Fool Errant (27 page)

He turned the brooch over to look at the catch. The catch was all right, but the pin was so much bent that it fixed his attention. What on earth had she done with the pin to bend it like that? She couldn't have worn the brooch in that condition—the pin was all wrenched to one side and wouldn't meet the catch. What had she been doing to wrench it like that? And why had it dropped just here by the table where his flute was lying?

He looked from the table to the brooch, and back again to the table. Then he bent forward and picked up a tiny shred of paper from the carpet just at his feet. It was a scrap of tracing paper. He stared at the bit of paper, and then at the two halves of his flute. The brooch—the flute—the scrap of paper—Loveday. He had wedged the plans pretty hard into the flute. Someone must have had a job to get them out. They might have been prized out with a longish pin; but the pin would get badly bent, and the paper might be torn. An empty flute, a bent pin, a torn scrap of paper, and—Loveday. Hugo very nearly shouted her name aloud, because all at once he was joyfully, unreasoningly sure that it was Loveday who had taken the plans.

He put her brooch in his pocket and examined the table closely. There were one or two more shreds of paper. He picked up the flute and held the open ends to the light.
And the open ends were scratched
—they were most blessedly and indubitably scratched.

The relief was so immense that it set Hugo's spirits bubbling crazily. He flung the flute back on the table, caught up one of Mme. de Lara's violet cushions, whirled round the room with it in an abandoned dance, and finally kicked it from the hearth to the window. He wanted to laugh, and he wanted to shout. Nothing mattered if it was Loveday who had the plans.

But he must get away from here and go to her. The plans must be safe in the hands of Mr. Green of the Air Ministry before Miller discovered that he had been done. He hadn't the faintest idea how he was to get away; but neither had he the faintest doubt that he would be able to do so. He thought the adventure was going extremely well, and the only thing that bothered him was that he couldn't hug Loveday and tell her how clever she was.

A soft, undefined sound made him turn towards the hearth. On either side of the white marble mantelpiece there were hangings of old Spanish embroidery; they covered the wall with straight, pale folds, and showed tints of lemon, straw, dead rose, and ashen blue, wonderfully worked by the patient fingers of half-cloistered ladies.

The sound came again. The right-hand curtain moved, slid back, and discovered a door which Mme. de Lara was closing behind her. In a flash Hugo thought of the evening before, when he and Loveday had been left alone together, and he wondered whether it was Hacker or Hélène de Lara who had stood watching and listening behind those hangings there.

Hélène let the curtains fall and came forward with a finger at her lips. With her other hand she caught at his sleeve.

“Ssh!” And then, “Oh, Hugo!”

“What is it?”

“I want to help you—Hugo.”

She breathed quickly, and she was pale; the hand on his arm trembled.

“How can you?”

She whispered close to his ear.

“I can help you to get away.”

He drew back half a pace.

“And suppose I don't want to go?”

“You must—you must!”

“W-will you tell me why?”

“Because you
must
go.”

This was what Hugo had said himself; but he felt curious to know why Mme. de Lara should say it. He didn't trust her the hundredth part of an inch, and he said,

“Why should I run away from a p-perfectly m-monstrous accusation?”

She was holding his arm now with both her hands.

“Hugo—I must make you see—I must make you understand. You're
ruined
if you stay. You are absolutely ruined, because they have such proofs.” She shook him in what appeared to be an access of terror. “There's that letter offering you money. And Leonard says he saw you talking to a stranger in the lane one day, and he says he heard the man say you could fix your own price. And James Hacker says the girl at your rooms told him what friends you and Miller were, and that she'd heard Miller offering you any price you liked. No, Hugo—
listen!
You
must
listen. It—it's breaking my heart. I'm not blaming you—I only want to help you. I only want you to see what proofs they've got. There are other things too—James told you he knew about the telegram. Oh, can't you
see
that you haven't got a chance? And Ambrose is so vindictive. He's cruel—
cruel
. He hasn't any human feelings at all. He only cares for his inventions—and if one of them is touched, he hasn't any mercy. He will send you to prison. I tell you he and James don't know what pity means. Ambrose only cares for his inventions, and James is jealous because he thinks I care what becomes of you. And they've got the proofs. They'll send you to prison.” It was a flurry of soft shaken words and soft trembling breath very close to him, while her hands implored him. “Hugo—I'll let you out. They don't know I've come. I can help you to get away. You must go abroad where they can't touch you—I have a friend who will help you. You're not safe in England—Ambrose means to send you to prison.”

