The Red Book Magazine/Volume 36/Number 1/The Domville Case

HE long Continental train drew slowly into Victoria Station, London, and through a long vista of wide-flung doors a a heterogeneous stream of demobilized soldiers, nurses, “Wrafs” and other of the picturesque accompaniments of a concluded war, flowed out onto the platform. The majority lingered about to exchange greetings with friends and to search for their luggage. Not so Mr. Joseph P. Cray. Before the train had come to a standstill, he was on his way to the barrier.

“Luggage, sir?” inquired a porter, attracted by the benevolent appearance of this robust-looking, middle-aged gentleman in the uniform of the American Y. M. C. A.

“Checked my baggage right through,” Mr. Cray replied, without slackening speed. “What I need is a taxi. What you need is five shillings. Let's get together.”

Whether he was serving a lunatic or not, the five shillings was good money and the porter earned it. In exactly two minutes after the arrival of the train, Mr. Cray was on his way to the Milan Hotel. The streets were not overcrowded. The driver had seen the passing of that munificent tip and gathered that his fare was in a hurry. They reached the Milan in exactly nine minutes. Even then Mr. Cray had the strained appearance of a man looking into futurity.

He stopped the man at the court entrance, fulfilled the chauffeur's wildest dreams with regard to emolument, and presented himself eagerly before the little counter.

“Key of 89, Johnson,” he demanded. “Get a slither on.”

“Why, it's Mr. Cray!” the hall porter exclaimed, after a single startled gaze at the newcomer's uniform. “Glad to see you back again, sir. Here's your key, sent over half an hour ago.”

Mr. Cray snatched at it.

“Any packages?” he demanded, as he made for the lift.

“A whole heap of them, sir,” was the reassuring reply. “All in your room.”

Mr. Cray slipped half a crown into the lift-man's hand, made pantomimic signs with his palm, and they shot upward without reference to the slow approach of a little party of intended passengers. Out stepped Mr. Cray on the fourth floor, and his face beamed as he recognized the valet standing before number eighty-nine.

“Hot bath, James,” he shouted. “Shoot!”

“Certainly, Mr. Cray, sir,” the man. replied, disappearing. “Glad to see you back again.”

“Gee, it's good!” the newcomer exclaimed, dashing into the bedroom. “Off with the ornaments.”

O convict ever doffed his prison garb with more haste and joy than did Mr. James P. Cray divest himself of the honorable though somewhat unsuitable garments, for a man of his build, which he had worn for two years. The absurd little tunic looked shorter still as it lay upon the bed, his cowpuncher hat more shapeless than ever; his ample breeches—they needed to be ample, for Mr. Cray's figure was rotund—collapsed in strange fashion as they sank shamelessly upon the floor. Naked as the day on which he was born, Mr. Cray strode shamelessly into the bathroom.

“Get me some clothes ready out of those packages, James,” he directed. “Bring a dressing-gown and underclothes in here. Get busy.”

Then for a quarter of an hour Mr. Cray steamed and gurgled, splashed and grunted. His ablutions completed, he dried himself, thrust his legs into a white silk union suit and trotted into the next room. He was still in a hurry.

“Dinner clothes, James,” he ordered. “Slip me a white shirt. Speed's the one and only.”

“You're in a hurry, Mr. Cray,” the man observed, smiling, as he handed him the garments.

“I've been in a hurry for twelve months,” was the feeling reply.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Cray left the room. The strained expression was still in his face. He rang for the lift, descended like a man absorbed with great thoughts, walked through the grill-room, climbed the stairs, passed through the smoke-room, and stood before the bar before he slackened speed.

“Why, it's Mr. Cray!” one of the young women declared.

“Double dry Martinis,” Mr. Cray directed reverently. “Just a squeeze of lemon, no absinthe, shake it till it froths.”

The young woman chatted as she obeyed instructions. Mr. Cray, though a polite man, appeared suddenly deaf. Presently the glass was held out to him. He raised it to his lips, closed his eyes and swallowed. When he set it down, that look had passed from his face. In its place shone the light of an ineffable and beatific contentment.

“First in :twelve months,” he explained. “Just mix up another kind of quietly, will you? I'll sit around for a bit.”....

