Mrs. Fitz

CHAPTER X

ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS

But what is that? A commotion away up the platform, under the clock. Yes, it is he, the faithful and the valiant! At least it is not he, but one Baguley, a superannuated police-sergeant, bereft of an eye in the service of the public peace. He staggers along under the oppressive burden of a kit bag of portentous dimensions, and twenty paces behind, sauntering along the platform with the most leisurely nonchalance in the world, blandly indifferent to the fact that the London express is due out, is the impressive and slightly pompous bulk of the fifth conspirator, the great Chief Constable.

There is a tremendous touching of hats along the platform. Even that true Olympian, the guard of the London express, contrives to dissemble his legitimate impatience, while Coverdale and his kit bag come aboard the reserved compartment.

"Cutting it rather fine, weren't you?" said I, with a tremor of relief in my voice.

"Time enough," said the Chief Constable, subsiding with a growl and a glower into the left-hand corner.

A shrill blast from the guard, a whistle and a snort from the engine, and we were irrevocably committed to the untender hands of destiny.

We were an ill-assorted party enough. Fitz the embodiment of masterful determination, with his black eyes glowing with their inward fire; Brasset and Jodey as cheerful and almost as blasé as two undergraduates on their way to attend a point-to-point race meeting; Coverdale and the humble individual responsible for this narrative, silent, saturnine and profoundly uncomfortable.

It is true that I was favoured with one fragment of the Chief Constable's discourse. It was communicated with pregnant brevity ten miles from Bedford.

"You old fool!" was its context.

"It was Fitz who kept the train for you," I countered weakly.

Whoever was to blame we were fairly in for it now; and to repine was vain.

"I am glad about your friend O'What's-his-name," said Fitz to Jodey. "A man of his hands, hey? By the way, I believe you did mention a revolver."

My relation by marriage grinned an almost disgustingly effusive affirmative.

"I suppose you fellows have all remembered to bring one?"

Somehow my looks betrayed me.

"You've brought one, Arbuthnot?"

I began to perspire.

"The fact is," said I, "I had a capital .38 Webley, but it appears to be mislaid."

"That can be easily remedied. I have brought three in case of emergency."

"How lucky," said I, with insincerity.

We were converging upon the metropolis all too soon.

"I have engaged six bedrooms at Long's Hotel," said Fitz.

"Only five will be necessary," said I, "as O'Mulligan lives in Jermyn Street."

"You have forgotten Sonia."

It is true that for the moment I had forgotten the cause of all our woes. Fitz had not, however; indeed, he had forgotten nothing. Not only did he appear to have everything arranged, but he seemed to have taken cognisance of the smallest detail.

"I have ordered quite a decent little dinner at Ward's," said he. "You can always depend upon good plain, solid, old-fashioned English cooking. They give you the best mulligatawny in London. I must say myself, that if I have to do a man's work, I like to have a man's meal. And I think we can depend on some very decent madeira."

"It is very satisfactory to know that," said Coverdale, with his deepest growl.

"There is nothing like madeira in my opinion," said Fitz, "if you are going to be busy and you want to keep cool."

"That is something to know," said the Chief Constable, without enthusiasm.

"I should think it was," said Fitz. "Do you know who gave me the tip?"

The Chief Constable gave a growl in the negative.

"Ferdinand himself. And what that old swine don't know of most things is not much in the way of knowledge. He once told me he practically lived on madeira throughout the Austrian campaign; and the night before Rodova he drank six bottles. He says nothing keeps you so cool and sharp as madeira."

"Umph," the Chief Constable grunted.

Brasset and Jodey, however, two extremely zealous subalterns in the Middleshire Yeomanry, were much impressed.

In three taxis we converged upon Long's Hotel; Brasset and Jodey in the first; the Chief Constable and his kit bag in the second; Fitz and myself in the third. A very respectable blizzard was raging; the streets of the metropolis were in a truly horrid condition, wholly unfit for man or beast; and the atmosphere had the peculiar raw chill of a thoroughly disagreeable winter's night in London. But at every yard we slopped precariously through the half-melted slush of the streets, Fitz seemed to wax more Napoleonic. He was not in any sense aggressive; there was not a trace of undue mental or moral elevation, yet he was the possessor of a subtle quality that seemed to render him equal to any occasion.

