Chapter XII: 'bakerloo'

'Mister Doo-oone!'

It was two syllables, in Milly's piercing Cockney voice. Michael, sprawling on his iron-hard, lodging-house sofa, reading a novel, grinned, but made no reply. He could hear the sound of flying feet on the stairs, and knew that the handmaid of No. 60 Quebec Street was merely heralding her approach in her usual manner. The racing footsteps drew nearer, mingled now with heavy panting, and there was a furious tattoo on his door.

'Come in!' grunted Michael.

''Ul_low_, Mr. Doone! You don't 'arf look comf'table!' She leant against the lintel of the door, still panting a little. 'I b'lieve you bin asleep there all the arternoon. Wot time did _you_ come in las' night?'

Michael surveyed her, amusedly. He liked Milly. He liked her irrepressible Cockney tongue, her everlasting good temper, and her buccaneering manner. Besides, she was distinctly pretty, with her dancing blue eyes and curly black hair that never looked tidy. Her pink silk stockings and her short skirts were a perpetual source of strife between her and her mistress, Michael's landlady; a battle in which Milly always triumphed. Michael had heard the story from both combatants several times. The girl was impertinent; she was 'familiar' with the lodgers; she was untidy; she was noisy; but, for all that, she did the work of three women in the house, and Mrs. Briggs knew it.

'Ain't yer goin' ter say nothink?' asked Milly, regarding Michael curiously, as if wondering whether he had not been stricken dumb suddenly.

'I was wondering what you wanted me for.'

'Oh! Well, o' course it's nothink ter do with _me_ wot time you come in lars' night, but wot I was goin' ter say _was_, there's a gentleman downstairs wants ter see yer.'

'Who is it?'

'I dunno 'is name. 'E's bin 'ere before, though. 'Im an' you come in tergether Monday night. Young gentleman, with wot yer might call a chubby face. 'E stutters, too.'

'Oh, yes,' said Michael. 'Manvers.'

'That's right. 'E don't arf make me larf! "I s-say," 'e ses, "y-your name's M-Milly, ain't it?" 'E's a one!'

To be strictly accurate, she said: ''E's a wud!' for, like so many of her race, her adenoids formed an essential part of her speech.

'Show him up,' said Michael, rousing himself.

'Right-o. You goin' ter 'ave supper in, Mr. Doone?'

'No.'

'That's a good job, for there ain't nothink to eat. Well, I s'pose I better go an' find Mr. Manvers afore 'e loses 'isself. I tell you wot 'e reminds me of. 'E's jest like one o' them----Ow, 'ere 'e is!'

Smiling, and entirely unabashed, Milly stood back to let Bobby Manvers enter the room.

'Wh-what am I like, Milly?' asked Bobby with a grin.

''Fraid I couldn't tell yer, Mr. Manvers. Don't know yer well enough--yet. Well, I better 'op it, or she'll start 'ollerin' for me. G'night, Mr. Doone!'

She sped downstairs, singing 'All that I ask is Love' at the top of her voice. Michael grinned and offered his guest a cigarette.

'Bit early, aren't you?' he asked. 'What time does this party start?'

'Oh, not till nine, but I wanted to see you, because--w-well, as a matter of fact, I can't go. But I do hope you will.'

'You're a nice chap!' said Michael. 'Make me swear to come to this show with you, much against my better judgment, and then back out of it yourself. And a high-brow party at that. No, thanks.'

'It w-won't be exclusively high-brow,' pleaded Bobby. 'Adele Lancaster's parties are pretty mixed, y' know, and several of the people y-you met at Barton will be there. Adele specially asked me to bring you.'

'Why aren't you going?' demanded Michael. 'Changed your mind in rather a hurry, haven't you?'

'Well, as a matter of fact, I'm going to take a girl I know out to dinner. Sh-she's just lost her father, and she's pretty down on her luck. Topping child, she is, too, plucky as they make 'em, and awfully pretty. She's got no brothers or sisters, and her mother died when she was a baby. And there she is, all alone, cooped up in that great barrack of a house, where every mortal thing reminds her.... I don't wonder she wants to get out of it.' He halted suddenly. 'I s-say, Doone, are there any rooms to let here?'

'I believe there's a flat on the top floor,' said Michael, rather reluctantly.

'What's the rent of it, d'you think?'

'I don't know. Ask Milly.'

'I will. I believe this place would do Jerry a lot of good. And if y-you could keep an eye on her....' He paused doubtfully.

