”
“You have got me all wrong. I’m a millionaire--or rather my uncle is.”
“Mine’s the Shah of Persia.”
“And a few weeks ago he sent me over to England, the idea being that I
was to sail on the _Mauretania_. But that would have involved sharing a
suite with a certain Lord Tilbury and the scheme didn’t appeal to me. So
I missed the ship and came over on a cargo boat instead.”
He paused. He had an uncomfortable feeling that the story sounded thin.
He passed it in a swift review before his mind. Yes, thin.
And it was quite plain from her expression that the resolute young lady
before him shared this opinion.
She wrinkled her small nose skeptically, and, having finished wrinkling
it, sniffed.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” she said.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t,” said Sam. “True though it is, it has a
phony ring. Really to digest that story, you have to know Lord Tilbury.
If you had the doubtful pleasure of the acquaintance of that king of
bores, you would see that I acted in the only possible way. However, if
it’s too much for you, let it go, and we will approach the matter from a
new angle. The whole trouble seems to be my clothes, so I will make you
a sporting offer. Overlook them for the moment, give me your womanly
trust and allow me to sleep on the drawing-room sofa for the rest of the
night, and not only will blessings reward you but I promise you--right
here and now--that in a day or two I will call at this house and let you
see me in the niftiest rig-out that ever man wore. Imagine it! A
brand-new suit, custom-made, silk serge linings, hand-sewed, scallops on
the pocket flaps--and me inside! Is it a bet?”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Think well! When you first see that suit you will say to yourself that
the coat doesn’t seem to sit exactly right. You will be correct. The
coat will not sit exactly right. And why? Because there will be in the
side pocket a large box of the very finest mixed chocolates, a present
for a good girl. Come now! The use of the drawing-room for the few
remaining hours of the night. It is not much to ask.”
Claire shook her head inflexibly.
“I’m not going to risk it,” she said. “By rights I ought to march you
out into the street and hand you over to the policeman.”
“And have him see you in curling pins? No, no!”
“What’s wrong with my curling pins?” demanded Claire fiercely.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Sam hastily. “I admire them. It only occurred
to me as a passing thought----”
“The reason I don’t do it is because I’m tender-hearted and don’t want
to be too hard on a feller.”
“It is a spirit I appreciate,” said Sam. “And would that there had been
more of it abroad in London this night.”
“So out you go, and don’t let me hear no more of you. Just buzz off,
that’s all I ask. And be quick about it, because I need my sleep.”
“I was wrong about those chocolates,” said Sam. “Silly mistake to make.
What will really be in that side pocket will be a lovely diamond
brooch.”
“And a motor car and a ruby ring and a new dress and a house in the
country, I suppose. Outside!”
Sam accepted defeat. The manly spirit of the Shotters was considerable,
but it could be broken.
“Oh, all right, I’ll go. One of these days, when my limousine splashes
you with mud, you will be sorry for this.”
“And don’t bang the door behind you,” ordered the ruthless girl.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SAM AT MON REPOS
Standing on the steps and gazing out into the blackness, Sam now
perceived that in the interval between his entrance into San Rafael and
his exit therefrom, the night, in addition to being black, had become
wet. A fine rain had begun to fall, complicating the situation to no
small extent.
For some minutes he remained where he was, hoping for Mr. Braddock’s
return. But the moments passed and no sound of footsteps, however
distant, broke the stillness; so, after going through a brief
commination service in which the names of Hash Todhunter, Claude Bates
and Willoughby Braddock were prominently featured, he decided to make a
move. And it was as he came down from the steps on to the little strip
of gravel that he saw a board leaning drunkenly towards him a few paces
to his left, and read on that board the words “To Let, Furnished.”
This opened up an entirely new train of thought. It revealed to him what
he had not previously suspected, that the house outside which he stood
was not one house but two houses. It suggested, moreover, that the one
to which the board alluded was unoccupied, and the effect of this was
extraordinarily stimulating.
He hurried along the gravel; and rounding the angle of the building,
saw dimly through the darkness a structure attached to its side which
looked like a conservatory. He bolted in; and with a pleasant feeling of
having circumvented Fate, sat down on a wooden shelf intended as a
resting place for potted geraniums.