It wasn't very easy to think in the midst of all this; but something quite clear and definite came to Hugo even as a hot, bright tear fell on his sleeve and glistened there. It made him think of Love-day's brooch, and the way the little flashing stone had caught the light. And quick on that came the clear and definite conclusion. Mme. de Lara was lying when she said that Minstrel and Hacker didn't know that she was here. He felt quite sure that they knew, and he felt quite sure that she was here because they wanted him out of the way. Hélène was there to scare him, to get him to bolt. That was the plan—a much cleverer plan than he had guessed. They wouldn't risk a prosecution. They wouldn't need to risk anything if they could induce Hugo to give himself away by bolting. Hugo in the dock might be dangerous; but Hugo a fugitive in France would be the very convenient scapegoat which they needed. The whole thing stood out as sharp and clear as if a bright light had been turned on it.

Mme. de Lara's voice went on:

“Hugo—speak—say something! I'm not blaming you—I want to help you. And we must be quick—oh, we must be quick. There's no time to be lost.”

This, at least, was true. He must get away, and get away quickly. And yet—if Loveday hadn't got the plans, he would be damning himself past hope. Not for the first time, the only thing to do was the thing that would damn him deepest if it didn't come off. It was hit or miss, but he had to chance it.

“Hugo—
say
something,” said Hélène de Lara.

Hugo found himself stammering. “W-what do you w-w-want me to s-say?”

“Oh, so many things—only there is not time now. But one day we will meet, and you shall tell me all—all that is in your heart.”

Hugo wondered if she would like it if he did. He imagined not. He said,

“W-what c-can I do?”

“Oh, you must go at once—it is your only chance. Have you any money?”

“Yes,” said Hugo.

This was horrible. He wanted to be gone. The room was stiflingly hot. Hélène de Lara did not move him now. He came near to hating her. He stepped back and said,

“How c-can I go?”

And in a moment she was at the shuttered door unlocking it.

“This way—you must go this way—down the terrace steps and along the path.” Her breath caught. “Oh—the little path! Do you remember? We came along it together. Oh, you must go!”

He asked no better. But she had not played her scene to the finish yet. As he opened the door and stepped out on to the gravel, she was beside him.

“Oh, why cannot I come too?” she breathed.

“
P-please
go in.”

But when he had crossed the terrace she was still there, a faint grey ghost in the light which came from the open window.

“Hugo—wait! I have things—to say.”

“G-good-bye!”

“No, not good-bye—not like that!” She pushed something down into his pocket. “There is the address I told you of—the friend who will help. You will need a passport, and you must get across quickly. He will help you if you show him what is in the packet. Oh, you must go!”

The last sentence did shake him a little; it had such a heart-broken sound. Was it all acting? He hoped with all his heart that it was—but he wasn't sure.

He had descended a couple of steps, when she called his name in an anguished whisper:

“Hugo—don't go!”

“I m-must.”

He turned to say it, and felt her arms about his neck. She kissed him twice. Her face was wet. With a gasp she pushed him away.

“Oh, go—
go!
” she said; and without a word Hugo went.

He had never been so glad to say good-bye to anyone before.

CHAPTER XXXVI

Hélène de Lara went back slowly to the house. Once she turned and stood as if she were listening. On the threshold of her room she waited for a long minute looking into the darkness.

Mr. Hacker spoke behind her from the lighted room.

“Hélène! What on earth are you doing? For Heaven's sake, come in and shut the door!”

