Читать книгу Flighty Phyllis - R. Austin Freeman - Страница 4

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IF I were asked to name the outstanding characteristic of my sex I should say it is persistency. It has been said that a woman does not know when she is beaten. But this is untrue. She does, and so does everybody else in the neighbourhood. Only the knowledge doesn't influence her conduct. Of which truth the present history furnishes a case in point.

Any person who has read of my last adventure would suppose that I should have had enough of masquerading in male attire. I thought so myself at first. But it was a mistake. I had tasted of the joys of masculinity and I secretly hankered to taste again—with a little less seasoning, perhaps. But I don't suppose I ever should, had not circumstance once more stepped in and given me the necessary push off.

I had now taken over my cousin Charlie's chambers at 24 Clifford's Inn. On the jamb of the entry "Mr C Sidley" had been painted out and "Miss Dudley" had been painted in. But Charlie's furniture remained in the rooms and so did a considerable quantity of his clothes, to my great inconvenience. And there they were likely to remain for the present; for Charlie had been doing something naughty and was now living in strict retirement—lying low in fact. Which was a contributory circumstance to my next escapade. But there was another and a more important one.

My little flat was perfectly delightful but for one defect. In the bedroom ceiling, right over the bed, was a trap-door; and not a wooden trap, but a mere frame filled in with perforated zinc. Of course, anyone in the loft—into which it opened—could look down into my bedroom. It was most uncomfortable. But this wasn't the worst. One day it occurred to me to see if it was perfectly secure, and, stepping up on the bed—for the ceiling was quite low—I gave it a push with my hand. Imagine my horror when the trap immediately went up without the slightest resistance! There was no fastening whatever.

Here was a nice state of affairs! I stared up in dismay at the yawning square hole; all my security was gone. Of what use was it to bolt the oaken outer door at night, with an unguarded trap opening into my very sanctum? But, of course, the loft was kept locked and the key in the porter's lodge. There wasn't really any danger—provided there were no other traps.

In an instant, I had lifted an empty trunk on to the bed and mounted on it with my head through the opening. Grasping the side of the hole—I am a pretty athletic young person—and giving a spring, I shot up like a harlequin and pulled myself fairly through until I knelt on the floor of the loft. I stood up and looked about me. It was a great ruinous-looking place and quite dark, save for the glimmer that oozed in between the tiles and through the cracks of the closed shutters that guarded the unglazed dormer. The rubbish of centuries lay piled around, the shapeless heaps looming obscurely through the dim twilight, but in the middle there was a considerable space of clear floor. I glanced down through the hole, on the bed on which I had slept with so much unjustified confidence, and then began to walk along the floor; and I had not walked a dozen paces when there appeared at my feet another square space through which a dim light filtered. There was another trap, then.

I knelt down beside the opening with my ear close to the perforated zinc and listened intently. No sound came up from the chambers. Then I grasped the frame of the trap and gave a pull; and, sure enough, up it came. There was no fastening here, either. A pretty state of things for an unprotected girl! My little flat was in absolute communication with another, and who could say what sort of ruffian the tenant of that other flat might be?

I looked down on a patch of bare floor beneath, and then, with some compunction, I ventured to thrust my head through the opening. But I looked into an empty room. And on this, I suddenly remembered, with a thrill of relief, that the second-floor "set" in the building next to mine was empty and to let. So, for the present, I could feel that my little castle was safe from intrusion, provided there were no more traps opening into the loft. And there were not. I satisfied myself very thoroughly on that point by a careful exploration of the loft—which, in fact, covered only these two sets of chambers; and so, having set my mind at rest on this momentous question, I dropped down, with a good deal more agility than dignity, into my own bedroom and closed the trap.

I thought a good deal about that passage-way through into the next house, and I dare say I should have thought a good deal more if I had only known what an extraordinary part it was to play—but, there! I mustn't begin moralizing in advance; I didn't know; and perhaps I should have acted in just the same way if I had.

The spark that, so to speak, exploded the mine was a middle-aged spark. He was coming out of the Hotel Cecil when I first saw him, and for one moment, I caught his eye. Then I looked away, for it was a bad eye, dark, glittering, hypnotic; and it had lighted up with a sudden, intent admiration that made me feel horrid. I like admiration as much as any girl, but not that kind, thank you. Besides, he was old enough to be my father.

I walked on quickly, just a little annoyed. That single glance had left me with a vivid impression of a sleek, over-dressed, wealthy-looking man of near upon fifty; dark, rather handsome and evidently not English. Of course, the English nation does not contain all the good people in the world; but still—well he looked like a foreigner, at any rate, and you must remember that I have travelled and lived on the Continent.

