Grey Face/Chapter 19

ON'T look around, Doctor Torrington. My life may be at stake, and I count on you."

Muir Torrington started, repressed his first and natural instinct to disobey the voice, and then, detecting real human appeal in the latter, continued to stroll unconcernedly ahead, neither hastening nor slackening his pace.

The Burlington Arcade was crowded, for the hour was eleven on a fine autumn morning.

Snatches of frivolous chatter reached his ears from the well-dressed women and men about him, so that the edge was taken off the strangeness of the thing by the presence of so much that was lightly commonplace.

"Listen, please," the voice continued. It was a cultured voice. Torrington was much intrigued by the faint accent of the speaker, who evidently was walking close behind him. "Stop by that window full of walking sticks. Please slow up near the door and I will bump against you and go into the shop. Do not notice me. I shall leave a small parcel in your hand—your left hand. Put it in your pocket and stroll along. I can find your address in the telephone directory and I will call to-night between eleven and twelve, if I may, and recover my property."

This extraordinary speech had not been delivered uninterruptedly. On several occasions the unseen speaker had paused when passers-by drew near, but he had completed his singular request within five paces of the shop indicated.

Torrington, subjecting a burning curiosity to a rigorous discipline, paused by the window. As he did so, a man brushed against him, thrust a small packet into his hand, and disappeared within the shop. Torrington could secure no more than a glimpse of his face.

The impression was that of a handsome man, of foreign appearance, less than middle-aged but somewhat haggard, who carried himself like a soldier, and whose outstanding characteristic was his aura of aristocracy. The packet, which was wrapped in brown paper, and which from its feel, size, and weight might have contained twenty cigarettes, Torrington slipped into his trouser pocket, and, allowing his hand to remain there, he stared reflectively at the wares in the window for a moment, and then proceeded on his way.

At a hosier's on the other side of the Arcade he took pause again, at the same time seizing the opportunity to learn if his swift manoeuvring with the unknown had passed unobserved.

In the persons and behaviour of those people immediately behind him he could perceive nothing suspicious. Here were modistes' assistants, ladies of fashion, elderly gentlemen endowed with genial smiles and much leisure, younger gentlemen whose hours would seem to be as lightly occupied as his own, but whose seeming careless prosperity may also have been as illusive as his own. For Muir Torrington, a young and unknown practitioner, had boldly plunged into practice in the heart of fashionable London and was at times hard put to it to make ends meet.

However, there was no one resembling the traditional detective, yet he felt a guilty flush rising to his brow at the thought that he might have allowed himself to become accomplice of a dope purveyor. Publicity of this kind he did not desire. The theory was unsatisfactory, however. He knew humanity. Upon his knowledge of humanity he had staked his career; and the stranger who had so strangely enlisted his aid certainly had been no crook. He was not English, but he was a gentleman.

This adventure was of a sort which appealed to the very soul of Muir Torrington. Sure that he was free from observation, he began slowly to retrace his steps. He had almost gained the shop of the dealer in walking sticks when the owner of the mysterious parcel came out as hurriedly as he had gone in. The accuracy of Torrington's estimate of the man was confirmed by a second glimpse which he had of him. This was one haunted by dreadful memories, but one who had never stooped to meanness.

He paused and glanced quickly around him but failed to observe Torrington. His face was pale and wore a sort of hunted look. Turning, he made off in the direction of Burlington Street—and a big, heavily built man, who had been staring in the window of the shop, grasped his arm as he passed. Words were exchanged between the two, both seeming to be very angry, and finally they proceeded along together, the big man holding the other's arm insistently.

Torrington followed to the end of the Arcade, and was in time to see the pair driven off together in a limousine which waited. Heedless of the throng about him, he stood staring after the car, and:

"Well, Tm damned!" he exclaimed.

"Don't say that, Torrington!" came a laughing voice.

Aroused from his reverie, Torrington turned sharply—and found himself looking into the face of Douglas Carey.

