Читать книгу Danger Calling - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 9

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It was late when Lindsay came back into his flat and saw the proofs which he had been correcting in a neat pile on his writing-table. It was strange to see them lying just as he had left them. It seemed so long ago.

It was three nights since he had slept, but to-night no sooner had he put out the light than he plunged headlong into sleep. It was sleep, not unconsciousness.

His first step in the dark took him into a rioting tangle of adventure. He strode from dream to dream, and with each new dream he forgot the last. After what seemed like a lapse of time so great that he could not measure it, he was riding a must elephant down the main staircase of Buckingham Palace, whilst the King and Queen, the Lord Mayor, three Aldermen, and the Archbishop of Canterbury sat on graded golden thrones in the hall below, watching the performance with a good deal of human interest. The elephant was fully caparisoned, but he himself was attired in no more than a pair of bathing drawers. They had reached the hall, and he was trying to make the elephant bow to Royalty, when Mr Smith’s parrot Ananias came flapping slowly down from some unseen height. He had a red wig in his claws, and he was swearing horribly in Spanish. The Archbishop of Canterbury said, “Eight o’clock.”

Lindsay opened his eyes—and it wasn’t the Archbishop; it was Poole.

Of course it is very indiscreet to write down what anyone has dreamed nowadays, because anything that does not mean something bad is an indication of something still worse, and so on down to the bottomless pit. However, this is what Lindsay dreamed.

He spent an extremely busy day. His untimely decease was to take place on Monday, and, this being Saturday, there was a good deal to do, and it was only once or twice that he had time to remember that this was to have been his wedding day.

He told Poole that he was going abroad on Monday morning. He also told him to catch the next reporter who came to ask for the whole story of why his engagement had been broken off, and to tell him that Mr Trevor was flying to Algiers with his friend Mr Peel Anderson, and that they were leaving Croydon aerodrome at eight a.m. on Monday, weather permitting. He got three reporters in the course of the morning, which seemed quite good for a start. There would be nice little paragraphs in quite a number of papers, all leading up to, “Shocking Flying Accident,” “Fatality to Bridegroom,” and “Death of Author-Publisher.”

So far, so good; but he was feeling distinctly unhappy about Poole. Those paragraphs were going to hit Poole hard. At first sight Lindsay had been unable to see why this spectacular decease should be necessary. It seemed as if it would be so much simpler just to change places with Froth. Whilst Lindsay Trevor became Trevor Fothering and Restow’s secretary, what was there to prevent Trevor Fothering from pushing off to Madeira as Lindsay Trevor? It wouldn’t be the first time he had worn a brown wig. This simple plan was, however, unworkable by reason of the state of Froth’s nerves. He had apparently got the wind up to such an extent that he could not be relied upon.

Mr Smith’s idea was to dye Froth’s hair brown, call him William Jones, and let him sink unnoticed into the general mass of Joneses. In a way this was an undoubted relief to Lindsay. He did not particularly care about posing as Froth, but the idea of Froth going all round the world as Lindsay Trevor fairly put his back up.

He rang up Hamilton Raeburn and asked if he could take a month’s leave. He did not write a lot of letters, because he thought that least said was soonest mended. The thought of Poole worried him a good deal. It was going to hit him hard, and Lindsay would have liked to take him into his confidence. As he could not get Mr Smith’s consent to this, he had to make the best of a bad job.

He told Poole that he would be away for about a month. He wanted to tell him what to do in case he failed to return, but could not get it out with that solemn, reproachful eye upon him; so in the end he put twenty five-pound notes into an envelope with a few lines to say that he wanted Poole to have them in case of anything happening. He left it at that, but not very happily.

His private affairs would probably get into the most horrible mess, but that couldn’t be helped. He hoped that he would not find his flat let to somebody else and most of his furniture sold if and when it suited Mr Benbow Collingwood Horatio Smith for him to come to life again.

Peel Anderson came round on Sunday. Lindsay had been thinking it would be awkward if he did not know him by sight when he arrived at Croydon. He was a quiet, pleasant fellow, and he had had his instructions, for whilst Poole was still in the room he alluded very naturally to a mythical last meeting.

When Poole had gone away and shut the door, he kept up this pose of the old acquaintance. Lindsay gathered that they had met six years ago at winter sports and had foregathered at intervals ever since. There was some good corroborative detail. Lindsay met him half way, and when Poole came in with drinks he was provided with enough to satisfy the reporters, who would certainly be coming round to pick up anything they could on Tuesday.

With Lindsay it went against the grain, for he would have trusted Poole with anything.