Читать книгу Bernard Treves's Boots - Laurence Clarke - Страница 8

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Then Colonel Treves rose slowly to his feet, took up his stick, and moved towards the door of the room. With his hand on the door knob, he pointed his stick at the weapon on the table. Manton had remained motionless; utterly at a loss. Now the old soldier's meaning gradually revealed itself.

"You want me to take this and——?"

"And," broke in Colonel Treves, "use it to recover such shreds of honour as are left to you."

He drew open the door.

"Thanks," said Manton, taking the pistol from the desk. He slipped the weapon into his hip pocket. The Colonel halted, looking back at him in surprise.

"What are you going to do?"

"I am going to use it," answered John, "if occasion arises."

He saw the Colonel hesitate. Some deep emotion seemed to stir within him. Then with an effort he turned swiftly, and was about to hurry from the room. Manton strode towards him.

"There was another way out?" he questioned, rapidly.

"There was, and you failed to take it. You whined that you couldn't face the army again—you, a Treves! In the past, before my time and yours," went on the Colonel, suddenly violent again, "there have been Treves who have been fools and spendthrifts; there may have been Treves who kept their honour none too clean—but never in our long line has there been a coward until you came, until you grew up to be a curse to my existence, and made my life a shame to me!" His lip trembled, the old, proud head was held aloft, but a world of desolation dwelt in the faded eyes. On a sudden impulse, John gripped him by the hand; he could feel the old man resisting him, seeking to free himself.

"I want to make you a promise, sir," he said. "I am going to Ryde the first thing in the morning. I have a friend there who will help me to get back into the army."

The Colonel narrowed his eyes and tried to read the expression on his face.

"There is a new ring in your voice, Bernard," he said, after a moment's pause, "but I cannot trust you."

He turned and walked away. John saw him go, using his stick for support, and felt a renewed pity for the old, broken father. He spent that night at an inn in Freshwater, and took the first train next morning for Ryde. Here at the recruiting office he presented himself before Captain Gilbert. This plump and comfortable officer was busy at his work when John stepped into the office. His shadow fell upon Captain Gilbert's desk, and the elder man looked up quickly.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed. He stared wide-eyed at Manton for a moment, and John broke into a smile.

"I see you mistook me for Treves."

"I did," said Gilbert, leaning forward and looking into his face. "The resemblance is really closer than I thought at first. Well," he said, "you've done your part of the bargain splendidly. You earned the money you needed, and you've lifted a great load off the minds of several deserving persons, including myself."

"I should like to know how I've done that," said Manton. "It seems to me the only service I have rendered has been to myself."

"You forget the battery at Scarthoe Head. You made up the deficiency, and the Colonel's delighted with you, Manton."

"Thanks to you—and young Treves—I was able to put matters straight there."

"You have probably saved young Treves from going utterly to the devil," said Gilbert. "I'll tell you about that later; I'm busy till one o'clock, but come to my hotel then and we'll have lunch together."

"But I am here on business myself!" protested Manton. He was feeling cheerful and particularly satisfied with the course of events so far.

"What is your particular business?" inquired Gilbert.

"I want to get back into the army."

Gilbert looked at him for a moment.

"Of course—of course," he said hastily. "I'd forgotten that; we will discuss the subject at lunch time."

Until lunch time Manton was free to stroll upon the pier and consider his situation. He felt a deep curiosity to know what had happened to the man whose clothes he was wearing; to Treves, whose money he was jingling in his pocket, whose excellent cigarettes he had smoked.

At a quarter to one he threw his cigarette end over the rail into the water, and turning, made his way to the hotel where Gilbert was staying. He found the Captain already there, busy mixing a salad at a table in the corner of a small dining-room. There were half a dozen tables in the room, none of which were as yet occupied.

"Sit down, Manton," invited Captain Gilbert, as John entered. "I always mix my own salads. What will you have? There's the menu."

John chose a dish and accepted his host's invitation to divide with him a bottle of Chablis. During the meal Captain Gilbert talked on general matters. But at length the conversation appeared to drift round to the subject of Treves.

"Old Treves took you for granted, eh?" asked the Captain.

"His eyesight isn't good," answered John, "but he suspected nothing."

"And Gates, the butler?"

"He called me 'Mr. Bernard' the moment he saw me. Also, he gave me Treves's letters and a telegram. I didn't read the letters, but the telegram——" Manton put his hand in his inner pocket. "Perhaps I'd better hand them all over to you now."

