Chapter V: 'twinkling William'

More than once in his varied career Nick had found himself forced to hurry, but never in his life had he moved so quickly as he did now.

As the young secretary left the room in his charitable search for restoratives, Nick leapt to his feet, thrust the precious envelope into his pocket, and fled. To his relief, the porter was not in his usual place. Nick had been prepared to use force, if he had to, to get past him, but he was thankful to find it unnecessary. He dared not use the lift, and shot down two flights of stone stairs at a break-neck pace. In the hall he checked for an instant. The fog had lifted. He could see, dim in the washy lamplight, a taxi outside the front door, and he guessed the Northern representative to be inside it. The porter was at the door of the cab, half in and half out, exchanging a cheerful word of farewell. Nick slipped past him unnoticed, and hurried down the street towards the cab-rank.

Fifty yards away he glanced back. The taxi had departed in the opposite direction, but the porter was standing on the steps, staring after him. Nick cursed his white bandages: made a man a blessed lighthouse! He reached the rank and roused a sleepy driver.

'Paddington Hotel,' he said, and as he entered the taxi, glanced back again.

Another man had joined the porter, and was talking to him excitedly. Nick guessed it to be R.O., and chuckled. Then, as his taxi moved off, he saw the porter running, and running fast, towards the cab-rank. The hunt was up. Nick settled himself comfortably and lit a cigarette. The last few hours had been rather a strain, but this was a game after his own heart, a game he loved and excelled in. He picked up the speaking-tube.

'Push her along as fast as you can, will you?'

The driver responded with a wave of his hand, and trod on the gas. They slid through the traffic in the Strand, and just managed to escape a block at Trafalgar Square. Nick, looking back, perceived that his pursuer had unfortunately missed it, too. He could see the porter hanging out of the cab window, obviously urging his driver to greater speed, and indicating with a frenzied hand the taxi ahead. Nick laughed outright and picked up the tube again.

'Go up through Piccadilly, and along to Hyde Park Corner.'

The driver nodded resignedly. It was none of his business, but some fares did seem a bit loopy. Here was a bloke who asked him to hurry one minute, and the next wanted him to crawl through all the thickest traffic. Well, it wasn't _his_ affair. He swung up Cockspur Street, and the pursuing taxi turned after him.

Nick was thinking hard. This infernal bandage was a landmark of the most dangerous sort, but on the other hand, was it safe to remove it? He didn't want any more witnesses than he could help, and the driver would certainly think it rather odd. Nick had no intention of slipping out without paying his fare; that would have been a dirty trick, and would have spoilt the keen pleasure he was deriving from the affair. Also--and more important still--if the worst came to the worst and the porter caught him up, he didn't want to run the risk of being recognised. He was not afraid of being detained--the porter was heavy, but hardly in the best physical training--but even in the time it would take to knock him out, the man might see his face well enough to remember again. No, the bandages must remain for the moment.

As luck would have it, the road was clear from Regent Street into Piccadilly. The taxi sped down past Burlington House, only to pull up short a moment later. The pursuing taxi was close behind, only separated from them by a Ford van. Nick could see the porter peering out again. In another two seconds he would spot them and ... Nick spoke to his driver.

'Another block?' he asked.

'Yes, sir.' By now the man was quite certain that his fare was insane. 'Traffic comin' down Bond Street.'

'Damnation!' Nick stepped out of the taxi. 'I shall go on by Underground. Good-night. Keep the change.'

He shut the door behind him, and dodging through the traffic, made for the north side of Piccadilly, but out of the tail of his eye he saw that the porter had seen him, and was following, also on foot.

Nick walked steadily westward. He knew that this earnest sleuth could do nothing in such a crowded place, but, on the other hand, what was he going to do himself? He couldn't simply walk up and down till he tired the fellow out. Besides, he had had a heavy day, and wanted to go to bed. Somehow this tiresome emissary of the Chief's must be thrown off.

And then, as sometimes happens in London, he discovered that the crowd about him had dissolved. There just happened to be no one on the pavement for fifty yards. In another five minutes the place would be swarming again, but a lot can happen in five minutes.