At Charing Cross I turned into the National Gallery (having forgotten all about the obnoxious stranger) and proceeded to call upon the old favourites that I had been used to study when I was working at the Slade School. My first visit was to Cornelius Van der Geest, whose portrait I had once copied—a shockingly bad copy it was, too—and I was standing gazing at the long, melancholy face and wondering what Master Van Dyk would think of our modern "progressive art"—Matisse or Van Gogh, for instance—when I became aware of someone standing behind me, looking over my shoulder. After a minute or so, I moved away from the picture, and, happening to glance back, was a good deal startled at recognizing the foreign person of the Hotel Cecil. To be sure, he had as much right there as I, but—well, I trotted off in mighty quick time, and, crossing the building, made for the new room where the Corots hang. Here, in front of Israel's great picture, I was inspecting my reflection in the glass—which is about all that you can see—when that reflection was unostentatiously joined by another. I didn't have to look round this time, with that great Claude Lorraine mirror before me; I could see the newcomer's figure quite plainly, and once more I moved off.

The sort of infatuation that impels an elderly man to pursue a mere girl is a complete mystery to me. This foreign wretch must have seen that I hated him, but yet he kept at my heels until I had led him through every room in the place. By this time my annoyance was beginning to give way to amusement. It was really getting quite farcical; and as we had now exhausted the galleries, I decided to take my follower for a walk outside and show him the town. It wasn't very discreet but it was quite entertaining. I trotted him up and down Oxford Street, I showed him Regent Street and Piccadilly, I let him see the last word in hats and costumes and introduced him to all the principal jewellers and picture shops. It was an absurd affair and very silly of me; but I thought it a great joke at the time, and goodness knows how long I should have gone on enjoying "the pleasures of the chase," as Eugene Wrayburn has it, if I had not suddenly grown tired and wishful to get home and make myself a cup of tea. Then, of course, arose the necessity of shaking off my pursuer, for it would never do to let him know where I lived; and this I thought I had managed rather neatly, for, having worked my way to Fleet Street, I darted ahead, shot up Clifford's Inn Passage and scuttled into my burrow like an alarmed rabbit.

I saw no more of my foreign friend, but a couple of days later a very queer thing happened. I had taken off my wig and was examining my short hair in the glass, wondering how soon it would have grown to a manageable length, when there came a hurried tapping at my outer door. I was just about to clap on my wig and go out to open it when a thought made me pause. One has to be careful when one lives alone in a flat.

Now the provident Charlie had devised a very neat little spy-hole by which one could peep out and see who was on the landing. Slipping off my shoes, I tiptoed into the sitting-room and applied my eye to the spy-hole. Then I saw that my visitor was a woman; and something in her appearance decided me to leave the door unopened.

She continued to knock, softly but urgently. Apparently she knew that I was in. But still I made no move. Then she addressed me through the letter-slit, with a slight foreign accent.

"Please open the door, Miss. It is very important," and, as I disregarded this request, too, she continued: "It is very urgent. You shall see when you read the letter;" and here a note was slipped through and fell to the bottom of the open letter-box. At the risk of being seen, I picked it out and stole through to the bedroom to read it, and this was what it said:

Dear Madam.—An old woman who lies dying in our house wishes to see you. She will not tell us her true name but she says that she has an important secret which she can only tell to Miss Dudley of Clifford's Inn. So please come with bearer who will show you the house.

Yours truly,

"Mrs Stokes.

P.S.—The secret relates to a hidden will and a very great property.

Of course, that settled it. I wasn't born yesterday. "Bogus" was writ large all over this precious document. Besides, no one but Charlie knew that I was living in Clifford's Inn. But it was very mysterious. It looked like some sort of trap. And then I had a sudden inspiration. I would follow this good lady and give her address and the note to the police. It was an excellent idea and ought to have come off triumphantly if I hadn't carried it out like an arrant booby.

The knocking still went on; and meanwhile I whisked off my clothes like lightning and hustled myself into a plain tweed suit of Charlie's, but putting on my own stout walking shoes. I dropped some loose money and my latch-key into my pocket, clapped on one of Charlie's hats, snatched up my walking stick, and, lifting a trunk on the bed, stepped on it and pushed up the trap-door. In a moment I had scrambled up into the loft, and, stepping lightly along to the next trap, lifted it and looked down. The ceiling was barely eight feet from the floor, but it looked a long way; however, I boldly slipped through the opening and let myself down until I hung by my fingers, when I let go and dropped lightly on the bare boards.

