The Secret Adversary
unnecessary. The grounds, like those of any other private house after
nightfall, seemed untenanted. Tommy had imagined a possible fierce
watchdog. Albert’s fancy ran to a puma, or a tame cobra. But they
reached a shrubbery near the house quite unmolested.
The blinds of the dining-room window were up. There was a large company
assembled round the table. The port was passing from hand to hand. It
seemed a normal, pleasant company. Through the open window scraps of
conversation floated out disjointedly on the night air. It was a heated
discussion on county cricket!
Again Tommy felt that cold chill of uncertainty. It seemed impossible
to believe that these people were other than they seemed. Had he been
fooled once more? The fair-bearded, spectacled gentleman who sat at the
head of the table looked singularly honest and normal.
Tommy slept badly that night. The following morning the indefatigable
Albert, having cemented an alliance with the greengrocer’s boy, took the
latter’s place and ingratiated himself with the cook at Malthouse.
He returned with the information that she was undoubtedly “one of
the crooks,” but Tommy mistrusted the vividness of his imagination.
Questioned, he could adduce nothing in support of his statement except
his own opinion that she wasn’t the usual kind. You could see that at a
glance.
The substitution being repeated (much to the pecuniary advantage of the
real greengrocer’s boy) on the following day, Albert brought back the
first piece of hopeful news. There _was_ a French young lady staying
in the house. Tommy put his doubts aside. Here was confirmation of
his theory. But time pressed. To-day was the 27th. The 29th was the
much-talked-of “Labour Day,” about which all sorts of rumours were
running riot. Newspapers were getting agitated. Sensational hints of a
Labour _coup d’état_ were freely reported. The Government said nothing.
It knew and was prepared. There were rumours of dissension among the
Labour leaders. They were not of one mind. The more far-seeing among
them realized that what they proposed might well be a death-blow to the
England that at heart they loved. They shrank from the starvation and
misery a general strike would entail, and were willing to meet the
Government half-way. But behind them were subtle, insistent forces at
work, urging the memories of old wrongs, deprecating the weakness of
half-and-half measures, fomenting misunderstandings.
Tommy felt that, thanks to Mr. Carter, he understood the position fairly
accurately. With the fatal document in the hands of Mr. Brown,
public opinion would swing to the side of the Labour extremists and
revolutionists. Failing that, the battle was an even chance. The
Government with a loyal army and police force behind them might
win--but at a cost of great suffering. But Tommy nourished another and
a preposterous dream. With Mr. Brown unmasked and captured he
believed, rightly or wrongly, that the whole organization would crumble
ignominiously and instantaneously. The strange permeating influence
of the unseen chief held it together. Without him, Tommy believed an
instant panic would set in; and, the honest men left to themselves, an
eleventh-hour reconciliation would be possible.
“This is a one-man show,” said Tommy to himself. “The thing to do is to
get hold of the man.”
It was partly in furtherance of this ambitious design that he had
requested Mr. Carter not to open the sealed envelope. The draft
treaty was Tommy’s bait. Every now and then he was aghast at his own
presumption. How dared he think that he had discovered what so many
wiser and clever men had overlooked? Nevertheless, he stuck tenaciously
to his idea.
That evening he and Albert once more penetrated the grounds of Astley
Priors. Tommy’s ambition was somehow or other to gain admission to the
house itself. As they approached cautiously, Tommy gave a sudden gasp.
On the second floor window some one standing between the window and
the light in the room threw a silhouette on the blind. It was one Tommy
would have recognized anywhere! Tuppence was in that house!
He clutched Albert by the shoulder.
“Stay here! When I begin to sing, watch that window.”
He retreated hastily to a position on the main drive, and began in a
deep roar, coupled with an unsteady gait, the following ditty:
I am a Soldier
A jolly British Soldier;
You can see that I’m a Soldier by my feet....
It had been a favourite on the gramophone in Tuppence’s hospital days.
He did not doubt but that she would recognize it and draw her own
conclusions. Tommy had not a note of music in his voice, but his lungs
were excellent. The noise he produced was terrific.
Presently an unimpeachable butler, accompanied by an equally
unimpeachable footman, issued from the front door. The butler
remonstrated with him. Tommy continued to sing, addressing the butler
affectionately as “dear old whiskers.” The footman took him by one arm,
the butler by the other. They ran him down the drive, and neatly out
of the gate. The butler threatened him with the police if he intruded
again. It was beautifully done--soberly and with perfect decorum. Anyone
would have sworn that the butler was a real butler, the footman a real
footman--only, as it happened, the butler was Whittington!
Tommy retired to the inn and waited for Albert’s return. At last that
worthy made his appearance.
“Well?” cried Tommy eagerly.
“It’s all right. While they was a-running of you out the window opened,
and something was chucked out.” He handed a scrap of paper to Tommy. “It
was wrapped round a letterweight.”
On the paper were scrawled three words: “To-morrow--same time.”
“Good egg!” cried Tommy. “We’re getting going.”
“I wrote a message on a piece of paper, wrapped it round a stone, and
chucked it through the window,” continued Albert breathlessly.
Tommy groaned.
“Your zeal will be the undoing of us, Albert. What did you say?”
“Said we was a-staying at the inn. If she could get away, to come there
and croak like a frog.”