"Good heavens, Carey," he said vaguely, extending his hand, "I am delighted to see you."

"You don't look delighted."

"Sorry, but I have had a shock."

"What? Aren't things too bright and breezy?"

"No, but that's not what I mean."

"You certainly look dazed," Carey admitted with concern. "The hour is early but my rooms are near. What do you say to a bad habit before twelve o'clock?"

"I fall."

A few minutes later, from the depths of a comfortable armchair, Torrington watched Ecko shaking cocktails with all the skill of a Western Ocean purser. Gingerly he touched the packet in his trouser pocket. Its tangibility was reassuring. The episodes of the morning were not due to a disordered intelligence. Confidence regained:

"It's an odd world, lad," he said, looking about him.

"Not so bad," Carey replied, as Ecko shared the result of his exertions fairly between two glasses. He suppressed a sigh. "Humanity falls a little short of one's ideals, though."

"I agree," Torrington groaned, sipping his cocktail and watching the departure of the smiling Japanese.

A mental picture of the face of his bank manager arose reproachfully, for he had been returning from a visit to that official at the time of his encounter in the Arcade.

"If only we could be born without vices, Carey, it would be plain sailing."

"I didn't think that you had any."

"Ah! but I have, my lad. My vice is optimism, and it's more dangerous than wine, woman, and song put together. But, after all, the secret of happiness is to meet our vices halfway. Many of us waste energy in trying to conquer them. I am a shocking believer. Above all, I believe in myself—in my judgment. Just listen to this."

And, in his own whimsical fashion, he outlined to Carey the episode of the Arcade, concluding by jumping up, drawing the packet from his pocket, and laying it upon the table beside him.

"Behold!" he cried. "And now, what is the answer?"

"Well!" Carey stared amazedly. "You say the chap was a foreigner?"

"Undoubtedly, but he was 'one of us.' He was 'right,' Carey, he was 'right.' I would stake my life on it."

"Hm!" Carey muttered. "Torrington."

"Yes?"

"It's dope!"

"You are wrong. This was no dope merchant. He was a pedigree bird from beak to tail."

Both men stared reflectively at the parcel upon the table. Then:

"What about the big fellow?" Carey asked. "What did he look like?"

"I never once saw his face. Oh! as I have told you before, Vm a poorish detective. I shall pick it up in time, but I have a long way to go. He looked respectable, but not a nobleman."

Carey smoked thoughtfully for a while. Torrington glanced at his watch and finished the cocktail.

"Speaking of detectives," said Carey, "you don't think he was one?"

"Ah!" Torrington leapt to his feet, raising his clenched hand dramatically. "By Gad, Carey, I believe you've hit it! Why didn't I take in his feet!"

"I am sure I have hit it."

"Then you think my man won't turn up to-night?"

"I am willing to bet you a fiver he won't."

"Carey, lad"—Muir Torrington's face became very grim—"if he doesn't, I have one thing to say. It will be because he cant! He meant to, I'll swear to it."

"That is for you to judge," Carey replied. "I can only hazard a guess."

"What are you doing to-night?"

"Nothing in particular—loose end."

"Good!" cried Torrington, banging his fist upon a table. "He said between eleven and twelve—a late bird, evidently. Let's pick a bone somewhere—we could even take in part of a show—and then adjourn to my place. Are you game?"

"Yes."

Douglas Carey stared before him rather listlessly, and to Muir Torrington his attitude was eloquent. Therefore, pausing on his way to the door:

"Buck up, my lad I" he shouted at the top of his voice. "I should like to see you to-night for more reasons than one." He went out into the lobby, grabbing his hat, gloves, and cane. "I dined with Provost Hope yesterday."

"Did you?" Carey exclaimed, interest suddenly lighting up his vacant eyes.

"Yes," Torrington yelled, opening the door, "and there are many things which you should know." He started to go downstairs. "Things which if you were not such a proud, silent sort of idiot, you might have known already, my lad. Call for me at seven-thirty, sharp."