XI
Lady Moya Was Curiously Unlike Herself
There was a greater reason for Sir Ralph’s perturbation than either he knew or Michael guessed. Both might have been enlightened, had they stood on Cannon Street Station one Sunday morning and seen the distress of Mr. Alphonso Blaxton as the big minute hand of the station clock grew nearer to nine. The guard was closing the doors of the carriages and the collector was preparing to shut the gate, when Moya came flying breathlessly through the barrier.
“Oh, I am so sorry!” she gasped; “my watch stopped.”
Mr. Alphonso Blaxton bundled her into an empty first-class carriage and jumped in himself as the train moved.
“There’s not another train for three hours,” he said severely.
“We could have gone to church.”
“What a mind!” said the young man in admiration. “I never thought of church!”
“Anyway, I didn’t lose the train,” she said tartly. “Have you brought everything?”
She looked round for the collapsible easel, the paint boxes and the paraphernalia which usually accompanied their sketching tours.
“I have brought nothing,” he said frankly.
“But how can you sketch?”
“I am not going to sketch,” he said. “I decided that it was too nice a day to waste.”
She looked up at him and laughed.
“You will never be an artist,” she said, suddenly severe. “To what part of the country are we going?”
“I thought we would go to Maidstone. There are some lovely drives from there. I’ve hired a motor car to meet us at the station and I thought we would go through Sussex and lunch at Seahampton.”
“Not Seahampton,” she said quickly; “my father is at Seahampton today.”
She might have added that Sir Ralph was also at Seahampton, but, for reasons of her own, she kept that information to herself because Sir Ralph was not a subject which she had found it necessary to discuss. She looked at her companion approvingly.
“You are ever so much more presentable than I have ever seen you, before,” she said, “and you have actually shaved! You are getting less and less like an artist every day.”
He had a peculiarly sweet smile and a laugh which was all bubbling youth and happiness. He laughed like a girl, indeed it nearly approached a giggle. He laughed now as the train sped through the suburban stations, stretched out his feet on the cushions opposite and searched for a cigarette. She watched him with glee as he produced, not the ornate case in which the men of her acquaintance carried the expensive products of Egypt and Syria, but a gaudy yellow carton containing fifty of the cheapest cigarettes that ever brought discredit to the fair State of Virginia.
“Do you like those things?” she asked.
“These ‘yellow perils’? Rather!”
“Your taste is awfully uncultivated, isn’t it?” she bantered; “why don’t you—” she abruptly attempted to change the subject by an incoherent reference to a cow which was gazing in a field by the side of the line.
“Why don’t I smoke gold-laced Machinopolos through an amber and diamond cigarette holder?” he suggested. “Because, little Moya, I am a poor hardworking artist who has been saving up all the week for this bust.”
“I am so sorry,” she said; “I am awfully thoughtless. Won’t you forgive me?”
“I won’t forgive you,” he said, “unless you keep in your mind the big fact that I am as immensely poor, as you are immensely rich.”
“Why should I keep that in my mind?” she asked.
“Because,” he said slowly, “until you are immensely poor or I am immensely rich we shall meet very occasionally and indulge in very infrequent busts.”
“But what difference does money make?” she faltered.
She found it difficult to speak plainly or even clearly. There was a lump in her throat which made her voice sound unnaturally hoarse. She had a strange sinking feeling within her and to her amazement she found the hand that she put up to brush back a stray curl trembling. She had never experienced any such sensation before. Her heart was thumping quickly; she was breathless, hot and cold by turns.
He did not answer. She was seated by his side and she could only see his face out of the corner of her eyes, then she felt his arm slipping about her and before she knew what had happened, his lips were pressed to hers.
This happened in a first-class railway carriage on a nonstop train. It had happened before to quite common people (as Moya had heard), but she never thought it would possibly happen to her, or that so vulgar a proceeding could be so wonderfully sweet.
Sir Ralph and Lord Flanborough had met the local authorities. There had been a lunch and speeches in which Sir Ralph had distinguished himself by likening the forthcoming arrival of the Austral-African mail ship to the return of Ulysses and the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. A wireless message from the ship stated that she did not expect to make harbour until nine o’clock in the evening, and this explained the earlier festivities. That they were of a sober and restricted nature, was explained by the fact that the day was Sunday. Later, it was intended that the sailings of the Austral-African line from Cape Town should be timed to bring the ships to port on the Saturday, but there had been no time to alter the arrangements for the Charter Queen had sailed before Lord Flanborough and Sir Ralph had definitely decided the date on which the new service should be inaugurated.
