In the age of chivalry woman must have been built of sterner stuff than the girl of to-day. At least, we read in medieval romance of fair ladies who, after being knocked down by a masterful suitor and carried off across his saddle bow thirty or forty miles, are yet able to appear, cold but radiantly beautiful, at the midnight wedding and the subsequent marriage feast.
But this is a romance of the present day, the age of nerves and high velocity. Barbara Mackwayte, strong and plucky as she was, after being half throttled and violently thrown into the cellar of the Dyke Inn, suddenly gave way under the strain and conveniently evaded facing the difficulties of her position by fainting clear away.
The precise moment when she came out of her swoon she never knew. The cellar was dark; but it was nothing compared to the darkness enveloping her mind. She lay there on the damp and mouldy straw, hardly able, scarcely wanting, to move, overwhelmed by the extraordinary adventure which had befallen her. Was this to be the end of the pleasant trip into the country on which she had embarked so readily only a few hours before? She tried to remember that within twenty miles of her were policemen and taxis and lights and all the attributes of our present day civilization; but her thoughts always returned, with increasing horror, to that undersized yellow-faced man in the room above, to the face of Nur-el-Din, dark and distorted with passion.
A light shining down the cellar stairs drew her attention to the entrance. The woman she had already seen and in whom she now recognized Marie, the dancer's maid, was descending, a tray in her hand. She placed the tray on the ground without a word, then went up the stairs again and fetched the lamp. She put the lamp down by the tray and, stooping, cut the ropes that fastened Barbara's hands and feet.
"So, Mademoiselle," she said, drawing herself erect with a grunt, "your supper: some tea and meat!"
She pulled a dirty deal box from a corner of the cellar and put the tray upon it. Then she rose to her feet and sat down. The maid watched Barbara narrowly while she ate a piece of bread and drank the tea.
"At least," thought Barbara to herself, "they don't mean to starve me!"
The tea was hot and strong; and it did her good. It seemed to clear her faculties, too; for her brain began to busy itself with the problem of escaping from her extraordinary situation.
"Mademoiselle was a leetle too clevaire," said the maid with an evil leer,—"she would rob Madame, would she? She would play the espionne, hein? Eh bien, ma petite, you stay 'ere ontil you say what you lave done wiz ze box of Madame!"
"Why do you say I have stolen the box?" protested Barbara, "when I tell you I know nothing of it. It was stolen from me by the man who killed my father. More than that I don't know. You don't surely think I would conspire to kill" her voice trembled—"my father, to get possession of this silver box that means nothing to me!"
Marie laughed cynically.
"Ma foi," she cried, "when one is a spy, one will stop at nothing! But tiens, here is Madame!"
Nur-el-Din picked her way carefully down the steps, the yellow-faced man behind her. He had a pistol in his hand. The dancer said something in French to her maid who picked up the tray and departed.
"Now, Mademoiselle," said Nur-el-Din, "you see this pistol. Rass here will use it if you make any attempt to escape. You understand me, hein? I come to give you a las' chance to say where you 'ave my box..."
Barbara looked at the dancer defiantly.
"I've told you already I know nothing about it. You, if any one, should be better able to say what has become of it..."
"Quoi?" exclaimed Nur-el-Din in genuine surprise, "comment?"
"Because," said Barbara, "a long black hair—one of your hairs—was found adhering to the straps with which I was fastened!"
"Tiens!" said the dancer, her black eyes wide with surprise, "tiens!"
She was silent for a minute, lost in thought. The man, Rass, suddenly cocked his ear towards the staircase and said something to Nur-el-Din in the same foreign tongue which Barbara had heard them employ before.
The dancer made a gesture, bidding him to be silent.
"He was at my dressing-table that night;" she murmured in French, as though to herself, "then it was he who did it!"
She spoke rapidly to Barbara.
"This man who tied you up... you didn't see him?"
Barbara shook her head.
"I could see nothing; I don't even know that it was a man. He seized me so suddenly that in the dark I could distinguish nothing... it might have been a woman... yourself, for instance, for all I know!"
Nur-el-Din clasped her hands together.
"It was he, himself, then," she whispered, "I might have known. Yet he has not got it here!"
Heavy footsteps resounded in the room above. Rass cried out something swiftly to the dancer, thrust the pistol into her hands, and dashed up the ladder. The next moment there was a loud report followed by the thud of a heavy body falling. Somewhere in the rooms above a woman screamed.
Nur-el-Din's hands flew to her face and the pistol crashed to the ground. Two men appeared at the head of the cellar stairs. One was Strangwise, in uniform, the other was Bellward.
"They're both here!" said Strangwise over his shoulder to Bellward.
"Ah, thank God, you've come!" cried Barbara, running to the foot of the ladder.
Strangwise brushed past her and caught Nur-el-Din by the arm.
"Run her upstairs," he said quickly to Bellward who had followed behind him, "and lock her in her room. I've seen to the rest. You, Miss Mackwayte," he added to Barbara, "you will come with us!"
Barbara was staring in fascination at Bellward. She had never believed that any disguise could be so baffling, so complete; Major Okewood, she thought, looked like a different man.
But Bellward had grasped the dancer by the two arms and forced her up the stairs in front of him. Nur-el-Din seemed too overcome with terror to utter a sound.
"Oh, don't be so rough with her, Major Okewood!" entreated Barbara, "you'll hurt her!"