"There is just one thing may undo us," he confessed to me.

"Fate?"

"No; to my mind fate is never your master, if you really mean to be master of it. But there may be a spy. Von Arlenberg is as cunning as a fox. And if he thinks I may have something to say in the matter, he will take care that nothing is done without his knowledge. Probably we are being followed."

To test his grounds for this suspicion, Fitz suddenly ordered the driver to stop. He thrust his head out of the window, and then an instant later told our Jehu to drive on.

"Just as I thought," he said. "There is another taxi behind."

My companion became silent.

"Something will have to be done," he said. "It won't do for von Arlenberg to know too much."

During the remainder of the journey Fitz found not a word to say.

When we came to the quiet family hotel in Bond Street our leader seemed still preoccupied. Certainly he had grounds for his foreboding. A fourth taxi drew up behind the three vehicles we had chartered; and I observed that a man got out of it and, discharging his taxi, entered the hotel. As he passed me I was careful to note his appearance. He was a short, sallow, foreign-looking individual, with the collar of his overcoat turned up; a commonplace creature enough, who on most occasions would pass without remark.

While we inquired for our rooms, he sat in the lounge unobtrusively. Save for Fitz's own conviction upon the point, it would never have occurred to me that we were undergoing a process of espionage.

No sooner had Fitz secured his room, than he said, in a tone considerably louder than he used as a rule, that he had some business to see after, and that he would be back in an hour.

The man seated in the lounge could not fail to hear this announcement. And sure enough, hardly had Fitz passed out of the hotel, when the fellow rose and also took his leave.

"What is Fitzwaren's game now?" inquired Coverdale.

I refrained from advancing any theory as to the nature of Fitz's game. For that matter, I had no theory to advance. It was clear enough that the leader of our enterprise was fully justified in his suspicion, but what his sagacity would profit him, I was wholly at a loss to divine. I was convinced that the business that had called him so suddenly into the sleet-laden darkness of the streets had to do with the man who had passed out of the hotel upon his heels; yet precisely what that business was, it was futile to conjecture.

Prior to our departure for Ward's the time hung upon our hands somewhat heavily. Brasset and Jodey utilised some of it in bestowing even more pains than usual upon their appearance. In these days it is not necessary to don powder, ruffles and a brocaded waistcoat for the purpose of dining at Ward's, but there is an unwritten law which expects you to wear a white vest at least with your evening clothes. Even Coverdale and I thought well to comply with this sumptuary law. We were both past the age when one's tailor is omnipotent; but when in Rome, those who would be thought men of the world are careful to do like the Romans.

Four carefully groomed specimens of British manhood greeted Fitz in the hotel foyer upon his return. It was then five minutes to seven, and our mentor entered in a perfectly cool and collected manner. He apologised, perhaps a thought elaborately, for the necessity which had deprived us of his society. Twenty minutes later he was looking as spick and span as the rest of us.

While the hotel porter was whistling up the necessary means for our conveyance to Saint James's Street, I found Fitz at my elbow.

"By the way," said he in a casual undertone, "did you mention to the others about the fellow who followed us in the taxi?"

The answer was in the negative.

"I'm glad of that. I think it will be wise if you don't. It might worry them, you know. And there is no need to worry about him now."

"Have you thrown him off the scent?"

"Yes," said Fitz, quietly. "We shall have no more trouble from that sportsman."

I forbore to allow my curiosity any further rein upon this subject. Beneath Fitz's cool and cordial tone was a suggestion that he would thank me to dismiss it. Howbeit, I had no hint as to what had happened outside in the street, and I was burning to know.