'Not much in my line, I'm afraid,' said Michael hastily.

'She'd simply love Milly,' said Bobby. 'I shall make her come round here to-morrow, to s-see the landlady.'

'I should,' said Michael, inwardly deciding to be out himself.

'Well, that'll be a good thing to tell her to-night,' said Bobby. 'And, l-look here, Doone, you will go to this party, won't you? I mean, Adele'll be frightfully disappointed if you don't.'

For a moment Michael considered, his green eyes narrowed to slits. Then he said slowly: 'All right, I'll go.'

'G-good man! Well, I must clear out now. Nine o'clock. You've got the address, haven't you?'

'Yes. So long. Look me up again some time.'

'Rather. So long.'

As the door shut behind his guest Michael dropped on to the sofa again, and scowled at the picture above his fireplace--one of those lurid desert scenes, straight from Woolworth's. Confound Adele Lancaster! Why had he promised to go to her rotten party? The only bright thought was that Sir Toby would be there, and Toby would probably have something amusing to say. Michael looked at his watch, and struggled to his feet. Infernal nuisance, having to change. What a cow of a country this was! He wandered away and turned on his bath; then loafed disconsolately back to his bedroom to dig out a clean shirt. As he was putting in his links, he suddenly remembered that he had been going to dine with that deserter, Bobby. He flung down the shirt, and, returning to his sitting-room, rang the bell. After a few seconds Milly entered with a crash.

'Wot is it now?' she demanded.

'I've changed my mind, and I will have supper in, after all.'

She stared at him steadily.

'Please, Milly,' added Michael, with a grin.

'Anythink to oblige,' assented Milly graciously. 'Wot'll you 'ave? Oysters? Or a tasty bit o' salmon?'

Michael leant against the wall, hands in pockets.

'Ham and eggs,' he suggested.

Milly copied his attitude ludicrously.

'Well, we might manage that, but the on'y thing is, I ain't certain as we've got any 'am, an' I'm afraid there ain't no eggs.'

Michael allowed his face to fall dismally. Milly gave him a flashing smile.

'I'll see wot I can do,' she said confidentially. 'Trouble is, y' see, the old girl ses ter me: "Find out 'ow many o' the gentlemen want supper before six, Millicent. Don't take no orders arter that."'

'I'm in your hands, Milly,' said Michael humbly.

'So's every man in the 'ouse!' said Milly. 'I 'ave me work cut out, I tell yer straight. Yer a bad lot, y' know.'

'Admitted,' said Michael.

'Not but wot yer a lot better than when you come. I will say that for yer,' conceded Milly.

'Oh, that's rot!' protested Michael, to whom any suggestion of personal improvement was anathema. 'For the first week I never had a meal in, except breakfast.'

'That ain't wot I mean. You may be more trouble than you was, but yer a lot more human, as yer might say,' explained Milly.

Michael laughed.

'You goin' ter stop 'ere long, Mr. Doone?'

'Yes. If I can get supper when I want it.'

'Can't think o' nothink but their stummicks, men can't,' sighed Milly. 'All right. I'll go an' cook it.'

'Thanks awfully. By the way, is that top flat still to let?'

'Yuss. You 'eard of anyone wantin' it?'

'Yes.'

'Oh, I _am_ glad. I likes to 'ave all the rooms full. 'Oo is 'e, Mr. Doone?'

'It's a she, as a matter of fact,' said Michael.

Milly regarded him with a gravely reproachful face, though her eyes danced wickedly.

'Oh, Mr. Doone! I didn't think you was one o' these 'ere elastic-'earted gentlemen!'

'It's nothing to do with me,' blurted Michael, realising his rashness.

Milly shook her head sadly.

'An' you ser quiet an' everythink, an' lettin' on ter be a woman-'ater. Coo! It jest shows 'ow you can be mistaken in a man. You, as useter say----'

'That's enough, Milly,' said Michael, with an attempt at severity.

'Take my advice, Mr. Doone; don't you have nothink ter do with 'er. Well, I must say, I never thought as----'

'Clear out!' said Michael, snatching up a cushion.

Milly ducked, and fled downstairs, laughing. With a grin, Michael departed to have his bath.

He was late for his party, thanks to the fact that he had stopped to hear the local news bulletin from Milly when she cleared away his supper. She always had something to report about every tenant. Michael sometimes wondered what she said about him to other people.