"Not so fast," Gilbert said, pushing the letters and the telegram back across the table towards Manton. "As a matter of fact, I can't hand them to Treves just now, as I have persuaded him to go to a nursing home for a time. A very good friend of his father's, General Whiston, recommended that something of the sort should be done with him months ago."

"Treves did not give me the impression of being actually ill," Manton observed.

"He wasn't, but his nerves were all to rags. He was in such a state of acute neurasthenia that I expected him to lay hands on himself any minute. Anyway, where he is he will be safe for a while; he will be out of his father's way and the discipline of this particular nursing home may pull him together."

John lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully. There was evidently something on Gilbert's mind, something of which he wished to unburden himself. John waited, and at last the elder man broke the silence again:

"Manton," he said earnestly, "I want you to do me a particular favour."

John inquired the nature of the favour.

"I want you," went on the Captain, "to sustain Treves's personality for a little longer. He is in good hands in the nursing home, and for the time being has vanished from the public gaze." Gilbert paused, and again appeared to hesitate. What he had to say was very difficult to frame in words. He wished to hint at something that was the merest suspicion in his own mind. Two or three times he was on the verge of putting his thoughts into words, and each time the effort appeared too much for his gift of expression. Finally he leaned back in his chair. "Manton," he said, "I cannot tell you all I think and suspect, but I will give you such confidences as I can."

He paused for a moment, then went on: "Since Treves came back from France, he appears to have got into the hands of undesirable company. One of his rooted ideas, possibly the result of his drug habit, is that some one is watching him, and that, for some reason or other, his life is in danger."

John listened quietly; then, when the other had finished, he observed seriously: "So far as I see it, you want me to continue my impersonation of Treves until he is cured and comes out of the nursing home."

"That is it, exactly," said Gilbert.

"You are putting a good deal of trust in me," answered John.

At that Gilbert stretched out his hand and gripped John's fingers heartily.

"Manton," he said, "you and I are in this together for the good of the Cause. Not only for Treves and the old Colonel, but perhaps for bigger issues."

"I don't get your meaning," said John.

"Don't ask it, trust me as I trust you. And now to get back to the matter in hand," he said, resuming his ordinary tone. "Perhaps it would be worth your while to open those two letters."

As John obediently tore open the envelopes and read the contents of the letters, Gilbert called the waiter and paid for the two lunches. One of the letters was a typewritten screed from a quack doctor in which he claimed to cure any victim of the drug habit within the space of three months. John experienced a real feeling of pity for Treves as he read the quack's fraudulent promises. The second letter contained two lines only on a single sheet of paper with the printed heading: "208, St. George's Square, S.W." The letter ran:

"Dear Treves,—I must see you at once. You understand; it is essential that you should come to me without delay. To-morrow night at nine o'clock I shall expect you.—Yours, G. MANNERS."

Manton handed both letters to Gilbert, who studied them carefully.

"I haven't a notion who G. Manners is," mused the Captain when he had read the letter through a second time, "but he may be one of the friends Treves ought to get rid of, and for that reason I should advise you to call on him to-morrow."

Manton was thoughtful for a moment.

"What if he discusses matters I know nothing about? Treves's past life is a blank to me:"

"Come," said Gilbert, touching him lightly on the arm, "you are playing a part; you are not such a fool as not to play it well. I admit there are certain little precautions you may find it wise to take. In the first place, you might have a go at copying Treves's degenerate handwriting. You might also keep in mind that Treves is over-strung, lacking in will-power, and so much a victim of the cocaine habit that he would do anything, short of murder, to get the drug when the craving is upon him. As to Treves's past life, it seems to me that a victim of the drug habit can be afflicted with convenient lapses of memory when occasion arises."

Manton glanced at the Captain's pleasant, fat face, and the thought crossed his mind that there was a good deal more cleverness behind Gilbert's amiable exterior than he had at first realised. He forthwith decided to go to town that night. London always held a vivid attraction for him, and he had not had the pleasure of visiting it since his journey through its streets in an ambulance on his return from France. Some weeks in hospital had followed that visit, then had come his transference to the R.G.A. at Scarthoe Head. And now, with returned health and in new, strange and portentous circumstances, he was to visit London again.

