The Leithen Stories. Buchan John
or at Oxford did I run as I ran then. It was blisteringly hot, but I did not feel it, for my hands were clammy and my heart felt like a cold stone. I do not know how the pursuit got on, for I did not think of it. I did not reflect what kind of spectacle I must afford running like a thief in a London thoroughfare on a June afternoon. I only knew that my enemies were around and behind me, and that in front, a few hundred yards away, lay safety.
But even as I ran I had the sense to think out my movements, and to realise that the front door of the Embassy was impossible. For one thing, it would be watched, and for another, before the solemn footmen opened it, my pursuers would be upon me. My only hope was the back door.
I twisted into the Mews behind the north side of the Square, and as I turned I saw two men run up from the Square as if to cut me off. A whistle was blown, and more men appeared – one entering from the far end of the Mews, one darting from a public-house door, and one sliding down a ladder from a stable-loft. This last was nearest me, and tried to trip me, but I rejoice to say that a left-hander on the chin sent him sprawling on the cobbles. I remembered that the Embassy was the fifth house from the end, and feverishly I tried to count the houses by their backs. It is not so easy as it sounds, for the modern London householder studs his back premises with excrescences which seem to melt into his neighbour’s. In the end I had to make a guess at the door, which, to my joy, was unlocked. I rushed in and banged it behind me.
I found myself in a stone passage, with on one side a door opening on a garage. There was a wooden staircase leading to an upper floor, and a glass door in front, which opened into a large disused room full of boxes. Beyond were two doors, one of which was locked. The other abutted on a steep iron stairway, which obviously led to the lower regions of the house.
I ran down the stair – it was no more than a ladder – crossed a small courtyard, traversed a passage, and burst into the kitchen, where I confronted an astonished white-capped chef in the act of lifting a pot from the fire.
His face was red and wrathful, and I thought that he was going to fling the pot at my head. I had disturbed him in some delicate operation, and his artist’s pride was outraged.
‘Monsieur,’ I stammered in French, ‘I seek your pardon for my intrusion. There were circumstances which compelled me to enter this house by the back premises. I am an acquaintance of his Excellency, your patron, and an old friend of Monsieur Felix. I beg you of your kindness to direct me to Monsieur Felix’s room, or to bid some one take me there.’
My abject apologies mollified him.
‘It is a grave offence, monsieur,’ he said, ‘an unparalleled offence, to enter my kitchen at this hour. I fear you have irremediably spoiled the new casserole dish that I was endeavouring to compose.’
I was ready to go on my knees to the offended artist.
‘It grieves me indeed to have interfered with so rare an art, which I have often admired at his Excellency’s table. But there is danger behind me, and an urgent mission in front. Monsieur will forgive me? Necessity will sometimes overrule the finest sensibility.’
He bowed to me, and I bowed to him, and my pardon was assured.
Suddenly a door opened, another than that by which I had entered, and a man appeared whom I took to be a footman. He was struggling into his livery coat, but at the sight of me he dropped it. I thought I recognised the face as that of the man who had emerged from the public-house and tried to cut me off.
‘ ’Ere, Mister Alphonse,’ he cried, ‘ ’elp me to collar this man. The police are after ’im.’
‘You forget, my friend,’ I said, ‘that an Embassy is privileged ground which the police can’t enter. I desire to be taken before his Excellency.’
‘So that’s yer game,’ he shouted. ‘But two can play at that. ’Ere, give me an ’and, moosoo, and we’ll ’ave him in the street in a jiffey. There’s two ’undred of the best in our pockets if we ’ands ’im over to them as wants ’im.’
The cook looked puzzled and a little frightened.
‘Will you allow them to outrage your kitchen – an Embassy kitchen, too – without your consent?’ I said.
‘What have you done?’ he asked in French.
‘Only what your patron will approve,’ I replied in the same tongue. ‘Messieurs les assassins have a grudge against me.’
He still hesitated, while the young footman advanced on me. He was fingering something in his trousers-pocket which I did not like.
Now was the time when, as they say in America, I should have got busy with my gun; but alas! I had no gun. I feared supports for the enemy, for the footman at the first sight of me had run back the way he had come, and I had heard a low whistle.
What might have happened I do not know, had not the god appeared from the machine in the person of Hewins, the butler.
‘Hewins,’ I said, ‘you know me. I have often dined here, and you know that I ama friend of Monsieur Felix. I am on my way to see him on an urgent matter, and for various reasons I had to enter by Monsieur Alphonse’s kitchen. Will you take me at once to Monsieur Felix?’
Hewins bowed, and on his imperturbable face there appeared no sign of surprise. ‘This way, sir,’ was all he said.
As I followed him I saw the footman plucking nervously at the something in his trousers-pocket. Lumley’s agents apparently had not always the courage to follow his instructions to the letter, for I made no doubt that the order had been to take me alive or dead.
I found Felix alone, and flung myself into an armchair.
‘My dear chap,’ I said, ‘take my advice and advise His Excellency to sack the red-haired footman.’
From that moment I date that sense of mastery over a situation which drives out fear. I had been living for weeks under a dark pall, and suddenly the skies had lightened. I had found sanctuary. Whatever happened to me now the worst was past, for I had done my job.
Felix was looking at me curiously, for, jaded, scarlet, dishevelled, I was an odd figure for a London afternoon. ‘Things seem to have been marching fast with you,’ he said.
‘They have, but I think the march is over. I want to ask several favours. First, here is a document which sets out certain facts. I shall ring up Macgillivray at Scotland Yard and ask him to come here at 9.30 this evening. When he comes I want you to give him this and ask him to read it at once. He will know how to act on it.’
Felix nodded. ‘And the next?’
‘Give me a telegraph form. I want a wire sent at once by some one who can be trusted.’ He handed me a form and I wrote out a telegram to Lumley at the Albany, saying that I proposed to call upon him that evening at eight sharp, and asking him to receive me.
‘Next?’ said Felix.
‘Next and last, I want a room with a door which will lock, a hot bath, and something to eat about seven. I might be permitted to taste Monsieur Alphonse’s new casserole dish.’
I rang up Macgillivray, reminded him of his promise, and told him what awaited him at 9.30. Then I had a wash, and afterwards at my leisure gave Felix a sketch of the day’s doings. I have never felt more completely at my ease, for whatever happened I was certain that I had spoiled Lumley’s game. He would know by now that I had reached the Embassy, and that any further attempts on my life and liberty were futile. My telegram would show him that I was prepared to offer terms, and I would certainly be permitted to reach the Albany unmolested. To the meeting with my adversary I looked forward without qualms, but with the most lively interest. I had my own theories about that distinguished criminal, and I hoped to bring them to the proof.
Just before seven I had a reply to my wire. Mr Lumley said he would be delighted to see me. The telegram was directed to me at the Embassy, though I had put no address on the one I sent. Lumley, of course, knew all my movements. I could