A few pressmen who had come down from London for the purpose, with certain directors and their wives, were shown over the docks; the new trains were admired and particularly two brand new trucks, the peculiar character of which was exhibited by Sir Ralph to a select few of his fellow directors. A safe on wheels was an excellent description for one of these. Specially strengthened undercarriages, each truck supported by two bogies, they were designed to carry a tremendous weight.
“I am sure Lord Flanborough doesn’t mind my telling you,” said Sir Ralph to the little party, “that this will carry twenty tons of bar gold tonight.”
“What will be the value of that?” asked one of the interested audience.
“£2,867,200,” said Sir Ralph impressively; “representing six months’ output of the whole of Lord Flanborough’s gold properties.”
The directors made appropriate noises to signify their astonishment.
There were visitors to Seahampton interested in this great transportation, who were not invited to participate in the function. One of these, a dark foreign looking man, went no nearer to the docks than a little public house in the ancient High Street. He was visited by a man who was pallid of face and laconic of speech.
“It’s all up!” he said under his breath.
“What is wrong?” said the other in the same tone.
“It is quite impossible to get the driver or the fireman. They are two old servants of the company, both have money saved and would no more think of accepting a bribe than Flanborough himself.”
“You didn’t press the matter, I hope?” asked the other quickly.
The pallid man shook his head.
“I went as far as I dared with the driver,” he said. “I found out he had a son in the army in India and I told him that I had met the boy and got quite friendly with the old chap—but he is a sea-green incorruptible, Gregori.”
“I will get on the phone to Kate,” said the other. “I suppose we shall have to hold up the train somewhere—I don’t want to do any shooting if it can be avoided. Are the drivers armed?”
“It is funny you should ask that,” said the pallid man, sipping his beer. “The old man is armed for the first time in his life. He was full of it and quite proud of his ability to loose off a gun.”
Gregori looked very serious.
“Kate must be prepared with the alternative scheme,” he said. “Anyway, you will join me here with Cunningham at eight o’clock. I am perfectly prepared for almost all contingencies. Millet has given me a dozen authorities to meet almost any developments. Did you see the train?”
“I couldn’t get near it,” said the other. “I left just before Sapson brought his party to make their inspection.”
Sir Ralph had carried his guests from the siding to the engine shed and shown them the brand new Atlantic locomotive which was to draw the train to London.
“They don’t seem to have finished it yet,” said one of the guests, and pointed to a workman busily drilling a hole in the front plate.
Ralph laughed.
“They omitted to put a bracket for the lamp. You see, I wanted three green lights in a line for the Gold Train—it is very necessary that it should be very accurately and easily distinguished and signalled. By some chance only two of the brackets were in place when the engine came from the works. It is all the more annoying, because I had already given definite instructions upon that point, but we shall not go wrong for a lamp,” he said humorously.
It is agreed that the three hours between two and five on a Sunday afternoon are the three dullest in the hundred and sixty-eight which constitute a week. After the guests had left for London Sir Ralph and Lord Flanborough remained at the little station hotel—Ralph had already projected a more palatial establishment to meet the increased traffic—for it had been arranged that they should greet the Charter Queen on her arrival.
At three o’clock that afternoon Ralph burst unceremoniously into Lord Flanborough’s private sitting room where his lordship sat dozing.
“Have you had a wire?” he said.
He held a pink form in his own hand.
“A wire! What about?” asked Lord Flanborough startled.
“Read this.”
The telegram was signed “Michael,” and read:
“Simultaneous attempt made to burgle your strong room at Austral-African office and Flanborough’s safe at headquarters of mining corporation. Both unsuccessful. Both doors blown out by nitro-gelatine. Will confirm by phone.”
Lord Flanborough looked at the other open-mouthed.
“This is very serious,” he said.
“I have ordered a special to take us to town. We will wait till we get the phone message through.”
Ten minutes after they were in communication with Michael.
“Both doors have been blown out,” he repeated, “and there are one or two very puzzling features about the burglaries. Nobody could have been present in either office when the explosions occurred. There was no fire and, so far as I can see, nothing has been taken away. You had better come up and examine things for yourself.”
“It is rather awkward,” said Sir Ralph thoughtfully as he hung up the receiver; “my ‘special’ driver is also the driver of the gold special.”
“It doesn’t require any great genius to drive a gold special,” snapped Flanborough; “put another man on to work tonight’s train and let us get up to town as soon as we can.”
The special was waiting in the station by the time they had reached the platform. Sir Ralph stayed long enough to give a few instructions to the superintendent and then boarded the train and was soon flying northward.
That Sunday morning had been an interesting one for Michael. He had been aroused by telephone at five o’clock only to learn from an apologetic operator that the wrong number had been called. Although it was two hours before he usually rose, he had his bath and dressed and not waking his servants made himself some coffee.
