Chapter IV: Business Is Business (2)

There she was, at the table on the right. He could see her through the glass screen, and Ramsey was with her. He stood still a moment, devouring her with his eyes, and then she looked up and recognized him. Was she really beckoning to him? The reaction was so great that he dared not believe the evidence of his senses. No, there was no doubt; she was actually beckoning. As he walked towards the table he felt as though his legs would give way under him; and now he was by her; he held her hand.

“Ah, Bobby, my friend, I am so pleased to see you.”

The familiar voice, the familiar glance! It was all too good to be true. He was blind to the presence of Ramsey. He was alone with her; Ramsey did not exist; the restaurant did not exist. The hum of voices, the clatter of plates, the movements of the waiters, were distant sounds: all he knew was that he was standing there by her.

“Sit down, Bobby.”

Mechanically he seated himself, and gradually some of his equanimity returned. He could speak, but he said nothing of what he felt. Instinctively he knew that it was wiser to make no reference to anything that had passed.

Ramsey’s face was set and cold, but all his capacity for insolent indifference did not enable him to conceal his annoyance. His eyes flashed with anger.

“I think we ought to be going; it is getting rather late. We don’t want to be swept out with the dust, do we?” He addressed Madame de Corantin.

“Oh, I am in no hurry, Mr. Ramsey,” she replied. “It gives me great pleasure to see Mr. Froelich again. I was obliged to leave Paris so suddenly, and never had an opportunity of showing him how much I appreciated his kindness to me.”

Ramsey said nothing, but he glared at Bobby vindictively.

Presently Madame de Corantin rose, but as she left the room she made a point of keeping Bobby beside her, and in her inimitable way she asked Ramsey to fetch her cloak. For a moment Bobby had the exquisite joy of being alone with her.

“Only tell me one thing,” he almost gasped. “Tell me that I may see you, and when.”

She thought a moment. “Not tomorrow, I fear. I should like to so much, but I have not a moment. Come the next day to lunch. I am staying at Claridge’s.”

Ramsey appeared with the cloak, and she was gone.

What the next hours meant to Bobby can be imagined. They were passing somehow. The night, the morning, the afternoon wore away. He bought some magnificent roses and returned to his flat to dress, determined that he would take them himself to Claridge’s, hoping that by some chance he might catch a glimpse of her.

He was just starting out when, to his surprise, Clancey was announced.

“There is something I wanted to tell you, Froelich.”

Bobby waited impatiently.

“That lady you were talking about, Madame de Corantin. I think I remember something.”

Bobby was nervously anxious to get away. What Clancey had to tell him mattered little now.

“Oh, thanks very much, Clancey. The fact is, I’ve seen her.”

Clancey’s nonchalant manner changed instantaneously.

“Really!” he exclaimed.

“At the Savoy last night. She is here in London. She is staying at Claridge’s. In fact, to tell you the truth, I am taking these flowers there now. I am to lunch with her to-morrow. It has been a great surprise. I never dreamt of such a thing,” Bobby stammered on excitedly.

Clancey became calm again.

“Oh, that’s most interesting,” he said. “You will lunch with her to-morrow! I say, Froelich, you might introduce me. I could turn up after lunch, you know.”

Bobby’s face got serious.

“Well, I tell you, Clancey, old chap, as a rule I am quite ready to introduce my friends to any lady I know, but in this particular case it is not quite the same. You see, the fact is--the last time I introduced a friend of mine the result was--well, it was not exactly what I bargained for.”

“What do you mean?” asked Clancey.

“What I mean is that I introduced Alistair Ramsey to her in Paris, with the result that I have never seen her since until yesterday.”

Clancey did not immediately reply, but a curious expression overspread his face. “Alistair Ramsey,” he murmured, and then again, “Alistair Ramsey, dear me!”

Bobby looked at him wonderingly. Clancey laughed lightly.

“That reminds me,” he said. “I inquired about your commission at the War Office. You know, I suppose, that Alistair Ramsey is private secretary to Sir Archibald Fellowes. Old Fellowes decides upon all commissions, and your charming friend, Mr. Ramsey, informed him you were not a fit person to wear his Majesty’s uniform.”

Bobby stared.

“The dirty dog!” he exclaimed. “Well, I’m damned! That at the last, after everything!”

“Yes, just that,” remarked Clancey. “So you introduced him to Madame de Corantin?”

“Not because I wanted to,” replied Bobby.

“And she has been with him ever since?”

“Oh, I don’t know that.”

“But she was with him last night at the Savoy?”

