  Not a word had been received from Cranbourne. From the moment he left Lord Almont's flat he disappeared completely. That was Cranbourne's way, for once an idea started in his brain he rested not until it has been realised or disproved. He had given himself three days to find a human duplicate of Barraclough and among a population of seven millions the task was no easy one. His quarry had dined at the Berkeley on the twenty-fourth instant but beyond that point information languished. The redoubtable Brown, prince of head waiters, who knew the affairs of most of his customers as intimately as his own, was able to offer little or no assistance. He remembered the gentleman who had dined alone in a tweed suit and had said something about having no dress clothes. He believed he had seen him in uniform during the earlier parts of the war but couldn't recall the regiment. Had an impression he paid for his dinner with the last of the notes in his pocket but that might mean nothing. "A pleasant gentleman, spoke crisply and had a smile." John, of the cloakroom, recalled a half crown thrown on his little counter in return for a soft hat—"Wait a bit, sir, by a Manchester hatter I believe," and a rainproof coat "rather thinnish and brown." The Manchester hat stuck in Cranbourne's throat a trifle since it widened the circle of enquiry. The porter at the revolving door believed the gentleman had gone toward Piccadilly—walking. Yes, he was sure he hadn't taken a cab. Gave him a shilling and five coppers. Cranbourne thanked them and spent the rest of the day passing in and out of every well known grill room in London. It was sound enough reasoning but it brought no results. At twelve o'clock the same night he paid a flying visit to all the dancing rooms—Murray's, Giro's, Rector's, The Embassy, Savoy and half a dozen others. At three o'clock he rang up Daimler's, hired a car and drove to Brighton because many men come up from Brighton by day and bring no evening clothes. Besides the time of his departure from the Berkeley plus a walk to Victoria Station more or less synchronised with the down train to Brighton. He spent the best part of the following day racing through hotel lists and looking up visitors at Brighton, Eastbourne, Hastings and Folkestone. He was back in Town again by 7.30, at the Theatre Library, where he bought a single ticket for twelve musical plays and revues selecting them from the class of entertainment Barraclough himself would have been likely to attend. It was a restless evening, dashing from one place to another and sorting over the audiences in the narrow margin of time allowed by intervals. Afterwards he spent an hour by the fountain in Piccadilly Circus keenly examining the thousands of passers-by. It was very late indeed when he struck one hand against the other and cried out, "Oh, my Lord, what a fool I am." A new significance had suddenly suggested itself as a result of Brown's repetition of the mysterious diner's remark, "I repeat I have no evening clothes." Cranbourne had taken it to imply that there had been no time to dress but why not accept it literally. Two whole days wasted looking at men in white shirt fronts and black coats! "Lord, what an idiot I am. Alter your line of thought and alter it quick." He began to walk briskly, muttering to himself as he strode along. "No dress clothes—deuce of an appetite. Chap who had scraped up a few guineas perhaps to do himself well—on the bust. No, that won't do. Ordered his dinner too well for that. Had the air of a man accustomed to the best places. Brown said so. A shilling and five coppers to the porter. Queer kind of tip! What in blazes was the fellow doing? What sort of company does he keep?" Cranbourne jumped into a taxi and returned to the Berkeley. It was closed but a night porter admitted him. "Look here, I want to get hold of Brown," he said. "You're in luck, sir," the man returned. "One of our visitors 'as been giving a supper and Mr. Brown was in charge. If 'e 'asn't gone I'll try and get him for you." He returned a moment later with Brown following. "Tremendously sorry," said Cranbourne, "but I want to ask you a few more questions about that fellow I spoke of." "I've been thinking about him myself, sir, and one or two things have come to mind. Remembered his tie for instance." "Yes." "Old Etonian colours," said Brown. Cranbourne nodded enthusiastically. "Anything else?" "I was looking over his bill this afternoon and it seems to me he did himself too well to be natural. Rare for a man by himself to order a long dinner like that. Then again he looked at the prices on the menu just as if he meant to spend up to a certain amount. Something odd in that—unusual. But I'm pretty sure it was in his mind, sir." "And you believe he spent the last of his notes." "Certain of it." "What's your idea?" "He was very hungry—eat everything put before him. I should say—'course it's only a guess——" "Well?" "He'd gone a bit short and was wanting that meal." "Did he seem depressed?" "Not a bit. Rather amused. But it struck me when he got up he looked like a man saying goodbye to his mother." "How old should you think?" "Thirty-two or three." "Old Etonian tie?" "Yes." "You're a man of experience, Brown," said Cranbourne. "Ever known a case of a chap who's on the point of going under, blueing the last of his cash on one big dinner?" "I should just think so. There's a type does that sort of thing." "His type?" "Or one very like it." "Many thanks. You've helped me no end. Now I'll get a taxi and drive to Windsor. Goodnight." Just beyond the Ritz he found a taxi willing to undertake the journey. It was not a lucky drive since it included three punctures and some engine trouble. They came into Windsor about 7.30 in the morning. Cranbourne made a hurried breakfast and set out to interview the photographers of the town. The particular one he sought did not arrive until nearly nine but on being questioned