Someone behind him broke into a run. Nick turned instinctively and saw an open door, obviously the door of some club, for a man in livery stood in the hall. Without a second thought he walked in, to find himself facing a long letter-board on which was written: 'Jameson Club.'

The club porter came up, eyeing his bandaged head curiously.

'Friend of mine ... member ... asked me to leave a message here for him,' said Nick crisply. 'Where can I write a note?'

'Very good, sir. There's a writing-table in the lounge, sir,' said the man, indicating a room opposite, through the glass walls of which Nick could see three old gentlemen, each in far corners, reading newspapers in unsociable comfort.

'Thanks,' said Nick, and made his way to the table indicated. He sat down, picked up a pen, and studied it thoughtfully. His first idea had been to post his stolen envelope to himself, but now he hesitated. Suppose ... just suppose the Chief thought of that, too. No reason why he shouldn't; it wasn't exactly a new idea. And it wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility that the Chief might try to get it. The man would be anxious, rather naturally. But what was the alternative? That infernal sleuth was sitting outside the club (Nick had no doubt about that), and he couldn't stop in the place all night.

Nick grinned. 'Cold outside. Mustn't keep the poor devil waiting too long,' he murmured. But what was he going to do?

He studied the faces of his three fellow-inmates, and discarded the thought of appealing to their help. They were all fat old fellows, rather short of breath, and would probably have apoplectic fits at his story. His eyes wandered round the room, and then he caught sight of the bridge party through the glass partition.

There were four of them, men, and they were obviously old friends. He could hear what they said when they raised their voices as one was doing now.

'Discipline? My dear boy, the younger generation have none, and you're not the man to teach it to 'em. You always did sympathise with criminals; isn't that true, Loring? Look at him! Good Lord, when he used to lecture at King's his students called him "Twinkling William." Does that sound like discipline?'

Nick's eyes were on the subject of this tirade, who laughed cheerfully and without resentment. He was a little man, of about fifty, with twinkling eyes and untidy white hair. Nick watched him steadily, a growing conviction in his heart. This was the man for him; he'd risk his life on it; he'd even--he smiled, remembering an historic police court statement--he'd even bet on it. Then he nodded as if his mind were made up, pulled a sheet of paper towards him, and began to write:

DEAR SIR,

I hope you will forgive the liberty I am taking, but I find myself
in an awkward predicament, from which only you can assist me.

So far, so good. Nick frowned thoughtfully. The question was, how much was it safe to tell? He must make this man--'Twinkling William!' enchanting nickname!--he must make him realise how important the affair was, and yet he didn't want to start a panic and have Scotland Yard called in. Curse Jack Strickland and the woolly-headed idiots who sent him to Russia when he was badly needed in England!

The envelope which you will find enclosed contains a document for
which a certain section of our anti-English society is searching. I
am sorry that I cannot give you any more definite information, but,
as you know, the essence of the Secret Service is that it should
remain secret.

Nick grinned, remembering that in point of fact he was still 'wanted' on several counts.

Unfortunately, it has leaked out among my opponents that I am in
possession of the document, and I have been closely followed. In
fact, my sleuths are waiting outside for me at the moment.

'Sounds better in the plural: more frightfulness!'

I am not a member of this club, but being in a tight corner I
entered on the pretext of writing a note for a member. The fact
that I know none has made my task more difficult. However, I have
seen you--you are playing bridge as I write--and I believe you to
be a man who will help me, and incidentally the State, in this
affair. I shall wait until you leave, and then contrive to slip
this letter into your pocket.

If you will write me a line addressed to V.L.S., Poste Restante,
G.P.O., letting me know your name and where I can find you, I will
call as soon as possible and relieve you of this rather dangerous
charge. I expect I shall be free to do this within a few days, but
if the worst occurs, and at the end of ten days you have neither
seen nor heard from me, may I beg you to keep the letter until June
10th, and then post it. You will see that I have addressed and
stamped it. I am confident that this contingency will not arise,
but my opponents are as able as they are unscrupulous, and it is as
well to face all possibilities.

