Giant's Bread (37 page)

Then, with a sudden gasp, she turned and almost ran down the path.

It was then that he ejaculated:

‘Well, that's a rum go.'

She must, he decided, be a bit queer in the head.

He resumed his aimless strolling.

Sebastian Levinne was in his office going into the details of a ticklish contract, when a telegram was brought to him. He opened it carelessly, for he received forty or fifty telegrams a day. After he had read it, he held it in his hand looking at it.

Then he crumpled it up, slipped it into his pocket and spoke to Lewis, his right-hand man.

‘Get on with this thing as best you can,' he said curtly. ‘I'm called out of town.'

He took no heed of the protestations that arose, but left the room. He paused to tell his secretary to see to the cancelling of various appointments and then went home, packed a bag and took a taxi to Waterloo. There he unfolded the telegram and read it.

Please come at once if you can very urgent Jane Wilts Hotel Wiltsbury
.

It was a proof of his confidence and respect for Jane that he never hesitated. He trusted Jane as he trusted no one else in the world. If Jane said a thing was urgent, it was urgent. He obeyed the summons without wasting a thought of regret on the necessary complications it would cause. For no one else in the world, be it said, would he have done that.

On arriving at Wiltsbury he drove straight to the hotel and asked for her. She had engaged a private room, and there she met him with outstretched hands.

‘Sebastian – my dear – you've been marvellously quick.'

‘I came at once.' He slipped off his coat and threw it over the back of a chair. ‘What is it, Jane?'

‘It's Vernon.'

Sebastian looked puzzled. ‘What about him?'

‘He's not dead. I've seen him
.'

Sebastian stared at her for a minute, then drew a chair to the table and sat down.

‘It's not like you, Jane, but I think, for once in your life, you must have been mistaken.'

‘I wasn't mistaken. It's possible, I suppose, for the War Office to have made an error?'

‘Errors have been made more than once – but they've usually been contradicted fairly soon. It stands to reason that they must be. If Vernon's alive, what's he been doing all this time?'

She shook her head.

‘That I can't say. But I'm as sure about its being Vernon as I am that it's you here now.'

She spoke curtly, but very confidently.

He stared at her very hard, then nodded.

‘Tell me,' he said.

Jane spoke quietly and composedly.

‘There's an American here, a Mr Bleibner. I met him out in Serbia. We recognized each other in the street. He told me he was staying at the County Hotel and asked me to lunch today. I went. Afterwards it was raining. He wouldn't hear of my walking back. His car was there and would take me. His car did take me. Sebastian, the chauffeur was Vernon –
and he didn't know me
.'

Sebastian considered the matter. ‘You're sure you weren't deceived by some strong resemblance?'

‘Perfectly sure.'

‘Then why didn't Vernon recognize you? He was pretending, I suppose.'

‘No, I don't think so – in fact, I'm sure he wasn't. He would be bound to give some sign – a start – something. He couldn't have been
expecting
to see me. He couldn't have controlled his first surprise. Besides, he looked – different.'

‘How different?'

Jane considered.

‘It's hard to explain. Rather happy and jolly and – just faintly – like his mother.'

‘Extraordinary,' said Sebastian. ‘I'm glad you sent for me. If it
is
Vernon – well, it's going to be the devil of a business. Nell having married again and everything. We don't want reporters coming down like wolves on the fold. I suppose there'll have to be
some
publicity.' He got up, walked up and down. ‘The first thing is to get hold of Bleibner.'

‘I telephoned to him, asking him to be here at six-thirty. I didn't dare leave it, though I was afraid you wouldn't be able to get here so soon. Bleibner will be here any minute.'

‘Good for you, Jane. We must hear what he's got to say.'

There was a knock at the door and Mr Bleibner was announced. Jane rose to meet him.

‘It's very good of you to come, Mr Bleibner,' she began.

‘Not at all,' said the American. ‘Always delighted to oblige a lady. And you said that the matter you wanted to see me about was urgent.'

‘It is. This is Mr Sebastian Levinne.'

