Vintage Love (7 page)

“Good boy!” she said in a low voice.

The big brown dog growled again and showed its great yellow teeth. She was carefully observing the cage and saw there was an entrance to it at one end and an exit to the ring at the other. Each of these was held in place by a heavy push bolt. To open the gate, one had only to draw the bolt and swing the gate outward. Very cautiously now she pulled back the bolt as an aroused Toby began to bark furiously at her!

She stood there trembling, holding the gate in place manually now that the bolt on it had been drawn. The door from the front opened and an angry Jim showed his fat self.

He shouted down, “Toby! You beast! Stop that row!”

And then she deliberately stood up from where she’d been crouching so that he might see her, still holding the gate in place. The fat man saw her and let out a cry of outrage!

“What are you doing there? Where is that little fool, Gimpy! I’ll kill that boy!” And he came unsteadily down into the big cellar. He had been drinking, and it showed in his awkward movements as he came after her.

She waited until he was almost upon her, his hands reaching out for her, and she played her trump card. She jumped back and swung the gate open. It took the ferocious Toby but a second to know there was nothing between him and his tormentor. With a great snarl he leaped straight at the fat man’s throat!

The ex-parson screamed in the manner of one who knows his death is at hand! He kept screaming as the great dog tore at his throat and worried him about. Betsy ran for the door leading upstairs.

The screaming grew weaker and the snarling continued as she reached the door only to be confronted by a white-faced Hannah! The big woman was about to tackle her when she saw what was happening down by the dog pit!

“God save us!” she screamed and ran down toward the now motionless man and the dog snarling over him.

Betsy did not wait to see what happened. She no longer cared. She pressed her way up the narrow stairs to the squalid house above. She raced through the house and out onto the street. There she nearly knocked over a startled fishmonger and his cart.

He cried, “All right now, miss. A little care, if you will!”

“I’m sorry,” she gasped “Where can I find a law officer?”

“Let me see,” the man said in wonderment. “I passed one about two blocks back that way!”

She didn’t even pause to thank him but ran through the slum streets, ignoring the stares of the battered and dirty-looking humans whom she hurried by. At last she saw a moustached street keeper, his trusty stick in hand — old, but with a face that showed he put up with no nonsense.

Gasping, she ran up to him and managed, “Save me! I’ve just escaped from being kidnapped. My name is Betsy Chapman, and I wish safe escort to my friend’s house at number Twenty Fetter Street.”

The man studied her with astonishment. “Come now, what is this all about, miss?”

“Please don’t ask questions,” she begged him. “Just take me to Mr. Felix Black at Twenty Fetter Street.”

The street man although clearly a veteran was not too bright. Hired for a pound or less a week to keep peace in alloted streets during the daylight hours, these were usually honest fellows but only marginally intelligent. He removed his cap and ran his fingers through his long, thinning gray hair.

“What’s this, now?” he wanted to know.

“I’m fleeing from kidnappers,” she gasped. “I must get away from here at once!”

He replaced his cap and stared at her. The uncanny appearance of this well-spoken frightened young woman was something he did not feel equal to cope with. He said, “Now if you wish to place a charge against someone, you must see a beadle.”

“I’ll be placing no charges,” she promised. “I only wish my freedom!”

“You’re free as day now, miss,” the old man said, totally confused.

She looked behind her apprehensively, expecting to see Hannah coming along the street in pursuit of her at any moment. She tried to make him understand. “It is dangerous for me here. I must get to my friend!”

Now a new voice from behind her joined in the one-sided exchange, a loud, booming voice demanding to know, “What is going on here?”

She swung around to find herself facing a loudly dressed man in a checkered brown jacket and light fawn trousers. He carried an ebony walking stick with a silver head. He used the walking stick to bar the street man from getting nearer her. He said with authority, “One moment, my man!”

Almost automatically Betsy poured her tale of woe out to him, ending with, “I’m afraid they may come after me again!”

The man so extravagantly dressed stared at her in wonderment. “It’s an amazing tale,” he declared. “It would go well on the boards even if it has no truth!”