“Mr. Cray! Mr. Cray! .... Mr. James P. Cray!”

Mr. Cray, who was engaged in an animated conversation with a little group of old and new acquaintances, broke off suddenly in the midst of an animated chapter of reminiscences.

“Say, boy,” he called out, “who wants me?”

The boy advanced.

“Lady to see you, sir, in the hall,” he announced.

“Have you got that right, my child?” Mr. Cray asked incredulously.

“Mr. James P. Cray, to arrive from France this evening,” was the boy's reply.

“That's me, sure,” the person designated admitted, rising, and brushing the ash from his waistcoat. “See you later, boys. The next round's on me.”

Mr. Cray made his contented but wondering way into the lounge. A tall and very elegant-looking young woman rose to her feet and came to meet him. Mr. Cray's eyes shone and his smile was wonderful.

“Sara!” he gasped. “Gee, this is great!”

“Dad!” she replied, saluting him on both cheeks. “You old dear!”

They went off arm in arm to a corner.

“To think of your being here to welcome me!” Mr. Cray murmured ecstatically.

“And why not?” the young lady replied. “If ever anyone deserved a welcome home, it's you. Twelve months' work in a hut in France is scarcely a holiday.”

“And never a single drink,” Mr. Cray interrupted solemnly:

“Marvelous!” she exclaimed. “But was that necessary, Dad?”

“Well, I don't know” he admitted. “I guess they don't all know how to use liquor as I do. Some of the lads out there get gay on nothing at all. So the day I put the uniform on, and went on the water wagon. I took myself off,” he murmured, a reminiscent smile of joy, “an hour and a half ago. Where's George?”

“Sailed for the States yesterday.”

“You don't say!”

Sara nodded.

“He's gone to Washington on a Government commission. He'd have been here—sent all sorts of messages to you.”

“Not ashamed of his disreputable old father-in-law, eh?”

“Don't be silly, Dad. We're all proud of you. George has said often that he thinks it fine of a man of your age and tastes to go and work as you have. What are you going to do now?”

“Order dinner for us two, I hope, dear.”

“Just what I had hoped for,” she declared. “I think it's wonderful to have your first evening together. What are you going to do, Dad—stay over here for a time?” “Why, I should say so,” was the prompt reply, “You've heard what's got 'the old country'?”

“You mean—”

“Gone dry!” Mr. Cray exclaimed, in a tone of horror. “All the bars selling soft drinks. Tea fights in the saloons, and bad whisky at the drug-stores. That's what they did while we were out fighting.”

“I'm afraid Mother was one of them,” Sara observed.

“Sure,” Mr. Cray acknowledged. “She's president of half a dozen prohibition societies. She's now working up the anti-tobacco campaign.”

“She doesn't say anything about coming over, I suppose?” the young woman asked, a little timidly.

“I should say not,” Mr. Cray replied, with a little shiver. “Too busy over there.”

Sara slipped her hand through her father's arm.

“We'll have a lovely time for a month or two, Dad,” she said. “You know how happy I am with George, but this English life is just a little cramped. I suppose I must have a bit of your wandering spirit in me, Dad. Anyhow, for just these few months let's see a lot of each other. You're just as fond of adventure as ever, aren't you?” A slow smile parted Mr. Cray's lips; a fervid light shone in his eyes.

“Sara,” he whispered, “after the last twelve months I'm spoiling for some real fun. But you, my dear—you're Lady Sittingbourne, you know. Got your husband's position to consider and all that.”

She laughed in his face. “You can cut that out, Dad, for a time,” she said. “Come along, now. We'll talk over dinner. I'm nearly starving, and I want to know if you've forgotten how to order.”

S they took their places at a table in the corner of the restaurant, Sara exchanged friendly greetings with a girl a short distance away, who was dining alone with a man.

“Lydia Domville,' she whispered to her father. “Lydia's rather a dear. She was at that wonderful school you sent me to in Paris. She's only been married a year.”

“They don't seem to be living in a garden of roses exactly,” Mr. Cray commented, glancing at the young man. “Seems all on wires, doesn't he? Has he had shellshock?”

Sara shook her head.