‘
The
Mr Sebastian Levinne? I'm very pleased to meet you, sir.'

The two men shook hands.

‘And now, Mr Bleibner,' said Jane. ‘I'll come straight to what I want to talk to you about. How long have you had your chauffeur, and what can you tell us about him?'

Mr Bleibner was plainly surprised and showed it.

‘Green? You want to know about Green?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well –' The American reflected. ‘I've no objections to telling you what I know. I guess you wouldn't ask without a good reason. I know you well enough for that, Miss Harding. I picked up Green in Holland not long after the armistice. He was working in a local garage. I discovered he was an Englishman and began to take an interest in him. I asked him his history and he was pretty vague about it. I thought at first he had something to conceal, but I soon convinced myself that he was genuine enough. The man was in a kind of mental fog. He knew his name and where he came from but very little else.'

‘Lost memory,' said Sebastian softly. ‘I see.'

‘His father was killed in the South African war, he told me. He remembered his father singing in the village choir, and he remembered a brother whom he used to call Squirrel.'

‘And he was quite sure about his own name?'

‘Oh, yes. As a matter of fact he'd got it written down in a small pocket book. There was an accident, you know. He was knocked down by a lorry. That's how they knew who he was. They asked him if his name was Green and he said Yes – George. He was very popular at the garage, he was so sunny and lighthearted. I don't believe I've ever seen Green out of temper.

‘Well – I took a fancy to the young chap. I've seen a few shell-shocked cases, and his state wasn't any mystery to me. He showed me the entry in his pocket book, and I made a few inquiries. I soon found the reason – there always is a reason, you know – for his loss of memory. Corporal George Green, London Fusiliers, was a deserter.

‘There you have it. He'd funked things – and being a decent young fellow really, he couldn't face the fact. I explained it all to him. He said – rather wonderingly: “I shouldn't have thought I could ever desert – not
desert
.” I explained to him that that point of view was just the reason he couldn't remember. He couldn't remember because he didn't want to remember.

‘He listened but I don't think he was very convinced. I felt, and still feel, extremely sorry for him. I didn't think there was any obligation on my part to report his existence to the military authorities. I took him into my service and offered him a chance to make good. I've never had cause to regret it. He's an excellent chauffeur – punctual, intelligent, a good mechanic, and always sunny tempered and obliging.'

Mr Bleibner paused and looked inquiringly at Jane and Sebastian. Their pale serious faces impressed him.

‘It's frightening,' said Jane in her low voice. ‘It's one of the most frightening things that could happen.'

Sebastian took her hand and squeezed it.

‘It's all right, Jane.'

Jane roused herself with a slight shiver and spoke to the American.

‘I think it's our turn to explain. You see, Mr Bleibner, in your chauffeur I recognized an old friend – and he didn't recognize me.'

‘In – deed!'

‘But his name wasn't Green,' said Sebastian.

‘No? You mean he enlisted under another name?'

‘No. There's something there that seems incomprehensible. I suppose we shall get at it some day. In the meantime, I will ask you, Mr Bleibner, not to repeat this conversation to
anyone
. There's a wife in the matter – and – oh! many other considerations.'

‘My dear sir,' said Mr Bleibner. ‘You can trust me to be absolutely silent. But what next? Do you want to see Green?'

Sebastian looked at Jane and she bowed her head.

‘Yes,' said Sebastian slowly. ‘I think perhaps that would be the best plan.'

The American rose.

‘He's below now. He brought me here. I'll send him up right away.'

George Green mounted the stairs with his usual buoyant step. As he did so he wondered what had happened to upset the old josser – by that term meaning his employer. Very queer the old buffer had looked.

‘The door at the top of the stairs,' Mr Bleibner had said.

George Green rapped on it sharply with his knuckles and waited. A voice called ‘Come in' and he obeyed.

There were two people in the room – the lady he had driven home yesterday (whom he thought of in his own mind as a tip-topper) and a big rather fat man with a very yellow face and projecting ears. His face seemed vaguely familiar to the chauffeur. For a moment he stood there while they both stared at him. He thought: ‘What's the matter with everybody this evening?'

