Читать книгу The Female of the Species - Herman Cyril McNeile - Страница 3

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Even now, after three months’ calm thought, I sometimes feel that I must have dreamed the whole thing. I say to myself that this is England: that I am sitting at lunch in my club hoping that that gluttonous lawyer Seybourne will not take all the best part of the Stilton: that unless I get a move on I shall be very late at Lord’s. I say all that just as I always used to say it—particularly about Seybourne. And then it suddenly comes over me—the events of those amazing days.

I don’t suppose anybody will believe me: I wouldn’t believe the story myself if somebody else told it to me. As I say, I sometimes think it must be a dream. And then I turn back my left sleeve nearly to the elbow and look at a three-inch scar, still red and angry, though it’s healing nicely now. And I know it was no dream.

Was it a joke? If so, it was the grimmest and most desperate jest that has ever been cracked, and one wherein the humour was difficult to find. Moreover, it was a joke that would have brought the propounder of it to the gallows—had we but been able to catch her. For there was a woman at the bottom of it, and women can suffer the death penalty in England for murder.

No: it was no dream: no jest. It was grim, stern reality played for a stake sufficient to crack the nerve of the principal player on our side had he been possessed of nerves to crack. A game played against time: where one mistake might have proved fatal.

Personally, I am a peace-loving individual of mild appearance: I like my rubber of bridge at the club and my round of golf: I am not averse to letting people know that I was wounded in the leg in France. Moreover, I fail to see why I should gratuitously add the information that I was in the horse-lines at the time, and Heaven alone knows where the bullet came from. I mention these points merely to show that I am just a very ordinary sort of person, and not at all of the type which seems to attract adventure. In fact, until that amazing Whitsun, the only thing in any way out of the ordinary which had ever happened to me was when I, on one occasion, tried to stop a runaway horse. And the annoying thing then was that the driver assured me he had the horse under control. Three weeks had elapsed, and I was still in hospital, so I didn’t argue the point.

The truth is that I am not one of those enviable men who are at their best when in a tight corner, or when confronted with the need for immediate action. If, as I read somewhere once, men consist of two classes—those who can stop a dog fight and those who can’t—honesty compels me to admit that I belong to the latter. In fact, put in a nutshell, I am a rabbit.

And yet I wouldn’t have missed that adventure for anything. I can’t flatter myself that I did very much: indeed, there were times when I fear I was merely in the way. For all that, never once did a single member of the extraordinary bunch of men who were playing on our side say any word of reproach or irritation. They never let me feel that I was a passenger, even when the strain was greatest.

However, enough of this preamble. I will start at the beginning. For many years it has been my custom to spend a few days round Whitsuntide with some old friends of mine called Tracey. They have a charming house not far from Pangbourne—Elizabethan, and standing in delightful grounds. There is generally a small party—perhaps a dozen in all—and I may say that the keyword to the atmosphere of the house is peace. It may be that I am a little old-fashioned, but the pleasure to be derived from what is sometimes described as an evening’s jolly seems to me to be over-rated.

As usual, I went to them this year, arriving on the Thursday before Whitsuntide. The motor met me at the station, and, having shaken Jenkins, the chauffeur, by the hand, I got in. Somewhat to my surprise, he did not at once drive off: he appeared to be waiting for someone else.

“Captain Drummond, sir,” he said to me, “who is stopping at the house, came down to get a paper.”

“Captain Drummond, Jenkins,” I mused. “Do I know him?”

“I think not, sir,” he answered, and it seemed to me that a very faint smile twitched round his lips. In fact, there was a sort of air of expectancy about Jenkins—excitement almost—that was most unusual. Jenkins I have always regarded as a model servant.

“Five to one, my trusty lad. That’s better than breaking your false teeth on a plum stone.”

I turned at this somewhat astounding utterance and regarded the speaker. He was still immersed in the paper, and for the moment I couldn’t see his face.

“Put anything on Moongazer?”

“’Alf a dollar each way, sir,” said Jenkins, so far forgetting himself as to suck his teeth in his excitement.

“You’ll get your money back. Second at fours. That’s not so bad for the old firm.”

“Pity about cook, sir,” said Jenkins earnestly. “She don’t ’old with backing both ways. Moongazer—win only—she was.”

He consulted a small note-book, apparently to verify the statement.

“That sheds a bit of gloom over the afternoon, Jenkins.”

Captain Drummond lowered the paper, and seemed to become aware of my existence for the first time.

“Hullo! hullo! hullo!” he exclaimed. “The new arrival. Home, Jenkins—and for God’s sake don’t break it to the cook till after dinner.”

He got into the car, and it struck me that I had seldom seen a larger individual.

“Do you think it is quite wise to encourage the servants to bet?” I enquired a little pointedly as we started.