Mr. Manners, the mysterious, imperative writer of the letter, had demanded to see Treves at nine o'clock. The hour of John's arrival was eight, and he was in a hurry. He was impatient to plunge into whatever adventure awaited him. Without bothering to engage a room for the night, he deposited his bag in the cloak-room at Waterloo Station, and set out to find St. George's Square. He arrived at the corner of the square, the Embankment corner, at precisely eight-thirty. The square's decorous, solemn-looking houses with heavy pillared porticoes struck him as gloomy in the extreme. The only individual upon the long strip of pavement which ran the length of the west side of the square was himself. His footfalls appeared to echo with inordinate resonance in the areas as he made his way towards Number 208.

It was not his intention to ring the bell immediately. In the first place he wanted to reconnoitre the house, to see if it were possible to judge of the house's occupants by its exterior. This thought occupied his mind, when a taxi sped into the square and drew to a halt within half a dozen yards of him. The taxi had stopped behind him, and its occupant had alighted.

"That's all right; half an hour," said a curt voice in a cultured accent.

The chauffeur nodded, and slammed the taxi door. The young man who had alighted hurried forward, passed John, and continued down the square. Without paying over especial attention, John noticed that he was tall, that he wore a morning coat of distinguished cut, that his light grey felt hat was of expensive quality, and that the pearl in his tie-pin was also, if genuine, of exceptional value. He was of John's height and age, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and with a slight tooth-brush moustache. His features were large and heavy-boned, without being harsh. Two things John noticed as he hurried past; one was that he carried a silk-lined light overcoat over his arm, and the other that he wore a "service rendered" badge on the lapel of his coat.

"Invalided from the army," thought John. "All the same, he doesn't look as if there was much the matter with him."

John continued to walk until he reached the corner of the square, then he turned, and as he did so he saw the tall young man flit up the steps of a house a considerable distance away. John fixed his eyes on the portico of this particular house and walked towards it. And as he neared the door he realised that the young man had entered the very house at which he also had an appointment—Number 208. For a moment Manton paused, hesitated, then passed on. Before making the plunge into whatever adventure awaited him, he wanted still further to consider the situation.

In the meantime the stranger, who had alighted from the taxi, was now within the hall of Mr. Manners's residence. He had opened the door with a Yale key and had admitted himself. The hall was narrow and somewhat dark, and the young man laid his gold-headed cane noisily on a little table, and began to draw off his grey gloves. A door at the back of the house opened noiselessly, and a sombre-faced, sallow-complexioned butler advanced.

"Mr. Manners is in, of course?" demanded the young man in a voice that rasped a little.

"Yes, Herr Baron, in the library."

The visitor nodded curtly, ran swiftly up the stairs, turned to the left, and opened a door on the first landing. He entered a room where the curtains had already been drawn. Two electric chandeliers, one on either side of the hearth, illuminated the apartment. A large bookcase occupied one wall of the room, and in the middle of the floor was a business-like table, scattered with papers. On the table was a green-shaded reading lamp, and by its illumination a man sat at work busily writing. He looked up as the stranger entered, then sprang quickly to his feet. He was a tall man of fifty, uncomfortably stout, with a fleshy neck that protruded over his collar at the back. The big man's iron-grey hair was short, his nose broad and short, and his lips thick and pouting. Despite his inelegance of figure, he was dressed, with an attempt at smartness, in a well-cut frock coat and newly-creased trousers. His heavy eyebrows shielded his eyes, hiding his expression from any but the closest scrutiny. For a man of his excessive bulk he showed extreme activity on his feet.

"I didn't expect you to-night," he said. He placed a chair near the desk for the younger man to seat himself.

His visitor, however, stood still and fixed him with a direct, cold stare.

"Well, Manners," he demanded, "what have you to say for yourself?"

Manners shrugged his heavy shoulders, and displayed the palms of his hands.

"Nothing, Herr Baron," he said, "except that I have done my best. Won't you sit down?"

The young man took a cigarette from his case, and lit it.

"Your best is damned bad!" he said.

"I exercised such judgment as I have," returned the other, in a tone of abasement.

"Judgment alone is of no avail," retorted the other. "What we want is aggressive action. We don't get that from you—you talk, and think, and scheme——"

The other ventured a faint note of protest.

"I was chosen, Herr Baron——"

"I don't want to hear your history," returned the younger man, coldly. "I want to know about this expedition that is being prepared by the Eastern Command, that has been under preparation for the past six weeks."

"I gave you such figures, Herr Baron, as I was able to collect."

The young man crossed to the hearth and stood leaning with his back against the mantelshelf.