“I don't think he did any soldiering at all,” she replied. “He volunteered once or twice, I know, but he couldn't pass the medical examination. He was in one of the ministries at home.”

Cray's interest in the couple evaporated. Without being a gourmand, he loved good cooking, civilization, the thousand luxuries of a restaurant de luxe. He ordered his dinner as he ate it, slowly and with obvious enjoyment.

Nevertheless, he happened to be looking across the room when a small page in black livery approached the adjoining table and presented a note to Domville. He saw the look in the young man's face as he received the envelope, tore it open and glanced at the card inside. Mr. Cray forgot his dinner just then. It was as though tragedy had been brought into their midst.

The young man spoke to the girl, hesitatingly, almost apologetically. She answered with pleading, at last almost with anger. Their dinner remained untasted. In the end, the man rose and followed the boy from the room. The girl remained.

“Queer little scene, that,” Mr. Cray whispered.

Sara nodded.

“I can't think what's the matter with Lydia,” she said.

“Kind of annoyed at having their little feast broken into, I guess,” her father murmured soothingly.

Sara said nothing and for some moments her father sought and found oblivion in the slow consumption of a perfectly cooked sole colbert.

“Gee, this fellow is the goods!” he murmured appreciatively. “If you'd seen what they'd been giving us over there, good solid chuck enough, but after the first month everything tasted alike. Thought I'd got paralysis of the palate!”

After a moment, “I'm worried about Lydia,” Sara confided.

“She does look struck all of a heap,” Mr. Cray assented.

“I'm going across to, speak to her, if you don't mind.”

“Sure” Mr. Cray assented, with his eye fixed almost reverently upon the grouse which the maître d'hôtel was tendering for his inspection.

“Don't wait for me, Dad,” she begged.

“I wont,” Mr. Cray promised.....

Mr. Cray ate his grouse with the slow and fervid appreciation of the epicure, an appreciation unaffected by the fact that within a few yards, his quick sensibility told him, words of tragedy were being spoken. It was obvious that Sara's friend was confiding in her, and it was obvious that the confidence was of tragical import. In the midst of it all, the young man who had been called away returned. He had the look of one making a strong effort to control his feelings. Mr. Cray, who had seen much of life during the last two years, recognized the signs. Not a word was audible, but when Sara, after her friend's husband had been presented to her, engaged him in earnest conversation, Mr. Cray began to understand.

“A little job for me,” he murmured to himself. “Pity about Sara's grouse, though.”

She returned presently, and it was obvious that she had much to say. Mr. Cray was firm.

“Not a word, Sara,” he insisted, “until you have eaten your portion of grouse. Charles here has kept it hot for you. Not a word! I'm the stern father about that bird. What you've got to say will keep ten minutes.”

Sara obeyed. She generally obeyed when her father was earnest. It was not until she found herself trifling with a soufflé, a dish for which her father had no respect whatever, that she was permitted to unburden herself.

“Lydia is in great trouble, Dad,” she confided. “There is something wrong with her husband. She doesn't know what it is, but he came home, a fortnight ago, looking as though he had received a shock, and has not been the same man since. This is the third time he has been taken away from a restaurant by a page in that same livery.”

“I saw you talking to him when he came back.”

She nodded. “I asked him right out what was the matter with him, and I told him about you, Dad; told him how clever you were at getting people out of difficulties, and how you didn't mind a little risk if there was any adventure at the back of it. I think I impressed him. He says he can promise you all the adventure you want, and they are coming here to take the coffee.”

“If this isn't some little burg!” Mr. Cray murmured. “Just two hours back and the wheel begins to turn!”

The arrival of Gerald Domville and his pretty young wife, a few minutes later just as coffee was being served, did not seem likely to contribute in any way towards he gaiety of Mr. Cray's evening. The young man at close quarters seemed more distraught than ever. He ignored his coffee. He ignored his coffee and drank two glasses of liqueur brandy quickly. His wife scarcely took her eyes off him, and Sara's attempts to inaugurate a little general conversation were pitifully unsuccessful. Mr. Cray took the bull by the horns.

“Say, Mr. Domville,” he began, “Sara tells me that you've run against a snag somewhere. If there's any way I can be of service, just open up. You and I are strangers, but anything my daughter says goes, so you can count on me as upon an old friend.”

