THE MAN WITH RED HAIR
When that morning, after Ashe’s departure, Sibell’s aunt told her
that she had decided to invite Brinsley to accompany them to Cannes,
she at once rang him up to tell him the joyful news.
Then she put on her coat and hat and went down to the office of the
International Sleeping Car Company, in Cockspur Street, where she was
fortunate enough to find that a one-berth compartment on the Blue
Train from Calais to Ventimiglia on the day they had booked sleepers
had been cancelled, so she at once engaged it.
Otway was not yet well enough to go out, therefore she called in the
afternoon and, as usual, sat with him by the fire and took tea and
toast which the housekeeper brought up.
They were both enthusiastic concerning their journey south, for
Brinsley had never been to the Riviera, therefore she described some
of the pleasures and gaiety of winter life by the Mediterranean.
“I’m trying to persuade auntie to send out the car with Craven,” she
said. “Uncle will be away, so he won’t want it. Besides, a car is so
handy on the Riviera. One can run about and see one’s friends, or go
over in the evening to Monte. We really must have it. I’m insisting
upon it. It will be cheaper for Craven to take it across from
Boulogne, than to hire one in Cannes.”
“If you use your persuasive powers upon your Aunt Etta, you’ll no
doubt succeed, darling,” he said, with an affectionate hug.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” exclaimed the girl. “Ashe has gone!”
“Ashe gone!” cried her lover in surprise.
“Yes. He’s Aunt Etta’s right hand, so I don’t suppose he’ll be away
from us for long,” Sibell said. “There was a row after breakfast this
morning--exactly why I can’t discover--but in any case the excellent
Ashe was impudent about some order he was given, so auntie simply gave
him the sack at a moment’s notice, paid him up, and away he went. He
was out of the house in a quarter of an hour.”
“H’m, a bit of an upset, eh?” remarked the young doctor.
“Uncle was furious, but she managed to calm him down. Isn’t it
priceless? Hitherto, auntie would never have a single word said about
him.”
“I’ve never liked the fellow,” declared her lover. “He always seemed
to assume such superior, supercilious airs, and in his face there was
a low cunning expression that always made me suspect him of robbing
your uncle over the wines and cigars. When he went off duty he became
the gentleman, I suppose. I met him one night at Hyde Park Corner, and
he looked like a smart club man.”
“I know. I’ve seen him dressed quite elegantly when he went out. To me
he was, however, always very polite and obedient. So I’ve nothing to
complain about, except of his rather brusque, familiar manner towards
my aunt sometimes. Several times I mentioned it, but auntie told me to
take no notice, as it was only his way.”
“Well, though he used to serve me very well, and was most attentive at
table when I dined at West Halkin Street, I’m rather glad he’s gone.
Why I disliked him I couldn’t tell you, dearest. But I did. I can’t
explain the reason. It was intuition, I think.”
“Auntie has written to a new man, and if she engages him, he’ll go to
Cannes with us. He could go in the car with Craven. I’ll suggest it.”
When Sibell had kissed him and had gone, after the return of the
nurse, Brinsley Otway sat in the old arm-chair with his arms folded,
silent in deep thought.
The sudden and unexpected dismissal of the Earl’s faithful man, Ashe,
puzzled him. Was there anything behind that violent quarrel? He
himself, during the evenings spent at West Halkin Street, had not
failed to notice the familiar manner in which the fellow treated
Sibell’s rather go-ahead aunt. His demeanor was certainly not
befitting that of a servant. Once, too, he had overheard some
whispered words between mistress and man. He was alone in the study
one evening, choosing a book from the shelves, and happened to be
stooping down behind a small screen and thus concealed when he heard
the Countess slip noiselessly into the room, followed by Ashe.
“What is that telegram you’ve just received?” demanded the man quickly
in a low whisper. “Tell me the truth,” he growled threateningly.
“Here it is,” faltered the woman, apparently haunted by dread. “You
need not be so fierce. It’s only from that freak Emily Taylor, who
wants to come to town and stay with me.”
“Oh!” Ashe replied. “I feared it might be from him! I’m sorry. No harm
done.”
And then the servant slipped out of the room, followed by his
mistress.
Those strange words Otway overheard had since caused him to ponder
frequently. Being on such terms as they were, it seemed more than
curious that they should part after a violent altercation.