'Young Mr. Blake, 'e went orf yesterday arternoon, an' 'e ain't back yet. 'Orrid little stop-out! I won't 'arf talk to 'im when 'e comes 'ome. An' Mr. Crewe, 'e wasn't 'arf in a temper this mornin'. Found a beetle in 'is bath, 'e did, an' let the 'ole 'ouse know it. Might 'a' bin a corpse, be the way 'e carried on. But 'e can't 'elp it, pore chap. 'E's got insomlia, y' know. Can't sleep proper. Went t' bed early, 'e did, lars' night, but the lady nex' door woke 'im up singin' "Abide with Me." 'E said 'e wouldn't, not if it was ever so. Proper fed-up, 'e was.'

Consequently it was close on ten when Michael arrived at Adele Lancaster's house. He was shown into a room full of people and blue with tobacco smoke. Everyone seemed to be collected in little groups, talking in staccato voices. Some were lying about on the floor, or sitting on brilliantly coloured cushions. There was no sign of Sir Toby. Michael had a good look round, decided that he loathed the whole lot of them, and was on the point of making for the door again when Adele Lancaster saw him. She was talking to a tall, fair, clean-shaven man, and she broke off to greet Michael.

'Oh, here you are at last! I'm so glad you could come. Bobby rang me up just now to tell me of his desertion. Do you know Stephen Nicholson?'

The man bowed, rather theatrically.

'Stephen, this is Mr. Doone, whose home is on a South Sea island. Isn't it _too_ romantic? To me the very name of the Pacific Ocean spells enchantment--a magic land----'

The man interrupted her, in a weary drawl.

'My dear Adele, magic is everywhere, if only one's soul be attuned to it.'

'I believe that's true,' said Mrs. Lancaster, assuming a raptly thoughtful expression.

Michael thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and leant his shoulder against the wall. His green eyes had become as blank as stones--always a bad sign, as his friends knew well.

'Stephen, are you going to the Albert Hall ball next week?'

'Dear lady, I cannot dance.'

'How absurd you are!' She turned to Michael. 'He's the best dancer in London.'

Michael received this confidence in stony silence. The man Stephen laughed self-consciously.

'How nice of you! But the fact is, I've sprained my ankle. Hullo, surely that's Boris Kaufletz over there?'

'Yes. Didn't you know he was coming? He has promised to read us some of his poems later on.'

He raised his eyebrows.

'Is our Boris becoming famous?' he murmured. 'He'll lose his power if he does. Such a gift as his is born of starvation and a bitter memory of his wrongs.'

'Tell me, Stephen: people say he is a great poet. Is it true? His verse seems to me rather wonderful.'

'I think quite exceptional,' pronounced the man. 'It's so strangely luminous ... a queer, phosphorescent gleam of genius.' He waved his hand suddenly and intoned:

'As the empurpled blood of Phrygian slaves
Dripping ... flowing ... oozing angrily ...
So her passionate purple eyes ...'

Adele Lancaster caught her breath in a little gasp. 'But, Stephen, it's magnificent! And how characteristically Boris! What is that called?'

'"Bakerloo."' He frowned morosely at the ceiling, and then burst out again:

'Footsteps down the echoing passages.
Hurry!... Torrent in spate!
White faces of women, open-mouthed ...
Shriek after shriek, and yet no sound....
Hate!... Love!... Lust!...
And like some poisonous fog
Stifling all....
Inhibition!'

There was a moment's silence. Adele and Stephen gazed intently into each other's eyes. Michael lit a cigarette with hands that shook a little. He wanted to laugh, and weep, and kill someone. The whole thing was too much for him. Then Adele gave a little sigh and said:

'We can't be flippant after that, Stephen. I shall ask Boris to read to us now.'

She moved away, a mystic light in her eyes. The man Stephen took a cigarette from the box beside him, and, as he bent over the lighted match, said quietly:

'I hope you got your car back safely.'

For a second Michael stood as if turned to stone. Then a slow smile spread over his face.

'Yes, thanks,' he said. 'Did she run all right?'

'Perfectly,' the other assured him. 'Taking my carburettor into consideration, I more than made up the time I spent dodging you. I had to do it y' know. You'd have caught me on the main road, and I couldn't afford to stop and explain. I had an important engagement in London.'

'Did you make it?'

'As a matter of fact, I didn't, but it wasn't your Bentley's fault. Hullo, there's Kaufletz getting ready to spout.'

