The Annam Jewel (22 page)

He walked about until eight, keeping as much as possible to the fields. At eight o'clock he entered a village which possessed a railway station, and was therefore certain to have a post office. The post office was also a baker's shop, and Peter's heart yearned towards the loaves of bread and the currant buns of yesterday.

A stout woman in blue-and-white checked apron was washing down the step. She had cheeks like the largest sort of red apple and very round blue eyes. Her front hair was controlled by eighteen metal curlers, which astonished Peter very much. Over the curlers she wore a man's tweed cap which kept on slipping to one side.

“Good morning,” said Peter. “I want to send a parcel—registered.”

The woman rose on her knees, and surveyed him with pardonable surprise. She saw a very large young man, with a shock of fair hair standing wildly erect. “Evening clothes too, and all burst at the shoulder, if you'll believe me,” as she afterwards told her son William's wife. “And his tie round under his ear, and a nan'-kerchief full of moss and flowers and such stuff in his 'and.”

“You don't say!” said William's wife.

Mrs. Merewether stared at Peter, and Peter repeated his remark. As he repeated it he smiled.

“I do want to send a parcel,” he said.

“Not till nine o'clock, you can't,” said Mrs. Merewether, still on her knees.

Peter looked at the loaves.

“I say,” he said, “I suppose you couldn't—I mean of course I couldn't expect you to sell me a cup of tea unless—I say, you don't sell cups of tea, do you?”

“No—” said Mrs. Merewether; after a pause she added—“sir.”

“But you sell loaves and—er buns.”

Peter smiled again, and Mrs. Merewether was suddenly reminded of the days when William would get into a scrape at school and come to her to be got out of it. She got up and looked reprovingly at Peter.

“I've been out all night, and I'm most dreadfully hungry,” he said.

Mrs. Merewether wiped her hands on her checked apron, and led the way indoors. She took Peter through the shop into a parlour that smelt of new linoleum and turpentine. The windows were tightly shut. There was a table with woolly mats on it, four horsehair chairs, and a sofa with a pink-and-green crochet antimacassar. There was an aspidistra on the window-sill, and a very large tortoise-shell cat on the hearthrug.

Peter put the handkerchief which contained the Annam Jewel on the horsehair sofa, and watched Mrs. Merewether replace the woolly mats with a tablecloth. She brought bread and a pat of butter. Then she went away and fried bacon—Peter could hear it sizzling—the smell of it mingled pleasantly with the smell of the turpentine and the linoleum.

When Mrs. Merewether brought in the bacon, she said, “That's a cut off William's pig, and a fine pig it were.” When she came in with the tea, she stood with the milk-jug in her hand, and remarked abruptly, “Bad company's been the ruin of many a young feller—that and drink—and what I says is, pull up while you can and before you're made to. Lor, if I haven't forgotten the mustard!”

Peter had finished the bacon by the time she came back.

“I say, that was excellent bacon,” he said. “William's pig must have been a champion. Now look here. Do you think—I mean have you got such a thing as a box to spare? Those flowers”—he pointed at the handkerchief—“I want to send them to a lady, to a young lady.” And suddenly, to his horror, Peter discovered himself to be blushing.

Mrs. Merewether instantly jumped to a conclusion which she afterwards imparted to William's wife. “Come over me in a flash it did, just in a flash. ‘You've been misjudging of that pore young man.' I said to myself. ‘It's not drink and bad comp'ny, but a tiff with his young lady that's sent him walking about all night like a loony in his evening clothes.'

“Fair off his nut he must have been; but there's some gels is never 'appy unless they're tormenting of their chap.”

“That's right,” said William's wife.

Peter filled a soap-box with moss, laid the Annam Jewel in its folded envelope at the bottom and put the primroses and violets on the top of it. There was still room in the box, and before he realized what was happening, Mrs. Merewether had produced a large bunch of blue forget-me-nots and a very little bunch of bright pink ones.

“Nice things to send to a young lady, I always thinks,” she said. “Can't come amiss, ferget-me-nots can't. Kind of hits you slap in the face the meaning does, don't it—fer-get-me-not? And the pink ones—they're not so common, and my old granny, she always called 'em no-nevers. Pretty, ain't it?” She repeated the two names lingeringly.