“Encourage, old lad?” he boomed. “They don’t want any encouragement. You’d have to keep ’em off it with a field-gun.”

He waved a friendly hand at an extremely pretty girl on the pavement, and I took off my hat.

“Who was that?” he said, turning to me.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I thought you waved at her.”

“But you took off your hat.”

“Because you waved at her.”

He pondered deeply.

“I follow your reasoning,” he conceded at length. “The false premise, if I may say so, is your conclusion that a friendly gesture of the right hand betokens previous acquaintance. I regret to say I do not know the lady: I probably never shall. Still, we have doubtless planted hope in her virginal bosom.”

He relapsed into silence, while I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. A strange individual, I reflected: one, somehow, I could hardly place at the Traceys’. Now that he was sitting beside me he seemed larger than ever—evidently a very powerful man. Moreover, his face was rather of the type that one associates with pugilism. He certainly had no claims to good looks, and yet there was something very attractive about his expression.

“The Cat and Custard Pot,” he remarked suddenly, and Jenkins touched his hat.

“It’s nearly an hour,” he said, turning to me, “since I lowered any ale. And I don’t really know Bill Tracey well enough to reason with him about his. The damned stuff isn’t fit to drink.”

The car pulled up outside a pub, and my companion descended. I refused his invitation to join him—ale is not a favourite beverage of mine—and remained sitting in the car. The afternoon was warm, the air heavy with the scent of flowers from a neighbouring garden. And in the distance one got a glimpse of the peaceful Thames. Peaceful—the mot juste: everything was peaceful in that charming corner of England. And with a feeling of drowsy contentment, I lay back and half-closed my eyes.

I don’t know what drew my attention to them first—the two men who were sitting at one of the little tables under a tree. Perhaps it was that they didn’t seem to quite fit in with their surroundings. Foreigners, I decided, and yet it was more from the cut of their clothes than from their actual faces that I came to the conclusion. They weren’t talking, but every now and then they stole a glance at the door by which Drummond had gone in. And then one of them turned suddenly and stared long and earnestly at me.

“Who are those two men, Jenkins?” I said, leaning forward.

“Never seen ’em before to-day, sir,” he answered. “But they was ’ere when the Captain stopped for his pint on the way down. Lumme—look there.”

I looked, and I must admit that for a moment or two I began to have doubts as to Drummond’s sanity. He had evidently come out by, some other door, and he was now standing behind the trunk of the tree under which the men were sitting. They were obviously quite unaware of his presence, and if such a thing hadn’t been inconceivable, I should have said he was deliberately eavesdropping. Anyway, the fact remains that for nearly a minute he stood there absolutely motionless, whilst I watched the scene in frank amazement. Then one of the two men happened to glance at me, and I suppose my face must have given something away. He nudged his companion, and the two of them rose to their feet just as Drummond stepped out from behind the tree.

“Good afternoon, my pretties,” he burbled genially. “Are we staying long in Pangbourne’s happy clime—or are we not?”

“Who the devil are you, sir?” said one of the men, speaking perfect English, except for a slightly guttural accent.

Drummond took out his case and selected a cigarette with care.

“Surely,” he remarked pleasantly, “your incompetence cannot be as astounding as all that. Tush! tush!——” he lifted a hand like a leg of mutton as the man who had spoken started forward angrily. “I will push your face in later, if necessary, but just at the moment I would like a little chat. And since the appearance of you both is sufficient to shake any man to the foundations, let us not waste time over unnecessary questions.”

“Look here,” snarled the other angrily, “do you want a rough house, young man?”

“Rough house?” said Drummond mildly. “What is a rough house? Surely you cannot imagine for one minute that I would so far demean myself as to lift my hand in anger against my neighbour.”

And then the most extraordinary thing happened. I was watching the strange scene very closely, wondering really whether I ought not to interfere—yet even so I didn’t see how it was done. It was so incredibly quick, and as far as I could tell, Drummond never moved.

The two men seemed to close in on him suddenly with the idea obviously of hustling him out of the garden. And they didn’t hustle him out of the garden. Far from it. There came a noise as of two hard bodies impinging together, and the gentleman who had not yet spoken recoiled a pace, holding his nose and cursing.

I sympathised with him: it is a singularly painful thing to hit one’s nose hard on somebody else’s head. In fact, the only completely unmoved person was Drummond himself.

“You shouldn’t kiss in public places, laddies,” he remarked sadly. “It might make the barmaid jealous. And I do declare his little nosey-posey is beginning to bleed. If you ask the chauffeur nicely he might lend you a spanner to put down your back.”