It was a bright morning, such as so often precedes a day of rain, when he turned into the deserted street. He had no particular aim or destination but he was in that mood which invites exercise. He walked down the Marylebone Road and through Portland Place without meeting anybody save an occasional policeman and so came to Piccadilly Circus where he bought a Sunday newspaper from an early vendor and passed down through Waterloo Place to the Park.
The gates had only just been opened and beyond the park-keepers and a slouching tramp he met nobody. He sat on one of the garden seats by the side of the lake, pulled his overcoat about his legs for the morning was chilly and began to scan the headlines in the newspaper. There was nothing startling here, but he read the columns conscientiously.
There was nothing in life which did not interest Michael Pretherston. He might have taken for his motto homo sum; humani nihil a me alienum puto. It was a saying of T. B. Smith’s that Michael could even write a readable volume on the psychology of dogfights. Every little larceny, however sordid, every tiny embezzlement however paltry, every swindle whether it was carried out by the great confidence men who “worked London” or by the smaller fry in the half-crown line of business gave him food for reflection and some little scrap of information which he stored away for future use.
He was in the midst of a long account of an East End arson charge when he heard his name called softly and looked up. He jumped to his feet.
“Why, Kate,” he said, “haven’t you got any home?”
The girl was standing a few feet from him with an odd look on her face.
“I think it must be fate that brought me out this morning,” she said; “sit down, Mike, and tell me all the news.”
She showed no sign of resentment of his uncavalier treatment.
“Did you follow me here, or did I follow you?”
“I tell you it was fate,” she said. “I could not sleep and I drove my Mercedes down.”
“And how is the Princess Bacheffski?” he asked as she seated herself by his side.
“The Princess—?”
“Bacheffski—poor old Ralph! What a thing to put over him!”
She leant forward, her chin on her palm, her elbow on her crossed knee.
“You frighten me sometimes,” she said. “I have not been able to make up my mind whether you are clever or whether you are lucky.”
“I am both lucky and clever,” he said. “Tell me something about your property in the Ural Mountains,” he said.
“In Poland,” she corrected him.
“Mines, I suppose?”
“There are no mines on my property,” she said calmly; “would you be greatly surprised if I told you I had an estate in Poland?”
“Nothing you said would surprise me, unless you told me you were going to be a good girl and respect the law relating to property.”
He folded his paper and dropped it into a wire receptacle provided for that purpose and she followed the operations with amusement.
“What a tidy soul you are,” she said; “fancy doing things you are told and obeying even bylaws.”
“We all obey bylaws. You are not so original as you think. For instance, I observe that you are wearing a little toque—is that the word?”
“That is the word,” she agreed.
“Toques are fashionable at this present moment. You are obeying the bylaws. You haven’t the courage to come out in a sky-blue tam-o’shanter with an ostrich feather because it is against the bylaws. Also I remark that your dress is very short and very full. You are not wearing a Roman toga or a Grecian gown, or even a hobble skirt. Why? Because it is against the bylaws. It is absurd to disobey one set and slavishly obey another.”
“You are quaint!” was the only answer she gave.
“Will you tell me, Princess?”
“Don’t call me ‘Princess’ if you please,” she said quietly.
“Well, will you tell me, my landowner, what was the game with Ralph? He described you with the greatest enthusiasm by-the-way. The night you met him you were all dolled up to kill. Did you bring down your birds?”
“I got him,” she admitted.
She was not as bright as usual.
“You are overdoing it,” said Michael; “you are trying to do too much. Your doctor would probably tell you that you ought not to commit more than one burglary a month.”
She laughed softly.
“You are very quaint,” she said again.
“You don’t feel like making a full and frank confession, I suppose,” he suggested; “you would not like to burst into tears and sob out your young heart on my shoulder?”
“That sob stuff never did agree with me.”
He raised a disapproving hand.
“Kate,” he said, “I have noticed a disposition in you to adopt the slang which is employed exclusively by American newspaper reporters, vaudeville artistes and other members of the criminal classes.”
“I will tell you this,” she said sitting upright and looking him fully in the face, “we are going to do a big thing. The most colossal, the most daring that has ever been done and we are going to do it today. You want to know why I went to Flanborough’s, why I made up to that unspeakable person, Ralph Sapson? Those are my two victims. I will tell you more than this,” she said after a moment’s thought, “in order to ensure the success of my scheme I have arranged for those two gentlemen to be out of London on this bright Sabbath day. I can’t tell you any more, Mike.”
“You are like a serial story, you finish off at the most interesting place,” he grumbled.
His keen grey eyes searched hers and she met them fairly.
“I wish you weren’t,” he said.
“Weren’t what?” she asked.
“In this business,” he nodded. “I wish you weren’t.”