It was a minute past the half-hour when we arrived at Ward's, but the punctual O'Mulligan was there already. He rejoiced in the name of Alexander; his freckles were many and he had a shock of red hair. His nose was of the snub variety; his ears stuck out at right angles; his eyes were light green; and his jaw was square and massive and the most magnificently aggressive the mind of man can conceive. Regarded from the purely æsthetic standpoint, Alexander O'Mulligan might be a subject for discussion, yet he was as full of "points" as a prize bulldog. He was not so tall as Coverdale, but every ounce of him was solid muscle; his chest was deep and spreading, his hands were corded, and he had the grip of a garotter.

Alexander O'Mulligan shook hands all round with the greatest comprehensiveness. As he did so he grinned from ear to ear in the sheer joy of acquaintanceship. Fitz was his first victim and I was his last, but each of us would as lief shake hands with a gibbon as with our friend O'Mulligan. The fellow was so abominably hearty. He shook hands as though it was the thing of all others he loved doing best in the world.

The dinner was admirable. Whether it was force of example, or the magnetic presence of Alexander O'Mulligan, I am not prepared to say, but certainly we did ourselves very well. Upon first entering the hallowed precincts of Ward's, I had been in no mood to appreciate "really good old-fashioned English cooking." One would have thought that only the most recherché of dinners would have tempted us in our present state of mind. But somehow our new friend O'Mulligan dispensed an atmosphere of Gargantuan good humour.

Hardly had we come to close quarters with the far-famed mulligatawny, which was quite appropriate to the conditions prevailing without, when our latest recruit insisted that one and all must dine with him on the morrow, and then adjourn to the National Sporting Club, for the purpose of witnessing "Burns's do with the 'Gunner.'"

If I live to the age of a hundred and twenty, I shall not forget our little dinner at Ward's. Six commonplace specimens of les hommes moyens sensuels with lethal weapons in their pockets and anything from pitch and toss to manslaughter in their hearts! Really, it was the incongruous carried to the verge of the bizarre.

Fitz at the head of the table was gracious to a degree. The fellow was revealing a whole gamut of unsuspected qualities. His composure, his half-gay, half-sinister insouciance, his alertness, his knowledge, his faculty for action, which seemed to grow in proportion with the demands that were made upon it – such an array of qualities was curiously inconsistent with the heedless waster the world had always judged him to be.

Now that he had come to grips with fate the real Nevil Fitzwaren was emerging with considerable potency. As far as "the married man, the father of the family, and the county member" was concerned, the fellow's dæmonic power was the cause of his dining quite reasonably well. As for Coverdale, after swallowing his plate of mulligatawny, his glance ceased to reproach me. His habitual philosophy and the old-fashioned English cooking began to walk hand in hand. The evening's business was quite likely to cost him his billet, but at least it was sure to be excellent fun. Besides, when he stood fairly committed to a thing, it was his habit to see it through.

Dinner was conducted in the spirit of leisurely harmony which is due to the traditions accruing to the shade of John Ward, who left this vale of tears in 1720. Fitz assured us that there was no hurry. If we got a move on about nine we should have plenty of time to do our business with his Excellency.

"You haven't quite explained the orders for the day, my dear fellow," said Coverdale, taking a reverential sip of the famous old brandy.

CHAPTER XI

THE ORDERS FOR THE DAY

"The orders for the day don't need much explanation," said Fitz. "Merely see that there are six cartridges in your revolver; keep it in your trouser pocket with your hand on it, and then follow the man from Cook's."

"Like all schemes of the first magnitude," said I, "it appears to be simplicity itself."

"It is this confounded revolver business," said Coverdale, "that I should like to see dispensed with. It might so easily land us in serious trouble."

"It is far more likely to land us out of serious trouble," said Fitz. "But this I can promise: they will not be produced except in the last resort."

It was clear that the question of the revolvers had made Coverdale as uneasy as it had made me; but the only thing to be done now was to pin implicit faith upon the saneness of Fitz's judgment. Certainly he had aroused respect. His method of communicating to Alexander O'Mulligan the nature of the cause, and the need for absolute obedience to the word of command, appeared to kindle awe and admiration in equal parts in the breast of the middle-weight champion of the United Kingdom.