As he sat he remembered that curious conversation, every word of which
had sunk indelibly into his brain. Ashe’s manner to his mistress was
so deferential and obsequious at table that the conversation in
question both puzzled and intrigued him. Of course he had said nothing
to Sibell, but the scene at West Halkin Street which she had described
caused him again to ponder.
At dinner that night, served by one of the maids, Lady Wyndcliffe,
addressing her bald-headed husband across the table, said:
“I’ve seen the man recommended to me a little time ago, dear. I
telephoned to him, and he came this afternoon. Quite nice and smart. A
trifle younger than Ashe. He has excellent references, so I’ve engaged
him. He is coming to us the day after to-morrow.”
“Good!” said his lordship, settling his dress tie. “I’m glad you gave
that fellow Ashe the sack. He was always drinking my whiskey and
smoking my cigars. I used to smell them when I came home at night. The
fellow used to smoke in the drawing-room. I’m sure of it. Why, I came
in late last night after you’d all gone to bed, and I distinctly smelt
one of my cigars in the drawing-room. Been up there while we were all
out, no doubt. Damn the fellow!”
“Ashe was all right if he could refrain from being insolent,” remarked
his wife. “He was an excellent servant, but he had that one fault.”
“Well, auntie, we’re well rid of him, I think,” Sibell chimed in.
“Let’s hope this new man will turn out well. I’d let him go with
Craven in the car. Let them start three days before us.”
“Who said we were taking the car?” asked the Countess.
“Well, surely it’s cheaper to take your own bus than to hire! You know
how last year we found the hire absolutely ruinous. And one can do
nothing on the Riviera without a car. Besides, uncle will like it when
he comes out. The run across France only costs a few pounds.”
The Earl laughed in his brainless way, remarking:
“I suppose you want it out there because you like to drive yourself,
eh?”
“Well, there’s a good deal in that!” the girl admitted. “But without a
car it’s simply dreadful there.”
A long argument ensued, but in the end Sibell cajoled her aunt into
the idea of sending the chauffeur Craven with the car, and the new
butler, to the South of France--a fact which Brinsley duly learnt over
the telephone.
About ten o’clock one evening a few days later, a rather short,
thick-set man in well-cut evening clothes and a five-diamond ring upon
his finger entered “The Owls,” one of the small dance clubs in Wardour
Street, Soho, the chief patrons of which were writers, painters, the
lesser lights of the drama of both sexes, mannequins at West End
shops, art students of both sexes and their models; indeed it was one
of London’s centres of Bohemia--or what still remains of it nowadays.
The man, who was apparently well known, handed in his coat, signed the
members’ book, and passed into the ground-floor room, at the end of
which was a bar. The stuffy little place was nearly filled by a gay
crowd of reckless young men and women, many of whose faces bore traces
of dissipation and late nights. From the basement below came the
strident strains of a jazz band mingled with gay shouts and laughter
as the man, whose eyes had eagerly searched around as though expecting
somebody, seated himself on a high stool at the bar and ordered a
cocktail. Then he lit a cigarette, and, with one eye on the door, sat
smoking and chatting to the barman, a foreigner in a white linen coat
who was deftly serving drinks.
Suddenly a man entered, and, as the other waved to him in recognition,
came forward.
“Hulloa, Mr. Ashe!” exclaimed the short, thick-set little man,
evidently Italian from his accent. “Haven’t seen you lately, sare.”
“No, Johnnie. I’ve been away in the country,” replied the discharged
butler. “Thought I’d just look in for half-an-hour. Have a drink?”
“Thank you, sare,” replied the dapper little Italian, who was _maître
d’hôtel_ at one of the smartest West End restaurants.
“You remember one day, about three weeks ago, you told me of a young
man you know who lives in the same house as yourself in Guilford
Street--that man who was suddenly taken ill.”
“Oh, Meester Fetherstone! Oh, yes. He’s better now.”
“It was influenza, wasn’t it?” he said, bending to him and whispering.
The little dark-eyed man raised his shoulders and pulled a wry face.
“You recollect what you told me--the conversation about detectives.
There were several young men in the sitting-room that night, eh?”
“Several of them. They were discussing some secret about evil
influences.”
“That’s interesting, anyway,” laughed Mr. Ashe. “They evidently know
something about evil curses and such-like mysteries. Yet I don’t see
why such things as curses should concern ’Varsity students. Tell me
about Fetherstone.”
“All of the boys seemed most interested,” Johnnie said in English with
a strong Tuscan accent. “Fetherstone comes here sometimes. He has red
hair.”
