AMONG ALLIES.
The door had scarcely closed upon the retreating masquerader when once
again Barraclough slipped into the room. His clothes were white with
dust, his eyes hollow and deep set, but around the corners of his mouth
was just such a smile as any mother might hope to see.
"Bless your sweet bobbed head," he whispered, throwing an arm
affectionately about her shoulders. "Though why in blazes you
entertain well known crooks to tea gets me wondering."
"Oh, my dear, dear boy, wherever did you come from?" she cried, patting
him all over to convince herself of his reality.
"Down the chimney, mother, like Santa Claus."
"But why and without a word?"
"Hadn't a notion I was coming," he replied dropping on to the sofa and
spreading out his legs. "I was whacked to the wide and had to stop
somewhere and get me breath."
The door was flung open and Flora and Jane burst in.
"I say, that was a near shave," gasped the latter. "Where did you
spring from?"
"Somewhere t'other side of Plymouth. Keep your eye on the window,
Flora. Don't want that old blackbird to get a view of me. Thanks!
Fine. See him down the road, Jane?"
"You bet."
"It's damn bad luck him being here at all. When did he first show up?"
"Last night."
"There's been a mess-up somewhere and I was looking for a clean run
home."
"Home, dear?"
"Um! Back to London. How's mother's old car going, Flora?"
"Tiptop."
"Good, I shall need it. I say, I apologise for not saying how-de-do
but things have been moving today. Everyone feeling good? Fine.
Lord, I'm tired." And he passed a hand tied with a bloodstained
handkerchief across his brow.
Mrs. Barraclough was first to notice it and called for an explanation.
"Oh, that's all right--a scratch--bled a bit. Nothing to bother about.
Flora, if you leave that window unguarded you're sacked. Jane, if you
love me, a large and a small."
"But what is it all about?" Mrs. Barraclough implored after shaking her
head at the thought of whiskey.
"Money, dear--money and a bit of paper I carry in this note case that
is earnestly coveted by quite a number of people it doesn't belong to.
When I asked for a large and a small, Jane, I was endeavouring to
convey the idea that I was thirsty."
But Jane was reluctant to go and only consented to do so on a promise
that no secrets should be revealed in her absence.
"Be a darling, mother dear, and fill me a pipe."
It was characteristic of Anthony Barraclough that the entire household
revolved round him from the instant of appearance.
"Then there is something wrong with your hand," said the old lady
filling the pipe and putting it in the corner of his mouth, while Flora
risked a month's notice by rushing forward with a lighted match. "I
shall tie it up while you have your smoke."
Anthony's protests were unavailing when the ministering angel mood
descended upon his mother. At such a time she was inexorable. She
called upon Flora to fill the slop basin with warm water and provide
scissors (always so elusive when needed) and naturally Flora, who was
entirely absorbed in the adventurous side of the proceedings, could
only find the rose cutters which were entirely useless.
"It's a bullet wound," Mrs. Barraclough declared. "You can't deceive
me--it's a bullet wound."
"Well, p'raps it is, mother, but since it was never intended for my
hand we needn't bother about it."
"You must have it bandaged and go to bed straight away."
"Bed!" He threw back his head and laughed. "It's likely."
"And you'll want a sling."
"Not for this David, mother. A sling would be a fat lot of use against
the Goliaths I'm dealing with. Mother, I'm within a hundred and fifty
miles of being one of the richest men in the world and, as far as I can
see, they'll be the toughest miles I've ever covered in my life."
And suddenly from the window came Flora's cry of "Look out!"
Anthony did not waste time looking out but instead flung himself behind
the upright piano which stood out from the wall. Nor was he a moment
too soon for the massive form of Mr. Bolt was framed in the French
windows. Mrs. Barraclough took three steps toward him as also did
Flora, thus preventing a definite intrusion into the room.
"I beg your pardon--I do indeed beg your pardon," said Bolt in tones as
rich as the fat of pork, "but I fancy--I rather imagine--I--yes, to be
sure, left a pair of gloves on your sofa."
"If you had rung the bell, sir, your property would have been restored
to you in the usual manner. I cannot----"
She stopped as her uninvited guest was sniffing the air suspiciously.
"Mrs. Barraclough," he observed, shaking his head sadly, "I fear I have
caught you smoking."
Behind the piano Anthony was feverishly extinguishing his pipe with the
ball of his thumb.
"I smoke all day," replied Mrs. Barraclough.
The door opened and Jane came in with an abnormally large whiskey and
soda which she nearly dropped at the sight of the visitor.
"Oh! Mrs. Barraclough!" said Bolt, pointing an accusing finger.
But the old lady was equal to the moment.
