CHAPTER V
JOHN DENE LEAVES WHITEHALL
I
"Come," shouted John Dene irritably.
The door opened and Mr. Blair entered. John Dene swung round from his table and glared at him angrily.
"I tried to telephone," began Mr. Blair.
"Well, you can't," snapped John Dene, "receiver's off. Your boys have been playing dido all morning on my 'phone."
"I'm sorry if——"
"That don't help any. Why don't you stop 'em? Seem to think I'm a sort of enquiry bureau."
Dorothy bent low over her notes to hide the smile she could not restrain at the sight of the obvious wretchedness of Mr. Blair.
"Sir Lyster would like you to step round——"
"Well, I won't; tell him that," was the irascible reply.
"He wants you to meet Sir Harold Winn, the chief naval constructor," explained Mr. Blair.
"Tell him to go to blazes and take his constructions with him. Now vamoose."
Mr. Blair hesitated, glanced at John Dene, seemed about to speak, then evidently thinking better of it withdrew, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
As John Dene swung round once more to his table, he caught Dorothy's eye. She smiled.
With a little grumble in his throat John Dene became absorbed in his papers. Dorothy decided that he was a little ashamed of his outburst.
All the day he had shown marked irritability under the constant interruptions to which he had been subjected.
They worked on steadily for a quarter of an hour. Presently there was a gentle tap at the door. With one bound John Dene was out of his chair and across the room. A second later he threw open the door, ready to annihilate whoever might be there, from the First Lord downwards.
"Oo—er!"
Marjorie Rogers stood there, her pretty eyes dilated with fear as John Dene glared at her. His set look relaxed at the sight of the girl.
"Is—is—Miss West here?" she enquired timidly.
"Sure, come right in," he said.
Dorothy was surprised at the change produced by the appearance of Marjorie Rogers.
The girl came a few steps into the room, then seeing Dorothy tripped over to her and, turning to John Dene, said, still a little nervously:
"I—I came to ask Miss West if she would like some tea." She smiled up at John Dene, a picture of guileless innocence.
"Sorry if I scared you," he said awkwardly.
"Oh, you didn't frighten me," she said, regaining confidence at the sight of John Dene's embarrassment.
"Perhaps Mr. Dene would like a cup of tea too, Rojjie," suggested Dorothy.
"Oh, would you?" cried the girl eagerly.
"Why, sure," said John Dene and he smiled, for the first time that day, Dorothy mentally noted.
In a flash Marjorie disappeared.
"I'm—I'm sorry," said John Dene to Dorothy. "I didn't know she was a friend of yours."
"She's in the room I used to be in, and—she's very sweet and brings me tea."
He nodded comprehendingly. "They do a lot of that here, don't they?"
"A lot of what?" asked Dorothy.
"Drinking tea."
"We only have it in the afternoon, and——"
At that moment Marjorie entered with a small tray containing three cups of tea and a plate of biscuits. These she placed on John Dene's table.
Dorothy gasped at the sight of the three cups, wondering what John Dene would think.
"I brought mine in to have with you," said Marjorie with perfect self-possession, as she handed Dorothy her cup, then turning to John Dene she smiled. He nodded, as if she had done a most ordinary thing.
Perching herself upon the corner of John Dene's table, Marjorie chatted brightly, having apparently quite overcome her fears.
"You know, Mr. Dene," she said, "we're all dreadfully intrigued about you."
John Dene looked at her with a puzzled expression.
"All the other girls are terribly afraid of you," she continued. "I'm not."
"Of me?" He looked at her in surprise, as if he regarded himself as the last person in the world to inspire fear.
"They say you glare at them." She smiled a wicked little smile that she called "the rouser." As John Dene did not reply Marjorie continued: "They call you 'the bear.'"
"Rojjie!" gasped Dorothy in horror.
"The bear?" repeated John Dene. "Why?"
"Oh, but I am going to tell them you're not," said Marjorie, nibbling at a biscuit and looking across at John Dene appraisingly. "I think you're really rather nice."
John Dene glanced across at Dorothy, as if unable quite to classify the girl before him.
"Of course they don't know that you can smile like that," added Marjorie.
John Dene was about to make some remark when there came another knock.
"Come," he cried, and a moment later the door opened and Sir Lyster entered, followed by a tall, sedate-looking man with a bulging forehead and ragged moustache.
For a moment the two regarded the scene, Sir Lyster having recourse to his monocle.
Marjorie slipped down from the table, all her self-possession deserting her at the sight of Sir Lyster's disapproving gaze. Dorothy bent over her notes, conscious of her burning cheeks, whilst John Dene rose with entire unconcern.
"I'm afraid we've interrupted you, Mr. Dene," said Sir Lyster.
"It's the one thing they do well in this shack," was John Dene's uncompromising retort.
Sir Lyster gazed a little anxiously at his companion.
Taking advantage of the diversion, Marjorie slipped out and Dorothy, deciding that she would not be wanted for at least a few minutes, followed her.