“Yes. Damn him! I must be off now. Clancey, really, I’m awfully obliged to you.”

“Well, may I come to Claridge’s tomorrow? I promise I won’t cut you out--I only want to make her acquaintance. She must be such a charming woman.”

“All right. Look in after lunch,” Bobby answered, and, seizing the huge parcel which contained his flowers, he led the way out of the room and thence out of the flat to the cab which was waiting for him.

Had Bobby looked out of the window of that cab he would have been surprised. Clancey was running down the street towards Piccadilly as fast as his legs could carry him.

* * * * *

Another shock was in store for poor Bobby. Jumping out of his taxi, he presented himself to the hall-porter, armed with his huge paper parcel from the florist.

“For Madame de Corantin,” he said.

The porter looked at him; he knew him well and accepted the offering hesitatingly.

“For Madame de Corantin, you said, sir?”

“Yes,” said Bobby.

“Madame de Corantin left early this afternoon, Mr. Froelich.”

For a moment Bobby was speechless.

“Left?” he gasped. “Are you sure?”

“I’m perfectly certain, sir.”

“But surely she is coming back again, isn’t she? Why, I’m lunching with her to-morrow.”

The porter looked at him in surprise.

“Take a seat for a moment, sir, and I’ll go and inquire, though to the best of my belief she took all her luggage with her.”

In a moment the man came back.

“Yes, sir, she and her maid and all her luggage left about two o’clock. There were two cars; one was brought by a gentleman.”

Bobby pulled himself together.

“Ah! Mr. Alistair Ramsey, I suppose?” He tried to put indifference into his voice.

“Yes, sir, I think it was Mr. Alistair Ramsey.”

Bobby walked out of the hotel. “Oh, damn him, damn him, damn him!” he muttered as he threw himself into a cab.

“Go to Down Street.”

Arrived at his rooms, Bobby cast his poor flowers into a corner, and, flinging himself on to a sofa, buried his face in his hands. What was the meaning of it, and how could she be so cruel as to play the same trick on him again? What was the object of telling him to come and see her? It would have been by far kinder to ignore him when she saw him at the Savoy. And yet even now Bobby was not resentful. He was bewildered, but far more was he humiliated at the thought of Ramsey’s triumph. There must surely be some explanation. She had greeted him so kindly; she had shown such evident pleasure at seeing him again. Why should she have acted that part? There was no object in it. Something must have happened, something quite outside the range of ordinary events. As he had done a hundred times, Bobby returned on the past and tried to piece together consecutively all the incidents since his first meeting with Madame de Corantin. Gradually an impression formed itself in his mind that what at first had seemed an attractive mystery was something deeper than he had imagined. Gradually there spread over him a vague sensation of discomfort, of apprehension even. Still, when he thought about her it seemed impossible to connect anything sinister with a personality so charming, with a disposition so amiable. No, it was beyond him; it was useless his attempting to puzzle out the problem. Only time could explain it. As they had met at the Savoy, so sooner or later they would meet again. He knew it was useless to try and forget her; that was impossible, but, in the meantime, what?

Suddenly his reflections were interrupted. Some one was ringing the bell at the entrance. Bobby went to the door. Two men were standing outside--strangers to him.

“Are you Mr. Froelich?” one of them asked.

“Yes,” answered Bobby. “Why? What do you want?”

“I should like to speak to you a moment.”

“What about?” Bobby eyed them suspiciously.

“I am from Scotland Yard, Mr. Froelich. We’d better go inside to talk.”

Bobby, quite bewildered, led them into his sitting-room, and shut the door.

“My name is Inspector Groombridge,” said the spokesman of the two. “I have been instructed to place you under arrest.”

“Me! Under arrest? What on earth have I done? There must be some mistake.”

Bobby was horrified.

“Those are my instructions, Mr. Froelich, and I am afraid I must ask you to come with me. My colleague, Sub-inspector Dane, is to remain here in possession, and I am afraid I must ask you to hand him your keys.”

“My keys?” Bobby felt in his pockets. “What sort of keys do you mean?” He pulled a gold chain out of his pocket to which were attached his latchkey and a few others. He held them in his hand, and ticked them off one by one mechanically. “This is the key of the cupboard where I keep my cigars and liqueurs; this is the key of my dispatch-box. I don’t think I’ve got anything else locked up.”

“Have you no safe, no desk or other receptacle where you keep your papers, Mr. Froelich--documents of any kind?”

