A Rogue by Compulsion, Victor Bridges [best books to read for knowledge TXT] 📗

to James Nicholson, Esq., and stamped with the Strand postmark. I did not recognize the writing, but common-sense told me that it could only be from McMurtrie or one of his crowd.

When I opened the envelope I found that it contained a half-sheet of note-paper, with the following words written in a sloping, foreign-looking hand:

"You will receive either a message or a visitor at five o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Kindly make it convenient to be at home at that hour."

That was all. There was no signature and no address, and it struck me that as an example of polite letter-writing it certainly left something to be desired. Still, the message was clear enough, which was the chief point, so, folding it up, I thrust it back into the envelope and put it away in my pocket. After all, one can't expect a really graceful literary style from a High Explosives Syndicate.

I wondered whether the note meant that the preparations which were being made for me at Tilbury were finally completed. McMurtrie had promised me a week in Town, and so far I had only had two days; still I was hardly in a position to kick if he asked me to go down earlier. Anyhow I should know the next day, so there seemed no use in worrying myself about it unnecessarily.

It was my intention to spend a quiet interval reading one of my books, before going out somewhere to get some dinner. In pursuance of this plan I exchanged my boots for a pair of slippers and settled myself down comfortably in the only easy-chair in the room. In about ten minutes' time, faithful to her word, Gertie 'Uggins brought me up an excellent cup of tea, and stimulated by this and the combined intelligence and amorousness of Mr. Wells's hero, I succeeded in passing two or three very agreeable hours.

At seven o'clock I roused myself rather reluctantly, put on my boots again, and indulged in the luxury of a wash and a clean collar. Then, after ringing the bell and informing Mrs. Oldbury that I should be out to dinner, I left the house with the pleasantly vague intention of wandering up West until I found some really attractive restaurant.

It was a beautiful evening, more like June than the end of April; and with a cigarette alight, I strolled slowly along Victoria Street, my mind busy over the various problems with which Providence had seen fit to surround me. I had got nearly as far as the Stores, when a sudden impulse took me to cross over and walk past our offices. A taxi was coming up the road, so I waited for a moment on the pavement until it had passed. The back part of the vehicle was open, and as it came opposite to me, the light from one of the big electric standards fell clear on the face of the man inside. He was sitting bolt upright, looking straight out ahead, but in spite of his opera hat and his evening dress I recognized him at once. It was the man with the scar—the man I had imagined to be tracking me on the previous evening.

CHAPTER XII A SCRIBBLED WARNING

I have never been slow to act in moments of sudden emergency, and in rather less than a second I had made up my mind. The mere idea of stalking one's own shadower was a distinctly attractive one; surrounded as I was by a baffling sense of mystery and danger I jumped at the chance with an almost reckless enthusiasm.

Coming up behind was another taxi—an empty one, the driver leaning back in his seat puffing lazily at a pipe. I stepped out into the road and signalled to him to pull up.

"Follow that taxi in front," I said quickly. "If you keep it in sight till it stops I'll give you five shillings for yourself."

All the languor disappeared from the driver's face. Hastily knocking out his pipe, he stuffed it into his pocket, and the next moment we were bowling up Victoria Street hard on the track of our quarry.

I sat back in the seat, filled with a pleasant exhilaration. Of course it was just possible that I was making a fool of myself—that the gentleman in front was as innocent of having spied on my movements as the Bishop of London. Still if that were the case there could be no harm in following him, while if he were really one of McMurtrie's friends a closer acquaintance with his methods of spending the evening seemed eminently desirable.

Half way along Whitehall my driver quickened his pace until we were only a few yards behind the other taxi. I was just going to caution him not to get too near, when I realized that unless we hung on as close as possible we should probably lose it in the traffic at the corner of the Strand. The soundness of this reasoning was apparent a moment later, when we only just succeeded in following it across the Square before a policeman's hand peremptorily barred the way.

Past the Garrick Theatre, across Long Acre, and up Charing Cross Road the chase continued with unabated vigour. At the Palace the other driver turned off sharp to the left, and running a little way along Old Compton Street came to a halt outside Parelli's, the well-known restaurant. As he began to slow down I picked up the speaking tube and instructed my man to go straight past on the other side of the street, an order which he promptly obeyed without changing his pace. I didn't make the mistake of looking round. I just sat still in my seat until we had covered another thirty yards or so, and then gave the signal to stop.

The driver, who seemed to have entered thoroughly into the spirit of the affair, at once clambered out of his seat and came round as though to open the door.

"Gent's standin' on the pavement payin' 'is fare, sir," he observed in a hoarse whisper. "Thought ye might like to know before ye gets out."

"Thanks," I said; "I'll take the chance of lighting a cigarette."

I was about to suit the action to the word, when with a sudden exclamation the man again interrupted me.