Michael looked round apprehensively.

'Can't we get out somewhere?' he said. 'Or do you want to listen?'

Stephen Nicholson chuckled and led the way to the door. Outside on the landing, a widely opened window looked out over the Square. Instinctively both men drifted towards it. They were silent for a moment, and then said simultaneously:

'What are _you_ doing here?'

Nicholson laughed. 'You first,' he said.

'Well, I came because a man I know wanted to bring me, but at the last minute he backed out,' said Michael. 'And you?'

'I,' said Nicholson gravely, 'am an eccentric bachelor, with a passion for _vers libre_ and ultra-modern art generally. I'm terribly artistic and all that, and so, of course, I attend those parties. I'm a literary authority in my own way. It was I, and I alone, who gave Boris Kaufletz, who is an unwashed, uneducated, half-witted Armenian Jew, his reputation for genius. A man must have some aim in life.'

Michael grinned appreciatively.

'Sorry to hear you've twisted your ankle,' he remarked. 'How did it happen? Tripping over a poet?'

Nicholson chuckled.

'Between ourselves, there was a bit of an argument in Nightingale Lane last night. I'd been attending a Socialist meeting on Tower Hill the day before, and we'd had rather a good time. The speaker ... chap called Flint ... was simply marvellous. In half an hour he'd got the whole crowd at fever heat. I was awfully worked up myself; never heard anything so stirring. We were all on fire to attack the West End, and burn the houses of the bloated capitalists who grind the faces of the poor. I was all for that, so I got up, too, and urged 'em on some more. Flint was awfully pleased at first. Said "There speaks a gallant comrade!" or words to that effect. Then, unfortunately, I lost my head and started telling 'em what houses we'd start on. They were all big, expensive places, but it doesn't do to come down to details in a show like that. It's so infernally hard to remember who are the capitalists and who aren't. I mentioned two houses, and then realised that they both belonged to Communist leaders. Bad break! I tried to recover myself; mentioned a third, and then remembered that it was Flint's own house. Of course I said, "As you were, comrades," but somehow it was too late. Some ass of a dockyard matey started to laugh, and--er--I left.'

'And Flint?'

'Well, he was a bit peevish, I believe, but I went off to have a drink with some sailors who were in the crowd, so we didn't meet. But last night, as I was coming up Nightingale Lane, three fellows popped out from one of the wharves and we--er--had a bit of an argument. As a matter of fact, as soon as I saw what they were driving at, I ran like a hare. A coaster that I knew was lying at Irongate Wharf, and I just managed to get aboard her. The night watchman's a pal of mine. He beat them off with a flood of the purest Glasgow invective, while I sat in the galley and listened. It was a liberal education, his speech. If it hadn't been for him I'd have been done, for I tripped over a steam-pipe--what a godless tangle a coaster's deck is!--and wrenched my ankle rather badly.'

'Pretty good!' said Michael. 'D'you often do this sort of thing?'

'Fairly often. I've got a passion for rhetoric. Whenever I hear a man making a speech, I always long to join in.'

'If you ever want company, I'm rather like that myself,' mentioned Michael.

Nicholson looked him over thoughtfully.

'Good work. I'll remember that,' he said. 'Your name's Doone, isn't it?'

'Yes. How did you----Oh, of course, that supper at Barton,' said Michael, and added: 'Can't think why I didn't recognise you just now. You don't seem disguised at all.'

'As a matter of fact, I'm not at the moment,' said Nicholson confidentially. 'This is me, as it were. Beauty unadorned, metaphorically speaking. As for the brief period of my waiterhood, it was the moustache that put you off. No one ever knows me when I'm complete with whiskers. They all feel they've seen me before, but can't remember where, you know. Then I tell 'em, and all's well.'

'It must be your voice,' said Michael. 'Just now, for instance----'

'My poetry?' asked Nicholson. 'Pretty hot, wasn't it? Extempore, too.'

'Good Lord! Wasn't it that bloke's stuff?'

Nicholson looked wounded. 'My dear chap, you don't suppose I read that sort of thing, do you?'

'But Mrs. Lancaster....'

'Adele takes a lot of things for granted. Poetry and waiters, for instance.'

Michael laughed.

'What _were_ you after that night?' he asked. 'Every day I've been expecting to hear that Mrs. Browne's pearls had gone, but nothing's happened so far.'