“You are very good,” the young man replied, without enthusiasm. “I am in a very terrible position—through my own fault, too. I am to attend a sort of investigation tonight, and I am invited to bring any friend I like who isn't connected with any of the Services. If you'll come along, I'll be glad, but I tell you frankly that I don't think the shrewdest man in the kingdom would be of any service to me.”

“That sounds hard,” Mr. Cray observed, “but if I'm not butting in I'll come along, with pleasure. What time is this show to be?”

“We shall have to leave in five minutes,” the young answered, with a little shiver.

Mr. Cray withdrew the liqueur bottle from his reach.

“Take my advice and leave that stuff alone,” he said “If it's as bad as it sounds, you'll want your head clear.”

Domville became no more communicative in the taxicab which drove them presently to a gloomy-looking house in one of the southern squares. They were admitted by a soldierly-looking manservant, who ushered them into a somberly furnished library on the ground floor. A man who was seated at a desk—a grim, soldierly-looking person in the uniform of a colonel—looked up at their entrance and nodded curtly. Seated in an armchair was a pale-faced young woman in widow's weeds, who turned away at their entrance.

“You have brought a friend?” the Colonel inquired.

Domville nodded in spiritless fashion.

Colonel Haughton touched a bell by his side.

“Mr, James Cray—Colonel Haughton. Mr. Cray is an American and has not been in England for two years.”

“Show the young lady in,” he directed the soldier servant who answered it. “How much of this affair do you know, Mr. Cray?” he inquired coldly.

“Not a bit,” was the emphatic reply. “I wanted Mr. Domville to put me wise on the way down, but he said he'd rather leave it to you.”

Colonel Haughton made no reply. There was a knock at the door and a young woman was ushered in. She was fashionably dressed, and her face was familiar enough to anyone studying the weekly papers. Mr. Cray recognized a compatriot at once. The woman in the chair glanced up at the girl and then away. Every now and then her shoulders shook. The Colonel pointed to a chair.

“Will you be seated, Miss Clare?” he said. “You gentlemen pleasure yourselves. I propose to recapitulate this unfortunate case for your benefit, Mr. Cray. I have my own idea as to the course which Domville should adopt.”

“Go right ahead,” Mr. Cray invited genially. “I'm kind of cramped in the legs with traveling today, so I'll take an easy chair if there's no objection.”

"A year ago,” Colonel Haughton began, speaking in sentences of sharp, military brevity, “Domville here held an appointment in a certain British Ministry. It was his duty frequently to bring dispatches of great importance to a certain branch of the War Office over which I presided. On one occasion, Domville appears most improperly to have broken his journey at Miss Clare's flat in Clarges Street.”

“There was no breaking the journey,” Domville interrupted. “My instructions were to deliver the dispatches into your own hands, and when I got to the War Office you were out for an hour. I came up to have tea with Miss Clare instead of waiting in the office.”

“Mr. Domville left his wallet of dispatches hanging in Miss Clare's hall,” Colonel Haughton continued, “a disgracefully careless proceeding. When he found me at the War Office that evening, he handed me two envelopes instead of three. He said nothing to me about the third, but realizing the loss, returned to Miss Clare's and later searched his own rooms. Miss Clare knew nothing about the possibly missing dispatch: Domville could discover nothing in his rooms. In the meantime, a prisoner in the Tower was shot at midnight that night. The contents of the letter which never reached me, would have saved him.”

The woman in mourning began to sob. Domville wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

“Say, that's bad,” Mr. Cray admitted.

“Owing to information patriotically tendered by Miss Clare,” Colonel Haughton continued, “a constant visitor to her flat was arrested soon afterward and dealt with in the usual way. He admitted having opened the dispatches which he found in Domville's wallet, and made use of the contents. The one which he could not open he took away, and finding it of no interest to his cause, destroyed it. The situation, therefore, amounts to this. Owing to the criminal carelessness of Domville, a young American whose innocence was beyond doubt, was shot for a spy.”

The woman in mourning looked up. Her eyes flashed fiercely across the room.

“My husband!” she sobbed. “All that I had in the world!”

Domville looked at Cray as though pleading for his intercession. Cray turned to the young woman.