“Papers--documents?” ejaculated Bobby. “No, I haven’t got any documents or papers. What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m afraid it will be the duty of Sub-inspector Dane to search your apartment, Mr. Froelich, and I want to save you from having anything broken open if it can be avoided.”

“There is nothing to break open. I don’t lock anything up except cigars and things of that kind, and as to my dispatch-box, there’s not much there either. I hardly know what there is--I haven’t looked inside it for ever so long. There may be a few private letters.”

“What sort of letters?” asked the inspector.

To Bobby this sounded menacing.

“Oh, I don’t know; perhaps there may be one or two--well, what shall I call them?--love letters, I suppose. Anyhow, here are the keys.” He handed them over to the other man as he spoke.

“Call a cab.” The inspector spoke to his subordinate.

“I say,” asked Bobby apprehensively, “am I going to be locked up?”

The inspector hesitated slightly. Bobby’s innocence seemed to strike him. He was not the sort of person he was used to arresting.

“I am afraid it’s more than likely, Mr. Froelich.”

“Can’t I change my clothes?” queried Bobby. “You see, I’ve got on evening dress, and I suppose I shan’t have a chance of getting out of it.”

The inspector reflected a moment.

“Oh yes, Mr. Froelich. I don’t see why you should not change, but I’m afraid I must ask you to let me accompany you.”

“Well, I’m--D’you think I’m going to try and escape?”

“Oh, I don’t say that, Mr. Froelich, but sometimes things happen on these occasions, and it’s my duty to be on the safe side. I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”

“Come on in, then.” Bobby led the way into his dressing-room, and in a few minutes he was rolling off with his strange companion to some destination unknown.

After the most uncomfortable night Bobby had ever spent in his life he was escorted next morning by Sub-inspector Dane to Scotland Yard. He was ushered into a waiting-room, and there he sat with the inspector, waiting until he should be summoned before the Assistant Commissioner. Had he been able to see what was going on in the adjoining room, he would have been exceedingly surprised.

The Assistant Commissioner, one of those public servants whose quiet, unobtrusive manner covers a strong character and a great efficiency, was sitting at his table talking to Harold Clancey. They were in earnest consultation.

“Then I understand, Captain Clancey,” said the Assistant Commissioner, “that this lady has got clear off?”

Clancey smiled serenely.

“Oh, rather! Address: Hôtel des Indes, The Hague--quite a comfortable place and quite an important German espionage centre.”

“I gather that our man was too late.”

“By some hours, I should say,” Clancey replied. “You see, we only got the report in from France quite late. I sent your man to watch her while I went to see Froelich. I was sure he was all right, but I wanted to satisfy myself. By the time I reached our place I found the chief in the deuce of a stew. Your man had got back, and reported that she’d gone. They’d kicked up the devil’s delight at Headquarters, and the chief was out for blood. He was determined to arrest somebody, and I suggested Ramsey, but he got purple in the face and told me he’d instructed your people to bag Froelich. I thought this quite idiotic, but it relieved the chief’s feelings, and it was too late to do anything sensible. We knew the ship she took; of course, she was much too clever to sail under the English flag. Naturally we wirelessed, but they won’t dare touch her. After that last row it’s hands off these Dutchmen.”

“And the view of your department, Captain Clancey, is that it’s useless for us to detain Mr. Froelich?”

“Absolutely useless. I can swear to it. As I told you, I don’t know him well, but I know all about him, and I am satisfied of his complete innocence, and that he is entirely unaware of Madame de Corantin’s objects and activities.”

“Then what do you propose that we should do, Captain Clancey?”

“I propose nothing at all, Mr. Crane.”

“What, after her getting those passports?”

Clancey twisted his moustache.

“That’s a matter which concerns spheres altogether over my head, Mr. Crane.”

“But Mr. Ramsey says that it’s entirely owing to Mr. Froelich’s introduction that he provided the lady with passports, that he’d known her through him, and having been a friend of Mr. Froelich for many years, he had implicitly trusted him. He was here only a few minutes before you came, and he told me that there was no doubt at all but that he had been the victim of a conspiracy between Froelich and this Madame de Corantin. He admitted that he ought to have been on his guard, considering that Mr. Froelich’s name was German, and of course it was natural that he would have German sympathies.”

“Um! And what do you think, Mr. Crane?”

The Assistant Commissioner was silent for a moment.

“You see, I don’t know Mr. Froelich,” he said.

“But you do know Mr. Ramsey,” replied Clancey.

“Not well.”

“What about his chief? You know him well enough. Why not ask him?”