“You told me about him. I wonder if he is downstairs? I’d like to be
introduced to him.”
“I’ll go and see,” said the man from Leghorn, who at once went below
to the dance-room. On returning a few moments later, he said:
“Meester Fetherstone is downstairs. He is dancing.”
Both drained their glasses and went below into the rather low-pitched
basement, which was spacious, running as it did beneath the two
adjoining houses. Around the walls were set a number of little tables
at which drinks were being served, at the end was the usual platform
with its jazz orchestra, while the centre of the floor was so crowded
by dancers, mostly in their day clothes, that it seemed difficult to
circulate.
On every hand large notices stated: “Hard-boiled shirts not allowed!”
together with humorous distortions of well-known proverbs and many
flags and streamers. Ashe and his companion found a table after some
little difficulty, and, the dance being concluded, the Italian, whose
full name was Giovanni Savini, pointed out Fetherstone, who was seated
with a fair-haired, rather smartly-dressed mannequin on the opposite
side of the room.
“Contrive to introduce me later on, Johnnie,” Ashe said. “Do you
really think you are right?”
“I don’t know, Meester Ashe, but I have my ears open you know, and I
hear a lot of discussions. My bedroom is next their sitting-room,”
replied the _maître d’hôtel_, “and sometimes I hear very funny
things.”
Ashe and Savini had been friends for a considerable time. They had
first met in Paris six years before, the Italian then being a waiter
at the Grand Hotel while Ashe was for some months living as guest in
that colossal establishment. Then, three years afterwards, the Italian
had one night served him in the Savoy in London, and they had
recognised each other. The smart _maître d’hôtel_ possessed a wide
knowledge of London’s underworld; hence they were often out together
late at night after the closing hour of the restaurant _de luxe_ in
the West End where the Italian was now employed.
Ashe, with his shrewd observation and acumen, had long ago discovered
that his friend was, in secret, the associate of adventurers and
crooks of both sexes, who brought their “pigeons” to lunch or dine at
the expensive establishment where he was such an ubiquitous and
obliging servitor. And, being attracted by crookdom, he had cultivated
the man’s acquaintance.
Half an hour afterwards, Fetherstone’s lady friend having left him to
Charleston with a white-haired and well-known portrait painter, Savini
went up to him and invited him to their table, where Ashe was
introduced, and the trio were soon taking drinks in the form of
whiskey-and-soda served in teacups and poured from a tea-pot.
The place was now crowded by a very mixed assembly. The theatres were
over, and all sorts of men and women, including many of the
night-hawks of London, were shouting, laughing, drinking, dancing, and
throwing serpentines to the strains of the deafening orchestra; hence
conversation was difficult, and Ashe could scarcely make himself heard
to the young student across the table.
The ex-butler took infinite trouble to impress Fetherstone with his
air of careless bonhomie, but presently a black-haired girl, an
artist’s model, came along, and, greeting the young fellow, sat down
uninvited at the table and began some good-humored banter, which
immensely amused both the student and the Italian.
“I like that man Ashe,” remarked Fetherstone to the Italian as they
walked past the dark façade of the British Museum on the way to
Guilford Street. A church clock somewhere in Bloomsbury had just
struck half-past three, and the winter’s morning was frosty and
bitterly cold.
“Meester Ashe is a very good friend of mine. _Un buon amico_,”
declared Savini.
“What is he?” inquired the student.
“He does nothing. Spends a lot of money, and when he gives a leetle
dinner he orders always the best. He leave it to me.”
“Yes, he’s a real decent sort,” declared the red-headed young man
enthusiastically. “I’m meeting him at the Idlers on Wednesday night.”
“Ah! I am on duty that night. We have a large private party--Lord
Melfort’s coming of age,” Savini said. “So I can’t join you, sare.”
“Do so another time, Johnnie,” Fetherstone urged. “Ashe is a fine
fellow to spend an evening with--full of fun, isn’t he?”
Arrived at Guilford Street, they let themselves into the silent,
frowsy-smelling old house and crept upstairs to their respective
rooms.
On Wednesday evening, according to appointment, Fetherstone met Ashe
in the obscure little club in Wardour Street, where they had several
drinks, and on two occasions girls known to the light-hearted student
of Bart’s carried him off to dance with them. At such establishments
the girls seem mostly dance-mad, for they live a hectic, unhealthy
life, often stimulated by “snow” and other deadly things which are
procurable in secret on the premises--provided one has the money.