He said, ‘Yes, sir?' in a respectful voice to the yellow gentleman. He went on: ‘Mr Bleibner told me to come up –'

The yellow gentleman seemed to recover himself.

‘Yes, yes,' he said. ‘That's right. Sit down – er – Green. That's your name, isn't it?'

‘Yes, sir. George Green.'

He sat down, respectfully, in the chair indicated. The yellow gentleman handed him a cigarette case and said, ‘Help yourself.' And all the time, his eyes, small piercing eyes, never left Green's face. That intent burning gaze made the chauffeur uneasy. What
was
up with everyone tonight?

‘I wanted to ask you a few questions. To begin with, have you ever seen me before?'

Green shook his head.

‘No, sir.'

‘Sure?' persisted the other.

A faint trace of uncertainty crept into Green's voice.

‘I – I don't think so,' he said doubtfully.

‘My name is Sebastian Levinne.'

The chauffeur's face cleared.

‘Of course, sir, I've seen your picture in the papers. I thought it seemed familiar somehow.'

There was a pause and then Sebastian Levinne asked casually:

‘Have you ever heard the name of Vernon Deyre?'

‘Vernon Deyre,' Green repeated the name thoughtfully. He frowned perplexedly. ‘The name seems somehow familiar to me, sir, but I can't quite place it.' He paused, the frown deepening. ‘I think I've heard it.' And then added, ‘The gentleman's dead, isn't he?'

‘So that's your impression, is it? That the gentleman is dead.'

‘Yes, sir, and a good –'

He stopped suddenly, crimsoning.

‘Go on,' said Levinne. ‘What were you going to say?' He added shrewdly, perceiving where the trouble lay, ‘You need not mince your words. Mr Deyre was no relation of mine.'

The chauffeur accepted the implication.

‘I was going to say a good job too – but I don't know that I ought to say it, since I can't remember anything about him. But I've got a kind of impression that – well, that he was best out of the way, so to speak. Made rather a mess of things, hadn't he?'

‘You knew him?'

The frown deepened in an agony of attempted recollection.

‘I'm sorry, sir,' the chauffeur apologized. ‘Since the war things seemed to have got a bit mixed up. I can't always recollect things clearly. I don't know where I came across Mr Deyre, and why I disliked him, but I do know that I'm thankful to hear that he's dead. He was no good – you can take my word for that.'

There was a silence – only broken by something like a smothered sob from the other occupant of the room. Levinne turned to her.

‘Telephone to the theatre, Jane,' he said. ‘You can't appear tonight.'

She nodded and left the room. Levinne looked after her and then said abruptly:

‘You've seen Miss Harding before?'

‘Yes, sir. I drove her home today.'

Levinne sighed. Green looked at him inquiringly.

‘Is – is that all, sir? I'm sorry to have been so little use. I know I've been a bit – well, queer since the war. My own fault. Perhaps Mr Bleibner told you – I – I didn't do my duty as I should have done.'

His face flushed but he brought out the words resolutely. Had the old josser told them or not? Better to say that anyway. At the same time, a pang of shame pierced him keenly. He was a deserter – a man who had run away! A rotten business.

Jane Harding came back into the room and resumed her place behind the table. She looked paler than when she had gone out, Green thought. Curious eyes she had – so deep and tragic. He wondered what she was thinking about. Perhaps she had been engaged to this Mr Deyre. No, Mr Levinne wouldn't have urged him to speak out if that had been the case. It was probably all to do with money. A will or something like that.

Mr Levinne began questioning him again. He made no reference to the last sentence.

‘Your father was killed in the Boer War, I believe?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘You remember him?'

‘Oh, yes, sir.'

‘What did he look like?'

Green smiled. The memory was pleasant to him.

‘A burly sort of chap. Mutton chop whiskers. Very bright blue eyes. I remember him as well as anything singing in the choir. Baritone voice he had.'