Look to the Lady (3 page)

During the past eighteen months he had discovered himself in many unpleasant predicaments, but never one that called for such immediate action. At any other time he might have hesitated until it was too late, but tonight the cumulative effects of starvation and weariness had produced in him a dull recklessness, and the mood which had permitted him to follow such a fantastic will-o'-the-wisp as his name on a discarded envelope, and later to accept the hardly conventional invitation of the mysterious Mr Campion, was still upon him. Moreover, the kindly ministrations of Mr Lugg had revived his strength and with it his temper.

At that moment, hunched up inside the cab, he was a dangerous person. His hands were knotted together, and the muscles of his jaw contracted.

The moment the idea came into his head he put it into execution.

He bent down and removed the heavy shoe with the thin sole, from which the lace had long since disappeared. With this formidable weapon tightly gripped in his hand, he crouched in the body of the cab, holding himself steady by the flower bracket above the spare seats. He was still prodigiously strong, and put all he knew into the blow. His arm crashed down like a machine hammer, smashing through the plate glass and down on to the driver's skull.

Instantly Gyrth dropped on to the mat, curling himself up, his arms covering his head. The driver's thick cap had protected him considerably, but the attack was so sudden that he lost control of his wheel. The cab skidded violently across the greasy road, mounted the pavement and smashed sickeningly into a stone balustrade.

The impact was terrific: the car bounded off the stone work, swayed for an instant and finally crashed over on to its side.

Gyrth was hurled into the worn hood of the cab, which tore beneath his weight. He was conscious of warm blood trickling down his face from a cut across his forehead, and one of his shoulders was wrenched, but he had been prepared for the trouble and was not seriously injured. He was still angry, still savage. He fought his way out through the torn fabric on to the pavement, and turned for an instant to survey the scene.

His captor lay hidden beneath the mass of wreckage and made no sound. But the street was no longer deserted. Windows were opening and from both ends of the road came the sound of voices and hurrying footsteps.

Gyrth was in no mood to stop to answer questions. He wiped the blood from his face with his coat-sleeve and was relieved to find that the damage was less messy than he had feared. He slipped on the shoe, which he still gripped, and vanished like a shadow up a side street.

He finished the rest of his journey on foot.

He went to the address in Bottle Street largely out of curiosity, but principally, perhaps, because he had nowhere else to go. He chose the narrow dark ways, cutting through the older part of Holborn and the redolent alleys of Soho.

Now, for the first time for days, he realized that he was free from that curious feeling of oppression which had vaguely puzzled him. There was no one in the street behind him as he turned from dark corner to lighted thoroughfare and came at last to the cul-de-sac off Piccadilly which is Bottle Street.

The single blue lamp of the Police Station was hardly inviting, but the door of Number Seventeen, immediately upon the left, stood ajar. He pushed it open gingerly.

He was well-nigh exhausted, however, and his shreds of caution had vanished. Consoling himself with the thought that nothing could be worse than his present predicament, he climbed painfully up the wooden steps. After the first landing there was a light and the stairs were carpeted, and he came at last to a full stop before a handsome linenfold oak door. A small brass plate bore the simple legend, ‘
Mr Albert Campion. The Goods Dept.
'

There was also a very fine Florentine knocker, which, however, he did not have occasion to use, for the door opened and an entirely unexpected figure appeared in the opening.

A tall thin young man with a pale inoffensive face, and vague eyes behind enormous horn-rimmed spectacles smiled out at him with engaging friendliness. He was carefully, not to say fastidiously, dressed in evening clothes, but the correctness of his appearance was somewhat marred by the fact that in his hand he held a string to which was attached a child's balloon of a particularly vituperant pink.

He seemed to become aware of this incongruous attachment as soon as he saw his visitor, for he made several unsuccessful attempts to hide it behind his back. He held out his hand.

‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume?' he said in a well-bred, slightly high-pitched voice.

Considerably startled, Gyrth put out his hand. ‘I don't know who you are,' he began, ‘but I'm Val Gyrth and I'm looking for a man who calls himself Albert Campion.'

