Look to the Lady (2 page)

Not the least remarkable thing about a coincidence is that once it has happened, one names it, accepts it, and leaves it at that.

Gyrth sat on the dusty seat beneath the street lamp and looked at the envelope. The rustling in the leaves above his head had grown fiercer, and an uncertain wind ricocheted down the square; in a few minutes it would rain.

Once again he was conscious of that strange sensation of being just on the outside of some drama enacted quite near to him. He had felt it before tonight. Several times in the past few days this same uneasy feeling had swept over him in the most crowded streets at the height of noon, or at night in the dark alleyways of the city where he had tried to sleep. Experienced criminals recognise this sensation as the instinctive knowledge that one is being ‘tailed', but young Gyrth was no criminal, nor was he particularly experienced in anything save the more unfortunate aspects of matrimony.

He looked again at the address on the tantalizing envelope: ‘32a Wembley Rd, Clerkenwell.' This was not far from where he now sat, he reflected, and the impulse to go there to find out for himself if he were not the only P. St J. W. Gyrth in the world, or, if he was, to discover who was impersonating him, was very strong.

His was a conservative nature, however, and perhaps if the experience had happened to him in ordinary circumstances he would have shrugged his shoulders and taken no further active interest in the matter. But at the moment he was down-and-out. A man who is literally destitute is like a straw in the wind; any tiny current is sufficient to set him drifting in a new direction. His time and energies are of no value to him; anything is worth while. Impelled by curiosity, therefore, he set off across the square, the storm blowing up behind him.

He did not know what he expected to find, but the envelope fascinated him. He gave up conjecturing and hurried.

Clerkenwell in the early hours of the morning is one of the most unsavoury neighbourhoods in the whole of East Central London, which is saying a great deal, and the young man's ragged and dishevelled appearance was probably the only one which would not have attracted the attention of those few inhabitants who were still abroad.

At length he discovered a pair of policemen, of whom he inquired the way, gripping their colleague's shilling defiantly as he did so. They directed him with the unhurried omniscience of their kind, and he eventually found himself crossing a dirty ill-lit thoroughfare intersected with tramlines and flanked by the lowest of all lodging-houses, and shabby dusty little shops where everything seemed to be second-hand.

Number 32a turned out to be one of the few establishments still open.

It was an eating-house, unsavoury even for the neighbourhood, and one stepped down off the pavement a good eighteen inches to reach the level of the ground floor. Even Val Gyrth, now the least cautious of men, hesitated before entering.

The half-glass door of the shop was pasted over with cheap advertisements for boot polish and a brand of caramel, and the light from within struggled uncertainly through the dirty oiled paper.

Gyrth glanced at the envelope once more and decided that there was no doubt at all that this was his destination. The number, 32a, was printed on a white enamelled plaque above the door, and the name ‘Kemp's' was written across the shop front in foot-high letters.

Once again the full sense of the absurdity of his quest came over him, and he hesitated, but again he reflected that he had nothing to lose and his curiosity to appease. He turned the door-handle and stepped down into the room.

The fetid atmosphere within was so full of steam that for a moment he could not see at all where he was. He stood still for some seconds trying to penetrate the haze, and at last made out a long dingy room flanked with high, greasy pew seats, which appeared to be empty.

At the far end of the aisle between the tables there was a counter and a cooking-stove from which the atmosphere obtained most of its quality. Towards this gastronomic altar the young man advanced, the envelope clutched tightly in his coat pocket.

There was no one in sight, so he tapped the counter irresolutely. Almost immediately a door to the right of the stove was jerked open and there appeared a mountain of a man with the largest and most lugubrious face he had ever seen. A small tablecloth had been tied across the newcomer's stomach by way of an apron, and his great muscular arms were bare to the elbow. For the rest, his head was bald, and the bone of his nose had sustained an irreparable injury.

He regarded the young man with mournful eyes.

‘This is a nice time to think about getting a bit of food,' he observed more in sorrow than in anger, thereby revealing a sepulchral voice. ‘Everything's off but sausage and mash. I'm 'aving the last bit o' stoo meself.'

