Kate Plus 10 · Chapter 11 (1/2)

XI

Lady Moya Was Curiously Unlike Herself

There was a greater reason for Sir Ralph’s perturbation than either he knew or Michael guessed. Both might have been enlightened, had they stood on Cannon Street Station one Sunday morning and seen the distress of Mr. Alphonso Blaxton as the big minute hand of the station clock grew nearer to nine. The guard was closing the doors of the carriages and the collector was preparing to shut the gate, when Moya came flying breathlessly through the barrier.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” she gasped; “my watch stopped.”

Mr. Alphonso Blaxton bundled her into an empty first-class carriage and jumped in himself as the train moved.

“There’s not another train for three hours,” he said severely.

“We could have gone to church.”

“What a mind!” said the young man in admiration. “I never thought of church!”

“Anyway, I didn’t lose the train,” she said tartly. “Have you brought everything?”

She looked round for the collapsible easel, the paint boxes and the paraphernalia which usually accompanied their sketching tours.

“I have brought nothing,” he said frankly.

“But how can you sketch?”

“I am not going to sketch,” he said. “I decided that it was too nice a day to waste.”

She looked up at him and laughed.

“You will never be an artist,” she said, suddenly severe. “To what part of the country are we going?”

“I thought we would go to Maidstone. There are some lovely drives from there. I’ve hired a motor car to meet us at the station and I thought we would go through Sussex and lunch at Seahampton.”

“Not Seahampton,” she said quickly; “my father is at Seahampton today.”

She might have added that Sir Ralph was also at Seahampton, but, for reasons of her own, she kept that information to herself because Sir Ralph was not a subject which she had found it necessary to discuss. She looked at her companion approvingly.

“You are ever so much more presentable than I have ever seen you, before,” she said, “and you have actually shaved! You are getting less and less like an artist every day.”

He had a peculiarly sweet smile and a laugh which was all bubbling youth and happiness. He laughed like a girl, indeed it nearly approached a giggle. He laughed now as the train sped through the suburban stations, stretched out his feet on the cushions opposite and searched for a cigarette. She watched him with glee as he produced, not the ornate case in which the men of her acquaintance carried the expensive products of Egypt and Syria, but a gaudy yellow carton containing fifty of the cheapest cigarettes that ever brought discredit to the fair State of Virginia.

“Do you like those things?” she asked.

“These ‘yellow perils’? Rather!”

“Your taste is awfully uncultivated, isn’t it?” she bantered; “why don’t you⁠—” she abruptly attempted to change the subject by an incoherent reference to a cow which was gazing in a field by the side of the line.

“Why don’t I smoke gold-laced Machinopolos through an amber and diamond cigarette holder?” he suggested. “Because, little Moya, I am a poor hardworking artist who has been saving up all the week for this bust.”

“I am so sorry,” she said; “I am awfully thoughtless. Won’t you forgive me?”

“I won’t forgive you,” he said, “unless you keep in your mind the big fact that I am as immensely poor, as you are immensely rich.”

“Why should I keep that in my mind?” she asked.

“Because,” he said slowly, “until you are immensely poor or I am immensely rich we shall meet very occasionally and indulge in very infrequent busts.”

“But what difference does money make?” she faltered.

She found it difficult to speak plainly or even clearly. There was a lump in her throat which made her voice sound unnaturally hoarse. She had a strange sinking feeling within her and to her amazement she found the hand that she put up to brush back a stray curl trembling. She had never experienced any such sensation before. Her heart was thumping quickly; she was breathless, hot and cold by turns.

He did not answer. She was seated by his side and she could only see his face out of the corner of her eyes, then she felt his arm slipping about her and before she knew what had happened, his lips were pressed to hers.

This happened in a first-class railway carriage on a nonstop train. It had happened before to quite common people (as Moya had heard), but she never thought it would possibly happen to her, or that so vulgar a proceeding could be so wonderfully sweet.

Sir Ralph and Lord Flanborough had met the local authorities. There had been a lunch and speeches in which Sir Ralph had distinguished himself by likening the forthcoming arrival of the Austral-African mail ship to the return of Ulysses and the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. A wireless message from the ship stated that she did not expect to make harbour until nine o’clock in the evening, and this explained the earlier festivities. That they were of a sober and restricted nature, was explained by the fact that the day was Sunday. Later, it was intended that the sailings of the Austral-African line from Cape Town should be timed to bring the ships to port on the Saturday, but there had been no time to alter the arrangements for the Charter Queen had sailed before Lord Flanborough and Sir Ralph had definitely decided the date on which the new service should be inaugurated.