"Do exactly as you are told, O'Mulligan, and do nothing without orders, unless they begin to shoot, and then you begin to shoot too. By the way, Arbuthnot, did I understand you to say you had forgotten to bring a revolver?"

I admitted the impeachment.

"I have several spare ones in my overcoat" – the tone of reproof was delicate. "Is there any one else who has forgotten to provide himself with one?"

"There is also a spare one at my rooms round the corner," said Alexander O'Mulligan, with an air of modest pride.

Fitz honoured the new recruit with a nod of curt approval. In any assembly of law-breakers the Bayard from Jermyn Street would be sure of a hearty welcome. His face had expanded to the most moonlike proportions, which the freckles and the prominent ears set off fantastically; and in the green eyes was a look of genuine ecstasy, beside which the emotion in those of Brasset and Jodey was mere hopeful expectation.

Fitz took out his watch and studied it with the air of the Man of Destiny.

"Fourteen minutes to nine," said he. "At nine o'clock I shall drive alone to No. 300 Portland Place, in a taxi. At four minutes past nine Coverdale and Arbuthnot will follow. They will ask for the Ambassador, Coverdale giving the name of General Drago, and Arbuthnot the name of Count Alexis Zbynska. You will be shown into a waiting-room while your names are taken in to his Excellency. If he is in, he will receive you; if he is not, Grindberg, or one of the other secretaries, or one of the Attachés will have a word with you. Keep your mufflers up to your ears and have the collars of your overcoats turned up. If von Arlenberg is not in, say you will wait for him. You can use Illyrian, or French, or broken English. Of course your object, in any case, will be to gain time and keep in the house until you receive further instructions. Am I clear?"

"Reasonably clear," said Coverdale. "If we gain access to the house we are not to leave it until we hear from you?"

"That is so."

"And what about Alec and Brasset and me?" The earnestness of my relation by marriage was wistful.

"O'Mulligan will leave four minutes after Coverdale and Arbuthnot. He will merely give his name as Captain Forbes, who desires to fix an appointment with von Arlenberg upon a private matter of importance. He won't be able to fix it; but they will send a chap to talk to you, O'Mulligan. You must be very long-winded and you must use your best English, and you must waste as much time as you can. Understand?"

O'Mulligan beamed like a seraph.

"And Brasset and me?" said the pleading voice.

"Brasset will leave four minutes after O'Mulligan. He will be Mr. Bonser, a messenger from the Foreign Office, with a letter for von Arlenberg. Here you are, Brasset, here is the letter for von Arlenberg."

With a matter-of-factness which was really inimitable, Fitz tossed across the tablecloth the missive in question, copiously daubed with red sealing-wax.

"Brasset," said Fitz, "you will be careful not to give this most important letter into the keeping of anybody save and except his Excellency, Baron von Arlenberg, Ambassador and Plenipotentiary Extraordinary to his Majesty the King of Illyria, at the Court of Saint James."

"I hope the superscription is correct," said I, misguidedly.

Fitz looked me down with the eye of a Frederick. The sympathy of the table was with him entirely.

"Somebody will want to take it to the Ambassador," said Fitz. "But Brasset, your instructions are that you deliver this document to his Excellency in person."

With an air of reverence, Brasset inserted the letter with its portentous red seal in his cigar-case. The most exacting of ministers could not have desired a more trustworthy or a more eminently discreet custodian for an epoch-making document than the Master of the Crackanthorpe.

"How shall I know old von Thingamy when I see him?" inquired the messenger from the Foreign Office.

"You won't see him," said Fitz. "But you must make it appear that you want to see him particularly."

"But if I should happen to see him?"

The Master of the Crackanthorpe was awed into silence by a Napoleonic gesture.

"Where do I come in?" said the pleading voice from the wilderness.

"You come in, Vane-Anstruther," said Fitz to my relation by marriage, "four minutes after Brasset. You are Lieutenant von Wildengarth-Mergle from Blaenau, with a letter of introduction to the Illyrian Ambassador. Here is your card, and you can give it to anybody you like."