The two men stood there glaring at him, and they were not a prepossessing pair. And then the one who had done the talking drew his friend of the damaged nose on one side, and spoke to him in a low tone. He seemed to be urging some course on the other which the latter was unwilling to accept.

“My God, sir,” muttered Jenkins to me, “the bloke with the bleeding nose has got a knife.”

“Look out, Captain Drummond,” I called out. “That man has a knife.”

“I know, old lad,” he answered. “He’s been playing at pirates. Not going, surely? Why, we’ve never had our little chat.”

But without a backward glance, the two men passed through the gate and started walking rapidly down the road in the direction of the station. And after a time Drummond sauntered over to the car and got in.

“After which breezy little interlude,” he murmured, “the powerful car again swung forward, devouring mile after mile.”

“Would you much mind explaining?” I remarked dazedly.

“Explaining?” he said. “What is there to explain?”

“Do you usually go about the country molesting perfect strangers? Who are those men?”

“I dunno,” he answered. “But they knew me all right.”

He was staring at the road ahead and frowning.

“It’s impossible,” he muttered at length. “And yet——”

He relapsed into silence, while I still gazed at him in amazement.

“But,” I cried, “it’s astounding. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I couldn’t have believed it possible.”

He grinned suddenly.

“I suppose it was a bit disconcerting,” he answered. “But we’re moving in deep waters, laddie——or, rather, I am. And I tell you frankly I don’t quite know where I am. Why should those two blokes have followed me down here?”

“Then you have seen them before?”

He shook his head.

“No. At least, I saw them when I stopped for some ale on the way down to the station. And they aren’t very clever at it.”

“Clever at what?”

“The little game of observing without being observed. Apart from their appearance, which made them stick out a mile when seen in an English country inn, the man whose nose suffered slightly positively hissed into the other’s ear when he first saw me. In fact, I very nearly dealt with them then and there, only I was afraid I’d be late for your train.”

“But why should they follow you?” I persisted. “What’s the idea?”

“I wish to God I knew,” he answered gravely. “I don’t think I’m losing my nerve, or anything of that sort—but I’m absolutely in the dark. Almost as much as you are, in fact. I loathe this waiting game.”

“Of course,” I remarked resignedly, “I suppose I am not insane. I suppose there is some sense in all this, though at the moment I’m damned if I can see it.”

“Presumably you read Kipling?” he said suddenly.

I stared at him in silence—speech was beyond me.

“A month ago,” he continued calmly, “I received this.”

From his breast-pocket he took a slip of paper, and handed it to me. On it some lines were written in an obviously feminine hand.

“When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,

He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.

But the she-bear, thus accosted, rends the peasant tooth and nail.

And the point, I warn you, Drummond, is discovered in the tail.”

I handed the paper back to him.

“What do you make of it?” he asked.

“It looks like a stupid joke,” I said. “Do you know the writing?”

He shook his head.

“No; I don’t. So you think it’s a joke, do you?”

“My dear sir,” I cried, “what else can it be? I confess that at the moment I forget the poem, but the first three lines are obviously Kipling. Equally obviously the fourth is not.”

“Precisely,” he agreed with a faint smile. “I got as far as that myself. And so it was the fourth line that attracted my attention. It seemed to me that the message, if any, would be found in it. It was.”

“What is the fourth line?” I asked curiously.

“‘For the female of the species is more deadly than the male,’” he answered.

“But, surely,” I cried in amazement, “you can’t take a thing like that seriously. It’s probably a foolish hoax sent you by some girl you cut at a night club.”

I laughed a little irritably: for a man to take such a message in earnest struck me as being childish to a degree. A stupid jest played by some silly girl, with a penchant for being mysterious. Undoubtedly, I reflected, the man was a fool. And, anyway, what had it got to do with the two men at the Cat and Custard Pot?

“‘The female of the species is more deadly than the male,’” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard my remark. “No hoax about it, old lad; no jest, believe you me. Just a plain and simple warning. And now the game has begun.”

For a moment or two I wondered if he was pulling my leg; but he was so deadly serious that I realised that he, at any rate, believed it was genuine. And my feeling of irritation grew. What an ass the man must be!

“What game?” I asked sarcastically. “Playing peep-bo behind the trees?”

He let out a sudden roar of laughter.

“You probably think I’m bughouse, don’t you?” he cried. “Doesn’t matter. The only real tragedy of the day is that the cook didn’t back Moongazer each way.”

Once again he relapsed into silence, as the car rolled through the gates of the Traceys’ house.

“Good intelligence work,” he said thoughtfully. “We only decided to come down here yesterday. But I wish to the Lord you’d learn to control your face. If you hadn’t given a life-like representation of a gargoyle in pain I might have heard something of interest from those two blighters.”

“Confound you!” I spluttered angrily.