“Madam,” he said, “may I ask your name?”

“Ellen Saunderson,” was the tearful reply. “My husband was Joe Saunderson. He was as innocent as you or I. The letter which never reached Colonel Haughton would have proved it.”

Mr. Cray fingered his chin thoughtfully.

“Shot for a spy, eh,” he ruminated, “and that letter contained reports which would have saved him. Say, that's hard! Has any official notice been taken of this matter?” he continued, turning to the Colonel.

“Mr. Domville came to me a few days later,” the Colonel said, “and confessed that he had not delivered to me one of the dispatches entrusted to him, and explained that he was not in a position to trace it. A few days later, the contents of that dispatch reached me officially. I advised Mr. Domville to tender his resignation, which he did. Communications have passed in secrecy between a certain department of the American Secret Service and our own, concerning this unfortunate mistake. It has been decided, for obvious reasons, that it shall not be made a press matter. The question we now have to discuss is the amount of compensation which shall be offered to Mrs. Saunderson.”

The woman turned away wearily.

“Compensation!” she murmured bitterly. “That wont [sic] give me back Joe.”

“I regret to say,” Colonel Haughton continued, “that I am not able to procure for Mrs. Saunderson any official recompense. On the evidence presented, the shooting of Joseph Saunderson was amply justified, and it is the official view that, if recompense be tendered to the widow, a mistake is admitted which might later have serious consequences. Mr. Domville has made an offer which Mrs. Saunderson rejected with scorn. I will be perfectly frank to all of you. My interest in this matter is to see Mrs. Saunderson receive adequate compensation, and further, in the interests of my department, to see that this matter is forgotten. If Mrs. Saunderson is not satisfied, she will probably drag into the light a matter which, not for Domville's sake but for the sake of the department, it is my wish to conceal. Mr. Domville has offered—what was the sum, Domville?” he interrogated.

“Five thousand pounds,” the young man replied. “It is half the spare money I have in the world.”

The woman turned around with a sudden burst of passion.

“You and your spare money!” she exclaimed. “Do you think your spare money, as you call it, will bring back Joe—the husband I lost while you stayed flirting with this hussy here?”

Miss Clare frowned, and her fingers twitched nervously.

“No shadow of blame can be attached to Miss Clare in this matter,” the Colonel intervened coldly.

“Or to anyone, I suppose?” the woman scoffed. “Look here,” she went on, facing Domville, “I don't want your money—I'd rather work my fingers to the bone than touch a penny of it—but I want to punish you, and if you're a poor man, so much the better. Ten thousand pounds I want from you by midday tomorrow, and if I don't have it, my story goes to the newspapers for the world to read.”

There was a silence. Domville turned to his companion.

“How are you fixed?” Cray asked him.

“That five thousand pounds is my limit,” Domville replied bitterly. “If I have to find the rest, it will break up the business I've started and beggar me.”

“And why shouldn't you be beggared?” the woman demanded, her hands working nervously and her eyes filled with hate. “That's what I want. That's why I say I'll have ten thousand pounds tomorrow if it means your last sixpence.”

There was an uneasy silence. Mr. Cray gathered up the threads of the situation.

“It doesn't seem as if there's any more to be said,” he declared. “If you'll bring the lady along to my rooms at the Milan tomorrow at twelve o'clock, Colonel, I'll go into this young man's affairs in the meantime and give him advice.”

The Colonel glanced at his engagement book.

“I will come,” he promised, “but it is the last minute I can promise to give to this unfortunate affair. It must be concluded then, one way or the other.”

He touched the bell. His soldier servant opened the door. Cray and his companion hurried off. The latter groaned as they reached the street.

“Very kind of you to come along, Mr. Cray,” he said, “but you can see for yourself how hopeless the whole affair is. Not only have I got to go about all my life with the memory of that poor boy's death on my conscience, but if I find that ten thousand pounds, I shall be beggared. There's only one way out that I can think of.”

Mr. Cray was leaning back in his corner of the taxicab which they had just picked up, his chin resting upon his folded arms. The young man watched him furtively. It was not until they neared the Milan, however, that Mr. Cray spoke.