“Perhaps I will be good one of these days,” she said, “and then you can recommend me for a job at two-ten-per. I’d make an ideal secretary for you, Mike. I know all the underworld by name. You could cut out your finger print department and leave it to Kate. What would happen, do you think,” she went on, “if I went to a Salvation Army officer and said, ‘I have been very wicked but now I am going to be good. Will you please assist me. I have no money but I’ve a good heart—’ Mike, he would put me to chopping wood for a week and then he would find me a place as undersecretary to a housemaid in a strictly religious family which gave me two evenings and one Sunday a month. You see, Mike, even at goodliness one has to start at the bottom of the ladder; you can’t break in on the roof. I hate good people.”
Michael nodded.
“I hate good people, too,” he said, “if they advertise their goodness, but goodness is not hardness or sourness, it is just—goodness. For example,” he went on, “I am good.”
“And I am wicked,” she said and appealed with outstretched hands to a startled duck who had waddled to the railings, “choose between us!”
He laughed but was instantly serious again.
“Your confession puts me in a dilemma. As you are a lady I cannot believe you are lying, as you are a criminal I dare not take your word. I am sufficiently acquainted with your methods to know that your presence is not essential to the committal of a crime, so I can gain nothing by pulling you in.”
“Poor Mike,” she said mockingly.
“Poor Kate,” he said and the girl detected the note of sincerity in his voice.
“Kate, you can’t get away with it,” he said; “you have got to fall sooner or later. Think what it means. Think of that horrible drab life in Aylesbury, where every minute is an hour and every hour an eternity; think of the menial things they will set you to do, scrubbing floors, washing shirts and sewing sacks. Think, how you will be marshalled to church every Sunday and think how you will be stared at and jeered at by friends of the Home Secretary who come to visit the jail.”
“When that happens I shall be dead,” she said. “I believe you mean kindly, Michael Pretherston, and I will tell you this, that you nor any other human being can make me think or feel any different to what I think and feel. There is no power on earth that can tear out the foundations on which my life is built. I have read everything, all the philosophies, Christian and pagan, and all the arguments from the feeble evangelism of the tract writer, to the blatant nonsense of the professional atheist, and I am just where I began. You can’t touch me by reason or by devotion, by faith or by prayers. I am all stone—here,” she laid her white hand upon her bosom and he saw the mocking laughter in her eyes. “Poor Michael!” she said. “Why, if devotion could change me, think of the chances I have had! I could have taken Ralph Sapson and made of him a snake ring for my little finger. I nearly had Flanborough on the point of proposing to me. He is rather sentimental, did you know that?”
“All people with indigestion are sentimental between paroxysms,” said Michael sagely.
He gave his hand to the girl though it was unnecessary and helped her to her feet and they walked out of the park together. Her little Mercedes was unattended and he cranked it up for her.
“Goodbye, Michael,” she said.
“Au revoir,” said Michael, “we shall meet at the sessions.”
At two o’clock that afternoon a constable on duty in Moorgate Street heard the first of the two explosions which agitated police circles that day. Michael was on the spot half-an-hour later and his brief examination led to the view which he afterwards communicated to Ralph. It was then he discovered that what the girl had told him was true and that both Lord Flanborough and Sir Ralph Sapson were out of town. Curiously enough, though he had been impressed at the time, he had dismissed the girl’s statement as a piece of bravado on a par with the badinage in which she usually indulged. He had cursed his folly in ignoring the warning, all the way from Baker Street to the city and it was a great relief to discover what was evident, that no attempt had been made to rifle either the safe in Bartholomew Close or the strong room in Moorgate Street. The outrages were similar in character; in both cases the steel doors had been burst open by the application of an infernal machine. In neither case had the thieves benefited by their crime. The constable who heard the first explosion said he had been admitted by the caretaker of the building within three minutes but in that time had managed to send another policeman, who came up, to guard the back of the premises. Nobody had either entered or left in that period.
The explosion in Bartholomew Close had blown a skylight into the street. The safe was in a concrete cellar in which a light had been burning day and night and although this had been extinguished by the force of the explosion, it was possible for the constable who was outside to see the safe and obtain a fairly comprehensive view of the chamber. He, too, had asserted that nobody had entered the room or left the building after the explosion.
“It is very curious,” said Michael.
T. B. Smith had come at his urgent request and the chief was as puzzled as his subordinate.
“Did Flanborough say he would come up?”
“He is on his way now,” replied Michael.
“Do you know what I think?” said T. B. after a moment’s thought. “I think that this is a blind. That there was never any intention of rifling either the strong room or the safe. There is a big move on somewhere, Mike, call in all the reserves.”
This was an order which Michael heard with pleasure, for he had already anticipated these instructions, and detectives were at that moment flocking to Scotland Yard from every point of the compass.