"I want to introduce you to Sir Harold Winn," said Sir Lyster.
"Pleased to meet you," said John Dene, shaking Sir Harold vigorously by the hand. "Take a seat."
John Dene and the Chief Naval Constructor were soon deep in the intricacies of submarine-construction. When at length Sir Harold rose to go, there was something like cordiality in John Dene's voice, as he bade him good-bye. Sir Harold had been able to meet him on common ground, and show an intelligent and comprehensive interest in his work.
Immediately they had gone, Dorothy, who had been waiting in the corridor, slipped back to her chair, first removing the tea tray from John Dene's table. Soon she was busily taking down notes.
While she was thus occupied, Sir Lyster was narrating to Sir Bridgman North the latest John Dene outrage, first his open flouting of the Chief Naval Constructor by refusing to see him, secondly the interrupted tea, and the girl perched upon John Dene's table.
Sir Bridgman laughed loudly, as much at the expression on Sir Lyster's face as at the occurrence itself.
"Such incidents," said Sir Lyster, "are, I think, very undesirable."
"It looks as if John Dene were a dark horse," suggested Sir Bridgman. "Was the other girl pretty?"
"I really didn't notice," said Sir Lyster stiffly. "I thought perhaps you might"—he hesitated for a fraction of a second—"just drop him a hint," he added.
"And be gingered-up as high as our own aerials," laughed Sir Bridgman. "No, my dear Grayne," he added, "I find 'gingering-up' intensely interesting in its application to others. Get Blair to do it."
"But I'm afraid it may create a scandal," said Sir Lyster.
"Oh! another little scandal won't do us any harm," laughed Sir Bridgman. "Now I must be off. By the way," he said, as he reached the door, "what time did this little tea-fight take place?"
"It was about four o'clock when Winn and I——"
"Right," said Sir Bridgman, "I'll drop in about that time to-morrow and see what's doing," and the door closed behind him.
A moment later he put his head round the door. "One of these days you'll be finding Blair with a girl on each knee," he laughed, and with that he was gone.
John Dene's reason for wishing to have offices somewhere away from the Admiralty had been twofold. For one thing he did not desire those he knew were closely watching should see him in close association with Whitehall; for another he felt that he could breathe more freely away from gold braid and those long dreary corridors, which seemed so out of keeping with the headquarters of a Navy at war. He now determined to get out at once. The constant interruptions to which he found himself subjected, rendered concentration impossible. He therefore informed Dorothy that at nine o'clock next morning they would start work in the new offices he had taken in Waterloo Place. They consisted of two rooms, one leading off the other. The larger room John Dene decided to use himself, the smaller he handed over to Dorothy.
With a celerity that had rather surprised John Dene the telephone had been connected and a private wire run through to the Admiralty.
"The thing about a Britisher," he remarked to Dorothy, "is that he can hustle, but won't."
She allowed the remark to pass unchallenged.
"Now things will begin to hum," he said, as he settled himself down to his table. Throwing aside his coat, he set to work. There was little over three weeks in which to get everything organised and planned. Long lists of stores for the Destroyer had to be prepared, the details of the structural alterations to the Toronto, the name given to the mother-ship that was to act as tender to the Destroyer, instructions to the Canadian crew that was coming over, and a thousand and one other things that kept them busily occupied. He arranged to have luncheon sent in from the Ritzton. After the first day the ordering of these meals was delegated to Dorothy. John Dene's ideas on the subject of food proved original, resulting in the ordering of about five times as much as necessary.
Dorothy came to look forward to these dainty meals, which she could order with unstinted hand, and she liked the tête-à-tête half-hours during their consumption. Then John Dene would unbend and tell her of Canada, about his life there and in America, how he had planned and built the Destroyer. He seemed to take it for granted that she could be trusted to keep her own counsel.
The night after John Dene's entry into his new offices the place was burgled. In the morning when he arrived he found papers tossed about in reckless disorder. The fourth set of plans of German U-boats had disappeared.
With grim humour he drew a fifth set from his pocket, and placed it in the safe, which he did not keep locked, as it contained nothing of importance. John Dene's method was to burn every paper or duplicate that was no longer required, and to have sent over to the Admiralty each day before five o'clock such documents as were of importance.
For the first time in her life Dorothy felt she was doing something of national importance. John Dene trusted her, and took her patriotism as a matter of course. Sometimes he would enquire if she were tired, and on hearing that she was not he would nod his approval.
"You're some worker," he once remarked casually, whereat Dorothy had flushed with pleasure. Later she remembered that this was the first word of praise she had heard him bestow on anything or anybody British.
At first a buttons had called from the Ritzton each morning and afternoon for orders; but after the second day he had been superseded by a waiter. One morning, after the order had been given, John Dene enquired of Dorothy if she had ever tasted lobster à l'Americaine.
