Grey Mask

CHAPTER III

Charles continued to look into the room. The place where Margaret had stood was just at the edge of where the thick double wreath of fat blue flowers began to twine itself about a central medallion. There was a little worn place just to the right of where she had stood. He stared at the worn place. Margaret had been here and was gone again-Margaret. Well, that put the lid on telephoning to the police. Yes, by gum it did!

A quick spasm of laughter shook him. He had said that it would be interesting to meet Margaret again-interesting.

“Oh, my hat!” said Charles to himself.

Interesting enough-yes, and a bit to spare if he and Margaret were to meet in a crowded police court. A very pretty romantic scene. “Do you recognise this woman?”

“Oh, yes, I almost married her once.” Headlines from the evening paper rose luridly: “Parted Lovers meet in Police Court.”

“Jilted Explorer and Lost Bride.”

“Should Women become Criminals?” No, the police were off.

He came back from the headlines at the sound of a name:

“Margot.” It was the man sitting at the table with his back to him who had spoken.

Charles withdrew his hand from the wall and listened intently. He had thought for a moment that the fellow was going to say Margaret. Then he heard the man say,

“Thirty-two is kicking.”

Grey Mask moved one of the smooth gloved hands; the gesture indicated that Thirty-two and any possible protest he might make were equally negligible.

“He is kicking all the same.”

Grey Mask spoke; the purr was a sneer.

“Can a jelly-fish kick? What’s it all about?”

The man with his back to Charles shrugged his shoulders.

“Says ten per cent isn’t worth the risk.”

“Where’s the risk? He gets the money quite legally.”

“Says he ought to get more than ten per cent-says he doesn’t want to marry the girl-says he’ll be hanged if he marries her.”

Grey Mask leaned a little forward.

“Well, he won’t be hanged if he doesn’t do what he’s told, but he’ll go down for a seven years’ stretch. Tell him so.” He scribbled on a piece of paper and pushed it over. “Give him this. If he doesn’t prefer liberty, ten per cent, and a pretty wife to seven years hard, he can have the seven years. He won’t like it.”

The other man took up the paper.

“He says he doesn’t know why he should marry the girl. I told him I’d put that to you. Why should he?”

“Provides for her-looks well-keeps her quiet-keeps her friends quiet.”

The other man spoke quickly:

“Then you think there might be a certificate?”

“I’m not taking risks. Tell Thirty-two he’s to use the letter as we arranged.”

“Then you do think-”

There was no answer. The other man spoke again:

“There’s nothing at Somerset House. Isn’t that good enough?”

“Not quite. Everyone doesn’t get married at their parish church or the nearest registry office-everyone doesn’t even get married in England.”

“Was he married?”

Grey Mask straightened the shade of the reading lamp; the lane of light that had led to the door disappeared.

“If Forty there had ears, he could answer that question.”

“Forty-”

“Perhaps. Forty says he used to walk up and down the deck. He says he talked. Perhaps he said something; perhaps he talked of things he wouldn’t have talked about if he hadn’t known that Forty would be none the wiser. In the end the sea got him and none of us are any the wiser. Pity Forty there never learned lip-reading.”

He lifted his hand and signalled with it. Forty then, was the janitor. And he was stone-deaf-useful in a way of course, but awkward too. Charles wondered how he knew when there was anyone on the other side of the door. Of course if he had his hand on the panel and anyone knocked, he would feel the vibration. Yes, it could be done that way-a code of signals too.

He had just reached this point, when the light went out. The door had begun to open, and then Grey Mask put his hand to the switch of the lamp, and the room went dark, with just one blur of greenish dusk which faded and was gone in the gloom.

Charles got up. He was rather stiff. He got back into his mother’s room without making any noise, and before he put his hand on the door, he stood for an instant listening, and could hear no sound. He would have liked to rush them from behind, catch them perhaps at the head of the stairs and send them sprawling, a loud war-whoop and their own bad consciences to aid. It might have been a very pleasant affair. He liked to think of Forty’s square bulk coming down with a good resounding thud upon the wild writhings of the other two.

Hang Margaret! If she hadn’t come butting into heaven knew what of a dirty criminal conspiracy, he might have been really enjoying himself. Instead, he must mark time, must tiptoe through his own house after a pack of scallywags.

Charles tiptoed. He reached the head of the stairs and looked down into the hall. Someone moved in the twilight; a light went on. Lattery, the caretaker, crossed the lighted space whistling “Way Down Upon the Swanee River.” He whistled flat.

Charles charged down the stairs and arrived like an exploding bomb.

“Where the devil have you been, and what the devil have you been doing?”

Lattery stared, and his knees shook under him; his big, stupid face took on a greenish hue.

Charles ran to the garden door. It was still open. He ran up the garden, and heard the door in the wall fall to with a slam. By the time he got it open and burst into the alley, someone was disappearing round the corner into Thorney Lane. He sprinted to the corner and round it. The someone was a whistling errand boy with a crop of red hair that showed pure ginger under the street lamp.

At the bottom of Thorney Lane there was a woman.

He ran after her. When he reached the roaring thoroughfare, there were half a dozen women on every couple of yards of pavement. The two big cinemas at either end of the street had just come out.

He went back to the house in a black bad temper.