But Fate is not so easily outmanœuvred. Fate, for its own inscrutable
reasons, had decided that Sam was to be thoroughly persecuted to-night,
and it took up the attack again without delay. There was a sharp
cracking sound and the wooden shelf collapsed in ruin. Sam had many
excellent qualities, but he did not in the least resemble a potted
geranium, and he went through the woodwork as if it had been paper. And
Fate, which observes no rules of the ring and has no hesitation about
hitting a man when he is down, immediately proceeded to pour water down
his neck through a hole in the broken roof.
Sam rose painfully. He saw now that he had been mistaken in supposing
that this conservatory was a home from home. He turned up his coat
collar and strode wrathfully out into the darkness. He went round to the
back of the house with the object of ascertaining if there was an
outside coal cellar where a man might achieve dryness, if not positive
comfort. And it was as he stumbled along that he saw the open window.
It was a sight which in the blackness of the night he might well have
missed; but suffering had sharpened his senses, and he saw it
plainly--an open window only a few feet above the ground. Until this
moment the idea of actually breaking into the house had not occurred to
him; but now, regardless of all the laws which discourage such
behaviour, he put his hand on the sill and scrambled through. The rain,
as if furious at the escape of its prey, came lashing down like a shower
bath.
Sam moved carefully on. Groping his way, he found himself at the foot of
a flight of stairs. He climbed these cautiously and became aware of
doors to left and right.
The room to the right was empty, but the other one contained a bed. It
was a bed, however, that had been reduced to such a mere scenario that
he decided to leave it and try his luck downstairs. The board outside
had said “To Let, Furnished,” which suggested the possibility of a
drawing-room sofa. He left the room and started to walk down the stairs.
At first, as he began the descent, the regions below had been in
complete darkness. But now a little beam of light suddenly pierced the
gloom--a light that might have been that of an electric torch. It was
wavering uncertainly, as if whoever was behind it was in the grip of a
strong emotion of some kind.
Sam also was in the grip of a strong emotion. He stopped and held his
breath. For the space of some seconds there was silence. Then he
breathed again.
Perfect control of the breathing apparatus is hard to acquire. Singers
spend years learning it. Sam’s skill in that direction was rudimentary.
It had been his intention to let his present supply of breath gently out
and then, very cautiously, to take another supply gently in. Instead of
which, he gave vent to a sound so loud and mournful that it made his
flesh creep. It was half a snort and half a groan, and it echoed
through the empty house like a voice from the tomb.
This, he felt, was the end. Further concealment was obviously out of the
question. Dully resentful of the curse that seemed to be on him
to-night, he stood waiting for the inevitable challenge from below.
No challenge came. Instead, there was a sharp clatter of feet, followed
by a distant scrabbling sound. The man behind the torch had made a rapid
exit through the open window.
For a moment Sam stood perplexed. Then the reasonable explanation came
to him. It was no caretaker who had stood there, but an intruder with as
little right to be on the premises as he himself. And having reached
this conclusion, he gave no further thought to the matter. He was
feeling extraordinarily sleepy now and speculations as to the identity
of burglars had no interest for him. His mind was occupied entirely by
the question of whether or not there was a sofa in the drawing-room.
There was, and a reasonably comfortable sofa too. Sam had reached the
stage where he could have slept on spikes, and this sofa seemed to him
as inviting as the last word in beds, with all the latest modern springs
and box mattresses. He lay down and sleep poured over him like a healing
wave.
CHAPTER NINE
BREAKFAST FOR ONE
It was broad daylight when he woke. Splashes of sunlight were on the
floor, and outside a cart clattered cheerfully. Rising stiffly, he was
aware of a crick in the neck and of that unpleasant sensation of
semi-suffocation which comes to those who spend the night in a disused
room with the windows closed. More even than a bath and a shave, he
desired fresh air. He made his way down the passage to the window by
which he had entered. Outside, glimpses of a garden were visible. He
climbed through and drew a deep breath.
The rain of the night had left the world sweet and clean. The ragged
grass was all jewelled in the sunshine, and birds were singing in the
trees. Sam stood drinking in the freshness of it all, feeling better
every instant.
Finally, having performed a few of those bending and stretching
exercises which form such an admirable corrective to the effects of a
disturbed night, he strolled down the garden path, wishing he could
somehow and at no very distant date connect with a little breakfast.