"Typists don't eat lobster à l'Americaine in England, Mr. Dene," she had replied. "It's too expensive."
Whereupon he had told her to ring up the Ritzton and order lobster à l'Americaine for lunch in place of the order already given. Ten minutes later a ring came through from the hotel to the effect that there must be some mistake, as there was no lunch on order for Mr. John Dene. Dorothy protested that they had been supplied with lunch each day for the last four days. The management deprecatingly suggested that there had been a mistake, as after the first two days the order had been cancelled. Dorothy repeated the information to John Dene, who then took the receiver.
"If you didn't supply lunch yesterday, who the blazes did?" he demanded, and a suave voice answered that it did not know who it was that had that honour, but certainly it was not the Ritzton.
John Dene banged back the receiver impatiently. "We'll wait and see what happens at twelve o'clock," he exclaimed, as he turned once more to the papers on his table. "Somebody's feeding us," he muttered.
"Perhaps it's the ravens," murmured Dorothy to herself.
At twelve o'clock a waiter entered with a tray. At the sound of his knock, John Dene revolved round in his chair.
"Here, where do you come from?" he demanded, glaring as if he suspected the man of being of German parentage.
The man started violently and nearly dropped the tray.
"I obey orders," he stammered.
"Yes; but whose orders?"
For a moment the man hesitated.
"Do you come from the Ritzton?" demanded John Dene aggressively.
"I obey orders," repeated the man.
John Dene looked from the tray to Dorothy, and then to the man; but said nothing, contenting himself with waving the man out with an impatient motion of his hand.
After the meal he picked up his hat, lighted a cigar and told Dorothy he would be back in a quarter of an hour. Five minutes later he burst in upon Mr. Blair.
"Here, what the hell's all this about my meals?" John Dene seemed to take a delight in descending upon Sir Lyster's secretary.
Mr. Blair turned towards him with that expression he seemed to keep expressly for John Dene. "Your meals," he stammered.
"Yes," replied John Dene, blowing volumes of acrid smoke towards the sensitive nostrils of Mr. Blair. "Why was my order to the Ritzton cancelled? That sort of thing rattles me."
"I'm afraid that I know nothing of this," said Mr. Blair, "but I will enquire."
"Well, I'd like somebody to put me wise as to why he interferes with my affairs," and John Dene stamped out of the room and back to Waterloo Place.
II
"Shucks!" cried John Dene irritably. "You make me tired."
"I doubt if you appreciate the seriousness of the situation," was Colonel Walton's quiet retort.
"I appreciate the seriousness of a situation that turns my 'phone into a sort of elevator-bell, and makes my office like a free-drink saloon at an election."
Colonel Walton smiled indulgently, Dorothy kept her eyes upon her note-book.
"You get your notion about spies from ten cent thrillers," continued John Dene scornfully. "Don't you worry about me. If there's a hungry dog I believe in feeding it," he added enigmatically. "I might as well be a lost baggage office. Every mutt that has ten minutes to waste seems to blow in on me. You're the tenth this a.m."
"At that rate you will soon have exhausted all the Government Departments," said Colonel Walton with a smile. "I doubt if any will venture a second visit," he added quietly.
John Dene glanced across at him quickly. "Say, I didn't mean to make you mad," he said in a conciliatory tone; "but all this rattles me. I can't get along with things while they're playing rags on my 'phone. It makes me madder'n a wet hen."
"I quite understand, Mr. Dene," said Colonel Walton, with that imperturbable good-humour that was the envy of his friends. "You are rather valuable to us, you see, and if we err on the side of over-caution——" He paused.
"Sure," cried John Dene, thawing under the influence of Colonel Walton's personality, then after a pause he added. "See here, your boys seem to have a notion that I'm particular green goods. You just let one of 'em try and corral me one of these nights, and when you've explained things to the widow, you can just blow in here and tell me how she took it."
"It's the insidious rather than the overt act," began Colonel Walton.
"The what?" John Dene looked at him with a puzzled expression.
Instead of replying Colonel Walton drew from his right-hand pocket something in a paper bag, such as is used by confectioners. This he placed upon the table. He then extracted from his other pocket a small package rolled in newspaper, which he laid beside the paper bag.
John Dene stared at him as if not quite sure of his sanity.
"Perhaps you will open those packets."
With his eyes still on his visitor John Dene picked up the paper bag and, turning it upside down, shook out upon the table a brown and white guinea-pig—dead. Dorothy drew back with a little cry.
"This some of your funny work?" demanded John Dene angrily.
"There's still the other parcel," said Colonel Walton, his eyes upon the small roll done up in newspaper.
Very gingerly John Dene unrolled the paper, Dorothy watching from a safe distance with wide-eyed curiosity.
"Gee!" he muttered, as a large dead grey rat lay exposed, its upper lip drawn back from his teeth, giving it a snarling appearance. He looked interrogatingly at Colonel Walton.
"There; but for the grace of God lies John Dene of Toronto," he remarked quietly, nodding in the direction of the two rodents.