proved himself amiable and anxious to help. He produced Eton school groups of fifteen years antiquity and Cranbourne spent an hour anxiously scanning the faces of the boys in the hope of tracing a likeness to Barraclough. But boys are very much alike and very dissimilar from the men they grow into and though there were several dozen who might well have passed for Barraclough in infancy no particular one could have been selected with positive assurance. Cranbourne made a list of twenty names and Frencham Altar's was not among them. Rather despondent he said goodbye to the photographer and entered the taxi. "Think I'll go back by the Bath Road," said the driver, "it's a better surface." "Please yourself," said Cranbourne and settled himself within. He was beginning to feel a trifle done. His eyes had the sense of having been sand papered and his lips were dry and parched from want of rest. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. "Only thirteen hours left," he said and closed his eyes. Sleep comes very suddenly to the weary—like a pistol shot out of the dark. Cranbourne's head pitched forward against his chest and his hands slithered inertly from his knees. He awoke with a start to the sound of smashing glass, a sharp rattle of imprecations and a sense of being turned upside down. The front nearside wheel of the taxi was in a ditch, the wind screen broken and a large dray horse was trying to put its fore hoof through the buckled bonnet. The taxi driver had fallen out and lay cursing gently on the grass slope to the left, one of his legs was up to the knee in water. Through the offside window Cranbourne caught a glimpse of the man in charge of the dray horses—a powerful person, high perched, his weight thrown bask against the tightened reins—his face purple with effort. From his mouth came an admirable flow of oaths, choicely adjusted to suit the occasion. Then Cranbourne saw something else. Beneath the man's vibrating jaw showed the pleasant colours of an Old Etonian tie. There could be no mistaking it—neither could there be any reason why the driver of a Covent Garden dray should exhibit such an ensign. Cranbourne let the window down with a bang, stuck out his head and shouted, "Where the devil did you get that tie?" It is not hard to believe that this remark, apparently so irrelevant, did little to calm an already excited situation. The driver loosed his hold upon the reins, seized his whip and slashed it at Cranbourne's head. Cranbourne caught the whistling thong and tugged hard, with the result that the driver, who held on to the butt, lost his balance, pitched forward on to the flank of the nearside dray horse and rolled harmlessly on to the road. Cranbourne embraced the opportunity to get out, seized the bit rings of both horses and backed them away from the debris of the taxi. Meanwhile the driver picked himself up and removed his coat as a proper preliminary to engagement. "Put 'em up," he invited Cranbourne. "Put 'um up, you——" but the descriptive titles he employed do not affect the narrative. Cranbourne shook his head and tugged a note case from his pocket. "Five pounds," he said, "if you answer my question. Where did you get it?" The driver exhibited some sample upper cuts and left hooks and beseeched Cranbourne to guard himself. But Cranbourne detached a fiver from its fellows and extended it temptingly. "Don't you see I'm in earnest, man?" The tone of his voice had a sobering effect and the amateur pugilist ceased manoeuvring. "Why do you want to know?" he demanded. "Never mind that—take the money and tell me." "I got it," said the driver, "from a blame fool at the coffee stall by Hyde Park Corner. Bought 'im a doorstep and a ball of chalk b'way of return." "When was this?" "Day before yesterday—six o'clock in the morning." "And what was he like?" The answer clinched it. "Was he shaved?" "No." "Broke?" "I reckon. Been sleepin' out by the looks of 'im." "Seen him since?" "Couldn't be sure. Maybe it was 'im I saw sleepin' on the bench by the Shelter 'Ouse in Piccadilly 'bout four this morning. There was a bloke there with a soft 'at and a brown coat." Cranbourne produced another fiver and pushed it into the man's hand. "You're the best fellow I've met in years," he said. Then turning to the taxi driver, "Get home as best you can. I'm going to look for a lift. Here's my card. I'll stand your losses on this." He looked over his shoulder at the sound of a persistent croaking. A long grey Vauxhall car with a special body was coming down the road at speed. Cranbourne ran forward in its track, waving his arms. The man at the wheel looked over and braked. The big car did a double two way skid, tore serpentine ruts on the metalled road surface and stopped. "Trying to get killed?" asked its owner sweetly. "'Cos you seem to have got the right idea of doing it." "I want to get to Town and get there quick," said Cranbourne. "So do I," said the man at the wheel, grinning amiably, "but it's a daily habit of mine. In you get!" "By gad," said Cranbourne, leaping in as the car began to move, "I believe you come straight from heaven." "I come from the Slough Trading Company as a matter of fact," said the young man, running through his gears from first to top like a pianist playing a scale. "Hope you don't mind a bit of noise. She talks some when she's moving." He trod hard on the accelerator and somewhere behind a machine gun opened fire, at first articulately and then, as the pace increased, becoming an inarticulate solid roar. The beat of the engine, the sense of speed and the rush of the wind past his ears infected Cranbourne with a fierce exhilaration. "Bless your heart," he shouted, "keep her at it." "You bet," came the response. "Gad, she can move. You must have pretty urgent business to push her along like this." "Want to buy some collars as a matter of fact," said the young man. |
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