After a glance through the dusty windows to make sure that the porter was not about, I walked through the empty rooms, and, letting myself out quietly, ran down the stairs. All was well so far. But now, yielding to an impulse of mere mischief, I did a most supremely idiotic thing. Strolling round the building, I walked straight into my own entry and began to ascend the stairs. Half-way up, I met a thick-set, seedy-looking man, who, as he passed me, gave a quick stare and then looked away.

I took the last flight as quietly as possible and surprised the woman in the act of listening at my letter-box. She looked rather startled at my sudden appearance and stepped back to make way for me. I went through the form of rapping at the "oak" with the handle of my stick and then, after waiting a few moments, turned to the woman—who now looked more startled than ever—and remarked: "There doesn't appear to be anyone at home."

"No, it seems not," she replied, settling herself by the recess of the landing window and running an attentive eye over my person. I didn't much enjoy her scrutiny, especially when it seemed to focus itself on my shoes, so I turned and retreated down the stairs, where, oddly enough, I met the same man coming up with a notebook in his hand. Again he looked at me inquisitively, but I ran past him, and, emerging into the square, took up a position in a deep doorway whence I could watch the entry to my staircase. In about a minute the woman came out, and, without looking round, walked across the square and out through the back gate into Fetter Lane.

Now came the pleasures of the chase indeed! Out into the Lane, down Fleet Street, over Blackfriars Bridge, I followed that unconscious woman with the greatest ease, for the crowd screened me and she never looked back. I had no idea that shadowing was so easy. But once over the bridge it became less simple, for the woman turned down a side street that led into a waterside neighbourhood, and here, as there were fewer people about, I had to keep a greater distance. It was not a nice district and the inhabitants were not of a pleasing type, but I stuck doggedly to my quarry until she suddenly turned and disappeared through the arched entrance to a narrow alley. I stepped forward quickly, but by the time I reached the entrance to the alley, the woman had disappeared. I halted, gazing irresolutely up the squalid little court, debating whether I should pursue my investigations any farther, when the question was decided for me. Some invisible person, who had approached noiselessly from behind, suddenly grasped me by the arms and ran me through the narrow archway, up the dark entry and into an open door, which, however, immediately became a closed door.

Recovering somewhat from my astonishment, I began to wriggle violently and would have shouted but that a dirty hand was clapped over my mouth and gave me abundant reason for keeping it shut. At the same moment the foreign woman emerged from the gloom and took possession of my wrists.

"It's of no use for you to struggle and make a noise, young woman," she remarked; "you're not going to be hurt as long as you keep quiet."

"Young woman!" exclaimed a husky voice from the darkness behind the previous speaker, "why, it's a man!"

"Is it?" said the woman, scornfully.

"You look at that pretty little emerald ring on 'er finger"—here she lifted up my right hand for inspection—"d'ye ever see a man wear a ring like that? I twigged it when I see 'er knockin' at 'er own door. And look at them shoes and open-work stockings. No, she's been a bit too artful this time, she 'as," which was undoubtedly the fact.

Here a powerful and most repulsive-looking ruffian appeared from the inner darkness, and, gripping my wrists, looked closely at my hands, particularly at the dainty little emerald ring.

"Take yer paw off 'er mug, Joe, and let's 'ave a look at 'er," said he, adding reassuringly, "I'll bash 'er if she 'ollers."

The paw was accordingly withdrawn and I was pushed roughly against the wall that my captors might inspect me; and now, in spite of the dim light, I was able to recognize in the owner of the paw the man whom I had met on my staircase.

Terrified as I naturally was, my mind worked rapidly as I stood pinned against that grimy wall. If I could only get to the door—but I couldn't, for the wretch, Joe, was between it and me, and the flight of stairs that I could dimly see at the other end of the passage only seemed to lead farther from safety. Meanwhile the three wretches calmly discussed where they should put me and finally decided, to my unspeakable horror, that I should be safest in the cellar. To this secluded retreat they were apparently about to remove me when I felt the grip on my wrists relax somewhat. With an instantaneous jerk I twisted myself free and darted off in the only possible direction, towards the stairs. Of course, they were after me in a moment, the woman leading, but it was a narrow staircase and they could only come up in single file. Near the top of the first flight I halted suddenly and kicked out like a donkey. My foot encountered something soft, the woman gave a loud yell and immediately there followed a sound as of an avalanche of Saratoga trunks. I didn't stop to see what had happened, but ran up and darted into the first room that I came to. There was not much furniture in it, but there was a small table, and when I had shut the door and jammed this table upside down and slanting under the knob, it answered the purpose as well as one of Chubbs' safe locks. No one could possibly get in. The only question was whether anyone could get out.