She had her back turned to Strangwise so she missed the very remarkable change that came over his features at her words.
"Okewood," he whispered but too low for the girl to distinguish the words, "Okewood? I might have guessed! I might have guessed!" Then he touched Barbara lightly on the shoulder.
"Come," he said, "we must be getting upstairs. We have much to do!"
He gently impelled her towards the ladder up which Bellward and Nur-el-Din had already disappeared. At the top, he took the lead and conducted Barbara into the taproom. A single candle stood on the table, throwing a wan light into the room. Rass lay on his back in the centre of the floor, one hand doubled up under him, one knee slightly drawn up.
Barbara started back in horror.
"Is he... is he..." she stammered, pointing at the limp still form.
Strangwise nodded.
"A spy!" he said gravely, "we were well rid of him. Go over there in the corner where you won't see it. Stay!" he added, seeing how pale the girl had become, "you shall have some brandy!"
He produced a flask and measured her out, a portion in the cup. Suddenly, the door leading from the bar opened and a woman came into the room. Her black velvet dress, her gray hair and general air of distinction made her a bizarre figure in that squalid room lit by the guttering candle.
"Time we were off!" she said to Strangwise, "Bellward's just coming down!"
"There's the maid..." began Strangwise, looking meaningly at Barbara.
The woman in black velvet cast a questioning glance at him.
Strangwise nodded.
"I'll do it," said the woman promptly, "if you'll call her down!"
Strangwise went to the other door of the tap-room and called:
"Marie!"
There was a step outside and the maid came in, pale and trembling.
"Your mistress wants you; she is downstairs in the cellar," he said pleasantly.
Marie hesitated an instant and surveyed the group.
"Non, non," she said nervously, "je n'veux pas descendre!"
Strangwise smiled, showing his teeth.
"No need to be frightened, ma fille," he replied. "Madame here will go down with you!" and he pointed to the woman in black velvet.
This seemed to reassure the maid and she walked across the room to the door, the woman following her. As the latter passed Strangwise he whispered a word in her ear.
"No, no," answered the other, "I prefer my own way," and she showed him something concealed in her hand.
The two women quitted the room together, leaving Strangwise and Barbara alone with the thing on the floor. Strangwise picked up a military great-coat which was hanging over the back of a chair and put it on, buttoning it all the way up the front and turning up the collar about the neck. Then he crammed a cap on his head and stood listening intently.
A high, gurgling scream, abruptly checked, came through the open door at the farther end of the room.
Barbara sprang up from the chair into which she had sunk.
"What was that" she asked, whispering.
Strangwise did not reply. He was still listening, a tall, well set-up figure in the long khaki great-coat.
"But those two women are alone in the cellar," exclaimed Barbara, "they are being murdered! Ah! what was that?"
A gentle thud resounded from below.
A man came in through the door leading from the bar:
He had a fat, smooth-shaven face, heavily jowled.
"All ready, Bellward?" asked Strangwise carelessly.
Barbara stared at the man thus addressed. She saw that he was wearing the same clothes as the man who had come down into the cellar with Strangwise but the beard was gone. And the man she saw before her was not Desmond Okewood.
Without waiting to reason out the metamorphosis, she ran towards Bellward.
"They're murdering those two women down in the cellar," she cried, "oh, what has happened? Won't you go down and see?"
Bellward shook her off roughly.
"Neat work!" said Strangwise.
"She's a wonder with the knife!" agreed the other.
Barbara stamped her foot.
"If neither of you men have the courage to go down," she cried, "then I'll go alone! As for you, Captain Strangwise, a British officer..."
She never finished the sentence. Strangwise caught her by the shoulder and thrust the cold barrel of a pistol in her face.
"Stay where you are!" he commanded. "And if you scream I shoot!"
Barbara was silent, dumb with horror and bewilderment, rather than with fear. A light shone through the open door at the end of the tap-room and the woman in black velvet appeared, carrying a lamp in her hand She was breathing rather hard and her carefully arranged gray hair was a little untidy; but she was quite calm and self-possessed.
"We haven't a moment to lose!" she said, putting the lamp down on the table and blowing it out.
"Bellward, give me my cloak!"
Bellward advanced with a fur cloak and wrapped it about her shoulders.
"You are the perfect artiste, Minna," he said.
"Practise makes perfect!" replied Mrs. Malplaquet archly.
Strangwise had flung open the door leading to the front yard. A big limousine stood outside.
"Come on," he said impatiently, "don't stand there gossiping you two!"
Then Barbara revolted.
"I'll not go!" she exclaimed, "you can do what you like but I'll stay where I am! Murderers..."
"Oh," said Strangwise wearily, "bring her along, Bellward!"
Bellward and the woman seized the girl one by each arm and dragged her to the car. Strangwise had the door open and between them they thrust her in. Bellward and the woman mounted after her while Strangwise, after starting the engine, sprang into the driving-seat outside. With a low hum the big car glided forth into the cold, starry night.
From the upper floor of the Dyke Inn came the sound of a woman's terrified sobs. Below there reigned the silence of death.
Mr. Arthur Mackwayte slipped noiselessly into the dining-room and took his place at the table. He always moved quietly, a look of gentle deprecation on his face as much as to say: "Really, you know, I can't help being here: if you will just overlook me this time, by and by you won't notice I'm there at all!" That was how he went through life, a shy, retiring little man, quiet as a mouse, gentle as a dove, modesty personified.