“Fer-get-me-not. No-never. Sweet, I call it. You tell your young lady, and see if it don't fetch her. It would me when I was a gel. I'll get you some paper and string and some sealing wax.”

Peter found a pencil and a half sheet of notepaper in one of his pockets, and wrote to Rose Ellen:

Dear Rose Ellen
,

Don't unpack this box until there's no one there. It is in a bit of paper under the moss. Keep it safe for me till I come, and don't tell anyone. I'll come as soon as I can
.

He signed it “Peter”, frowned, and added a postscript.

The primroses and violets are out of a wood, but the forget-me-nots were in the post office garden. The woman says the pink ones are called “No-never”
.

Peter was rather pleased with this postscript. He hoped very much that Rose Ellen would understand it. He thought she would. He sealed the parcel with bright violet wax, using his father's ring. The impression came out clear and distinct: “Be Ware”.

CHAPTER XXVI

Peter came back to town in an aged mackintosh belonging to Mrs. Mere wether's husband. He hoped fervently that it would rain, but the day remained obstinately fine and clear, and he was thankful to bury himself in a taxi.

Arrived at his rooms, he had a bath, and telephoned to Sunnings for his bag.

Sylvia Moreland spent the morning shopping. She returned to her flat at one o'clock to find a letter waiting for her from her father. It contained a large cheque, some good advice, and a message. The message was for Mr. Hendebakker. Sylvia read it several times before she went to the telephone and rang up The Luxe.

Her foot tapped impatiently as she waited. After an endless delay she heard Hendebakker's voice saying, “Hello.”

“It's Sylvia Moreland speaking. I've had a letter from my father.”

Hendebakker coughed. It was a signal that he was not alone.

“I'll be coming round,” he said, and rang off at once.

It seemed a long time to wait until he came. Sylvia was both nervous and angry. She was also full of curiosity. Hendebakker's visits to her flat were, of design, so rare that she knew he must consider a letter from her father of vital importance. He arrived at last. His genial smile disappeared as the maid closed the door behind him.

“What does he say? Give me the letter,” he said sharply. “What's the postmark?”

She handed him the envelope. It bore a London mark, and he threw it aside impatiently.

“The letter!”

“It's private,” said Sylvia.

“Nix!” said Mr. Hendebakker emphatically. “Quit fooling and give it me.”

Sylvia handed it over. He turned so that the light fell upon the page, and read it through carefully. As he read, he summarized the contents in a businesslike manner. No heading. Written with a fountain pen—his own—on paper which wasn't his own. Written, in fact, after he got away. A cheque enclosed. Parental admonition. And at the end, the message:

Tell Hendebakker that I haven't taken the Jewel with me after all. I should hate him to waste his valuable time coming out to China after me, especially as I'm hoping for a little peace and quiet myself. Tell him I pledge my word that the Jewel remains in England. I'm neither taking it with me nor having it sent after me. I don't want it. I'm through. Tell him this, word for word
.

That was all.

Hendebakker looked up from the letter, and met Sylvia's eyes, blue and curious.

“Do you think he really hasn't taken it?” she said.

Hendebakker nodded.

“There'd be a catch with most men, but not with Dale,” he said. “When it comes to a business deal Dale's straight—everyone in China knew that. I'll take his word for it that he hasn't got the Jewel, and that means”—his voice became extraordinarily smooth and gentle—“that means young Waring's got it after all.”

Sylvia started. But Hendebakker was not noticing her. He locked his hands behind his back, and began to pace slowly up and down, still holding the letter, still speaking in that quiet way.

“I was a blame' fool not to think of it. Yes, Waring's got it for a cert. Yes, Waring's got it. I'll call any man a liar who says he hasn't. Now, now, now—let me figure it out. He hadn't got it when I searched him, but he's got it now for sure. I guess I
was
a fool not to tumble to it as soon as I found the tracks of Dale's car in the lane. He came on Waring there, after I'd searched him, and gave him the Jewel. And Waring's got it—it's all creation to a dime he's got it.”