“She’ll know that’s you,” said Tommy with a sigh of relief. “Your
imagination runs away with you, you know, Albert. Why, you wouldn’t
recognize a frog croaking if you heard it.”
Albert looked rather crest-fallen.
“Cheer up,” said Tommy. “No harm done. That butler’s an old friend of
mine--I bet he knew who I was, though he didn’t let on. It’s not their
game to show suspicion. That’s why we’ve found it fairly plain sailing.
They don’t want to discourage me altogether. On the other hand, they
don’t want to make it too easy. I’m a pawn in their game, Albert, that’s
what I am. You see, if the spider lets the fly walk out too easily,
the fly might suspect it was a put-up job. Hence the usefulness of that
promising youth, Mr. T. Beresford, who’s blundered in just at the right
moment for them. But later, Mr. T. Beresford had better look out!”
Tommy retired for the night in a state of some elation. He had
elaborated a careful plan for the following evening. He felt sure that
the inhabitants of Astley Priors would not interfere with him up to
a certain point. It was after that that Tommy proposed to give them a
surprise.
About twelve o’clock, however, his calm was rudely shaken. He was told
that some one was demanding him in the bar. The applicant proved to be a
rude-looking carter well coated with mud.
“Well, my good fellow, what is it?” asked Tommy.
“Might this be for you, sir?” The carter held out a very dirty folded
note, on the outside of which was written: “Take this to the gentleman
at the inn near Astley Priors. He will give you ten shillings.”
The handwriting was Tuppence’s. Tommy appreciated her quick-wittedness
in realizing that he might be staying at the inn under an assumed name.
He snatched at it.
“That’s all right.”
The man withheld it.
“What about my ten shillings?”
Tommy hastily produced a ten-shilling note, and the man relinquished his
find. Tommy unfastened it.
“DEAR TOMMY,
“I knew it was you last night. Don’t go this evening. They’ll be lying
in wait for you. They’re taking us away this morning. I heard something
about Wales--Holyhead, I think. I’ll drop this on the road if I get a
chance. Annette told me how you’d escaped. Buck up.
“Yours,
“TWOPENCE.”
Tommy raised a shout for Albert before he had even finished perusing
this characteristic epistle.
“Pack my bag! We’re off!”
“Yes, sir.” The boots of Albert could be heard racing upstairs.
Holyhead? Did that mean that, after all---- Tommy was puzzled. He read
on slowly.
The boots of Albert continued to be active on the floor above.
Suddenly a second shout came from below.
“Albert! I’m a damned fool! Unpack that bag!”
“Yes, sir.”
Tommy smoothed out the note thoughtfully.
“Yes, a damned fool,” he said softly. “But so’s some one else! And at
last I know who it is!”
CHAPTER XXIV. JULIUS TAKES A HAND
IN his suite at Claridge’s, Kramenin reclined on a couch and dictated to
his secretary in sibilant Russian.
Presently the telephone at the secretary’s elbow purred, and he took up
the receiver, spoke for a minute or two, then turned to his employer.
“Some one below is asking for you.”
“Who is it?”
“He gives the name of Mr. Julius P. Hersheimmer.”
“Hersheimmer,” repeated Kramenin thoughtfully. “I have heard that name
before.”
“His father was one of the steel kings of America,” explained the
secretary, whose business it was to know everything. “This young man
must be a millionaire several times over.”
The other’s eyes narrowed appreciatively.
“You had better go down and see him, Ivan. Find out what he wants.”
The secretary obeyed, closing the door noiselessly behind him. In a few
minutes he returned.
“He declines to state his business--says it is entirely private and
personal, and that he must see you.”
“A millionaire several times over,” murmured Kramenin. “Bring him up, my
dear Ivan.”
The secretary left the room once more, and returned escorting Julius.
“Monsieur Kramenin?” said the latter abruptly.
The Russian, studying him attentively with his pale venomous eyes,
bowed.
“Pleased to meet you,” said the American. “I’ve got some very important
business I’d like to talk over with you, if I can see you alone.” He
looked pointedly at the other.
“My secretary, Monsieur Grieber, from whom I have no secrets.”
“That may be so--but I have,” said Julius dryly. “So I’d be obliged if
you’d tell him to scoot.”
“Ivan,” said the Russian softly, “perhaps you would not mind retiring
into the next room----”
“The next room won’t do,” interrupted Julius. “I know these ducal
suites--and I want this one plumb empty except for you and me. Send him
round to a store to buy a penn’orth of peanuts.”
Though not particularly enjoying the American’s free and easy manner
of speech, Kramenin was devoured by curiosity. “Will your business take
long to state?”
“Might be an all night job if you caught on.”
“Very good, Ivan. I shall not require you again this evening. Go to the
theatre--take a night off.”
“Thank you, your excellency.”
The secretary bowed and departed.
Julius stood at the door watching his retreat. Finally, with a satisfied
sigh, he closed it, and came back to his position in the centre of the
room.
“Now, Mr. Hersheimmer, perhaps you will be so kind as to come to the
point?”
“I guess that won’t take a minute,” drawled Julius. Then, with an abrupt
change of manner: “Hands up--or I shoot!”
For a moment Kramenin stared blindly into the big automatic, then, with
almost comical haste, he flung up his hands above his head. In that
instant Julius had taken his measure. The man he had to deal with was an
abject physical coward--the rest would be easy.