That is, at least, how Mr. Arthur Mackwayte struck his friends in private life. Once a week, however, he fairly screamed at the public from the advertisement columns of "The Referee": "Mackwayte, in his Celebrated Kerbstone Sketches. Wit! Pathos! Tragedy!!! The Epitome of London Life. Universally Acclaimed as the Greatest Portrayer of London Characters since the late Chas. Dickens. In Tremendous Demand for Public Dinners. The Popular Favorite. A Few Dates still Vacant. 23, Laleham Villas, Seven Kings. 'Phone" and so on.
But only professionally did Mr. Mackwayte thus blow his own trumpet, and then in print alone. For the rest, he had nothing great about him but his heart. A long and bitter struggle for existence had left no hardness in his smooth-shaven flexible face, only wrinkles. His eyes were gray and keen and honest, his mouth as tender as a woman's.
His daughter, Barbara, was already at table pouring out the tea—high tea is still an institution in music-hall circles. Mr. Mackwayte always gazed on this tall, handsome daughter of his with amazement as the great miracle of his life. He looked at her now fondly and thought how.... how distinguished, yes, that was the word, she looked in the trim blue serge suit in which she went daily to her work at the War Office.
"Rations a bit slender to-night, daddy," she said, handing him his cup of tea, "only sardines and bread and butter and cheese. Our meatless day, eh?"
"It'll do very well for me, Barbara, my dear," he answered in his gentle voice, "there have been times when your old dad was glad enough to get a cup of tea and a bite of bread and butter for his supper. And there's many a one worse off than we are today!"
"Any luck at the agent's, daddy?"
Mr. Mackwayte shook his head.
"These revues are fair killing the trade, my dear, and that's a fact. They don't want art to-day, only rag-time and legs and all that. Our people are being cruelly hit by it and that's a fact. Why, who do you think I ran into at Harris' this morning? Why, Barney who used to work with the great Charles, you know, my dear. For years he drew his ten pound a week regular. Yet there he was, looking for a job the same as the rest of us. Poor fellow, he was down on his luck!"
Barbara looked up quickly.
"Daddy, you lent him money...."
Mr. Mackwayte looked extremely uncomfortable.
"Only a trifle, my dear, just a few shillings.... to take him over the week-end.... he's getting something.... he'll repay me, I feel sure...."
"It's too bad of you, daddy," his daughter said severely. "I gave you that ten shillings to buy yourself a bottle of whiskey. You know he won't pay you back. That Barney's a bad egg!"
"Things are going bad with the profession," replied Mr. Mackwayte. "They don't seem to want any of us old stagers today, Barbara!"
"Now, daddy, you know I don't allow you to talk like that. Why, you are only just finished working.... the Samuel Circuit, too!"
Barbara looked up at the old man quickly.
"Only, four weeks' trial, my dear.... they didn't want me, else they would have given me the full forty weeks. No, I expect I am getting past my work. But it's hard on you child...."
Barbara sprang up and placed her hand across her father's mouth.
"I won't have you talk like that, Mac"—that was her pet name for him—"you've worked hard all your life and now it's my turn. Men have had it all their own way before this war came along: now women are going to have a look in. Presently' when I get to be supervisor of my section and they raise my pay again, you will be able to refuse all offers of work. You can go down to Harris with a big cigar in your mouth and patronize him, daddy..."
The telephone standing on the desk in the corner of the cheap little room tingled out sharply. Barbara rose and went across to the desk. Mr. Mackwayte thought how singularly graceful she looked as she stood, very slim, looking at him whimsically across the dinner-table, the receiver in her hand.
Then a strange thing happened. Barbara quickly put the receiver down on the desk and clasped her hands together, her eyes opened wide in amazement.
"Daddy," she cried, "it's the Palaceum... the manager's office... they want you urgently! Oh, daddy, I believe it is an engagement!"
Mr. Mackwayte rose to his feet in agitation, a touch of color creeping into his gray cheeks.
"Nonsense, my dear!" he answered, "at this time of night! Why, it's past eight... their first house is just finishing... they don't go engaging people at this time of day... they've got other things to think of!"
He went over to the desk and picked up the receiver.
"Mackwayte speaking!" he said, with a touch of stage majesty in his voice.
Instantly a voice broke in on the other end of the wire, a perfect torrent of words.
"Mackwayte? Ah! I'm glad I caught you at home. Got your props there? Good. Hickie of Hickie and Flanagan broke his ankle during their turn at the first house just now, and I want you to take their place at the second house. Your turn's at 9.40: it's a quarter past eight now: I'll have a car for you at your place at ten to nine sharp. Bring your band parts and lighting directions with you... don't forget! You get twenty minutes, on! Right! Goodbye!"
"The Palaceum want me to deputize for Hickie and Flanagan, my dear," he said a little tremulously' "9.40... the second house... it's... it's very unexpected!"
Barbara ran up and throwing her arms about his neck, kissed him.
"How splendid!" she exclaimed, "the Palaceum, daddy! You've never had an engagement like this before... the biggest hall in London...!!
"Only for a night, my dear"' said Mr. Mackwayte modestly.
"But if they like you, daddy, if it goes down... what will you give them, daddy?"
Mr. Mackwayte scratched his chin.
"It's the biggest theatre in London"' he mused, "It'll have to be broad effects... and they'll want something slap up modern, my dear, I'm thinking..."