He fell into silence, but went on walking up and down. The hum and the jar of the street traffic seemed to sound louder and louder as the silence continued. Sylvia leaned on the back of one of her black chairs, and fidgeted with the gold tassel of a bright-blue cushion.

At last Hendebakker turned towards her, swinging round suddenly and sharply, and fixing his light eyes full on her face.

“Is he back in town?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Young Waring.”

“I've no idea.”

“Find out. Ring him. Ask him to tea or dinner—anything for an excuse—and when you've got him, make him talk if you can. Get going. Do it now.”

Sylvia did as she was bid. He followed her to the telephone, and stood there while she listened. He could hear the sound of a voice without distinguishing words. After a moment she rang off, and turned to him.

“He came back this morning, but he's out. She doesn't know when he'll be back.”

They returned to the drawing-room.

“Now,” said Hendebakker, “you attend very carefully. Just as soon as you've had your lunch you'll go round to Deakin and Blash, the house agents, and you'll ask them about houses for sale.”

He sat down at her little escritoire and began to write, talking as he did so.

“This is what you're to ask for—accommodation, grounds, etcetera. You're looking at houses for a friend who's coming home from, say, Egypt. If they don't mention Keith Lodge, say you heard it was going. It's on Wimbledon Common. Say you'd like to look over it; and bring the keys away with you. When you've got them, come to The Luxe and have tea with Anita.”

He handed her the sheet of instructions.

“Get that off by heart and give me the paper back,” he said.

Sylvia found Anita alone at tea-time. They had tea, and talked clothes and scandal.

“Virgilio, he is out,” said Anita. “As if I knew where! Never do I know what he does—but I am not jealous.” She laughed complacently, and they went on talking.

Mr. Hendebakker strolled in as they were finishing tea. Five minutes later Anita got up and went out of the room. Hendebakker watched her go with a nod of approval. Then he said:

“Have you got the keys?”

Sylvia took them out of her bag and handed them to him.

“Any difficulty in getting them?”

“None whatever. I should think the house had been on the books for years. The young man in the office said as much; he said he was afraid the place was very neglected and overgrown.”

“It is,” said Hendebakker. “He's right on the spot about that. Now, Lady Moreland, I want young Waring at Keith Lodge tonight—say ten-thirty. It isn't real dark then.”

Sylvia exclaimed; drew back.

“What do you mean?”

“Just exactly what I say. I want Waring there at ten-thirty p.m., and it's up to you to get him there. I don't care how you do it, but he's got to come.”

“And when he's there?” said Sylvia in a low, strained voice. She was watching Hendebakker, and her heart fluttered when he smiled,

“Well, my dear, I rather think of doing a deal with him,” he said pleasantly. “Yes, I rather think we shall be able to do a deal.”

“I won't do it,” said Sylvia, with a sudden lift of the head. “I won't. You can't make me.”

Her thoughts were racing. Hendebakker meant to get Peter down to that lonely house and then, by some violent means, get him to give up the Jewel. She was to be the decoy. But if she refused, defied Hendebakker—why—yes, why shouldn't she and Peter join forces? Peter—she was really fond of Peter if he had the Jewel and she stood out, they might make a good bargain with Hendebakker yet. She thought he would pay to get the Jewel—perhaps quite a large sum, enough to clear her. She must see Peter, persuade Peter, and for the moment put Hendebakker off and gain time. All these thoughts flashed through her mind as she looked into Hendebakker's face and saw its expression change to anger. Her eyes fell before his. She caught her breath and put her hands before her face.

“Mr. Hendebakker, please—oh, you know I've done everything you've asked me to; but I can't, I can't do this.”

“Can't you?” said Hendebakker. He caught her wrists and pulled her hands down with a jerk. “Can't? Won't?” he said. “You do a bit of thinking. What about standing in the dock for theft? You do as I tell you, or I'll put you there.”

Sylvia burst into tears of rage.

“Let me go,” she sobbed. “How dare you?”

Hendebakker dropped her hands, turned from her with an ugly sound, and walked right across the room and back again. He had himself in hand when he returned.