"Here, what the hell——!" began John Dene, then catching sight of Dorothy he stopped suddenly.
"Two days ago you ordered for lunch ris de veau and apple tart—among other things. The rat is the victim of the one, the guinea-pig of the other."
Dorothy gave a little cry of horror. John Dene looked across at her quickly, then back to Colonel Walton.
"You mean——" he began.
"That a certain Department has assumed the responsibility of catering for a distinguished visitor," was the quiet reply. "It is but one of the pleasant obligations of empire."
John Dene sat gazing at the dead animals as if fascinated. With distended eyes and slightly parted lips Dorothy looked from the table to Colonel Walton, and then back to the table again, as if unable to comprehend the full significance of what was taking place.
"I would suggest," said Colonel Walton, "that you never take food regularly at any one hotel or restaurant. Avoid being out late at night, particularly raid-nights."
"Raid-nights!"
"You might be knocked on the head and removed as a casualty."
John Dene nodded, Dorothy gasped.
"Never take food or drink of any sort in your room at the hotel, and don't travel on the Tube or Underground, at least never stand on the edge of the platform, and don't use taxis."
"And what about a nurse?" demanded John Dene.
"If you observe these points I scarcely think one would be necessary," was the quiet rejoinder. "It would also be advisable," continued Colonel Walton, "for Miss West to be particularly careful about making chance acquaintances."
Dorothy drew herself up stiffly.
"During the last few days," continued Colonel Walton, "a number of attempts have been made by women as well as men."
"How did you know?" she cried in surprise.
"We have sources of information," smiled Colonel Walton. "For instance, the day before yesterday, at lunch, a pleasant-spoken old lady asked you to go with her to the theatre one Saturday afternoon."
Dorothy gasped.
"You very rightly declined. A few days ago a man ran after you just as you had left the Tube train at Piccadilly Circus, saying that you had left your umbrella."
"How funny that you should know!" cried Dorothy. "Such a number of people have spoken to me lately. First it was men, and now it's always women."
"Make no acquaintances at all, Miss West," said Colonel Walton.
"I'll remember," she said, nodding her head with decision.
"Well, Mr. Dene, I fear I mustn't take up any more of your time," said Colonel Walton, rising, with that air of indolence which with him invariably meant that something important was coming. "If you will not allow us to be responsible for your own safety, we must at least provide for that of Government servants."
"What's that?"
"We should not like anything to happen to Miss West."
To Colonel Walton's "Good-day" John Dene made no response, he seemed unaware that he had left the room.
"Gee!" he muttered at length, then swinging round to Dorothy with a suddenness that caused her to start, "You had better vamoose," he cried.
"Vam——" she began. "How do I do it?"
"Quit, clear out of here." He sprang from his chair and proceeded to pace up and down the room.
"Does that mean that I'm discharged?" she enquired, smiling.
"You heard what he said. They're up to their funny work. They missed us this time and got the rat and guinea-pig. They're always at it. I don't make a fuss; but I know. There'll be a bomb in my bed one of these nights. You'd better call a halt right here."
"Shall we get on with the letters, Mr. Dene?" said Dorothy quietly. "Father was a soldier."
For a moment he looked at her with his keen penetrating eyes, then swinging round to his table caught sight of the two dead rodents.
"Here, what the blazes does he want to leave these things here for," he cried irritably and, seizing a ruler, he swept them into the waste-paper basket.
For the rest of the day Dorothy was conscious that John Dene's heart was not in his work. Several times, when happening to look up unexpectedly, she found his eyes on her, and there was in them an anxiety too obvious to be dissimulated. John Dene was clearly worried.
"It's an extraordinary thing," Sage remarked later that afternoon to Colonel Walton, "that apparently no one has ever thought of encouraging a taste for apple-tart in guinea-pigs."
CHAPTER VI
MR. MONTAGU NAYLOR OF STREATHAM
Whilst John Dene was preparing interminable lists for the Victualling and Stores Departments of the Admiralty, Department Z. was making discreet and searching enquiries regarding Mr. Montagu Naylor of Streatham. Among other things it discovered that he was essentially English. The atrocities in Belgium and Northern France rendered him almost speechless with indignation. Wherever he went, and to whomsoever he met, he proclaimed the German an enemy to civilisation. It was his one topic of conversation, and in time his friends and acquaintance came to regard the word "Hun" as a danger signal.
Mr. Naylor had arrived at Streatham towards the end of 1909, coming from no one knew whither; but according to his own account from Norwich. He was of independent means, without encumbrances beyond a wife, a deaf servant, registered as a Swiss, and a particularly fierce-dispositioned chow, an animal that caused marked irregularity in the delivery of his milk, newspapers and letters. Sometimes the animal chose to resent the approach of all comers, and after the postman had lost a portion of his right trouser-leg, he had decided that whatever might happen to His Majesty's mails, the postman's calf was sacred. Thenceforth he never delivered letters when James was at large.