A few pressmen who had come down from London for the purpose, with certain directors and their wives, were shown over the docks; the new trains were admired and particularly two brand new trucks, the peculiar character of which was exhibited by Sir Ralph to a select few of his fellow directors. A safe on wheels was an excellent description for one of these. Specially strengthened undercarriages, each truck supported by two bogies, they were designed to carry a tremendous weight.

“I am sure Lord Flanborough doesn’t mind my telling you,” said Sir Ralph to the little party, “that this will carry twenty tons of bar gold tonight.”

“What will be the value of that?” asked one of the interested audience.

“£2,867,200,” said Sir Ralph impressively; “representing six months’ output of the whole of Lord Flanborough’s gold properties.”

The directors made appropriate noises to signify their astonishment.

There were visitors to Seahampton interested in this great transportation, who were not invited to participate in the function. One of these, a dark foreign looking man, went no nearer to the docks than a little public house in the ancient High Street. He was visited by a man who was pallid of face and laconic of speech.

“It’s all up!” he said under his breath.

“What is wrong?” said the other in the same tone.

“It is quite impossible to get the driver or the fireman. They are two old servants of the company, both have money saved and would no more think of accepting a bribe than Flanborough himself.”

“You didn’t press the matter, I hope?” asked the other quickly.

The pallid man shook his head.

“I went as far as I dared with the driver,” he said. “I found out he had a son in the army in India and I told him that I had met the boy and got quite friendly with the old chap⁠—but he is a sea-green incorruptible, Gregori.”

“I will get on the phone to Kate,” said the other. “I suppose we shall have to hold up the train somewhere⁠—I don’t want to do any shooting if it can be avoided. Are the drivers armed?”

“It is funny you should ask that,” said the pallid man, sipping his beer. “The old man is armed for the first time in his life. He was full of it and quite proud of his ability to loose off a gun.”

Gregori looked very serious.

“Kate must be prepared with the alternative scheme,” he said. “Anyway, you will join me here with Cunningham at eight o’clock. I am perfectly prepared for almost all contingencies. Millet has given me a dozen authorities to meet almost any developments. Did you see the train?”

“I couldn’t get near it,” said the other. “I left just before Sapson brought his party to make their inspection.”

Sir Ralph had carried his guests from the siding to the engine shed and shown them the brand new Atlantic locomotive which was to draw the train to London.

“They don’t seem to have finished it yet,” said one of the guests, and pointed to a workman busily drilling a hole in the front plate.

Ralph laughed.

“They omitted to put a bracket for the lamp. You see, I wanted three green lights in a line for the Gold Train⁠—it is very necessary that it should be very accurately and easily distinguished and signalled. By some chance only two of the brackets were in place when the engine came from the works. It is all the more annoying, because I had already given definite instructions upon that point, but we shall not go wrong for a lamp,” he said humorously.

It is agreed that the three hours between two and five on a Sunday afternoon are the three dullest in the hundred and sixty-eight which constitute a week. After the guests had left for London Sir Ralph and Lord Flanborough remained at the little station hotel⁠—Ralph had already projected a more palatial establishment to meet the increased traffic⁠—for it had been arranged that they should greet the Charter Queen on her arrival.

At three o’clock that afternoon Ralph burst unceremoniously into Lord Flanborough’s private sitting room where his lordship sat dozing.

“Have you had a wire?” he said.

He held a pink form in his own hand.

“A wire! What about?” asked Lord Flanborough startled.

“Read this.”

The telegram was signed “Michael,” and read:

“Simultaneous attempt made to burgle your strong room at Austral-African office and Flanborough’s safe at headquarters of mining corporation. Both unsuccessful. Both doors blown out by nitro-gelatine. Will confirm by phone.”

Lord Flanborough looked at the other open-mouthed.

“This is very serious,” he said.

“I have ordered a special to take us to town. We will wait till we get the phone message through.”

Ten minutes after they were in communication with Michael.

“Both doors have been blown out,” he repeated, “and there are one or two very puzzling features about the burglaries. Nobody could have been present in either office when the explosions occurred. There was no fire and, so far as I can see, nothing has been taken away. You had better come up and examine things for yourself.”

“It is rather awkward,” said Sir Ralph thoughtfully as he hung up the receiver; “my ‘special’ driver is also the driver of the gold special.”

“It doesn’t require any great genius to drive a gold special,” snapped Flanborough; “put another man on to work tonight’s train and let us get up to town as soon as we can.”

