THE RESTAURANT IN ANTIOCH STREET
I was working late at the Temple next day, and it was nearly seven
before I got up to go home. Macgillivray had telephoned to me in the
afternoon saying he wanted to see me, and suggesting dinner at the
Club, and I had told him I should come straight there from my
Chambers. But just after six he had rung me up again and proposed
another meeting place.
"I've got some very important news for you, and want to be quiet.
There's a little place where I sometimes dine--Rapaccini's, in
Antioch Street. I'll meet you there at half-past seven."
I agreed, and sent a message to Chapman at the flat, telling him I
would be out to dinner. It was a Wednesday night, so the House rose
early. He asked me where I was dining, and I told him, but I did not
mention with whom. His voice sounded very cross, for he hated a
lonely meal.
It was a hot, still night, and I had had a heavy day in Court, so
heavy that my private anxieties had almost slipped from my mind. I
walked along the Embankment, and up Regent Street towards Oxford
Circus. Antioch Street, as I had learned from the Directory, was in
the area between Langham Place and Tottenham Court Road. I wondered
vaguely why Macgillivray should have chosen such an out-of-the-way
spot, but I knew him for a man of many whims.
The street, when I found it, turned out to be a respectable little
place, boarding-houses and architects' offices, with a few antiquity
shops and a picture-cleaner's. The restaurant took some finding, for
it was one of those discreet establishments, common enough in France,
where no edibles are displayed in the British fashion, and muslin
half-curtains deck the windows. Only the doormat, lettered with the
proprietor's name, remained to guide the hungry.
I gave a waiter my hat and stick, and was ushered into a garish
dining-room, apparently full of people. A single violinist was
discoursing music from beside the grill. The occupants were not
quite the kind one expects to find in an eating-house in a side
street. The men were all in evening dress with white waistcoats, and
the women looked either demi-mondaines or those who follow their
taste in clothes. Various eyes looked curiously at me as I entered.
I guessed that the restaurant had, by one of those odd freaks of
Londoners, become for a moment the fashion.
The proprietor met me half way up the room. He might call himself
Rapaccini, but he was obviously a German.
"Mr. Geelvrai," he nodded. "He has engaged a private room. Vill you
follow, sir?"
A narrow stairway broke into the wall on the left side of the
dining-room. I followed the manager up it and along a short corridor
to a door which filled its end. He ushered me into a brightly lit
little room where a table was laid for two.
"Mr. Geelvrai comes often here," said the manager. "He vill be
late--sometimes. Everything is ready, sir. I hope you vill be
pleased."
It looked inviting enough, but the air smelt stuffy. Then I saw
that, though the night was warm, the window was shut and the curtains
drawn. I pulled back the curtains, and, to my surprise, saw that the
shutters were closed.
"You must open these," I said, "or we'll stifle."
The manager glanced at the window. "I vill send a waiter," he said,
and departed. The door seemed to shut with an odd click.
I flung myself down in one of the armchairs, for I was feeling pretty
tired. The little table beckoned alluringly, for I was also hungry.
I remember there was a mass of pink roses on it. A bottle of
champagne, with the cork loose, stood in a wine-cooler on the
side-board, and there was an unopened bottle beside it. It seemed to
me that Macgillivray, when he dined here, did himself rather well.
The promised waiter did not arrive, and the stuffiness was making me
very thirsty. I looked for a bell, but could not see one. My watch
told me it was now a quarter to eight, but there was no sign of
Macgillivray. I poured myself out a glass of champagne from the
opened bottle, and was just about to drink it when my eye caught
something in a corner of the room.
It was one of those little mid-Victorian corner tables--I believe
they call them "what-nots"--which you will find in any
boarding-house, littered up with photographs and coral and "Presents
from Brighton." On this one stood a photograph in a shabby frame, and
I thought I recognised it.
I crossed the room and picked it up. It showed a man of thirty, with
short side-whiskers and ill-fitting jaw and a drooping moustache.