Without participating in the postman's mishap, the paper-boy and milkman had adopted his tactics. The dustman point-blank refused to touch the refuse from "The Cedars" unless it were placed on the pavement, and the gate securely closed.
Sometimes the readings of the electric and gas meters were formally noted by officials, whose uniform began and ended with their caps; sometimes they were not. Everything depended upon the geographical position of James at the moment of the inspector's call.
The baker who supplied Mr. Naylor had, as a result of a complaint from his man, made a personal call of protest; but he had succeeded only in losing his temper to Mr. Naylor and the seat of his trousers to James. Thenceforth "The Cedars" had to seek its bread elsewhere. Incidentally the master-baker obtained a new pair of trousers at Mr. Naylor's expense.
Why Mr. Naylor continued to keep James was a puzzle to all the neighbours, who, knowing him as a champion of the rights of man, votes for women, the smaller nations, and many other equally uncomfortable things, were greatly surprised that he should keep a dog that was clearly of a savage and dangerous disposition.
About Mr. Naylor himself there was nothing of the ferocity of his dog. He was suave, with a somewhat deprecating manner, a ready, almost automatic smile, in which his eyes never seemed to join, a sallow complexion, large round glasses, a big nose and ugly teeth. He had a thick voice, thick ears and a thick skin—when it so served his purpose.
His love for England was almost alien, and he was never tired of motoring from one part of the country to another, that is before the war. His car had been something unique, as in a few seconds it could be turned into a moderately comfortable sleeping apartment. Thus he was independent of hotels, or lodgings.
Mrs. Naylor was a woman of negative personality. She looked after the house, fed James and never asked questions of Mr. Naylor, thus justifying her existence.
Susan, the maid, was also negative, from her stupid round, moist face to the shapeless feet that she never seemed to be able to lift from the floor. She had acquired great dexterity in shuffling out of the way just before Mr. Naylor appeared. This she seemed to have reduced to a fine art. If Mr. Naylor were going upstairs and Susan was about to descend, by the time he was halfway up she would have disappeared as effectively as if snatched away by some spirit agency. Susan was dumb; but her sense of sound was extremely acute. It seemed as if, conscious of her inability to hold her own verbally with her employer, she had fallen back upon the one alternative, disappearance.
The Naylors were possessed of few friends, although Mr. Naylor had many acquaintances, the result of the way in which he had identified himself with local clubs and institutions. It was largely due to him that the miniature rifle-range had been started. He was one of the governors of the Cranberry Cottage Hospital. He always subscribed to the annual Territorial sports, patronised the boy scouts, openly advocated conscription, and the two-power standard for the Navy. There were times when Streatham found it almost embarrassing to be possessed of a patriot in its midst.
Never had a breath of scandal tarnished the fair name of Mr. Montagu Naylor. He was what a citizen should be and seldom is. When war broke out his activities became almost bewildering. He joined innumerable committees, helped to form the volunteers, and encouraged every one and everything that was likely to make things uncomfortable for the enemy. Later, he became a member of the local exemption tribunal, and earned fame by virtue of his clemency. It was he who was instrumental in obtaining exemption for some of James's most implacable enemies. The baker, who had lost the whole of his temper and a portion of his trousers, probably owed his life to the manner in which Mr. Naylor championed his claim that bread is mightier than the sword.
Before the war the Naylors received twice each month, once their friends and once their relatives. Never were the two allowed to meet. "Our friends we make ourselves, our relatives are given to us," Mr. Naylor had explained with ponderous humour, "I hate to mix the two." It was noticed that the relatives stayed much longer than the friends, and some commiseration was felt for the Naylors by their immediate neighbours.
There had been one curious circumstance in connection with these social functions. Whenever the friends were invited, James was always in the front garden, restrained by a chain that allowed of the guests carrying their calves into the hall with an eighteen inch margin of safety. When, however, it was the turn of the relatives to seek the hospitality of "The Cedars," James was never visible. A cynic might have construed this into indicating that from his relatives Mr. Naylor had expectations.
Within his own home Mr. Naylor was a changed man. He ruled Mrs. Naylor, Susan and James with an iron hand. They all fawned upon him, vainly inviting the smiles that when others were present seemed never to fail in the mechanical precision with which they illumined his features at appropriate moments. They gave the impression of being turned on, as if controlled by a tap or switch. Never was this smile seen once the hall door was passed. Then Mr. Naylor's jaw squared, and his whole attitude seemed to become more angular.
A knock at the door would cause him to look up quickly from whatever he was doing, just as a gamekeeper might look up at the report of a gun. By his orders Mrs. Naylor and Susan between them kept a complete list of all callers, even hawkers, if they were sufficiently courageous to risk an encounter with the redoubtable James.