"No, no, daddy" his daughter broke in vehemently "they want the best. This is a London audience, remember, not a half-baked provincial house. This is London, Mac, not Wigan! And Londoners love their London! You'll give 'em the old London horse bus driver, the sporting cabby, and I believe you'll have time to squeeze in the hot potato man..."
"Well, like your poor dear mother, I expect you know what's the best I've got" replied Mr. Mackwayte, "but it'll be a bit awkward with a strange dresser... I can't get hold of Potter at this time, of night... and a stranger is sure to mix up my wigs and things..."
"Why, daddy, I'm going with you to put out your things..."
"But a lady clerk in the War Office, Barbara... a Government official, as you might say... go behind at a music-hall... it don't seem proper right, my dear!"
"Nonsense, Mac. Where Is your theatre? Come along. We'll have to try and get a taxi!"
"They're sending a car at ten to nine, my dear!"
"Good gracious! what swells we are! And it's half-past eight already! Who is on the bill with you?"
"My dear, I haven't an idea... I'm not very well up in the London programmes' I'm afraid... but it is sure to be a good programme. The Palaceum is the only house that's had the courage to break away from this rotten revue craze!"
Barbara was in the hall now, her arms plunged to the shoulder in a great basket trunk that smelt faintly of cocoa-butter. Right and left she flung coats and hats and trousers and band parts, selecting with a sure eye the properties which Mr. Mackwayte would require for the sketches he would play that evening. In the middle of it all the throbbing of a car echoed down the quiet road outside. Then there came a ring at the front door.
At half-past nine that night, Barbara found herself standing beside her father in the wings of the vast Palaceum stage. Just at her back was the little screened-off recess where Mr. Mackwayte was to make the quick changes that came in the course of his turn. Here, since her arrival in the theatre, Barbara had been busy laying out coats and hats and rigs and grease-paints on the little table below the mirror with its two brilliant electric bulbs, whilst Mr. Mackwayte was in his dressing-room upstairs changing into his first costume.
Now, old Mackwayte stood at her elbow in his rig-out as an old London bus-driver in the identical, characteristic clothes which he had worn for this turn for the past 25 years. He was far too old a hand to show any nervousness he might feel at the ordeal before him. He was chatting in undertones in his gentle, confidential way to the stage manager.
All around them was that curious preoccupied stillness hush of the power-house which makes the false world of the stage so singularly unreal by contrast when watched from the back. The house was packed from floor to ceiling, for the Palaceum's policy of breaking away from revue and going back to Mr. Mackwayte called "straight vaudeville" was triumphantly justifying itself.
Standing in the wings, Barbara could almost feel the electric current running between the audience and the comedian who, with the quiet deliberation of the finished artist, was going through his business on the stage. As he made each of his carefully studied points, he paused, confident of the vast rustle of laughter swelling into a hurricane of applause which never failed to come from the towering tiers of humanity before him, stretching away into the roof where the limelights blazed and spluttered. Save for the low murmur of voices at her side, the silence behind the scenes was absolute. No one was idle. Everyone was at his post, his attention concentrated on that diminutive little figure in the ridiculous clothes which the spot-lights tracked about the stage.
It was the high-water mark of modern music-hall development. The perfect smoothness of the organization gave Barbara a great feeling of contentment for she knew how happy her father must be. Everyone had been so kind to him. "I shall feel a stranger amongst the top-liners of today, my dear," he had said to her in the car on their way to the hall. She had had no answer ready for she had feared he spoke the truth.
Yet everyone they had met had tried to show them that Arthur Mackwayte was not forgotten. The stage-door keeper had known him in the days of the old Aquarium and welcomed him by name. The comedian who preceded Mr. Mackwayte and who was on the stage at that moment had said, "Hullo, Mac! Come to give us young 'uns some tips?" And even now the stage manager was talking over old days with her father.
"You had a rough but good schooling, Mac," he was saying, "but, by Jove, it gave us finished artists. If you saw the penny reading line that comes trying to get a job here... and gets it, by Gad!... it'd make you sick. I tell you I have my work cut out staving them off! It's a pretty good show this week, though, and I've given you a good place, Mac... you're in front of Nur-el-Din!"
"Nur-el-Din?" repeated Mr. Mackwayte' "what is it, Fletcher? A conjurer?"
"Good Lord' man' where have you been living?" replied Fletcher. "Nur-el-Din is the greatest vaudeville proposition since Lottie Collins. Conjurer! That's what she is, too, by Jove! She's the newest thing in Oriental dancers... Spaniard or something... wonderful clothes, what there is of 'em... and jewelry... wait till you see her!"
"Dear me"' said Mr. Mackwayte' "I'm afraid I'm a bit behind the times. Has she been appearing here long?"
"First appearance in London, old man' and she's made good from the word 'Go!' She's been in Paris and all over the Continent, and America, too, I believe, but she had to come to me to soar to the top of the bill. I saw at once where she belonged! She's a real artiste, temperament, style and all that sort of thing and a damn good producer into the bargain! But the worst devil that ever escaped out of hell never had a wickeder temper! She and I fight all the time! Not a show, but she doesn't keep the stage waiting! But I won! I won't have her prima donna tricks in this theatre and so I've told her! Hullo, Georgie's he's finishing..."
The great curtain switched down suddenly, drowning a cascade of applause, and a bundle of old clothes, twitching nerves, liquid perspiration and grease paint hopped off the stage into the centre of the group. An electric bell trilled, the limelights shut off, with a jerk that made the eyes ache, a back-cloth soared aloft and another glided down into its place, the comedian took two, three, four calls, then vanished into a horde of dim figures scuttling about in the gloom.