The special was waiting in the station by the time they had reached the platform. Sir Ralph stayed long enough to give a few instructions to the superintendent and then boarded the train and was soon flying northward.

That Sunday morning had been an interesting one for Michael. He had been aroused by telephone at five o’clock only to learn from an apologetic operator that the wrong number had been called. Although it was two hours before he usually rose, he had his bath and dressed and not waking his servants made himself some coffee.

It was a bright morning, such as so often precedes a day of rain, when he turned into the deserted street. He had no particular aim or destination but he was in that mood which invites exercise. He walked down the Marylebone Road and through Portland Place without meeting anybody save an occasional policeman and so came to Piccadilly Circus where he bought a Sunday newspaper from an early vendor and passed down through Waterloo Place to the Park.

The gates had only just been opened and beyond the park-keepers and a slouching tramp he met nobody. He sat on one of the garden seats by the side of the lake, pulled his overcoat about his legs for the morning was chilly and began to scan the headlines in the newspaper. There was nothing startling here, but he read the columns conscientiously.

There was nothing in life which did not interest Michael Pretherston. He might have taken for his motto homo sum; humani nihil a me alienum puto. It was a saying of T. B. Smith’s that Michael could even write a readable volume on the psychology of dogfights. Every little larceny, however sordid, every tiny embezzlement however paltry, every swindle whether it was carried out by the great confidence men who “worked London” or by the smaller fry in the half-crown line of business gave him food for reflection and some little scrap of information which he stored away for future use.

He was in the midst of a long account of an East End arson charge when he heard his name called softly and looked up. He jumped to his feet.

“Why, Kate,” he said, “haven’t you got any home?”

The girl was standing a few feet from him with an odd look on her face.

“I think it must be fate that brought me out this morning,” she said; “sit down, Mike, and tell me all the news.”

She showed no sign of resentment of his uncavalier treatment.

“Did you follow me here, or did I follow you?”

“I tell you it was fate,” she said. “I could not sleep and I drove my Mercedes down.”

“And how is the Princess Bacheffski?” he asked as she seated herself by his side.

“The Princess⁠—?”

“Bacheffski⁠—poor old Ralph! What a thing to put over him!”

She leant forward, her chin on her palm, her elbow on her crossed knee.

“You frighten me sometimes,” she said. “I have not been able to make up my mind whether you are clever or whether you are lucky.”

“I am both lucky and clever,” he said. “Tell me something about your property in the Ural Mountains,” he said.

“In Poland,” she corrected him.

“Mines, I suppose?”

“There are no mines on my property,” she said calmly; “would you be greatly surprised if I told you I had an estate in Poland?”

“Nothing you said would surprise me, unless you told me you were going to be a good girl and respect the law relating to property.”

He folded his paper and dropped it into a wire receptacle provided for that purpose and she followed the operations with amusement.

“What a tidy soul you are,” she said; “fancy doing things you are told and obeying even bylaws.”

“We all obey bylaws. You are not so original as you think. For instance, I observe that you are wearing a little toque⁠—is that the word?”

“That is the word,” she agreed.

“Toques are fashionable at this present moment. You are obeying the bylaws. You haven’t the courage to come out in a sky-blue tam-o’shanter with an ostrich feather because it is against the bylaws. Also I remark that your dress is very short and very full. You are not wearing a Roman toga or a Grecian gown, or even a hobble skirt. Why? Because it is against the bylaws. It is absurd to disobey one set and slavishly obey another.”

“You are quaint!” was the only answer she gave.

“Will you tell me, Princess?”

“Don’t call me ‘Princess’ if you please,” she said quietly.

“Well, will you tell me, my landowner, what was the game with Ralph? He described you with the greatest enthusiasm by-the-way. The night you met him you were all dolled up to kill. Did you bring down your birds?”

“I got him,” she admitted.

She was not as bright as usual.

“You are overdoing it,” said Michael; “you are trying to do too much. Your doctor would probably tell you that you ought not to commit more than one burglary a month.”

She laughed softly.

“You are very quaint,” she said again.

“You don’t feel like making a full and frank confession, I suppose,” he suggested; “you would not like to burst into tears and sob out your young heart on my shoulder?”

“That sob stuff never did agree with me.”

He raised a disapproving hand.

“Kate,” he said, “I have noticed a disposition in you to adopt the slang which is employed exclusively by American newspaper reporters, vaudeville artistes and other members of the criminal classes.”