The duplicate of it was in Macgillivray's cabinet. It was Mr. Routh,
the ex-Union leader.
There was nothing very remarkable about that, after all, but it gave
me a nasty shock. The room now seemed a sinister place, as well as
intolerably close. There was still no sign of the waiter to open the
window, so I thought I would wait for Macgillivray downstairs.
But the door would not open. The handle would not turn. It did not
seem to be locked, but rather to have shut with some kind of patent
spring. I noticed that the whole thing was a powerful piece of oak,
with a heavy framework, very unlike the usual flimsy restaurant doors.
My first instinct was to make a deuce of a row and attract the
attention of the diners below. I own I was beginning to feel badly
frightened. Clearly, I had got into some sort of trap.
Macgillivray's invitation might have been a hoax, for it is not
difficult to counterfeit a man's voice on the telephone. With an
effort I forced myself into calmness. It was preposterous to think
that anything could happen to me in a room not thirty feet from where
a score or two of ordinary citizens were dining. I had only to raise
my voice to bring inquirers.
Yes, but above all things I did not want a row. It would never do
for a rising lawyer and a Member of Parliament to be found shouting
for help in an upper chamber of a Bloomsbury restaurant. The worst
deduction would be drawn from the open bottle of champagne. Besides,
it might be all right after all. The door might have got stuck.
Macgillivray at that very moment might be on his way up.
So I sat down and waited. Then I remembered my thirst, and stretched
out my hand to the glass of champagne.
But at that instant I looked towards the window, and set down the
wine untasted.
It was a very odd window. The lower end was about flush with the
floor, and the hinges of the shutters seemed to be only on one side.
As I stared, I began to wonder whether it was a window at all.
Next moment my doubts were solved. The window swung open like a
door, and in the dark cavity stood a man.
Strangely enough, I knew him. His figure was not one that is readily
forgotten.
"Good evening, Mr. Docker," I said. "Will you have a glass of
champagne?"
A year before, on the South Eastern Circuit, I had appeared for the
defence in a burglary case. Criminal law was not my province, but
now and then I took a case to keep my hand in, for it is the best
training in the world for the handling of witnesses. This case had
been peculiar. A certain Bill Docker was the accused, a gentleman
who bore a bad reputation in the eyes of the police. The evidence
against him was strong, but it was more or less tainted, being
chiefly that of two former accomplices--a proof that there is small
truth in the proverbial honour among thieves. It was an ugly
business, and my sympathies were with the accused, for though he may
very well have been guilty, yet he had been the victim of a shabby
trick. Anyhow, I put my back into the case, and after a hard
struggle got a verdict of "Not guilty." Mr. Docker had been kind
enough to express his appreciation of my efforts, and to ask, in a
hoarse whisper, how I had "squared the old bird," meaning the Judge.
He did not understand the subtleties of the English law of evidence.
He shambled into the room, a huge, hulking figure of a man, with the
thickness of chest which, under happier circumstances, might have
made him a terror in the prize-ring. His features wore a heavy
scowl, which slowly cleared to a flicker of recognition.
"By God, it's the lawyer-chap," he muttered.
I pointed to the glass of champagne.
"I don't mind if I do," he said. "'Ere's health!" He swallowed the
wine at a gulp, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "'Ave a drop
yourself, guvnor," he added. "A glass of bubbly will cheer you up."
"Well, Mr. Docker," I said, "I hope I see you fit." I was getting
wonderfully collected now that the suspense was over.
"Pretty fair, sir. Pretty fair. Able to do my day's work like an
honest man."
"And what brings you here?"
"A little job I'm on. Some friends of mine wants you out of the road
for a bit, and they've sent me to fetch you. It's a bit of luck for
you that you've struck a pal. We needn't 'ave no unpleasantness,
seein' we're both what you might call men of the world."
"I appreciate the compliment," I said. "But where do you propose to
take me?"
"Dunno. It's some lay near the Docks. I've got a motor-car waitin'
at the back of the 'ouse."
"But supposing I don't want to go?"