“But it has!” she protested.

The man patted the street keeper on the back and told him, “I shall take this girl under my wing! Or perhaps one might say under my cloak!” He smiled at this since he was also wearing a short black cape.

The street keeper hesitated. “I want her seen to safety.”

“I shall do that,” the man in the extravagant outfit promised. “I’m George Frederick Kingston, member of the Covent Garden company, honored member of an honored profession; I am in short a well-known actor, and I shall take this girl to her friends at Fetter Street.”

The old street keeper looked relieved. “Very well, since you’ve identified yourself. But mind I shall hold you responsible for her welfare.”

“Depend on it,” the actor said with a flourish of his walking stick, and he took Betsy by the arm and led her away.

She reluctantly went with him, worrying, “Can I trust you? No one seems quite what they appear to be in London!”

“Ha!” he said grandly. “That is the reason I have often been at the peak of my profession. My business is make-believe. I must always be somebody else and do it well. Yet in true life I’m a rather simple fellow!”

She was so bewildered by his sudden appearance and his flamboyance that she had taken small stock of him as an actual person. She saw now that he was a slim man of about forty with brown hair and long sideburns and a plain if pleasant face — the sort of face one saw again and again and hardly remembered.

She pleaded, “You will see me safely to Twenty Fetter Street?”

“I have given my word!” he said in his theatrical fashion. “The devil of it is that it happens to be on the other side of London and we shall require a carriage.” He gave her a questioning glance. “Can you supply me with the money to pay for a carriage?”

“No. Those villains took everything from me!” she said unhappily.

“Not everything, my dear,” he said loftily. “He who steals my purse steals trash and all the rest, if you follow me.” He paused and frowned as he searched the street for a carriage. “It so happens that I’m between engagements and so also have no funds!”

“You don’t need any,” she said. “My friend will gladly pay for my transport! We can collect it from him!”

George Frederick Kingston came to life again at once. He took her by the arm and moving more quickly headed for a wider and more busy thoroughfare where a carriage might be located. He said, “You shall be at the door of Twenty Fetter Street in a flash!”

They did not arrive there in a flash but soon enough. The carriage they located was somewhat decrepit and the horse ancient, but they made their way through the clogged traffic of the great city’s streets with all the speed which might be expected. Betsy sat beside the actor, weary and stunned, barely hearing his descriptions of the various sights which they passed along the way.

Fetter Street proved to be a cul-de-sac of modest two-story brick houses, and number Twenty was at the very end. She remained seated in the carriage while the actor went to the door of the house to inform Felix Black that Betsy Chapman had arrived and needed the money to pay for her carriage.

She watched as the flamboyant Kingston waited at the door. Then the door was opened by a prim thin woman in white lace cap and jabot with the inevitable black dress which Betsy would have expected. The woman listened to Kingston’s story and quickly shut the door on him.

The actor, who now had his top hat in hand, turned to Betsy seated in the carriage and indicated that she should be patient. Next the door opened again, and this time she recognized the bent, spare figure of Felix Black. He slowly counted out the cab fare and gave it to the actor.

Kingston returned and paid the carriage driver and helped her down and over to the front door where Felix Black still stood waiting for them. The elderly spy looked more sallow and thinner than when she’d seen him only a short time before. He said in his dry voice, “I had almost given up hope of your arrival. Do come in!”

He led them along a dark hall which had a musty smell and into a large study. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and there was a huge desk with a clutter of various items and papers on its broad surface. Several chairs served for visitors while the old man had a comfortable swivel chair behind the desk.

He went slowly over and seated himself and waved them to seats opposite him. George Frederick Kingston looked much impressed by the surroundings and sat there in dignified silence.

Felix Black said, “Tell me what decided you to join me and what brought you here in your present state, without proper clothing or luggage.”

She ignored her weariness and quickly gave him an account of the events which had led to her running away and then her series of harrowing experiences in the custody of Parson Midland. She said, “I only barely managed to escape.”

The thin, lined fece of the master spy wore an approving look. “But you did manage it. You were resourceful. It was a good test of your ability.”