‘That's all right,' said the stranger releasing the balloon, which floated up to the ceiling, with the air of one giving up a tiresome problem. ‘None genuine without my face on the wrapper. This is me – my door – my balloon. Please come in and have a drink. You're rather late – I was afraid you weren't coming,' he went on, escorting his visitor across a narrow hall into a small but exceedingly comfortable sitting-room, furnished and decorated in a curious and original fashion. There were several odd trophies on the walls, and above the mantelpiece, between a Rosenberg drypoint and what looked like a page from an original ‘Dance of Death', was a particularly curious group composed of a knuckle-duster surmounted by a Scotland Yard Rogues' Gallery portrait of a well-known character, neatly framed and affectionately autographed. A large key of a singular pattern completed the tableau.

Val Gyrth sank down into the easy chair his host set for him. This peculiar end to his night's adventure, which in itself had been astonishing enough, had left him momentarily stupefied. He accepted the brandy-and-soda which the pale young man thrust into his hands and began to sip it without question.

It was at this point that Mr Campion appeared to notice the cut on his visitor's forehead. His concern was immediate.

‘So you had a spot of trouble getting here?' he said. ‘I do hope they didn't play rough.'

Val put down his glass, and sitting forward in his chair looked up into his host's face.

‘Look here,' he said, ‘I haven't the least idea who you are, and this night's business seems like a fairy tale. I find an envelope addressed to me, open, in the middle of Ebury Square. Out of crazy curiosity I follow it up. At Kemp's eating-house in Clerkenwell I find a letter waiting for me from you, with two pounds in it and an extraordinary invitation card. I get in a taxi to come here and the man tries to shanghai me. I scramble out of that mess with considerable damage to myself, and more to the driver, and when I get here I find you apparently quite
au fait
with my affairs and fooling about with a balloon. I may be mad – I don't know.'

Mr Campion looked hurt. ‘I'm sorry about the balloon,' he said. ‘I'd just come back from a gala at the Athenaeum, when Lugg phoned to say you were coming. He's out tonight, so I had to let you in myself. I don't see that you can grumble about that. The taxi sounds bad. That's why you were late, I suppose?'

‘That's all right,' said Val, who was still ruffled. ‘But it must be obvious to you that I want an explanation, and you know very well that you owe me one.'

It was then that Mr Campion stepped sideways so that the light from the reading-lamp on the table behind him shone directly upon his visitor's face. Then he cleared his throat and spoke with a curious deliberation quite different from his previous manner.

‘
I see you take the long road, Mr Gyrth
,' he said quietly.

Val raised his eyes questioningly to his host's face. It was the second time that night that the simple remark had been made to him, and each time there had been this same curious underlying question in the words.

He stared at his host blankly, but the pale young man's slightly vacuous face wore no expression whatsoever, and his eyes were obscured behind the heavy spectacles. He did not stir, but stood there clearly waiting a reply, and in that instant the younger man caught a glimpse of waters running too deep for him to fathom.

—

V
AL
G
YRTH
rose to his feet.

‘The man at Kemp's said that to me,' he said. ‘I don't know what it means – since it's obvious that it must mean something. What do you expect me to say?'

Mr Campion's manner changed instantly. He became affable and charming. ‘Do sit down,' he said. ‘I owe you an apology. Only, you see, I'm not the only person who's interested in you – I shall have to explain my interest, by the way. But if my rival firm got hold of you first –'

‘Well?' said Val.

‘Well,' said Mr Campion, ‘you might have understood about the Long Road. However, now that we can talk, suppose I unbosom myself – unless you'd like to try a blob of iodine on that scalp of yours?'

Val hesitated, and his host took his arm. ‘A spot of warm water and some nice lint out of my Militia Red Cross Outfit will settle that for you,' he said. ‘No one can be really absorbed by a good story if he's got gore trickling into his eyes. Come on.'

After ten minutes' first-aid in the bathroom they returned once more to the study, and Mr Campion refilled his guest's glass. ‘In the first place,' he said, ‘I think you ought to see this page out of last week's
Society Illustrated.
It concerns you in a way.'