She came in then, but slowly. The lighted, scented room looked strange; she felt as if it was far away from her. She was still out there on the dark stage of the terrace, a broken-hearted woman sending her young lover away, perhaps for ever. Her face was tear-stained and her eyes tragic.

Ambrose Minstrel, with his back to the fire, cocked an eyebrow and pulled his beard. James Hacker, sitting carelessly on the sofa end, swung his legs and tried to look indifferent.

“A most effective scene!” said Minstrel. “Effective and affecting! I was touched to the quick. My compliments, Hélène!”

Hacker's black eyebrows drew together.

“Well, he's gone,” he said—“to the devil, I hope.”

“France will do,” said Ambrose Minstrel. “I hope he realizes what a vindictive person I am, and that the only way he can escape penal servitude is by putting the Channel between us without a moment's delay. I don't think he's got much brain, but he'd better not have time to use what he's got. I hope you bustled him, Hélène.”

Hélène threw back her head.

“He is gone. Is that not enough for you?”

“Come off it!” said Hacker roughly.

She turned on him with a sob.

“Is it not enough that I have done what I said I would do? What do you care how much it has cost me to do it? What does any man care so long as he has what he wants? I tell you I am sick of men and their ways. Oh yes—sick at heart and tired—so tired that I should like to sleep until the world has grown a kinder place for women.”

“Chuck it!” said Hacker. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Look here, Hélène, you make me sick when you gas like that. You've done your job—at least I hope you have. Is he going to France?”

Hélène nodded.

“Then that's all right. I told you he'd stampede if you pitched it good and strong. Well, he's off the map, and I think we'll give him twelve hours' start before we notify the police. We've left our telephone off the hook, so the respectable Green won't be able to get at us to-night. Now are you going to feed us?”

“No,” said Hélène in a choked, passionate voice.

“I wish you would! I'm fed to the teeth with sardines and cocoa. Give us a decent meal for a change—just to celebrate the occasion.”

“The poor boy's ruin and my broken heart—shall we celebrate that?” said Hélène de Lara.

The hand that was on her shoulder closed in a grip that made her cry out, and as the cry left her lips, the front door bell rang in a hurried violent peal which was immediately repeated.

Hacker's grasp tightened for a moment. Then he jumped down and made a stride towards the door.

“Hullo! What's that?”

“It seems to be the front door bell,” observed Minstrel. He appeared to derive considerable amusement from the obviously disturbed condition of his assistant's mind. “Perhaps you would like to go and see who it is,” he added.

“I have a butler,” said Mme. de Lara.

Ambrose Minstrel laughed; and to the sound of his laughter the hall door opened, and at once there came voices, footsteps, the rattle of a handle, and the vehement entrance of Mr. Miller unannounced.

He banged the door behind him and stood up against it out of breath.

“Where is he? Where is he?”

“What is it?” said Ambrose Minstrel sharply.

Hacker was staring incredulously.

“What's up? Speak, can't you!”

Mr. Miller's face was pale and glistening, his red hair rumpled; he seemed half choked with rage and hurry.

“Where is he?” he said, and lapsed into another language. He appeared to be cursing very fluently.

Hacker caught him by the arm.

“Here, what's the good of that? What's happened?”

Miller pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket and flung it furiously on to the floor.

“See what the dash, dash, dash, dash blank has given me! See how he has us fooled!”

“
What?
” said Minstrel.

The one word carried so much violence that Mr. Miller with a gasp stopped swearing.

“He has us betrayed—bamboozled! He has the trick on us played, that cursed secretary of yours!”

“
What?
” said Minstrel again.

He glared first at Miller, and then at the crumpled envelope. Two of his great strides brought him to the door.

“What's this? What are you saying? Pick it up!” he said, and stirred the paper with his foot. “D'you hear what I say? Pick it up and give it to me properly! And don't come using your filthy foreign oaths to me! Do you hear? Pick it up and speak with respect, or out you go! You're not in your damned Leningrad now, Mr. Miller, and you'd do as well to remember it and mind your manners. Thank you—that's better.”