The recipient was immensely gratified by the card of Lieutenant von Wildengarth-Mergle of the Ninth Regiment of Hussars when it was bestowed upon him. His manner of disposing of it was precisely similar to that adopted by Brasset in the case of the letter from the Foreign Office. His bearing also was modelled obviously upon that of that ornament of high diplomacy.

"I assume," said I, "that we are all to bluff our way into the Illyrian Embassy; and once we are there we are to take care to stay until we are advised further?"

"That is so."

"But let us assume for a moment that we get no advice?"

"If I do not come to you by ten minutes to ten, or you are not sent for by then, you are all to leave any ante-room you may be in, and you are to walk straight up the central staircase, taking notice of nobody. If they try to stop you, merely say you wish to see the Ambassador."

"And if they use force?"

"Make use of it yourself, with as much noise as you can. And if you still fail to hear from me, then will be the time to think about retirement. Does everybody understand?"

Everybody did apparently.

"It is seven minutes to nine. Time we began to collect our taxis."

Fitz rose from the table, and in a body we went in search of our coats and hats. For my fellow conspirators I cannot speak, but my heart was beating in the absurdest manner, and my veins were tingling. There was that sense of exaltation in them which is generally reserved for a quick twenty minutes over the grass.

"Give me that revolver," said I.

As Fitz smuggled the weapon into my hand, I could feel my pulses leaping immorally. This sensation may have been due to my having dined at Ward's; although doubtless it is more scientific to ascribe it to some primeval instinct which has resisted civilisation's ravages upon human nature.

As I stealthily inserted the weapon into the pocket of my trousers, I stole a covert glance at the solemn visage of the Chief Constable. The great man was smiling benignly at his thoughts, and smoking a big cigar with an air of Homeric enjoyment.

As Fitz, tall-hatted and fur-coated, picked his way delicately down the slush-covered steps to where his taxi awaited him, he turned to offer a word of final instruction to his followers.

"Coverdale and Arbuthnot 9.4; O'Mulligan 9.8; Brasset 9.12; Vane-Anstruther 9.16. If you hear nothing in the meantime, at 9.50 you go upstairs."

"Righto," we chorussed, as Fitz boarded his chariot with a self-possession that was even touched with languor.

We watched him turn into Piccadilly, and then proceeded solemnly to invest ourselves in coats and mufflers. Four minutes is not a long space of time, yet it is quite possible for it to seem an age. Before the hall clock pointed to 9.4, one might have had a double molar drawn, or one's head cut off by the guillotine.

"300 Portland Place," said the Chief Constable in tones which somehow seemed astonishingly loud, while I squeezed as far as possible into the far corner of the vehicle for the better accommodation of my stalwart companion.

"Dirty night," said the Chief Constable. "Not fit for a dog to be out. Have the glass down?"

It may have been an overwrought fancy, but I thought I perceived a slight, but unmistakable tremor in the voice of the head of the Middleshire Constabulary.

"Not for me, thanks," said I. "These things are so stuffy."

The head of the Middleshire Constabulary agreed with me. The impression may have been due to a disordered fancy, but I thought I detected a note of embarrassment in the Chief Constable's laugh.

From Saint James's Street to Portland Place is not far, and this evening we seemed to accomplish the journey in a very short time. Having dismissed our taxi at the door of the Ambassador's imposing residence, we each looked to the other to ring his Excellency's door-bell.

"General," said I, "you are my senior, and I feel that your Illyrian, or your French, or your broken English or any other language in which you may be moved to indulge, will carry more weight than mine."

"Oh, do you! By the way; I have forgotten my name."

"General Drago."

"And yours?"

"Count Alexis Zbynska."

"Well, here goes."

The gallant warrior gave a mighty tug at the bell. This met with no attention; but at the second assault on the ambassadorial door-bell, the massive portal was swung back, slowly and solemnly, by a gorgeous menial. In the immediate background there were others.