An electric bell trilled again and deep silence fell once more, broken only by the hissing of the lights.
"You ought to stop behind after your turn and see her, Mac," the stage manager's voice went on evenly. "All right, Jackson! On you go, Mac!"
Barbara felt her heart jump. Now for it, daddy!
The great curtain mounted majestically and Arthur Mackwayte, deputy turn, stumped serenely on to the stage.
It was the slack hour at the Nineveh Hotel. The last groups about the tea-tables in the Palm Court had broken up, the Tzigane orchestra had stacked its instruments together on its little platform and gone home, and a gentle calm rested over the great hotel as the forerunner of the coming dinner storm.
The pre-dinner hour is the uncomfortable hour of the modern hotel de luxe. The rooms seem uncomfortably hot, the evening paper palls, it is too early to dress for dinner, so one sits yawning over the fire, longing for a fireside of one's own. At least that is how it strikes one from the bachelor standpoint, and that is how it appeared to affect a man who was sitting hunched up in a big arm-chair in the vestibule of the Nineveh Hotel on this winter afternoon.
His posture spoke of utter boredom. He sprawled full length in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his, eyes half-closed, various editions of evening papers strewn about the ground at his feet. He was a tall, well-groomed man, and his lithe, athletic figure looked very well in its neat uniform.
A pretty little woman who sat at one of the writing desks in the vestibule glanced at him more than once. He was the sort of man that women look at with interest. He had a long, shrewd, narrow head, the hair dark and close-cropped, a big, bold, aquiline nose, and a firm masterful chin, dominated by a determined line of mouth emphasised by a thin line of moustache. He would have been very handsome but for his eyes, which, the woman decided as she glanced at him, were set rather too close together. She thought she would prefer him as he was now, with his eyes glittering in the fire-light through their long lashes.
But what was most apparent was the magnificent physical fitness of the man. His was the frame of the pioneer, the man of the earth's open spaces and uncharted wilds. He looked as hard as nails, and the woman murmured to herself, as she went on with her note, "On leave from the front."
Presently, the man stirred, stretched himself and finally sat up. Then he started, sprang to his feet, and strode easily across the vestibule to the reception desk. An officer was standing there in a worn uniform, a very shabby kit-bag by his side, a dirty old Burberry over his arm.
"Okewood!" said the young man and touched the other on the shoulder, "isn't it Desmond Okewood? By Jove, I am glad to see you!"
The new-comer turned quickly.
"Why, hullo," he said, "if it isn't Maurice Strangwise! But, good heavens, man, surely I saw your name in the casualty list... missing, wasn't it?"
"Yep!" replied the other smiling, "that's so! It's a long story and it'll keep! But tell me about yourself... this," he kicked the kit-bag with the toe of his boot, "looks like a little leave! Just in from France?"
He smiled again, baring his firm, white teeth, and looking at him Desmond suddenly remembered, as one recalls a trifle, his trick of smiling. It was a frank enough smile but... well, some people smile too much.
"Got in just now by the leave train," answered Desmond.
"How much leave have you got?" asked Strangwise.
"Well," said the other, "it's a funny thing, but I don't know!"
"Say, are they giving unlimited leave over there now?"
Desmond laughed.
"Hardly," he replied. "But the War Office just applied for me to come over and here I am! What they want me for, whether it's to advise the War Council or to act as Quartermaster to the Jewish Battalion I can't tell you! I shan't know until tomorrow morning! In the meantime I'm going to forget the war for this evening!"
"What are you going to do to-night?" asked Strangwise.
Desmond began to check off on his fingers.
"Firstly, I'm going to fill the biggest bath in this hotel with hot water, get the biggest piece of Pears' soap in London, and jump in: Then, if my tailor hasn't betrayed me, I'm going to put on dress clothes, and whilst I am dressing summon Julien (if he's maitre d'hotel here) to a conference, then I'm going to eat the best dinner that this pub can provide. Then..."
Strangwise interrupted him.
"The bath is on you, if you like," he said, "but the dinner's on me and a show afterwards. I'm at a loose end, old man, and so are you, so we'll hit up together! We'll dine in the restaurant here 7.30, and Julien shall come up to your room so that you can order the dinner. Is it a go?"
"Rather," laughed Desmond, "I'll eat your dinner, Maurice, and you shall tell me how you managed to break out of the casualty list into the Nineveh Hotel. But what do all these anxious-looking gentry want?"
The two officers turned to confront a group of four men who were surveying them closely. One of them, a fat, comfortable looking party with grizzled hair, on seeing Desmond, walked up to him.
"Hullo!" said Desmond, "it's Tommy Spencer! How are you, Spencer? What's the betting in Fleet Street on the war lasting another five years? Have you come to interview me?"
The tubby little man beamed and shook hands effusively.
"Glad to see you looking so well, Major," he said, "It's your friend we want..."
"What? Strangwise? Here, Maurice, come meet my friend Tommy Spencer of the "Daily Record," whom I haven't seen since we went on manoeuvres together down at Aldershot! Captain Strangwise, Tommy Spencer! Now, then, fire away; Spencer!"
Strangwise smiled and shook his head.
"I'm very pleased to know your friend, Desmond," he said, "but, you know, I can't talk! I had the strictest orders from the War Office... It's on account of the other fellows, you know..."