"There's another gent just come up in a taxi, sir—proper toff too from 'is looks. 'E's shakin' 'ands with our bloke."

"Is he an old man?" I asked quickly—"an old man with glasses?"

"'E don't look very old, but 'e's got a glass right enough—leastways one o' them bow-winder things in 'is eye." He paused. "They've gone inside now, Guv'nor; they won't spot ye if you want to 'op it."

He opened the door, and stepping out on to the pavement I handed him half a sovereign, which I was holding in readiness.

He touched his cap. "Thank ye, sir. Thank ye very much." Then, fumbling in his pocket, he produced a rather dirty and crumpled card. "I don't rightly know what the game is, Guv'nor," he went on in a lowered tone, "but if you should 'appen to want to call on me for evidence any time, Martyn's Garridge, Walham Green, 'll always find me. Ye only need to ask for Dick 'Arris. They all knows me round there."

I accepted the card, and having assured Mr. Harris that in the event of my needing his testimony I would certainly look him up, I lit my delayed cigarette and started to stroll back towards Parelli's. Whoever my original friend and his pal with the eyeglass might be, I was anxious to give them a few minutes' law before thrusting myself upon their society. I had known Parelli's well in the old days, and remembering the numerous looking-glasses which decorated its walls, I thought it probable that I should be able to find some obscure seat, from which I could obtain a view of their table without being too conspicuous myself. Still, it seemed advisable to give them time to settle down to dinner first, so, stopping at a newspaper shop at the corner, I spun out another minute or two in buying myself a copy of La Vie Parisienne and the latest edition of the Pall Mall. With these under my arm and a pleasant little tingle of excitement in my heart I walked up to the door of the restaurant, which a uniformed porter immediately swung open.

I found myself in a brightly lit passage, inhabited by a couple of waiters, one of whom came forward to take my hat and stick. The other pushed back the glass door which led into the restaurant, and then stood there bowing politely and waiting for me to pass.

I stopped for a moment on the threshold, and cast a swift glance round the room. It was a large, low-ceilinged apartment, broken up by square pillars, but as luck would have it I spotted my two men at the very first attempt. They were sitting at a table in one of the farther corners, and they seemed to be so interested in each other's company that neither of them had even looked up at my entrance.

I didn't wait for them to do it either. Quickly and unobtrusively I walked to the corner table on the left of the floor, and sat down with my back towards them. I was facing a large mirror which reflected the other side of the room with admirable clearness.

A waiter handed me the menu, and after I had ordered a light dinner I spread out La Vie Parisienne on the table, and bending over it made a pretence of admiring its drawings. As a matter of fact I kept my entire attention focused on the looking-glass.

I could only see the back of the man with the scar, but the face of his companion, who was sitting sideways on, was very plainly visible. It was a striking-looking face, too. He seemed to be about thirty-five—a tall, clean-shaven, powerfully built man, with bright blue eyes and a chin like the toe of a boot. His hair was prematurely grey, and this, together with the monocle that he was wearing, gave him a curious air of distinction. He looked like a cross between a successful barrister and a retired prize-fighter.

I watched him with considerable interest. If he was another of McMurtrie's mysterious circle, I certainly preferred him to any of the ones I had previously come across. His face, though strong and hard, had none of Savaroff's brutality in it, and he was quite lacking in that air of sinister malevolence that seemed to hang about the doctor.

As far as I could see, most of the talking was being done by the man with the scar. He also appeared to be the host, for I saw him pick up the wine list, and after consulting his companion's taste give a carefully selected order to the waiter. Then my own dinner began to arrive, and putting aside La Vie, I propped up the Pall Mall in front of me and started to attack the soup.

All through the meal I divided my attention between the paper and the looking-glass. I was careful how I made use of the latter, for the waiter was hovering about most of the time, and I didn't want him to think that I was spying on some of the other customers. So quite genuinely I waded through the news, keeping on glancing in the mirror over the top of the paper from time to time just to see how things were progressing behind me.

That my two friends were getting along together very well was evident not only from their faces but from the sounds of laughter which at intervals came floating down the room. Indeed, so animated was their conversation, that although I had begun my dinner later, I had finished some little time before they had. I had no intention of leaving first, however, so ordering myself some coffee, I sat back in my chair, and with the aid of a cigar, continued my study of the Pall Mall.

I was in the middle of a spirited article on the German trouble, headed "What Does the Kaiser Mean?" when glancing in the mirror I saw a waiter advance to the table behind me, carrying a bottle of port in a basket, with a care that suggested some exceptional vintage. He poured out a couple of glasses, and then placing it reverently on the table, withdrew from the scene.

I watched both men take a sip, and saw them set down their glasses with a thoroughly satisfied air. Then the man with the scar made a sudden remark to the other,