Gyrth was comforted by his melancholy affability. It was some time since an eating-house keeper had treated him with even ordinary humanity. He took the envelope out of his pocket and spread it out on the counter before the man.

‘Look here,' he said. ‘Do you know anything about this?'

Not a muscle of the lugubrious face stirred. The mountainous stranger eyed the envelope for some time as if he had never seen such a thing before and was not certain if it were worth consideration. Then, turning suddenly, he looked the boy straight in the eyes and made what was in the circumstances a most extraordinary observation.

‘I see,' he said clearly, and with a slightly unnecessary deliberation, ‘
you take the long road.
'

Gyrth stared at him. He felt that some reply was expected, that the words had some significance which was lost upon him. He laughed awkwardly.

‘I don't quite follow you,' he said. ‘I suppose I am tramping, if that's what you mean? But I came to inquire about this envelope. Have you seen it before?'

The big man ventured as near a smile as Gyrth felt his features would permit.

‘Suppose I 'ave?' he said cautiously. ‘Wot then?'

‘Only that it happens to be addressed to me, and I'm anxious to know who opened it,' said Gyrth shortly. ‘Can you tell me who collected it?'

‘Is that your name?' The big man placed a heavy forefinger upon the inscription. ‘I suppose you couldn't prove it, could yer?'

Gyrth grew red and uncomfortable. ‘I can't get anyone to identify me, if that's what you mean, and I haven't got a visiting-card. But,' he added, ‘if you care to take my tailor's word for it there's the tab inside my coat here.'

He unbuttoned the threadbare garment and turned down the edge of the inside breast pocket, displaying a tailor's label with his name and the date written in ink across it. In his eagerness he did not realize the incongruity of the situation.

The sad man read the label and then surveyed his visitor critically.

‘I suppose it
was
made for yer?' he said.

Gyrth buttoned up his coat. ‘I've got thinner,' he said shortly.

‘Awright. No offence,' said the other. ‘I believe yer – some wouldn't. Name o' Lugg meself. Pleased to meet yer, I'm sure. I got another letter for you, by the way.'

He turned round ponderously, and after searching among the cups and plates upon the dresser behind him, he returned bearing a similar envelope to the one which Gyrth had put down upon the counter. It was unopened.

The young man took it with a sense of complete bewilderment. He was about to tear the seal when the gentleman who had just introduced himself with such light-hearted friendliness tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Suppose you go and sit down,' he observed. ‘I'll bring yer a spot o' coffee and a couple o' Zepps in a smoke screen. I always get peckish about this time o' night meself.'

‘I've only got a shilling –' Gyrth began awkwardly.

Mr Lugg raised his eyebrows.

‘A bob?' he said. ‘Where d'you think you're dining? The Cheshire Cheese? You sit down, my lad. I'll do you proud for a tanner. Then you'll 'ave yer “visible means” and tuppence to spare for emergencies.'

Gyrth did as he was told. He edged on to one of the greasy benches and sat down before a table neatly covered with a clean newspaper bill. He tore at the thick envelope with clumsy fingers. The smell of the place had reawakened his hunger, and his head was aching violently.

Three objects fell out upon the table; two pound notes and an engraved correspondence card. He stared at the card in stupefaction:

Mr Albert Campion

At Home

– and underneath, in the now familiar square handwriting:

Any evening after twelve.

Improving Conversation.

Beer, Light Wines, and Little Pink Cakes.

Do come.

The address was engraved:

17, Bottle Street, W1

(Entrance on left by Police Station).

Scribbled on the back were the words: ‘Please forgive crude temporary loan. Come along as soon as you can. It's urgent. Take care. A.C.'

Val Gyrth turned the card over and over.

The whole episode was becoming fantastic. There was a faintly nonsensical, Alice-through-the-Looking-Glass air about it all, and it did just cross his mind that he might have been involved in a street accident and the adventure be the result of a merciful anaesthetic.