'Oh, no. I wasn't after filthy lucre that time,' said Nicholson; and added, after a moment's pause: 'I gather you've heard something about me.'

'You don't realise you're famous,' said Michael.

'What is fame? A bagatelle! Give me a match.'

Michael handed over his box, watching Nicholson with amusement.

'Come and look me up sometime, will you?' he said. 'I'm in digs.--60 Quebec Street.'

'I'd like to. Thanks awfully.' He glanced at Michael with a twinkle in his eyes. 'You think I'm devilish reckless, don't you?'

'Something like it,' admitted Michael. 'After all, isn't it a bit of a risk coming here?'

Nicholson chuckled. 'Don't you worry,' he said. 'It's as safe as houses. I've been playing this game for years.'

'All right; but suppose I was a cop?'

'Setting aside my lightning intuition, which tells me that there's nothing you'd dislike more, I'm perfectly safe because you've got nothing against me except your own suspicions and second hand information. I am Stephen Nicholson; fairly well known,' said he modestly. 'Unless you caught me crawling out of a window with a gun in my teeth and the Crown Jewels in my pocket, no one would believe you. I doubt if they would then, unless you could produce a photograph. Of course, I'd love to have the reputation of being a dare-devil and all that, but as a matter of fact I belong to the school of the cunning cowards.'

'All right,' grinned Michael. 'Does that mean you will come and see me?'

'Rather. One day next week. Sit tight; someone's coming.'

'I don't hear----' began Michael, but broke off as Adele Lancaster opened the drawing-room door and advanced on them.

'So this is where you've been all this time,' she said. 'I've a good mind to scold you both, but I'll forgive you if you do your duty. The young enthusiasts have started the gramophone, and you must come and dance.'

'I'm afraid I'm _hors de combat_,' said Nicholson, 'but I'll come and watch, if that would give you any pleasure.'

Michael, slightly bemused, allowed himself to be led off and introduced to countless females. His partners found him distrait and, as a matter of fact, he hardly noticed them at all. He danced automatically, his mind on Stephen Nicholson, until he heard a cry of welcome from Adele, and glanced round to see Sir Toby Ward entering. As soon as the dance came to an end, he made his way over to where Adele, Nicholson, and Sir Toby were talking.

There was a distinct twinkle in Sir Toby's eye as he greeted Michael--a twinkle that said, 'What on earth are _you_ doing in this crowd?'--but he wisely refrained from putting it into speech. Adele was lamenting the dullness of life.

'London's a desert of ennui,' she was saying. 'Except for Boris, no one is writing anything fit to read; there are no plays worthy of the name, and no subject of any interest to discuss.'

'It's terrible,' agreed Sir Toby, with a chuckle. 'All crime seems to be on the decrease. Even'--he glanced at Michael--'even Vive le Sport seems to have disappeared.'

'Who's he?' asked Stephen Nicholson in a languid drawl.

'My _dear_, don't you know?' Adele turned to him in surprise. 'He's the most divine person! He's a burglar who burgles with the grand manner. All women fall in love with him, and then he rides away in the approved style. I wish he'd rob this house.'

Sir Toby smiled mischievously.

'I was told the other day that he was an American,' he said. 'He was had up for rum-running, and had to get away quickly. Born and bred in the Bowery, I believe, and they called him "Shorty Bill" over there. As a matter of fact, he's a romantic legend.'

'I don't believe a word of it!' declared Adele. '_I_ was told that he's a 'Varsity man. Very tall, fair, and marvellously good looking.'

'Sounds like Nicholson,' observed Michael.

There was a shout of laughter from the other two.

'Stephen? Oh, what a divine idea!' said Adele. 'Our ineffable Stephen, who never dreams of getting up before eleven, and detests getting his hands dirty. But it's no good, Mr. Doone. Apart from the fact that he's got so much money that he doesn't know what to do with it, Stephen has only been in England since last December, while Vive le Sport has been flourishing for years.'

'It's a very nice idea, all the same,' laughed Sir Toby, surveying Nicholson with a smile that held a slight tinge of amused contempt.

Nicholson smiled, too, with a weary superiority that made Michael want to laugh and kick him, and then said that they misjudged him. The talk drifted to other topics, and soon afterwards Michael bade Adele good night. As he turned to go, Stephen Nicholson looked round to wave a farewell, and Michael saw a devil of laughter in his eyes.

Michael went home from that party on foot, and more than once he scandalised a solitary Robert on point duty with a sudden yelp of laughter.