CHAPTER XXIII. A RACE AGAINST TIME

AFTER ringing up Sir James, Tommy’s next procedure was to make a call

at South Audley Mansions. He found Albert discharging his professional

duties, and introduced himself without more ado as a friend of

Tuppence’s. Albert unbent immediately.

“Things has been very quiet here lately,” he said wistfully. “Hope the

young lady’s keeping well, sir?”

“That’s just the point, Albert. She’s disappeared.”

“You don’t mean as the crooks have got her?”

“They have.”

“In the Underworld?”

“No, dash it all, in this world!”

“It’s a h’expression, sir,” explained Albert. “At the pictures the

crooks always have a restoorant in the Underworld. But do you think as

they’ve done her in, sir?”

“I hope not. By the way, have you by any chance an aunt, a cousin,

a grandmother, or any other suitable female relation who might be

represented as being likely to kick the bucket?”

A delighted grin spread slowly over Albert’s countenance.

“I’m on, sir. My poor aunt what lives in the country has been mortal bad

for a long time, and she’s asking for me with her dying breath.”

Tommy nodded approval.

“Can you report this in the proper quarter and meet me at Charing Cross

in an hour’s time?”

“I’ll be there, sir. You can count on me.”

As Tommy had judged, the faithful Albert proved an invaluable ally. The

two took up their quarters at the inn in Gatehouse. To Albert fell the

task of collecting information. There was no difficulty about it.

Astley Priors was the property of a Dr. Adams. The doctor no longer

practiced, had retired, the landlord believed, but he took a few private

patients--here the good fellow tapped his forehead knowingly--“balmy

ones! You understand!” The doctor was a popular figure in the village,

subscribed freely to all the local sports--“a very pleasant, affable

gentleman.” Been there long? Oh, a matter of ten years or so--might be

longer. Scientific gentleman, he was. Professors and people often came

down from town to see him. Anyway, it was a gay house, always visitors.

In the face of all this volubility, Tommy felt doubts. Was it possible

that this genial, well-known figure could be in reality a dangerous

criminal? His life seemed so open and aboveboard. No hint of sinister

doings. Suppose it was all a gigantic mistake? Tommy felt a cold chill

at the thought.

Then he remembered the private patients--“balmy ones.” He inquired

carefully if there was a young lady amongst them, describing Tuppence.

But nothing much seemed to be known about the patients--they were seldom

seen outside the grounds. A guarded description of Annette also failed

to provoke recognition.

Astley Priors was a pleasant red-brick edifice, surrounded by

well-wooded grounds which effectually shielded the house from

observation from the road.

On the first evening Tommy, accompanied by Albert, explored the grounds.

Owing to Albert’s insistence they dragged themselves along painfully on

their stomachs, thereby producing a great deal more noise than if

they had stood upright. In any case, these precautions were totally

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!”