"Doesn't it occur to you," he demanded, after a moment's silence, "that figures are only a detail? Figures are something any fool could gather. What Berlin wants to know is, what is this expedition's objective, where is it bound for, also what port it sails from, and when?"

The elder German—Gottfried Manwitz by name, though he figured in the London directory as Godfrey Manners—turned nervously towards his desk and began to search among the papers. An expression of relief crossed his face as he took up a particular sheet of paper.

"That is the date, Herr Baron," he said, "when the expedition will sail, and also the place of departure."

The young man took the sheet, scrutinised it with frowning brows for a moment, then lifted his eyes and looked into Manwitz's fat face with cold, contemptuous gaze.

"Excellent!" he said, cuttingly; "wonderful and utterly useless! You provide Headquarters with all this detail, and fail to give the one vital, useful piece of information—the sole item that Headquarters requires."

"It is very difficult, Herr Baron," apologised Manners.

"You and I, Manwitz," retorted the younger man, "are retained in London for the sole purpose of overcoming difficulties." He paused a moment, and looked complacently for the first time in the elder man's face. "For instance, I myself have overcome quite a number of difficulties."

"Indeed, that is true, Herr Baron," conceded Manners.

"I expect you to do the same. Since you let the Inflexible and the Invincible vanish to the Falkland Islands without any one of us being aware of the fact, Berlin doesn't think so highly of your attainments as before the war. For my part," he went on, "I find you too much of a dreamer." He paused; some one had knocked lightly on the door of the room. "Open it, Manwitz!" he commanded.

The big man crossed lightly to the door and drew it open. Upon the threshold stood the sombre-countenanced butler. The tall young man from the hearth called aloud to him:

"Well, Conrad, what is it?"

"Mr. Treves, Herr Baron, to see Herr Manners."

"Thank you, Conrad," said Manners. He closed the door and turned to his superior.

"This is one of my instruments, Herr Baron, arrived to-night from the Isle of Wight. You approved of him when I gave you his dossier a month ago."

"He is the British officer who was cashiered," returned the other, swiftly. "Takes drugs, and generally gone to pieces?"

"The same, Herr Baron."

"Is he quite"—he paused—"er, quite amenable to your orders?"

"I flatter myself that I can do a good deal with him," Manwitz answered, with pride. "He comes here for cocaine, but he is of good English stock, and there are moments when he tries to shake himself free of me. For the last three weeks, as a matter of fact, he has disappeared entirely. I had great difficulty, Herr Baron, rediscovering his hiding place."

"I don't like that!" returned the Baron. "How do you know what he has been up to in the meantime?"

He was silent for a minute; then he looked with his cold, pale eyes into his elder's face. "Manwitz!" he exclaimed suddenly, "this may be the man for our business!"

For the first time a flicker of triumph lit in Manners's eyes. He went to his desk, unlocked a drawer, and produced a single sheet of notepaper. "This is a letter in his own writing, Herr Baron, signed by himself. I think it is satisfactory, eh?"

The younger man took the sheet and fixed his keen eyes upon it.

"My dear Friend," ran the note, "the s.s. 'Polidor' is due to leave H—— at four o'clock to-morrow, Tuesday afternoon. I had this on absolute authority; you can rely on it."

The tall, fair-haired man came to the end of the brief note, and his hard mouth tightened; then he read the postscript: "Don't forget the tabloids!"

He looked up slowly, and fixed his keen gaze upon Manwitz's apoplectic countenance. Baron Rathenau, who had taken his degree at Oxford, who spoke English like an English gentleman, and possessed, on the surface, the manners of an English gentleman, was quite five years older than he looked. His brain was subtle and keen, and in the service of the Fatherland he was hard and ruthless as steel.

"You have done not so badly here, Manwitz," conceded the Baron. "This letter alone"—he folded Treves's note carefully—"this letter alone would bring our young friend, Lieutenant Treves, into the presence of a firing party within forty-eight hours." He paused a moment. "Our English enemies," he went on, "are unpleasantly hasty in regard to spies. But when it comes to traitors, the celerity with which they put a man face to the wall in their Tower of London, it is marvellous!"

He had folded the note carefully, and lifting his light fawn coat, he slipped Treves's note into the inner pocket, then he flung the coat back again on the chair.

"I'll see our young neurasthenic friend at once," he said. "You will leave him to me, Manwitz." He turned and pressed the bell twice. When the footman presently appeared at the door, Baron Rathenau was standing with his back to the mantelshelf, toying with a cigarette.

"Bring up Mr. Treves, Conrad," he said, briefly.