“I escaped with nothing,” she lamented. “They took all my money and things.”

“That is no problem,” he told her. “I can look after your needs, and you will be paid by me from this day.” He glared at Kingston. “But who is this fellow?”

“I can tell you but little of him, but he has been a good friend in helping me get here,” she said.

The old man behind the desk fixed his piercing eyes on Kingston and snapped, “Well, man, speak up for yourself!”

George Frederick Kingston leaned his hands on the silver knob of his cane and said pleasantly, “I’m an actor, sir. Not unknown in the provinces but confined to occasional supporting roles here at Drury Lane in London. I’m presently waiting a summons from Kean to play Bassanio in a new production of
The Merchant of Venice.
He vows he will never play Shylock without my support as Bassanio!”

“You are, in fact, an out-of-work actor,” was Felix Black’s sharp comment.

Kingston showed all his charm. He smiled. “Well, that is surely one way of looking at it. I prefer to regard myself as resting between engagements.”

“Yet you hadn’t a sou to pay for the carriage,” the old man said.

“True,” the actor said with a sigh. “There are times when one might wish one had been better endowed financially by one’s family. And yet I am a direct descendant on my mother’s side of the famed Captain Cook!”

Felix Black was studying him. In his dry voice he said, “I’m not interested in your family history. I’m trying to judge your ability.”

“My theater appearances have been well accepted,” the actor said. “Yet I always find it difficult to praise myself.”

“Aha!” the man behind the desk said. “Have you heard of me before?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Kingston told him. “We theater folk know few outside our profession.”

Felix Black offered a dry cackle of laughter. “The same may be said to be true about my own profession. Have you heard of the secret service?”

Kingston looked impressed. “I have, sir. I have even acted in several productions based on the experiences of His Majesty’s secret messengers!”

“Trash written by hacks,” Felix Black snapped. “I’m talking about the real thing. I have just now retired from the service, and I’m setting up my own espionage group for a dangerous assignment. I still have a few openings. An actor could be useful to me. Would such work interest you?”

Kingston crimsoned and glanced at Betsy. “It pains me to say this before the young lady, but I have been out of work so long, despite my ability, that I am ready to grasp at any job opportunity. Take any risk!”

“Very well. I propose to test you,” Felix Black said. “While I’m getting this young lady settled in, I want you to go out and find someone for me.”

“I shall try,” Kingston said. “Who, sir? And where may I find him?”

“In the nearby marketplace,” the master spy told him. “The fellow I want to locate is a good deal older than you, has a short white beard, walks with a limp and deals in stolen meat at bargain prices. I have a score to settle with him. If you can find him and present him to me, I can use you in my new organization.”

Kingston stood up, looking a trifle baffled. “I have made note of all the fellow’s particulars,” he said, “and I shall do my best.”

“Then off you go!” Felix Black said.

Kingston bowed to him and then to her. In his pleasant fashion he said, “I have enjoyed our meeting, Miss Chapman. I hope I may see you soon again.”

“Thank you for your kindness to a stranger,” she said.

“But such a lovely stranger,” the actor said. And with a last bow he left them.

When he had gone, Felix Black asked her, “Do you think I can trust him?”

She smiled thinly. “After the way I was taken in by that awful ex-parson, I can hardly put myself up as a judge of character. But in the short time I’ve known him, I would say George Frederick Kingston is a man of honor.”

“Exactly my own conclusion,” the master spy said. “The big question is whether he has talent and intelligence. We shall see.”

She fixed her eyes on the old man and asked, “Are you still convinced that Napoleon is alive and hidden somewhere in Europe?”

“Yes,” he said grimly. “More than ever. It cost me my post at the secret service office, and now I shall be gambling my reputation and my personal wealth on my being right.”

“It is a large gamble.”

His eyes showed the fire of a fanatic as he leaned forward and said, “But if I succeed, I will be assured a place in history. My name will go down with Napoleon and Wellington as one of the great figures of this age! And I shall destroy Valmy and save Europe from another round of bloodshed!”