In the meantime, I beg you not to mention the matter to anyone, and
assure you that in keeping this secret you will be doing the State
an incalculable service.

Nick read his literary effort through, and folded it carefully. It was a trifle earnest, but it would do. Then he drew the sealed envelope from his pocket and opened it gingerly, taking care not to tear the flap. He extracted the list of names, and slid it into another envelope which he took from the rack in front of him. The bridge party in the next room seemed to be nearing the end of their rubber; there was no time to be lost. He sealed the envelope and addressed it to Jack Strickland.

A rapid search of the desk revealed a larger envelope, into which he thrust Jack's and the letter to his unknown assistant, 'Twinkling William.' Nick chuckled again at the aptness of the name. On the envelope he wrote: 'Please open this when you are alone,' and then, with sudden childishness, he printed in large letters across the top, 'O.H.M.S.'

This done, he leant back and lit a cigarette. It was now necessary to write his note for the member. The hall porter had looked in rather curiously once or twice; it wouldn't do to walk out and leave nothing to explain his literary efforts. The question was, who should the member be? 'Smith,' he decided. A good old English name. There must be a Smith or three in the club. He wrote 'R. Smith, Esq.,' on an envelope, and stuck it down. Then he looked at the bridge party again.

They had finished their game, but were enjoying hot toddies and talking cheerfully. It would obviously be some minutes before they departed. Nick took up his pen again. It would rouse the hall porter's curiosity if he sat there doing nothing. Then his eye fell on the envelope he had stolen, and a smile spread over his face. He examined it carefully. It could be re-sealed with perfect ease, and there was a stick of red wax on the desk. Nick's smile broadened. It seemed a waste to send an empty envelope back to the Chief. A golden opportunity.... He took another sheet of paper from the rack.

Ten minutes later he heard the bridge players push back their chairs. He finished his letter hurriedly, put it into the Chief's envelope, sealed it, and stowed it away in his breast-pocket. The quartet were in the hall, putting on their coats, and chaffing each other with the freedom of old friends. Nick joined them unostentatiously, and slipped Mr. Smith's note into the rack, thanking his stars that the porter was too busy to watch him. 'Twinkling William' was speaking as he struggled into his coat, and Nick halted for an instant, listening.

'Oh, my dear John, you talk a great deal of nonsense! Human nature doesn't alter. All this rant against these mad modern ideas has gone on since the days of the Pharaohs. The dominant characteristic of all younger generations is that they want adventure. And why shouldn't they? It's an admirable thing. I only wish there were more of it.'

The other three men laughed as they prepared to descend the steps. Nick brushed past them, murmuring an apology, and in passing found the coat pocket he wanted. Then he set off down Piccadilly towards Hyde Park, and was rewarded by the sound of a well-known footstep behind him.

'Poor old chap!' thought Nick. 'I bet he's tired. Well, so am I. Let's get this over, and then we can all go to bed happy.'

He turned into the Park, now dark and deserted, and slackened his pace. The footsteps followed, but still did not catch him up. Nick became exasperated.

'Why, damn the man, what's stopping him?' he grumbled. 'Why doesn't he _do_ something? Good Lord, have I got to walk about all night, waiting for some rotten sleuth to slug me? Well, if he won't take the initiative, I must, I suppose. Let's faint, shall we?'

He hesitated, reeled a little, and came down on the grass with a thud. A startled oath told him that his pursuer was close at heel. Then a practised hand began to go through his pockets, and he heard a grunt of satisfaction as the sealed envelope was found. Nick lay still, hardly breathing, until the enemy's footsteps died away. Then he got up and ripped off his bandages with a sigh of relief.

The fog had completely disappeared, and the night sky was spangled with stars. Nick drew a deep breath of the frosty air, and then walked leisurely back to Piccadilly.

'And so to bed,' he murmured, 'to wake refreshed to another day of care-free crime.'