"My orders hadmit no hexcuse," he said solemnly. "You're a sensible
chap, and can see that in a scrap I could down you easy."
"Very likely," I said. "But, man, you must be mad to talk like that.
Downstairs there is a dining-room fall of people. I have only to
lift my voice to bring the police."
"You're a kid," he said scornfully. "Them geesers downstairs are all
in the job. That was a flat-catching rig to get you up here so as
you wouldn't suspect nothing. If you was to go down now--which you
ain't going to be allowed to do--you wouldn't find a blamed soul in
the place. I must say you're a bit softer than I 'oped after the
'andsome way you talked over the old juggins with the wig at
Maidstone."
Mr. Docker took the bottle from the wine-cooler and filled himself
another glass.
It sounded horribly convincing. If I was to be kidnapped and
smuggled away Lumley would have scored half a success. Not the
whole, for, as I swiftly reflected, I had put Felix on the track of
Tuke, and there was every chance that Tommy and Pitt-Heron would be
saved. But for myself it looked pretty black. The more my scheme
succeeded the more likely the Power-House would be to wreak its
vengeance on me once I was spirited from the open-air world into its
dark labyrinths.
I made a great effort to keep my voice even and calm.
"Mr. Docker," I said. "I once did you a good turn. But for me you
might be doing time now instead of drinking champagne like a
gentleman. Your pals played you a pretty low trick, and that was why
I stuck out for you. I didn't think you were the kind of man to
forget a friend."
"No more I am," said he. "The man who says Bill Docker would go back
on a pal is a liar."
"Well, here's your chance to pay your debts. The men who employ you
are my deadly enemies, and want to do me in. I'm not a match for
you. You're a stronger fellow and can drag me off and hand me over
to them. But if you do I'm done with. Make no mistake about that.
I put it to you as a decent fellow. Are you going to go back on the
man who has been a good friend to you?"
He shifted from one foot to another with his eyes on the ceiling. He
was obviously in difficulties. Then he tried another glass of
champagne.
"I dursn't, guv'nor. I dursn't let you go. Them I work for would
cut my throat as soon as look at me. Besides, it ain't no good. If
I was to go off and leave you there'd be plenty more in this 'ouse as
would do the job. You're up against it, guv'nor. But take a
sensible view and come with me. They don't mean you no real 'arm.
I'll take my Bible oath on it. Only to keep you quiet for a bit, for
you've run across one of their games. They won't do you no 'urt if
you speak 'em fair. Be a sport and take it smiling-like----"
"You're afraid of them," I said.
"Yuss. I'm afraid. Black afraid. So would you be if you knew the
gents. I'd rather take on the whole Rat Lane crowd--you know them as
I mean--on a Saturday night, when they're out for business, than go
back to my gents and say as 'ow I had shirked the job."
He shivered. "Good Lord, they'd freeze the 'eart out of a bull-pup."
"You're afraid," I said slowly. "So you're going to give me up to
the men you're afraid of to do as they like with me. I never
expected it of you, Bill. I thought you were the kind of lad who
would send any gang to the devil before you'd go back on a pal."
"Don't say that," he said almost plaintively. "You don't 'alf know
the 'ole I'm in." His eye seemed to be wandering, and he yawned
deeply.
Just then a great noise began below. I heard a voice speaking, a
loud peremptory voice. Then my name was shouted: "Leithen! Leithen!
Are you there?"
There could be no mistaking that broad Yorkshire tongue. By some
miracle Chapman had followed me and was raising Cain downstairs.
My heart leaped with the sudden revulsion. "I'm here," I yelled.
"Upstairs. Come up and let me out!"
Then I turned with a smile of triumph to Bill.
"My friends have come," I said. "You're too late for the job. Get
back and tell your masters that."
He was swaying on his feet, and he suddenly lurched towards me. "You
come along. By God, you think you've done me. I'll let you see."
His voice was growing thick and he stopped short. "What the 'ell's
wrong with me?" he gasped. "I'm goin' all queer. I..."