The Assistant Commissioner’s answer was to throw a note across the table to his questioner. It ran as follows--

WAR OFFICE.

DEAR MR. CRANE,--

I desire you to take the most rigorous measures without fear or favour regarding this matter of the passports accorded to Madame de Corantin. There has been a disgraceful dereliction of duty, and I intend to make an example of the offender, whoever he may be.

Yours very truly,

ARCHIBALD FELLOWES.

Clancey whistled.

“That looks rather awkward for Master Alistair.”

There was a knock on the door. It was Inspector Groombridge.

“Excuse me, sir, my man has just brought this. It was delivered by a stranger to the hall-porter of the building where Mr. Froelich occupies a flat.” He handed a letter to the Assistant Commissioner, who read it slowly and without comment passed it to Clancey. Clancey, read it through, smiled, and passed it back.

“I think that settles it,” he remarked, “and with your kind permission I will now depart.”

Nodding farewell to the Assistant Commissioner, Clancey withdrew by the private exit opposite to the one which led into the room where Bobby was miserably awaiting his fate.

“Show Mr. Froelich in, Inspector Groombridge, and, by the way, I hope you have treated him with courtesy.”

The inspector cleared his throat.

“Oh, I think so, sir. Of course, it’s rather difficult in these cases to make a gentleman comfortable, but I gave him a shake-down in my own private room for the night and sent a man for his toilet things and so on in the morning.”

“Very well, Inspector; show him in at once.”

Bobby came into the room; his expression was more bewildered than apprehensive. The Assistant Commissioner held out his hand, which Bobby took with a look of surprise.

“Do sit down, Mr. Froelich. I am so sorry to have troubled you. You will, I am sure, understand that in times like these one has to be very careful, and your acquaintance with Madame de Corantin--”

“Madame de Corantin!” Bobby, exclaimed. “What in the world--”

“One moment, Mr. Froelich. I’ll try and explain it to you. Madame de Corantin is known to us. She is a very clever emissary of the German Government, and she has succeeded in baffling us entirely up till now because by a chain of coincidences there has been no one who could identify her on the various occasions that she has been in England. Thanks to her influential connections, she has succeeded in obtaining information of considerable value, and has also been enabled to elude both the French authorities and ourselves. We have reason to believe that she has secured travelling facilities and passports through her relations with high Government officials, both French and English, whom she knew before the War. You will understand, therefore, that your acquaintance with her was at first sight a suspicious circumstance. I am glad to be able to tell you, however, that on inquiry we find that you are entirely innocent of any complicity with her plans, and this result of our investigations is confirmed by a letter which she apparently addressed to you.”

Bobby’s face had been growing longer and longer as the Assistant Commissioner proceeded. When Mr. Crane mentioned the letter Bobby could not restrain an exclamation.

“A letter?” he asked excitedly. “What letter?”

“This,” said the Assistant Commissioner, handing him the note that Clancey and he had previously seen.

Bobby took it eagerly and read--

DEAR BOBBY, MY FRIEND,--

Once more I fear I am causing you unhappiness. I cannot explain everything, but I can at least tell you this. When I prevailed upon you to introduce Mr. Ramsey to me, so much against your will, I had an object. This object was very far from being a desire for Mr. Ramsey’s acquaintance as you supposed, for I am still, and always shall be, devoted to that former friend of whom I told you. His name, I may now tell you, is Prince von Waldheim und Schlangenfurst. When I came to London I had hoped to have remained long enough to see you again, but I had no alternative but to go at a moment’s notice. To have remained would have been dangerous.

This letter will be delivered to you by a person whom I can trust. By the time you get it I shall be in Holland.

Some day when peace is restored I hope we may meet, and it will give me great pleasure to see you and introduce you to Prince von Waldheim, who esteems loyalty as I do.

As to Mr. Ramsey I do not know which I despise most--his vanity or his stupidity.

With every good wish,

Believe me,

Always sincerely and gratefully yours,

FRANCINE DE CORANTIN.

As Bobby finished the letter he looked up and met the eyes of the Assistant Commissioner who rose from his chair.

“I need not detain you, Mr. Froelich; it only remains for me to apologize for any trouble I may have given you. I must ask you to be kind enough to lend me this letter, which, however, I shall send on to you in a few days.”

Bobby returned to his flat, relieved but chastened. It was not long before he received the commission he coveted. The same Gazette contained two announcements: one that a commission as lieutenant had been granted to Mr. J. Froelich, the other that his Majesty had no further use for the services of Mr. Alistair Ramsey.