I will do my friends the justice to say that they were not easily discouraged. The place shook as if from the combined effects of an earthquake, a volcanic eruption and a modern American dance. And there were verbal accompaniments too, which I heard but imperfectly and understood not at all. But the hubbub served its purpose, for it enabled me, unnoticed, to open the window and survey the prospect; which was neither lovely nor inspiriting, consisting of a paved yard, a wooden fence, the back of a sort of factory building and, immediately beneath me, a sloping slate roof.

In an instant my resolution was taken. The door was audibly cracking behind me. In a few moments my pursuers would be at my heels. Grasping the window sill, I swung myself out and immediately went slithering down the slates until I came to the eaves, when I dropped, all of a heap, with a most awful thump, on the pavement beneath. Almost at the same moment, a hideous crash above told me that the door had at last given way.

I picked myself up as quickly as I could and cast a terrified look around. The little yard into which I had fallen had but one exit, which was the back door of the house. Realizing that there was no escape for me that way, I made a dash at the fence and was frantically endeavouring to scramble up it when the whole pack of miscreants came rushing out of the back door. In a moment the two men had seized me and were trying to drag me away while I clung to the fence and cried out lustily for help. Just as I was torn from my hold and was being hustled back towards the house, a man appeared at the open window of the factory building that overlooked the yard. For one moment he stared at us in sheer amazement; then climbing out, he let himself down from the sill and dropped into the yard.

The appearance of that man altered the situation completely. He was a biggish man, very squarely built, and he seemed to know his own mind, for he came across the yard like a short-horn bull and without a word fell to hammering the two men, incidently sitting the woman on the pavement with a dexterous twist of his elbow. I had never seen anything like that man's quickness. You could hardly see his fists though no doubt you could feel them, and he was as expert with his feet as a cathedral organist. Man has been said to be a cooking animal. This man appeared to be a fighting animal, and I, who like most women, am a somewhat bumptious animal, felt a new-born respect for his sex.

But it was all very confusing. I was quite bewildered for the moment. The men gyrated wildly round one another like fighting-cocks. The woman screeched and tried to scramble up until one of her confederates tripped and sat on her stomach, and then she screeched louder. My wits returned somewhat suddenly when this man sprang up with a broad, wicked-looking knife in his hand and tried to get behind my champion. In a moment I had fastened with both hands on his wrist and held on regardless of the thumps that he delivered with the other hand. My warrior soon came to my assistance, having knocked out the other man, and together we pinned the knifebearer against the wall, where the warrior endeavoured to disarm him while I kept off the woman with occasional demonstrations with my foot. Meanwhile the defeated ruffian—it was the one called Joe—darted into the house and, in a few seconds, rushed out again holding a large and very odd-looking pistol. There was no time to think. I simply rushed at him like an infuriated cat and grabbed him as best I could. What followed is a mere whirl of confusion. The man staggered backwards, the pistol began to go off with a rapid succession of reports that I thought would never cease, the other ruffian uttered a loud cry, the woman screeched, and then the warrior rushed at us and felled my assailant with a terrific blow on the jaw. And then in a moment the affair was over. The villain Joe lay unconscious on the pavement, the other ruffian was a huddled heap by the wall, and the woman, scared out of her senses, stood whimpering and looking from one to the other.

There was a moment's pause: a moment of chilly reaction; then there arose on the air the thin, high note of a police whistle, followed by a loud banging at the street door.

My champion gave me a quick glance. "Look here, Sidley," said he, "you don't want any truck with the bobbies, do you?" I certainly did not, and said so.

"Then we'd better clear out before they break in," said he. "Let me give you a hoist over the fence."

It didn't occur to me to ask how he going to get over. Unconsciously I assumed that he could do anything he pleased, and I accepted his help without a word. He grasped me quickly below the knees and gave a vigorous hoist while I clutched at the top of the fence, and before I knew what was happening, I found myself on my back, on a heap of ashes, looking up at a masterful figure that straddled over the top rail.

"Now, old chap," said he as he sprang lightly down, "we'd better leg it." And leg it we did across some unutterably filthy patches of waste ground, through the purlieus of several wharves and finally out into some sort of goods-yard or siding, where a number of railway trucks stood about disconsolately. Here we stopped for a few moments to listen, and to my unutterable horror, the shrill notes of a police whistle arose quite near at hand.