"And drink," she said, seizing the glass and swallowing an immense gulp
that almost paralysed the muscles of her throat.
Mr. Bolt smiled cynically and took his gloves from Flora's outstretched
hand.
"Gloves are so expensive nowadays, are they not?" he asked.
"To be frank, Mr. Bolt, I do not wish to discuss with you either gloves
or Christianity," said Mrs. Barraclough. "I would be glad if you would
kindly leave by the way you came."
"I was about to do so, madam, after first thanking you for your
hospitality."
Maybe it was appreciation of his mother's inflexible bearing that
caused Anthony to relax, but whatever the reason the result was
disastrous. There was a small table alongside of where he stood hidden
upon which was a vase of sweet peas. Anthony's elbow struck and
overset it. There was a splash of water and a tinkle of glass.
The three women held their breath and Mr. Bolt's eyebrows went up and
down twice very quickly. Then he smiled.
"Once again allow me to thank you for your hospitality," he said.
"Show this person out," said Mrs. Barraclough.
And under the escort of Jane and Flora he was peremptorily bustled off
the premises.
"H'm," said Anthony, coming out from behind the piano. "That was a
pity."
Mrs. Barraclough was almost in tears.
"Do you think he realised you were hidden there?"
"Vases don't tumble over by themselves, mother dear, and our friend is
not a fool." He tapped his teeth with a thumb nail reflectively.
"Yes--yes--yes. We must curtail his activities. Can't have the old
viper sending messages. Settle down at the telephone, best of mothers."
"I do wish you would not address me as though I were a sitting hen,"
said Mrs. Barraclough, drawing up a chair to the writing table.
"The telephone, mother, and ask for the police station."
"But the policeman is sure to be out."
"Then talk to his missus."
"That would be impossible, dear, Mrs. Brassbound----"
But Anthony did not listen to the objection.
"Tell old Brassbound," said he, "to run in friend Skypilot if he
gravitates near the post office."
Mrs. Barraclough picked up the receiver and asked for the police
station and while waiting to be connected remarked weakly:
"There is no law to prevent people sending telegrams, dear."
"Then we must make a few to fit the occasion."
"Is that you, Mr. Brassbound?" said the old lady in answer to a voice
on the wire. "It's Mrs. Barraclough speaking. I wonder if you would
very kindly arrest a clergyman for me."
"Put a bit more sting in it, mother--ginger."
"Ginger," repeated Mrs. Barraclough into the mouthpiece. "No, no, I
didn't mean that. He's grey and elderly."
"Say he pinched something," Anthony prompted.
Mrs. Barraclough nodded.
"I rather fear he has appropriated a cream jug. Yes. I thought
perhaps he might send it off from the post office. Thank you. And how
is your wife progressing? Yes, of course she is. Yes, I am coming
down to see her this evening if I can get away. Goodbye."
"What's wrong with the policeman's missus?" demanded Anthony.
"As you're not a married man, Tony, I shall refuse to tell you," said
Mrs. Barraclough in the manner of Queen Victoria.
"Going to see her?"
"I was going to take her this basket of roses and some vegetables, but
as----"
"No, no, you take 'em and I'll go down to the village with you in the
car and take it on. You won't mind walking home across the fields."
"Anthony," said Mrs. Barraclough seriously. "Is it very real danger
you're in?"
"Pretty solid but don't you fret, I'm equal to it."
Flora and Jane came in from the garden.
"We've seen him down the road," they announced.
"Good. Now, look here, everyone, I've wasted a deuce of a lot of time
when I ought to have been on the way. Here's the position of affairs.
Flora, you're going to drive me to London."
"Right," said Flora with sparkling eyes.
"Jane! Still got that old service revolver I gave you?"
"Um."
"Keep it handy. Likely enough there'll be a couple of visitors here
before long and you've got to detain 'em somehow."
"I'll keep 'em till they grow roots," said Jane stoutly.
"It's a damn shame, dragging you into all this, but that bullet did me
in as a driver. It's no joke shoving a motor bike along with a bullet
through your hand."
"But how did you get the wound, dear?"
As hurriedly as possible he outlined the day's happenings from the
moment of landing at Polperro.
"Who are these men?" Flora demanded.
"Couple of spies belonging to a crowd that tried to prevent me leaving
London three weeks ago."
"But what do they want?"
Anthony held up the morocco letter case and restored it to his pocket.
"Just this. I've given 'em a pretty good lead all day--played hare and
hounds all over Dartmoor best part of the morning but somehow I don't
believe I've shaken 'em off."
"Where did you leave the bike?"
"Couple of miles back on the main road. Shoved her in a thicket.