Mr. Naylor was a tall man of broad build, with a head that would persist in remaining square, in spite of his best endeavours to grow the hair upon it in such a way as to soften its angularity. His eyes were steely, his forehead low, his mouth hard and his manner furtive. That was within doors. The breath of heaven, however, seemed to mitigate all these unamiable characteristics, and it was only on very rare occasions that, once beyond his own threshold, an observer would see the harshness of the man. He smiled down at children, sometimes he patted their heads, he was never lacking in a tip, appropriate or inappropriate, he was the smoother out of discordant situations, he nodded to all the tradespeople, smiled genially at his inferiors, and saluted his superiors and equals. In short he was an ideal citizen.
The outbreak of war in August, 1914, was responsible for two changes in the Naylor ménage. First the at-home days were discontinued, secondly James was more than ever in evidence. Nobody, however, noticed the changes, because in Streatham such things are not considered worthy of notice.
Mr. Naylor received few letters, for which the postman was grateful to providence. Had Streatham been a little more curious, it would have noticed that Mr. Naylor's comings and goings were fraught with some curious and interesting characteristics. For one thing he appeared constitutionally unable to proceed direct to a given point. For instance, if Hampstead were his object, he would in all probability go to Charing Cross, take a 'bus along Strand, the tube to Piccadilly Circus, a taxi to Leicester Square, tube to Golders Green and 'bus to Hampstead.
Another curious circumstance connected with Mr. Naylor was the number of people who seemed to stop him to enquire their way, obviously people who found it difficult to pronounce the names and addresses of those they sought, for they invariably held in their hands pieces of paper, which Mr. Naylor would read and then proceed to direct them. This would occur in all parts of London.
To the casual observer interested in the details of Mr. Naylor's life, it would have appeared that London waited for his approach, and then incontinently made a bee-line for him to enquire its way. With smiling geniality Mr. Naylor would read the paper offered to him, make one or two remarks, then with a wave of his hand and a further genial smile proceed on his way.
His courtesy was almost continental. He would take great pains to direct the enquirer, sometimes even proceeding part of the way with him to ensure that he should not go astray.
Since the war Mr. Naylor had patriotically given up his car, handing it over to the Red Cross, and receiving from the local secretary a letter of very genuine thanks and appreciation. There had also been a paragraph in The Streatham Herald notifying this splendid act of citizenship.
In nothing was Mr. Naylor's sense of Christian charity so manifest as in the patience with which he answered the number of false rings he received on the telephone. It was extraordinary the way in which wrong numbers seemed to be put through to him; yet his courtesy never forsook him. His reply was always the same. "No; I am Mr. Montague Naylor of Streatham." It frequently happened that shortly after such a call Mr. Naylor would go out, when James would be left in the front garden.
Mrs. Naylor had particular instructions always to make a note of any rings that came on the telephone during Mr. Naylor's absence, no matter whether they were for him or for anyone else. She was to take down every word that was said, and always say in response that the subscriber was on to Mr. Naylor of Streatham.
One morning whilst John Dene was giving down letters to Dorothy in his customary jerky manner, Mr. Naylor sat at breakfast, his attention equally divided between the meal and the morning paper. Opposite sat Mrs. Naylor, watching him as a dog watches a master of uncertain temper. She was a little woman with a colourless face, from which sparse grey hair was drawn with puritan severity. In her weak blue eyes was fear—fear of her lord and master, and in her manner deprecation and apology.
The only sound to be heard were the champing of Mr. Naylor's jaws, and the occasional rustle of the newspaper. Mr. Naylor was a hearty eater and an omnivorous reader of newspapers. In the front garden James gave occasional tongue, protesting against the existence of some passer-by.
After a particularly vigorous bout of barking on James's part, Mr. Naylor looked up suddenly and, fixing Mrs. Naylor with astern eye, demanded, "Any post?"
"I haven't heard the post-woman yet," faltered Mrs. Naylor apologetically. She was at heart a pacifist in the domestic sense.
"Go and see," was the gruff retort, as Mr. Naylor thrust into his mouth a large piece of bread, which he had previously wiped round his plate to absorb the elemental juices of the morning bacon.
Mrs. Naylor rose meekly and left the room. A few moments later she returned, carrying in her hand two envelopes. Mr. Naylor looked up over his spectacles.
"They were on the path," she explained timidly. "James is in the garden."
The post-woman had tacitly carried on the tradition of her predecessor, the postman. If James were about, the letters went over the garden gate; if James were not about, they went into the letter-box.
With a grunt Mr. Naylor snatched the letters from Mrs. Naylor's hand and looked at them keenly. One bore a halfpenny stamp, and was consequently of no particular importance. This he laid beside his plate. The other, however, he subjected to a rigorous and elaborate examination. He scrutinised the handwriting, examined carefully the postmark, turned it over and gazed at the fastening. Then taking a letter-opener from his pocket, he slowly slit the top of the envelope, and taking out a sheet of notepaper unfolded it.