"By Jove!" exclaimed my champion, "we oughtn't to have bolted, but as we have, we'd better clear right away. Look out, Sidley!"

A file of empty trucks was coming down the line on which we were standing and threatened to nip us against two stationary waggons. As we sprang clear, my friend looked quickly at these latter.

"This'll do, Sidley," said he, "up you go!" and seizing me unceremoniously, he hoisted me up and bundled me over the side of the waggon, scrambling up after me as I rolled over on the unsavoury floor. "Now," he exclaimed, "stand by for the bump!" and he had hardly spoken when the approaching train struck our chariot with a crash that seemed to dislocate every joint in my body.

"Keep lying down flat," my companion whispered—most unnecessarily, for, after that jolt, I couldn't have got up for a thousand pounds. But there were no more upheavals at the moment, and, to my infinite relief, our conveyance continued to rumble on with no incident but the welcome clank as some pointsman hooked on the coupling. I don't know how far we travelled in that wretched, clattering conveyance, or how long it took us to cover the distance, for I was half insensible from the shock of the collision; but my next recollection is of the thing having stopped and of my being hauled out on to the line.

"Pull yourself together, Sidley," said my friend, giving me a slight shake-up; and I tried to collect my scattered wits as an official-looking person bore down on us with a threatening air.

"What might you two gentlemen want here?" the latter inquired a little stiffly, to which my friend replied: "We want to find the way out of this confounded place."

"You haven't got no business here at all," said the official, and having fired this shot, he conducted us through a sort of Hampton Court Maze of sheds and railway lines and finally delivered us into a narrow alley.

"We'd better get out of this neighbourhood as quickly as we can, Sidley," said my friend, setting me an excellent example in the matter of pace; and as we threaded our way through a seemingly endless succession of narrow streets, I found myself for the first time realizing with astonishment that I was being mistaken for my cousin Charlie. However, this was no time for explanations. My rescuer's walking powers were almost equal to his capacity for fighting, and it was all that I could do to make a decent show of trying to keep up with him.

We came to the surface, so to speak, at the foot of Vauxhall Bridge, by which time the daylight was beginning to fade. We walked at a more leisurely pace across the bridge and for the first time I had a chance of getting a good look at my companion. He was a fine-looking man, rather big and very powerful, as I have said, with a handsome, alert, and resolute face. I may as well admit that I liked the look of him amazingly, and especially I liked his eyes, which were of an unusual dark blue with something thoughtful and almost dreamy in them, which was queerly out of character with his late proceedings. And having noted these particulars, I thought that the time for explanations had come and proceeded to offer them.

"You have addressed me once or twice as Sidley," I said somewhat diffidently, "that isn't my name."

"The deuce it isn't!" he exclaimed, halting to look at me with such intentness that I felt myself turning scarlet.

"No." I stammered, "but I have a cousin named Charles Sidley, and we're very much alike. Perhaps you know him."

My new friend slapped his thigh. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I thought there was something queer, and I have been wondering all along what change could have come over Charlie. You're younger, aren't you?"

Now I really was about a fortnight younger than Charlie so I was able to say "yes" with a clear conscience, and then my friend asked suddenly: "By the way, what is your name?"

The question took me aback completely. What on earth was my name?

I floundered guiltily for a few moments and then, inspired, I believe, by a combination of Phyllis and rowdy, I blurted out "My name is Philip Rowden."

My friend held out a cordial hand.

"Glad to know you, Rowden," said he, with a grip that made me wink. "You're a plucky young beggar and I like you. If you hadn't had some backbone, we should both have been either knifed or potted."

"It's very good of you to say so," I faltered, turning, I suspect, exceedingly pink, but he responded brusquely: "Stuff, my dear fellow, I don't pay compliments. Come and look me up one evening. I haven't many friends but I value those I have. This is where I live," and he presented me with a card on which I read: "Mr Paul Everard, 63, Jacob Street, Hampstead Road."

I took the card from him with some confusion, and I think he was rather surprised that I did not offer mine in exchange. But he made no remark, and we travelled together silently on an omnibus as far as Charing Cross. Here we both got down and he shook my hand once more until my ears tingled.

"Goodbye, old chap," he said cordially.

"Mind you look me up soon." I promised him I would, though of course I had no intention of doing any such thing.

Nevertheless, I don't mind admitting that when I got back to my chambers I changed into my very prettiest frock, and having carefully adjusted my wig, looked long and thoughtfully at myself in the glass, wondering whether Mr Paul Everard would not think me rather a nice-looking girl.