Front tyre burst and that settled it. There's a bare hope they may
have been kidded into believing I'd gone straight on but it's slender
enough. Comberstone knows I have a home hereabouts and they're pretty
certain to have watched my tracks on the road. Mother's old bus is
going well you say?"
"I can whack her up to about a thirty average," said Flora.
"Thirty, and we've a hundred and fifty to go. Yes, yes--ought to be in
Town by eleven."
"Easy."
"Then I'll just swallow a snack of grub and push off straight away.
Get your engine started."
"There's a lovely pie in the larder, dear," said Mrs. Barraclough.
"Just the sort you like best. Jane! My motor cloak and bonnet."
She took Anthony's hand and they hurried kitchenward together.
Flora and Jane looked at one another, their eyes adance with excitement.
"Oh, isn't this gorgeous," said Jane.
"Simply topping," echoed Flora.
"You lucky beast to be going up with him."
"I like that, when you've got a shooting programme."
"Oh, well, I suppose the honours are divided. Good luck."
"Same to you."
They parted with a wave of the hand, Jane following her mistress and
Flora into the garden at a run. But she had scarcely reached the path
when two men came round the corner of the house and bore down upon her.
Harrison Smith was too good a strategist to announce his arrival by
driving up to the front door. He had left the Ford at the end of the
lane and entered the grounds by way of the kitchen garden. At the
sight of Flora he bowed very politely, greeting her with a charming
smile and an allusion to the clemency of the evening. It is possible
these social amenities might have carried some weight but for the
appearance of Freddie Dirk, whose heavy jowl, grimed with dust and
perspiration, was not consistent with the idea of an afternoon caller.
Flora fell back a pace into the room, wondering fearfully what course
she should pursue.
"Don't be frightened, my girl, don't be frightened," Harrison Smith
agreeably beseeched.
"Who are you? I don't know you," said Flora.
"We're friends of your master's, of course."
"That's it," said Dirk, huskily. "Pals of 'is, see!"
The tone was hardly convincing.
"My master is away, and has been away for some weeks."
"Yes, yes, yes, to be sure. But he's come back."
"No," said Flora.
"Look 'ere, girl,"--Dirk's fat, short-fingered paw fell on her
shoulders--"we ain't soft--do you get me? We knows what we're torkin'
abaht. Mister Barraclough is 'ere and the sooner----"
"Tut, tut, tut," Harrison Smith interrupted. "Don't talk like that,
Dirk--you're scaring the girl. Now listen to me. Your Master has
enemies, we're his friends. It is of the utmost importance we should
see him at once." He moved away and opened the door of Mrs.
Barraclough's bedroom. "As a matter of fact his life depends upon it."
"Yus--'is life," Dirk echoed.
"I tell you my master is not here."
"Isn't 'e--isn't 'e." Dirk's two hands fastened on Flora's wrist and
twisted the flesh in contrary directions, a domestic form of torture
known to the initiated as the Burning Bracelet.
"Let go, you brute--let go," she cried, and with her free hand caught
him a full swinging slap across the face.
What particular line Dirk's resentment would have taken is unknown, for
Harrison Smith came quickly between them with a muttered order and at
the same time the door opened and Jane ran in. It speaks well for her
courage that she did not cry out or betray alarm.
"Jane," gasped Flora very quickly, "these men want to see master--I've
told them he isn't here----"
"Quiet you," said Dirk threateningly, while Harrison Smith descended on
the new arrival under a coverlet of smiles.
"Come along, my dear," he said, "you're a sensible looking girl. Now
where's Mister Barraclough, eh?"
For a second Jane seemed lost in consideration, then shook her head
stupidly and replied in a rich brogue:
"Maister Bar'clough--doan't know 'un--never clapt eyes on 'un. 'Tis
on'y larst week I took sarvice 'ere t'oblige."
"Have you seen anyone strange about the premises today?"
"Noa."
"A man--tall--broad shouldered--wearing a blue suit and cap."
"Oh 'im," said Jane, her face lighting up with a semblance of
intelligence. "I did see some un 'bout 'arf an hour ago, 'twas."
"Yes, yes. Go on."
"Come out of tool shed at garden end and kept low by the 'edge."
"Did he enter the house?"
"Noa. 'E lit off down the road as fast as 'e cud make."
"Damn! We've missed 'im," roared Dirk.
"Which direction?"
"Away from village 'twas."
Dirk was tugging at Harrison Smith's sleeve and dragging him toward the
French windows.
"No, no," cried Smith, "the front way--it's quicker."
The two turned at the exact second Barraclough, entirely oblivious of
their presence, walked into the room. The light flashed dully on the
barrel of Harrison Smith's automatic.
"Put 'em up," he said, "put 'em up"--and as the order was obeyed--"Well
met indeed, Barraclough, well met indeed."