Desmond looked blankly at him. Then he—turned to Spencer.
"You must let me into this, Spencer," he said, "what's old Maurice been up to? Has he been cashiered for wearing shoes or what?"
Spencer's manner became a trifle formal.
"Captain Strangwise has escaped from a prisoners' of war camp in Germany, Major," he said, "we've been trying to get hold of him for days! He's the talk of London!"
Desmond turned like a shot.
"Maurice!" he cried, "'pon my soul, I'm going to have an interesting evening... why, of course, you are just the sort of fellow to do a thing like that. But, Spencer, you know, it won't do... fellows are never allowed to talk to the newspaper men about matters of this kind. And if you're a good fellow, Spencer, you won't even say that you have seen Strangwise here... you'll only get him into trouble!"
The little man looked rather rueful.
"Oh, of course, Major, if you put it that way," he said.
"... And you'll use your influence to make those other fellows with you drop it, will you, Spencer? And then come along to the bar and we'll have a drink for old times' sake!"
Spencer seemed doubtful about the success of his representations to his colleagues but he obediently trotted away. Apparently, he succeeded in his mission for presently he joined the two officers alone in the American Bar.
"I haven't seen Strangwise for six months, Spencer," said Desmond over his second cocktail. "Seeing him reminds me how astonishing it is the way fellows drop apart in war. Old Maurice was attached to the Brigade of which I am the Brigade Major as gunner officer, and we lived together for the best part of three months, wasn't it, Maurice? Then he goes back to his battery and the next thing I hear of him is that he is missing. And then I'm damned if he doesn't turn up here!"
Spencer cocked an eye at Strangwise over his Martini.
"I'd like to hear your story, despite the restrictions," he said.
Strangwise looked a trifle embarrassed.
"Maybe I'll tell you one day," he replied in his quiet way, "though, honestly, there's precious little to tell..."
Desmond marked his confusion and respected him for it. He rushed in to the rescue.
"Spencer," he said abruptly, "what's worth seeing in London? We are going to a show to-night. I want to be amused, mark you, not elevated!"
"Nur-el-Din at the Palaceum," replied the reporter.
"By Jove, we'll go there," said Desmond, turning to Maurice. "Have you ever seen her? I'm told she's perfectly marvelous..."
"It's an extraordinarily artistic turn," said Spencer, "and they're doing wonderful business at the Palaceum. You'd better go and see the show soon, though, for they tell me the lady is leaving the programme."
"No!" exclaimed Strangwise so suddenly that Desmond turned round and stared at him. "I thought she was there for months yet..."
"They don't want her to go," answered Spencer, "she's a perfect gold-mine to them but I gather the lady is difficult... in fact, to put it bluntly she's making such a damn nuisance of herself with her artistic temperament that they can't get on with her at all."
"Do you know this lady of the artistic temperament, Maurice?" asked Desmond.
Strangwise hesitated a moment.
"I met her in Canada a few years ago," he said slowly, "she was a very small star then. She's a very handsome and attractive girl, in spite of our friend's unfavorable verdict. There's something curiously real about her dancing, too, that you don't find in this sort of show as a rule!"
He stopped a moment, then added abruptly:
"We'll go along to the Palaceum to-night, if you like, Desmond," and Desmond joyfully acquiesced. To one who has been living for weeks in an ill-ventilated pill-box on the Passchendaele Ridge, the lights and music and color of a music-hall seem as a foretaste of Paradise.
And that was what Desmond Okewood thought as a few hours later he found himself with Maurice Strangwise in the stalls of the vast Palaceum auditorium. In the unwonted luxury of evening clothes he felt clean and comfortable, and the cigar he way smoking was the climax of one of Julien's most esoteric efforts.
The cards on either side of the proscenium opening bore the words: "Deputy Turn." On the stage was a gnarled old man with ruddy cheeks and a muffler. a seedy top hat on his head, a coaching whip in his hand, the old horse bus-driver of London in his habit as he had lived. The old fellow stood there and just talked to the audience of a fine sporting class of men that petrol has driven from the streets, without exaggerated humor or pathos. Desmond, himself a born Cockney, at once fell under the actor's spell and found all memories of the front slipping away from him as the old London street characters succeeded one another on the stage. Then the orchestra blared out, the curtain descended, and the house broke into a great flutter of applause.
Desmond, luxuriating in his comfortable stall puffed at his cigar and fell into a pleasant reverie.
He was contrasting the ghastly nightmare of mud and horrors from which he had only just emerged with the scene of elegance, of civilization; around him.
Suddenly, his attention became riveted on the stage. The atmosphere of the theatre had changed. Always quick at picking up "influences," Desmond instantly sensed a new mood in the throngs around him. A presence was in the theatre, an instinct-awakening, a material influence. The great audience was strangely hushed. The air was heavy with the tent of incense. The stringed instruments and oboes in the orchestra were wandering into [Updater's note: a line appears to be missing from the source here] rhythmic dropped.
Maurice touched his elbow.
"There she is!" he said.
Desmond felt inclined to shake him off roughly. The interruption jarred on him. For he was looking at this strangely beautiful girl with her skin showing very brown beneath a wonderful silver tiara-like headdress, and in the broad interstices of a cloth-of-silver robe with short, stiffly wired-out skirt. She was seated, an idol, on a glittering black throne, at her feet with their tapering dyed nails a fantastically attired throng of worshipers.