"Gott——" He bit off the phrase savagely, and looked up fiercely at Mrs. Naylor, as if she was responsible for his lapse. Instinctively she shrank back. From the garden James's vigorous barking swelled out into a fortissimo of protest.
"Stop that dog," he shouted, whereat Mrs. Naylor rose and left the room.
With scowling eyebrows Mr. Naylor read his letter, and ground his teeth with suppressed fury.
"Der mann muss verrückt 'sein."
He re-read the letter, then placing it in his pocket looked across the table, seeming for the first time to notice that Mrs. Naylor had left the room. Going to the door he opened it and shouted a peremptory "Here!"
As Mrs. Naylor entered with obvious trepidation, he fixed her with a stern disapproving eye.
"There's somebody coming this afternoon at four," he said. "I'll see him in the study," and with that he once more drew the letter from his pocket and read it for the third time, whilst Mrs. Naylor withdrew.
The letter which was typewritten, even to the signature, ran:
'DEAR MR. NAYLOR,—
"I hope to call upon you on Thursday afternoon at four o'clock. I regret that unforseen circumstances have prevented me from giving myself this pleasure before.
"Yours very truly,
"J. VAN HELDER."
With a grumble in his throat Mr. Naylor walked out of the dining-room, across the hall and into his study. Closing and locking the door he went over to his writing-table, and seemed to collapse into rather than sit on the chair. He was oblivious to everything except the scrap of paper before him. The cloud upon his brow seemed to intensify, his face became more cruel. The Mr. Naylor of Streatham, patriot, philanthropist and good citizen, had vanished, giving place to a man in whose heart was anger and fear.
At the end of five minutes he drew towards him a small metal tray. Taking a match from a stand, he struck it and deliberately setting light to the paper, held it while it burned. When the flame seared his fingers, he placed the whole upon the metal dish, scowling at the paper as it writhed and crackled in its death agony. He then proceeded to burn the envelope. When both were reduced to twisted shapes of carbon, he opened a drawer, took from it a duster and pressed it down upon the metal plate, reducing the contents to black powder.
Picking up the tray he carried it over to the grate, emptied the powder into the fireplace, wiped the tray and replaced it upon the table, thrusting the duster back into the drawer. He then sank once more into his chair, conscious that the morning had begun ill.
Ten minutes later he rose, unlocked the door and went out into the hall. He took his hat from the stand and brushed it carefully. Picking up his gloves and umbrella, he gave a final look round, then composing his features for the outside world, he opened the door and passed out into Apthorpe Road.
For such of his neighbours as he encountered he had a cheery word, a lifting of his hat, or a wave of the hand. Housewives would sigh enviously as they saw Mr. Naylor pass genially on his way. He was always the same, they told themselves, remembering with a little pang the vagaries of their own husbands.
Before his return to "The Cedars" for lunch, Mr. Naylor with unaccustomed emphasis foretold the doom of the Government unless it immediately rushed a measure through Parliament for the internment of all aliens. He was nothing if not thorough.
CHAPTER VII
MR. NAYLOR RECEIVES A VISITOR
I
"Height five feet six and a half inches."
"Five feet eight, sir."
"Chest thirty-eight."
"Thirty-eight and a half, sir."
"Weight eleven stone nine."
"Twelve stone, sir."
"Near enough."
"Yes, sir," replied Thompson.
"You've got everything?"
"Down to his under-wear, sir," was the response.
"The ring?"
"Yes, sir."
Malcolm Sage looked up from the buff-coloured paper before him, then picking up a photograph from the table, proceeded to study it with great intentness.
"Yes," he said, "Finlay can do it."
At that moment Colonel Walton strode into the room, smoking the inevitable cigar. Thompson straightened himself to attention, Malcolm Sage nodded, then once more became absorbed in the photograph.
"I hear Finlay's here," said Colonel Walton.
Sage looked up and nodded. "We've just been checking his measurements," he said.
"With that Bergen fellow's?"
Sage nodded.
"It's a considerable risk," said Colonel Walton.
"Finlay likes 'em," retorted Sage without looking up. "I'd give a good deal to solve that little mystery."
The mystery to which Malcolm Sage referred was the arrest of a man on a Bergen-Hull boat some ten days previously. Although his passport and papers were in order, his story when he had been interrogated was not altogether satisfactory. It had been decided to deport him; but Malcolm Sage, who had subjected him to a lengthy cross-examination, had decided that it would be better to detain him for the time being, and the suspect was consequently lodged in the Tower. Both Malcolm Sage and Colonel Walton were convinced that he had been sent over on a special mission.
"Where's Finlay?" asked Colonel Walton.
"He's painting the lily," said Sage with a glint in his eye.
"In other words?" enquired Colonel Walton.
"Seeing how near he can get to this Bergen fellow. I took him down to the Tower to see the men together."
Colonel Walton nodded.
Malcolm Sage regarded disguise as exclusively the asset of the detective of fiction. A disguise, he maintained, could always be identified, although not necessarily penetrated. Few men could disguise their walk or bearing, no matter how clever they might be with the aid of false beards and wigs.