He was still examining the extraordinary message when the gloomy but also slightly fantastic Mr Lugg appeared with what was evidently his personal idea of a banquet. Gyrth ate what was set before him with a growing sense of gratitude and reality. When he had finished he looked up at the man who was still standing beside him.

‘I say,' he said, ‘have you ever heard of a Mr Albert Campion?'

The man's small eyes regarded him solemnly. ‘Sounds familiar,' he said. ‘I can't say as I place 'im, though.' There was a stubborn blankness in his face which told the boy that further questioning would be useless. Once again Gyrth took up the card and the two bank-notes.

‘How do you know,' he said suddenly, ‘that I am the man to receive this letter?'

Mr Lugg looked over his shoulder at the second envelope. ‘That's yer name, ain't it?' he said. ‘It's the name inside yer suit, any'ow. You showed me.'

‘Yes, I know,' said Val patiently. ‘But how do you know that I am the Percival St John Wykes Gyrth –?'

‘Gawd! It don't stand for all that, do it?' said Mr Lugg, impressed. ‘That answers yer own question, my lad. There ain't two mothers 'oo'd saddle a brat with that lot. That's your invitation ticket all right. Don't you worry. I should 'op it – it's gettin' late.'

Gyrth considered the card again. It was mad, of course. And yet he had come so far that it seemed illogical not to go on. As though to clinch the matter with himself he paid for his food out of his new-found wealth, and after tipping his host prodigally he bade the man good-night and walked out of the deserted eating-house.

It was not until he was outside the door and standing on the pavement that the problem of transportation occurred to him. It was a good three miles across the city to Piccadilly, and although his hunger was sated he was still excessively tired. To make the situation more uncomfortable it was very late and the rain had come in a sullen downpour.

While he stood hesitating, the sound of wheels came softly behind him.

‘Taxi, sir?'

Gyrth turned thankfully, gave the man the address on the card, and climbed into the warm leather depths of the cab.

As he sank back among the cushions the old feeling of well-being stole over him. The cab was speeding over the glistening roads along which he had trudged so wearily less than an hour before. For some minutes he reflected upon the extraordinary invitation he had accepted so unquestioningly. The ridiculous card read like a hoax, of course, but two pounds are not a joke to a starving man, and since he had nothing to lose he saw no reason why he should not investigate it. Besides, he was curious.

He took the card out of his pocket and bent forward to read it by the light from the meter lamp. He could just make out the scribbled message: ‘Come along as soon as you can. It's urgent. Take care.'

The last two words puzzled him. In the circumstances they seemed so ridiculous that he almost laughed.

It was at that precise moment that the cab turned to the right in Gray's Inn Road and he caught a glimpse of a quiet tree-lined Bloomsbury square. Then, and not until then, did it dawn upon him with a sudden throb and quickening of his pulse that the chance of picking up a taxi accidentally at three o'clock in the morning in Wembley Road, Clerkenwell was one in a million, and secondly, that the likelihood of any ordinary cabman mistaking him in his present costume for a potential fare was nothing short of an absurdity. He bent forward and ran his hand along the doors. There were no handles. The windows too appeared to be locked.

Considerably startled, but almost ashamed of himself for suspecting a danger for which he was hardly eligible, he rapped vigorously on the window behind the driver.

Even as Gyrth watched him, the man bent over his wheel and trod heavily on the accelerator.

—

V
AL
sat forward in the half-darkness and peered out. The old cab was, he guessed, travelling all out at about thirty-five miles an hour. The streets were rain-swept and deserted and he recognized that he was being carried directly out of his way.

On the face of it he was being kidnapped, but this idea was so ridiculous in his present condition that he was loth to accept it. Deciding that the driver must be drunk or deaf, he thundered again on the glass and tried shouting down the speaking tube.

‘I want Bottle Street – off Piccadilly.'

This time he had no doubt that his driver heard him, for the man jerked his head in a negative fashion and the cab rocked and swayed dangerously. Val Gyrth had to accept the situation, absurd though it might be. He was a prisoner being borne precipitately to an unknown destination.