The idol stirred into life, the music of the orchestra died away. Then a tom-tom began to beat its nervous pulse-stirring throb, the strident notes of a reed-pipe joined in and the dancer, raised on her toes on the dais, began to sway languorously to and fro. And so she swayed and swayed with sinuously curving limbs while the drums throbbed out faster with ever-shortening beats, with now and then a clash of brazen cymbals that was torture to overwrought nerves.
The dancer was the perfection of grace. Her figure was lithe and supple as a boy's. There was a suggestion of fire and strength and agility about her that made one think of a panther as she postured there against a background of barbaric color. The grace of her movements, the exquisite blending of the colors on the stage, the skillful grouping of the throng of worshipers, made up a picture which held the audience spellbound and in silence until the curtain dropped.
Desmond turned to find Strangwise standing up.
"I thought of just running round behind the scenes for a few minutes," he said carelessly.
"What, to see Nur-el-Din? By Jove, I'm coming, too!" promptly exclaimed Desmond.
Strangwise demurred. He didn't quite know if he could take him: there might be difficulties: another time... But Desmond got up resolutely.
"I'll be damned if you leave me behind, Maurice," he laughed, "of course I'm coming, too! She's the most delightful creature I've ever set eyes on!"
And so it ended by them going through the pass-door together.
"This is Mrs. Chugg, sir," said Mr. Marigold, "the charwoman who found the body!"
The Chief and Desmond stood at the detective's side in the Mackwaytes' little dining-room. The room was in considerable disorder. There was a litter of paper, empty bottles, overturned cruets and other debris on the floor, evidence of the thoroughness with which the burglar had overhauled the cheap fumed oak sideboard which stood against the wall with doors and drawers open. In the corner, the little roll-top desk showed a great gash in the wood round the lock where it had been forced. The remains of a meal still stood on the table.
Mrs. Chugg, a diminutive, white-haired, bespectacled woman in a rusty black cape and skirt, was enthroned in the midst of this scene of desolation. She sat in an armchair by the fire, her hands in her lap, obviously supremely content with the position of importance she enjoyed. At the sound of Mr. Marigold's voice, she bobbed up and regarded the newcomers with the air of a tragedy queen.
"Yus mister," she said with the slow deliberation of one who thoroughly enjoys repeating an oft-told tale, "I found the pore man and a horrid turn it give me, too, I declare! I come in early this morning a-purpose to turn out these two rooms, the dining-room and the droring-room, same as I always do of a Saturday, along of the lidy's horders and wishes. I come in 'ere fust, to pull up the blinds and that, and d'reckly I switches on the light 'Burglars!' I sez to meself, 'Burglars! That's wot it is!' seeing the nasty mess the place was in. Up I nips to Miss Mackwayte's room on the first floor and in I bursts. 'Miss,' sez I, 'Miss, there's been burglars in the house!' and then I sees the pore lamb all tied up there on 'er blessed bed! Lor, mister, the turn it give me and I ain't telling you no lies! She was strapped up that tight with a towel crammed in 'er mouth she couldn't 'ardly dror 'er breath! I undid 'er pretty quick and the fust thing she sez w'en I gets the towl out of her mouth, the pore dear, is 'Mrs. Chugg,' she sez all of a tremble as you might say, 'Mrs. Chugg' sez she, 'my father! my father!' sez she. With that up she jumps but she 'adn't put foot to the floor w'en down she drops! It was along of 'er being tied up orl that time, dyer see, mister! I gets 'er back on the bed. 'You lie still, Miss,' says I, 'and I'll pop in and tell your pa to come in to you!' Well; I went to the old genelmun's room. Empty!"
Mrs. Chugg paused to give her narrative dramatic effect.
"And where did you find Mr. Mackwayte?" asked the Chief in such a placid voice that Mrs. Chugg cast an indignant glance at him.
"I was jes' going downstairs to see if 'e was in the kitching or out at the back," she continued, unheeding the interruption, "when there on the landing I sees a foot asticking out from under the curting. I pulls back the curting and oh, Lor! oh, dear, oh, dear, the pore genelmun, 'im as never did a bad turn to no one!"
"Come, come, Mrs. Chugg!" said the detective.
The charwoman wiped her eyes and resumed.
"'E was a-lying on his back in 'is dressing-gown, 'is face all burnt black, like, and a fair smother o' blood. Under 'is hed there was a pool o' blood, mister, yer may believe me or not..."
Mr. Marigold cut in decisively.
"Do you wish to see the body, sir?" the detective asked the Chief, "they're upstairs photographing it!"
The Chief nodded. He and Desmond followed the detective upstairs, whilst Mrs. Chugg resentfully resumed her seat by the fire. On her face was the look of one who has cast pearls before swine.
"Any finger-prints?" asked the Chief in the hall.
"Oh, no," he said, "Barney's far too old a hand for that sort o' thing!"
The landing proved to be a small space, covered with oilcloth and raised by a step from the bend made by the staircase leading to the first story. On the left-hand side was a window looking on a narrow passage separating the Mackwayte house from its neighbors and leading to the back-door. By the window stood a small wicker-work table with a plant on it. At the back of the landing was a partition, glazed half-way up and a door—obviously the bath-room.