He was like a man far gone in liquor, but three glasses of champagne
would never have touched a head like Bill's. I saw what was up with
him. He was not drunk, but drugged.
"They've doped the wine," I cried. "They put it there for me to
drink it and go to sleep."
There is always something which is the last straw to any man. You
may insult and outrage him and he will bear it patiently, but touch
the quick in his temper and he will turn. Apparently for Bill
drugging was the unforgivable sin. His eye lost for a moment its
confusion. He squared his shoulders and roared like a bull.
"Doped, by God," he cried. "Who done it?"
"The men who shut me in this room. Burst that door and you will find
them."
He turned a blazing face on the locked door and hurled his huge
weight on it. It cracked and bent but the lock and hinges held. I
could see that sleep was overwhelming him and that his limbs were
stiffening, but his anger was still strong enough for another effort.
Again he drew himself together like a big cat and flung himself on
the woodwork. The hinges tore from the jambs and the whole outfit
fell forward into the passage in a cloud of splinters and dust and
broken plaster.
It was Mr. Docker's final effort. He lay on the top of the wreckage
he had made, like Samson among the ruins of Gaza, a senseless and
slumbering hulk.
I picked up the unopened bottle of champagne--it was the only weapon
available--and stepped over his body. I was beginning to enjoy
myself amazingly.
As I expected, there was a man in the corridor, a little fellow in
waiter's clothes, with a tweed jacket instead of a dress coat. If he
had a pistol I knew I was done, but I gambled upon the disinclination
of the management for the sound of shooting.
He had a knife, but he never had a chance to use it. My champagne
bottle descended on his head and he dropped like a log.
There were men coming upstairs--not Chapman, for I still heard his
hoarse shouts in the dining-room. If they once got up they could
force me back through that hideous room by the door through which
Docker had come, and in five minutes I should be in their motor-car.
There was only one thing to do. I jumped from the stair-head right
down among them. I think there were three, and my descent toppled
them over. We rolled in a wild, whirling mass and cascaded into the
dining-room, where my head bumped violently on the parquet.
I expected a bit of a grapple, but none came. My wits were pretty
woolly, but I managed to scramble to my feet. The heels of my
enemies were disappearing up the staircase. Chapman was pawing my
ribs to discover if there were any bones broken. There was not
another soul in the room except two policemen who were pushing their
way in from the street.
Chapman was flushed and breathing heavily: his coat had a big split
down the seams at the shoulder, but his face was happy as a child's.
I caught his arm and spoke in his ear. "We've got to get out of this
at once. How can we square these policemen? There must be no
inquiry and nothing in the papers. Do you hear?"
"That's all right," said Chapman. "These bobbies are friends of
mine, two good lads from Wensleydale. On my road here I told them to
give me a bit of law and follow me, for I thought they might be
wanted. They didn't come too soon to spoil sport, for I've been
knocking furriners about for ten minutes. You seem to have been
putting up a tidy scrap yourself."
"Let's get home first," I said, for I was beginning to think of the
bigger thing.
I wrote a chit for Macgillivray which I asked one of the constables
to take to Scotland Yard. It was to beg that nothing should be done
yet in the business of the restaurant, and above all that nothing
should get into the papers. Then I asked the other to see us home.
It was a queer request for two able-bodied men to make on a summer
evening in the busiest part of London, but I was taking no chances.
The Power-House had declared war on me, and I knew it would be war
without quarter.
I was in a fever to get out of that place. My momentary lust of
battle had gone, and every stone of that building seemed to me a
threat. Chapman would have liked to spend a happy hour rummaging
through the house, but the gravity of my face persuaded him. The
truth is I was bewildered. I could not understand the reason of this
sudden attack. Lumley's spies must long ago have told him enough to
connect me with the Bokhara business. My visits to the Embassy alone
were sufficient proof. But now he must have found out something new,
something which startled him, or else there had been wild doings in
Turkestan.