“There may be another way,” he ventured. “I promise nothing, but be at my rooms at twelve o'clock tomorrow to meet those people, and in the meantime don't make a fool of yourself. You'd better bring me a statement of just how much you've got, five minutes before that time.”

R. CRAY retired in good time, thoroughly enjoyed his first night in his luxurious bedchamber, was up betimes, and spent a busy morning. At five minutes to twelve, Domville, looking ghastly ill, presented himself and handed over a folded slip of paper.

“I've put down everything I'm worth,” he said. “If I have to find a penny more than that six thousand pounds, I'm done. I've come to the conclusion,” he went on, “that the fairest way will be to divide all I've got between that woman and my wife, and—disappear.”

“Sit down,” Mr. Cray replied. “I'll make the bargain for you.”

There was a ring at the bell, a moment or two later, and Mrs. Saunderson was ushered in. A single glance into her face robbed Domville of any hope he might have had. She was still lachrymose, but her face was set in hard, almost vicious lines. Colonel Haughton arrived a few minutes later. He received Mr. Cray's welcome frigidly.

“I desire,” he said, refusing a chair, “as speedy a conclusion to this affair as possible.”

“Miss Clare not coming?” Mr. Cray inquired, with unabated geniality.

“There is no necessity for her presence that I am aware of,” the Colonel replied. “The only question that remains to be decided is whether Mr. Domville, here, is prepared to satisfy Mrs. Saunderson's claims.”

Mr. Cray was suddenly a different man. The smile had left his good-natured face. His tone was as cold as the Colonel's.

“Colonel Haughton,” he said, “you want a show-down. All right, here it is: The whole thing is a frame-up. Joe Saunderson was never shot, and you know it. Neither was he ever married.”

“What the devil—” the Colonel began.

“Cut it!” Mr. Cray interrupted. “Miss Clare, as you call her, is married to one of the best-known crooks in the United States, although you, Colonel, seem to have ruined yourself trying to support her for the last few years. This woman who calls herself Mrs. Saunderson, was once her dresser, and is a very fair actress still. Joe Saunderson was in charge of the coffee urn in one of our Y. M. C. A huts for over six months, and I heard the story of his detention and release with a clean bill, a dozen times. Now what are you going to do about it, Domville? It's up to you.”

Domville suddenly reeled and would have fallen but Cray caught him and laid him upon the couch. He forced some brandy between his teeth. In a minute the young man opened his eyes; the color came back to his cheeks. He looked around him. Save for their two selves the room was empty.

“Mr. Cray! Was all that true?”

“Bible truth,” Mr. Cray declared.

“But Colonel Haughton? He's a well-known man—a D.S.O.—head of his department.”

“I guessed he was the real thing,” Mr. Cray acknowledged. “They do fool us sometimes, you know—these men no one would suspect.”

Domville was on his feet now, going through all the phases of a rapid recovery to sanity.

“And you actually knew this Joseph Saunderson?” he exclaimed wonderingly.

“One of my washers,” Mr. Cray explained with unabated cheerfulness, “who was promoted to the coffee urn two months ago. I've heard the story of his arrest half a dozen times. What about going and looking for your wife, eh? I gave the ladies a hint that there might be something doing in the way of a little luncheon.”

Mr. Cray led the way to where Sara and Mrs. Domville were seated.

“You go and take your wife off somewhere, Mr. Domville,” he said, “and don't let us see you again for an hour or so. If you wish it, we'll all dine together.”

“At eight o'clock, here,” Domville declared enthusiastically. “I'm host, and I promise you Jules shall do his best. I'll try and say the things I ought to say to you, then, Mr. Cray. I'm going to take Lydia right off home now.”

Mr. Cray nodded sympathetically, and drew Sara away.

“It's a long story, my dear,” he told her, “but things are fixed up all right for young Domville. He hasn't a worry left in the world. You shall have the whole yarn over luncheon.”

Sara grasped her father's hand affectionately.

“Dad,” she exclaimed enthusiastically, “you're a marvel!”

That night, Colonel Haughton, D. S. O., shot himself in his study, owing, it was stated, to financial troubles and general depression, and Miss Clare accepted a suddenly proffered engagement in America. Gerald Domville's dinner-party, however, was not postponed.