The curtain had been looped right over its brass rod. The body lay on its back at the foot of the table, arms flung outward, one leg doubled up, the other with the foot just jutting out over the step leading down to the staircase. The head pointed towards the bath-room door. Over the right eye the skin of the face was blackened in a great patch and there was a large blue swelling, like a bruise, in the centre. There was a good deal of blood on the face which obscured the hole made by the entrance of the bullet. The eyes were half-closed. A big camera, pointed downwards, was mounted on a high double ladder straddling the body and was operated by a young man in a bowler hat who went on with his work without taking the slightest notice of the detective and his companions.
"Close range," murmured Desmond, after glancing at the dead man's face, "a large calibre automatic pistol, I should think!"
"Why do you think it was a large calibre pistol, Major?" asked Mr. Marigold attentively.
"I've seen plenty of men killed at close range by revolver and rifle bullets out at the front," replied Desmond, "but I never saw a man's face messed up like this. In a raid once I shot a German at point blank range with my revolver, the ordinary Army issue pattern, and I looked him over after. But it wasn't anything like this. The only thing I've seen approaching it was one of our sergeants who was killed out on patrol by a Hun officer who put his gun right in our man's face. That sergeant was pretty badly marked, but..."
He shook his head. Then he added, addressing the detective: "Let's see the gun! Have you got it?"
Mr. Marigold shook his head.
"He hadn't got it on him," he answered, "he swears he never had a gun. I expect he chucked it away somewhere. It'll be our business to find it for him!"
He smiled rather grimly, then added:
"Perhaps you'd care to have a look at Miss Mackwayte's room, sir!"
"Is Miss Mackwayte there" asked the Chief.
"I got her out of this quick," replied Mr. Marigold, "she's had a bad shock, poor girl, though she gave her evidence clearly enough for all that... as far as it goes and that's not much. Some friends near by have taken her in! The doctor has given her some bromide and says she's got to be kept quiet..."
"What's her story!" queried the Chief.
"She can't throw much light on the business. She and her father reached home from the theatre about a quarter past twelve, had a bit of supper in the dining-room and went up to bed before one o'clock. Miss Mackwayte saw her father go into his room, which is next to hers, and shut the door. The next thing she knows is that she woke up suddenly with some kind of a loud noise in her ears... that was the report of the pistol, I've no doubt... she thought for a minute it was an air raid. Then suddenly a hand was pressed over her mouth, something was crammed into her mouth and she was firmly strapped down to the bed."
"Did she see the man?" asked Desmond.
"She didn't see anything from first to last," answered the detective, "as far as she is concerned it might have been a woman or a black man who trussed her up. It was quite dark in her bedroom and this burglar fellow, after binding and gagging her, fastened a bandage across her eyes into the bargain. She says she heard him moving about her room and then creep out very softly. The next thing she knew was Mrs. Chugg arriving at her bedside this morning."
"What time did this attack take place?" asked the Chief.
"She has no idea," answered the detective. "She couldn't see her watch and they haven't got a striking clock in the house."
"But can she make no guess!"
"Well, she says she thinks it was several hours before Mrs. Chugg arrived in the morning... as much as three hours, she thinks!"
"And what time did Mrs. Chugg arrive!"
"At half-past six!"
"About Mackwayte... how long was he dead when they found him? What does the doctor say?"
"About three hours approximately, but you know, they can't always tell to an hour or so!"
"Well," said the Chief slowly, "it looks as if one might figure the murder as having been committed some time between 3 and 3.30 a.m."
"My idea exactly," said Mr. Marigold. "Shall we go upstairs?"
He conducted the Chief and Desmond up the short flight of stairs to the first story. He pushed open the first door he came to.
"Mackwayte's room, on the back," he said, "bed slept in, as you see, old gentleman's clothes on a chair—obviously he was disturbed by some noise made by the burglar and came out to see what was doing! And here," he indicated a door adjoining, "is Miss Mackwayte's room, on the front; as you observe. They don't use the two rooms on the second floor, except for box-rooms... one's full of old Mackwayte's theatre trunks and stuff. They keep no servant; Mrs. Chugg comes in each morning and stays all day. She goes away after supper every evening."
Desmond found himself looking into a plainly furnished but dainty bedroom with white furniture and a good deal of chintz about. There were some photographs and pictures hanging on the walls. The room was spotlessly clean and very tidy.
Desmond remarked on this, asking if the police had put the room straight.
Mr. Marigold looked quite shocked.
"Oh, no, everything is just as it was when Mrs. Chugg found Miss Mackwayte this morning. There's Miss Mackwayte's gloves and handbag on the toilet-table just as she left 'em last night. I wouldn't let her touch her clothes even. She went over to Mrs. Appleby's in her dressing-gown, in a taxi."
"Then Master Burglar didn't burgle this room?" asked the Chief.
"Nothing touched, not even the girl's money," replied Marigold.
"Then why did he come up here at all?" asked Desmond.
"Obviously, the old gentleman disturbed him," was the detective's reply. "Barney got scared and shot the old gentleman, then came up here to make sure that the daughter would not give him away before he could make his escape. He must have known the report of the gun would wake her up."
"But are there no clues or finger-prints or anything of that kind here, Marigold?" asked the Chief.
"Not a finger-print anywhere," responded the other, "men like Barney are born wise to the fingerprint business, sir."
He dipped a finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket.
"Clues? Well, I've got one little souvenir here which I daresay a writer of detective stories would make a good bit of."
He held in his hand a piece of paper folded flat. He unfolded it and disclosed a loop of dark hair.