I won't forget that walk home in a hurry. It was a fine July
twilight. The streets were full of the usual crowd, shop-girls in
thin frocks, promenading clerks, and all the flotsam of a London
summer. You would have said it was the safest place on earth. But I
was glad we had the policeman with us, who at the end of one beat
passed us on to his colleague, and I was glad of Chapman. For I am
morally certain I would never have got home alone.
The queer thing is that there was no sign of trouble till we got into
Oxford Street. Then I became aware that there were people on those
pavements who knew all about me. I first observed it at the mouth of
one of those little dark side-alleys which run up into mews and small
dingy courts. I found myself being skilfully edged away from Chapman
into the shadow, but I noticed it in time and butted my way back to
the pavement. I couldn't make out who the people were who hustled
me. They seemed nondescripts of all sorts, but I fancied there were
women among them.
This happened twice, and I got wary, but I was nearly caught before
we reached Oxford Circus. There was a front of a big shop
rebuilding, and the usual wooden barricade with a gate. Just as we
passed it there was a special throng on the pavement and I, being
next the wall, got pushed against the gate. Suddenly it gave and I
was pressed inward. I was right inside before I realised my danger,
and the gate was closing. There must have been people there, but I
could see nothing in the gloom.
It was no time for false pride. I yelled to Chapman and the next
second his burly shoulder was in the gap. The hustlers vanished and
I seemed to hear a polite voice begging my pardon.
After that Chapman and I linked arms and struck across Mayfair. But
I did not feel safe till I was in the flat with the door bolted.
We had a long drink and I stretched myself in an armchair, for I was
as tired as if I had come out of a big game of Rugby football.
"I owe you a good deal, old man," I said. "I think I'll join the
Labour Party. You can tell your fellows to send me their whips.
What possessed you to come to look for me?"
The explanation was simple. I had mentioned the restaurant in my
telephone message, and the name had awakened a recollection in
Chapman's mind. He could not fix it at first, but by and by he
remembered that the place had cropped up in the Routh case. Routh's
London headquarters had been at the restaurant in Antioch Street. As
soon as he remembered this he got into a taxi and descended at the
corner of the street, where by sheer luck he fell in with his
Wensleydale friends.
He said he had marched into the restaurant and found it empty, but
for an ill-favoured manager, who denied all knowledge of me. Then
fortunately he chose to make certain by shouting my name, and heard
my answer. After that he knocked the manager down, and was presently
assaulted by several men whom he described as "furrin' muck." They
had knives, of which he made very little, for he seems to have swung
a table as a battering ram and left sore limbs behind him.
He was on the top of his form. "I haven't enjoyed anything so much
since I was a lad at school," he informed me. "I was beginning to
think your Power-House was a wash-out, but Lord I it's been busy
enough to-night. This is what I call life!"
My spirits could not keep pace with his. The truth is that I was
miserably puzzled--not afraid so much as mystified. I couldn't make
out this sudden dead-set at me. Either they knew more than I
bargained for or I knew far too little.
"It's all very well," I said, "but I don't see how this is going to
end. We can't keep up the pace long. At this rate it will be only a
matter of hours till they get me."
We pretty well barricaded ourselves in the flat, and, at his earnest
request, I restored to Chapman his revolver. Then I got the clue I
had been longing for.
It was about eleven o'clock, while we were sitting smoking, when the
telephone bell rang. It was Felix who spoke.
"I have news for you," he said. "The hunters have met the hunted and
one of the hunters is dead. The other is a prisoner in our hands.
He has confessed."
It had been black murder in intent. The frontier police had shadowed
the two men into the cup of a glen where they met Tommy and
Pitt-Heron. The four had spoken together for a little, and then Tuke
had fired deliberately at Charles and had grazed his ear. Whereupon
Tommy had charged him and knocked the pistol from his hand. The
assailant had fled, but a long shot from the police on the hillside
had toppled him over. Tommy had felled Saronov with his fists, and
the man had abjectly surrendered. He had confessed, Felix said, but
what the confession was he did not know.