“You couldn’t help it.” He waved a vast hand, and beat me on the back. “I ought to have warned you. Must have looked a bit odd. But it’s a pity——”

The car pulled up at the door, and he got out.

“Little Willie wants a drink,” he remarked to Tracey, who came out to greet us. “His nervous system has had a shock. By the way, where’s Phyllis?”

“Playing tennis,” said our host, and Drummond strolled off in the direction of the lawn.

“Look here, Bill,” I cried, when he was out of earshot, “is that man all there?”

“Hugh Drummond all there?” he laughed. “Very few men in England more so. Why?”

“Well, if he hits me on the back again I shan’t be. He’s rammed my braces through my spine. But, honestly, I thought the man was mad. He’s been talking the most appalling hot air on the way up, and he assaulted two complete strangers at the Cat and Custard Pot.”

Bill Tracey stared at me in surprise.

“Assaulted two strangers at the Cat and Custard Pot!” he repeated. “What on earth did he do that for?”

“Ask me another,” I said irritably. “Two foreign-looking men.”

“That’s funny,” he remarked thoughtfully. “Rodgers—the gardener—was telling me only a few minutes ago that he had seen two foreign-looking men hanging round the house this morning, and had told them to clear off. I wonder if they were the same.”

“Probably,” I said. “But the fact that they were hanging round here hardly seems an adequate reason for Captain Drummond’s behaviour. In fact, my dear Bill—— What’s the matter?”

He was staring over my shoulder in the direction of the lawn, and I swung round. Drummond was running towards us over the grass, and there was a peculiar strained look on his face. He passed us without a word, and went up the stairs two at a time. We heard a door flung open, and then we saw him leaning out of his bedroom window.

“I don’t like it, Algy,” he said. “Not one little bit.”

A somewhat vacuous-looking individual with an eyeglass had joined us, whom the remark was obviously addressed to.

“Ain’t she there, old bean!” he remarked.

“Not a trace,” answered the other, disappearing from view.

“Can’t understand old Hugh,” remarked the newcomer plaintively. “I’ve never seen him in this condition before. If I didn’t think it was impossible I should say he’d got the wind up.”

“What’s stung you all?” said Bill Tracey. “Isn’t Mrs. Drummond playing tennis?”

“She was—after lunch,” answered Algy. “Then she got a note. Your butler wallah brought it out to her on the court. It seemed to upset her a bit, for she stopped at once and came into the house.”

“Where,” remarked Drummond, who had joined us, “she changed her clothes. It was a note, was it, Algy: not a letter? I mean, did you happen to notice if there was a stamp on the envelope?”

“As a matter of fact, old lad, I particularly noticed there was not. I was sitting next her when she took it.”

The butler passed us at that moment, carrying the tea-things.

“Parker,” said Drummond quietly, “you gave a note to Mrs. Drummond this afternoon, I understand.”

“I did, sir,” answered the butler.

“Did you take it yourself at the front-door?”

“I did, sir.”

“Who delivered it?”

“A man, sir, whom I did not know. A stranger to the neighbourhood, I gathered.”

“Why?” snapped Drummond.

“Because, sir, he asked me the nearest way to the station.”

“Thank you, Parker,” said Drummond quietly. “Algy, it’s quicker than I expected. Hullo! Jenkins, do you want me?”

The chauffeur touched his cap.

“Well, sir, you know you asked me to adjust your carburettor for you. I was just wondering if you could tell me when the car will be back.”

“Be back?” said Drummond. “What do you mean?”

“Why, sir, the Bentley ain’t in the garage. I thought as ’ow Mrs. Drummond had probably taken it out.”

And if anything had been needed to confirm my opinion that this vast individual was a little peculiar, I got it then. He lifted his two enormous fists above his head and shook them at the sky. I could see the great muscles rippling under his sleeves, and instinctively I recoiled a step.

The man looked positively dangerous.

“Thrice and unutterably damned fool that I am,” he muttered. “But how could I tell it would come so soon?”

“My dear fellow,” said Bill Tracey, gazing at him apprehensively, “surely there is nothing to get excited about. Mrs. Drummond is a very good driver.”

“Driver be jiggered,” cried Drummond. “If it was only a question of driving, I wouldn’t mind. I’m afraid they’ve got her. For the Lord’s sake, give me a pint of ale. Yours is pretty bad—but it’s better than nothing.”

And then he suddenly turned on me of all people.

“If only you could have kept your face in its place, little man, I might have heard something. Still, it can’t be helped. God made you like it.”

“Really,” I protested angrily, but this extraordinary individual had gone indoors again. “The man is positively insulting.”

“Nothing to what he can be if he dislikes you,” said the being called Algy placidly. “He’ll be all right after he’s had his beer.”