"You remember the lost code-book?" Sage queried.
"I do," said Colonel Walton.
"A remarkable piece of work of Finlay's," continued Sage. "It wasn't a disguise, it was an alteration; trim of moustache, cut and colour of hair, darkened skin and such trifles."
"And the black eye, sir," interpolated Thompson.
"That was certainly a happy stroke," cried Colonel Walton.
"It takes a good deal of moral courage to black your own eye," said Sage quietly. "I tried it once myself."
"How do you plan to proceed?" It was Colonel Walton who spoke.
"If Naylor is really the man we're after and this Bergen fellow is on a secret mission, then it's pretty sure they were intended to get into touch." Sage paused for a moment, then added: "Anyhow, it's worth trying. It's a risk, of course. Naylor may have met him before."
"The risk will be mainly Finlay's," said Colonel Walton drily, as he smoked meditatively.
"It would be yours or mine, chief, only nature cast us in a different mould."
For some moments Colonel Walton did not reply.
"I don't like sending a man on a——" He paused.
"There's no question of sending Finlay; it's more a matter of holding him back. By the way," he continued casually, "Thompson burgled John Dene's place last night, got a set of plans, the chit signed by Sir Lyster and the Skipper, and one or two other papers that should be useful."
"I don't quite like it, Sage." Colonel Walton knitted his brows.
"It's giving the Yard something to do," was Sage's indifferent retort. "They're buzzing about John Dene like flies to-day. He's expressing himself to them in choice Canadian too, so Thompson tells me."
Thompson gave an appreciative grin.
"I dropped in there this morning, sir, and——" He did not conclude his sentence; but his look was one of keen appreciation. "He's got some words, has Inspector Bluggers," he added, "but Mr. Dene left him standing."
"We've just been going over the points of Finlay and the Bergen man," explained Sage. "They're pretty well in agreement. Personally I believe there's a lot in that ring. We stripped the other fellow of his clothes, Finlay insisted on having them baked. Fussy sort of chap in things like that," he added, "but that ring. Men don't generally wear turquoises set in an eccentric pattern. Ha!" He looked up suddenly.
Colonel Walton looked across at him interrogatingly.
"You remember the initials inside, chief?"
Colonel Walton nodded.
"D.U.A. weren't they?"
"What about Deutsches über alles?"
"A bit obvious," suggested Colonel Walton.
"The Hun always is."
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," called Colonel Walton.
A moment later there entered a man of foreign appearance, with dark well-brushed hair, sallow skin and the deprecating manner of one who is in a country where he is not quite sure either of the customs or of the language. For a moment he stood smiling.
Malcolm Sage caught Colonel Walton's eye. Upon Thompson's face there spread a grin of admiration.
"Wonderful, Finlay," said Colonel Walton. "Wonderful."
"You think it is like?" enquired he who had been addressed as Finlay.
"Wonderful," repeated Colonel Walton, "but," he added a moment after, "it's a dangerous game."
Finlay shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was almost aggressively un-English. He possessed one remarkable characteristic, once he had assumed a personality, he continued to be that man until he finally relinquished the part.
"He'll put you to sleep if you make a mistake," said Sage with uncompromising candour.
Again the shrug of the shoulders.
"That ring," said Sage, pointing to a flat gold band on the third finger of the left hand in which were set three turquoises in the form of a triangle. "What do you make of the inscription?"
"I do not know," said Finlay with the finnicking inflection of one talking in a strange tongue.
"What about Deutsches über alles?" suggested Walton.
"Ah! you have discovered."
"Perfect," said Sage, "absolutely perfect. You're a genius, Finlay."
With a smile and a half-shrug of his shoulders, Finlay deprecated the compliment.
"Where are you going to stay?" enquired Colonel Walton.
"At the Ritzton with John Dene, same floor if possible," said Sage. "He starts from the Tower to-morrow. Released, you know."
Colonel Walton nodded. "By the way, Thompson, you didn't happen to drop any finger prints about in Waterloo Place?"
"Rubber gloves, sir," said Thompson with a smile.
Malcolm Sage nodded.
"It would embarrass us a bit if you got lodged in Brixton prison," said Colonel Walton.
"No chance of that, sir," was the confident retort.
"The account will be in the papers this afternoon, I understand."
Malcolm Sage nodded.
"Well, Finlay," said Walton, "off you go and the best of luck. If you bring this off you ought to get a C.B.E."
"Gott in himmel!" cried Finlay in such tragic consternation, that both Colonel Walton and Sage were forced to smile.
"No, sir," said Sage drily, "we must guard Department Z. against the Order of the British Empire; it deserves well of the country.
"When does he go to Streatham?" enquired Colonel Walton.
"I go now," responded Finlay, "if I find the place. These suburbs!" He rolled his eyes expressively.
Malcolm Sage smiled grimly.