He walked across the room and unlocking a drawer in a Queen Anne bureau, returned almost immediately with a copy of the well-known weekly. He brushed over the pages and folded the magazine at a large full-page portrait of a rather foolish-looking woman of fifty odd, clad in a modern adaptation of a medieval gown, and holding in her clasped hand a chalice of arresting design. A clever photographer had succeeded in directing the eye of the beholder away from the imperfections of the sitter by focusing his attention upon the astoundingly beautiful object she held.

About eighteen inches high, it was massive in design, and consisted of a polished gold cup upon a jewelled pedestal. Beneath the portrait there were a few lines of letterpress.

‘
A Lovely Priestess
,' ran the headline, and underneath:

‘
Lady Pethwick, who before her marriage to the late Sir Lionel Pethwick was, of course, Miss Diana Gyrth, is the sister of Col. Sir Percival Gyrth, Bt, owner of the historic “Tower” at Sanctuary in Suffolk, and keeper of the ageless Gyrth Chalice. Lady Pethwick is here seen with the precious relic, which is said to date from before the Conquest. She is also the proud possessor of the honorary title of “Maid of the Cuppe”. The Gyrths hold the custody of the Chalice as a sacred family charge. This is the first time it has ever been photographed. Our readers may remember that it is of the Gyrth Tower that the famous story of the Secret Room is told.
'

Val Gyrth took the paper with casual curiosity, but the moment he caught sight of the photograph he sprang to his feet and stood towering in Mr Campion's small room, his face crimson and his intensely blue eyes narrowed and appalled. As he tried to read the inscription his hand shook so violently that he was forced to set the paper on the table and decipher it from there. When he had finished he straightened himself and faced his host. A new dignity seemed to have enveloped him in spite of his ragged clothes and generally unkempt appearance.

‘Of course,' he said gravely, ‘I quite understand. You're doing this for my father. I ought to go home.'

Mr Campion regarded his visitor with mild surprise.

‘I'm glad you feel like that,' he said. ‘But I'm not assisting your father, and I had no idea you'd feel so strongly about this piece of bad taste.'

Val snorted. ‘Bad taste?' he said. ‘Of course, you're a stranger, and you'll appreciate how difficult it is for me to explain how we' – he hesitated – ‘regard the Chalice.' He lowered his voice upon the last word instinctively.

Mr Campion coughed. ‘Look here,' he said at last, ‘if you could unbend a little towards me I think I could interest you extremely. For Heaven's sake sit down and be a bit human.'

The young man smiled and dropped back into his chair, and just for a moment his youth was apparent in his face.

‘Sorry,' he said, ‘but I don't know who you are. Forgive me for harping on this,' he added awkwardly, ‘but it does make it difficult, you know. You see, we never mention the Chalice at home. It's one of these tremendously important things one never talks about. The photograph knocked me off my balance. My father must be crazy, or –' He sat up, a sudden gleam of apprehension coming into his eyes. ‘Is he all right?'

The pale young man nodded. ‘Perfectly, I believe,' he said. ‘That photograph was evidently taken and given to the Press without his knowledge. I expect there's been some trouble about it.'

‘I bet there has.' Val spoke grimly. ‘Of course, you would hardly understand, but this is sacrilege.' A flush spread over his face which Mr Campion realized was shame.

Gyrth sat huddled in his chair, the open paper on his knee. Mr Campion sighed, and perching himself upon the edge of the table began to speak.

‘Look here,' he said, ‘I'm going to give you a lesson in economics, and then I'm going to tell you a fairy tale. All I ask you to do is to listen to me. I think it will be worth your while.'

Val nodded. ‘I don't know who you are,' he said, ‘but fire away.'

Mr Campion grinned. ‘Hear my piece, and you shall have my birth certificate afterwards if you want it. Sit back, and I'll go into details.'

Val leant back in his chair obediently and Mr Campion bent forward, a slightly more intelligent expression than usual upon his affable, ineffectual face.

‘I don't know if you're one of these merchants who study psychology and economics and whatnot,' he began, ‘but if you are you must have noticed that there comes a point when, if you're only wealthy enough, nothing else matters except what you happen to want at the moment. I mean you're above trifles like law and order and who's going to win the Boat Race.' He hesitated. Val seemed to understand. Mr Campion continued.