Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald
for women!”
“Really, sergeant, I wasn’t being bothered a bit,” Mr Franklin was beginning.
“Be quiet!” snapped the young lady, and to the sergeant: “Arrest me, if I have done wrong! If the peaceful distribution of literature has become a crime in England, let us see you punish it! Votes for women! End the tyranny of forced feeding! Votes for –”
“That’ll do!” shouted the sergeant, who was plainly reluctant to try the physical conclusions which this violent female was obviously bent on provoking. “I’ll warn you just once more –”
“Freedom and equality among the sexes!” cried the lady triumphantly.
“Officer, may I say a word?” interposed Mr Franklin, and the unaccustomed accent, in the gentle drawl which Inspector Griffin had found so attractive, caused the sergeant to hesitate, and even the flashing young lady, her sheaf of papers brandished to assist denunciation, paused in full flood. “This is probably my fault,” Mr Franklin explained. “The young … her ladyship, that is, asked me to buy a paper – very civilly, I’m sure – and I asked her what it was about. She still hasn’t told me,” he went on, with a slight bow in her direction, “and I’ld like to know. Really, I would. So I just wish to say to her, with your permission, that if she would do me the honour of accompanying me into my hotel there, I’ld be charmed to continue our discussion in a less public place.”
It was not, perhaps, the happiest way of putting it, but it might have passed if the cabby, a gleeful spectator, had not supplied his own ribald interpretation, with a raucous guffaw; someone in the crowd sniggered, and a voice chortled: “I’ll bet he will, too!” The lady, either genuinely indignant, or seizing another opportunity to take offence, flushed to her handsome cheekbones; then she went pale, a look of utter scorn came into her fine eyes, and before the sergeant could interfere she had exclaimed: “You insolent blackguard!” and slapped Mr Franklin resoundingly across the face.
The onlookers gasped. “Right!” roared the sergeant, lunging ponderously. “That’s assault!” His hand went out, but before it could grip her arm his own wrist was caught in sinewy fingers.
“I’m sorry,” said Mr Franklin quietly. He inclined his head towards the lady, who was preparing to resist arrest. “I meant no offence, and I beg the lady’s pardon. She misunderstood me – but that’s a woman’s privilege, wouldn’t you say, sergeant?” He released the policeman’s hand, and smiled into her speechless glare. “You know – like hitting someone, without the risk of being hit back.” He held out the sixpence. “Now, may I buy a copy of your ladyship’s paper, please? If I can’t have the privilege of your personal explanation, I can always read about it.”
There was a pause, and someone in the crowd murmured sympathetically – though on whose behalf it was difficult to say. The sergeant hesitated. Not so, however, the militant scion of the aristocracy, who could see herself being baulked of martyrdom by this odiously placatory colonial. She drew herself up with that icy dignity which only generations of aristocratic breeding and nursery teas can produce.
“You can have the bloody lot for nothing!” she snapped, throwing the bundle of papers at him, and before the sergeant could react to this further outrage against public order, she had turned on her heel with a swirl of expensive fur and vanished into the crowd.
“Here!” exclaimed the sergeant, and half-started to follow her, but thought better of it: arresting suffragettes was no fun at the best of times, and he honestly doubted his capacity to handle that one without considerable loss of dignity and possibly some tufts of hair as well. He turned reprovingly to Mr Franklin. “That’s what you get for being tolerant! You shouldn’t encourage ’em, sir; they’re a dam’ nuisance. She’ll be smashin’ shop windows with a hammer tomorrow, like as not. Vicious little hooligans. She didn’t cut your face, sir? Some of ’em ain’t above using brass knuckles.”
Mr Franklin, who had been gazing thoughtfully along the pavement where the lady had disappeared, became aware of his questioner. “No – no, I’m fine. Curious, though.” He frowned. “I thought they liked to fight it out. She didn’t. I wonder why?”
The sergeant gave him a hard stare, shrugged, and moved off heavily along the pavement. Mr Franklin stood for a moment, sighed, shook his head, pocketed his sixpence, stooped to pick up one of the fallen papers, folded it, and walked into the Waldorf Hotel.
At an hour when most of the Waldorf’s guests were still asleep, or, if they were unusually energetic, were thinking of ringing for their early morning tea, Mr Franklin was striding briskly east along Fleet Street. It would have interested that student of men and appearances, Inspector Griffin of Liverpool, to note that the clothes which had seemed a trifle incongruous among the Mauretania’s conservative passengers, were in no way out of place in cosmopolitan London, E.C.; but then as now, one would have had to be an eccentric dresser indeed to attract even a second glance in the English capital, which had seen everything. The inspector might also have noticed a difference in the American’s manner; the slightly hesitant interest of the tourist had gone, and Mr Franklin no longer lingered on corners or spent time glancing about him; it was as though the anonymity which the great city confers on visitors had somehow reassured him. Also, he walked like a man who is going somewhere, which a London tourist seldom does. Now and then he would refer to a pocket map and glance at a street sign, but he never asked his way.
His first call was at the American Express Company’s office at 84 Queen Street, and Inspector Griffin might have been mildly surprised by the deference with which he was received there, once he had given his name and satisfactory proofs of identification – unusually conclusive proofs, as it happened. It was the manager’s private office for Mr Franklin, a comfortable chair, the offer of a cigar, and the exclusive attention of the manager in person, with his deputy standing by. Mr Franklin stated his requirements – and at that point Inspector Griffin’s jaw would have dropped as far as the manager’s did.
“Fifty thousand pounds?” said the manager, staring. “In gold?”
Mr Franklin nodded.
“But,” said the manager, blinking. “But … but … I don’t quite understand …”
“New York handled the transfer, surely. They told me everything would be in order.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly!” The manager hastened to reassure him. “Your account is perfectly in order – no question about that. Your credit is … well, I don’t have to tell you, sir. But … gold. That’s rather – unexpected, sir. And such a vast sum … an enormous sum.”
“You’ve got it, though?”
“Got it? Why … why, yes … that’s to say, I can get it.” The manager shot a look at his assistant, and found his own astonishment mirrored on the other’s face. “But we’re not used … that is, it would take an hour or two … the banks … so forth. We don’t hold such a sum on the premises, you understand.” He hesitated. “You would want it in … sovereigns?”
“Or eagles. I don’t mind. Just so it’s gold.”
“I see,” said the manager, although plainly he didn’t do anything of the kind. “Well, now …” He frowned at his blotter and pulled his lip, “Uh … Mr Franklin … forgive me, but it’s an unusual request – most unusual. I mean, we like to help our customers every way we can – especially a fellow-American like yourself, you understand. We try to advise, if… what I mean is, if you want it in gold, fine – but if you’ll excuse my saying so, it’s a hell of a lot of hard cash, when I could arrange for a cheque, or a letter of credit, for any amount you like, at any bank in Great Britain.” He paused hopefully, meeting the steady grey eyes across the desk. “I mean, if you would care to give me some idea, you know … what you needed the money for …” He waited, looking helpful.
“To