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The Pawns Count, a fiction by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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CHAPTER II |
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_ Molly Holderness, for whom Graham's absence possessed, perhaps, more significance than the others, relapsed very soon into a strained and anxious silence. Pamela and Lutchester, on the other hand, divided their attention between a very excellent luncheon and an even flow of personal, almost inquisitorial conversation. "You will find," Pamela warned her companion almost as they took their places, "that I am a very curious person. I am more interested in people than in events. Tell me something about your work at the War Office?" "I am not at the War Office," he replied. "Well, what is it that you do, then?" she asked. "Captain Holderness told me that you had been out in France, fighting, but that you had some sort of official position at home now." "I am at the Ministry of Munitions," he explained. "Well, tell me about that, then?" she suggested. "Is it as exciting as fighting?" He shook his head. "It has advantages," he admitted, "but I should scarcely say that excitement figured amongst them." She looked at him thoughtfully. Lutchester was a little over thirty-five years of age, tall and of sinewy build. His colouring was neutral, his complexion inclined to be pale, his mouth straight and firm, his grey eyes rather deep-set. Without possessing any of the stereotyped qualifications, he was sufficiently good-looking. "I wonder you didn't prefer soldiering," she observed. He smiled for a moment, and Pamela felt unreasonably annoyed at the twinkle in his eyes. "I am not a soldier by profession," he said, "but I went out with the Expeditionary Force and had a year of it. They kept me here, after a slight wound, to take up my old work again." "Your old work," she repeated. "I didn't know there was such a thing as a Ministry of Munitions before the war." He deliberately changed the conversation, directing Pamela's attention to the crowded condition of the room. "Gay scene, isn't it?" he remarked. "Very!" she assented drily. "Do you come here to dance?" he inquired. She shook her head. "You must remember that I have been living in Paris for some months," she told him. "You won't be annoyed if I tell you that the way you English people are taking the war simply maddens me. Your young soldiers talk about it as though it were a sort of picnic, your middle-aged clubmen seem to think that it was invented to give them a fresh interest in their newspapers, and the rest of you seem to think of nothing but the money you are making. And Paris.... No, I don't think I should care to dance here!" Lutchester nodded, but Pamela fancied somehow or other that his attitude was not wholly sympathetic. His tone, with its slight note of admonition, irritated her. "You must be careful," he said, "not to be too much misled by externals." Pamela opened her lips for a quick reply, but checked herself. Captain Holderness and Ferrani had entered the room and were approaching their table, talking earnestly. The latter especially was looking perplexed and anxious. "It's the queerest thing I ever knew," Holderness pronounced. "We've searched every hole and corner upstairs, and there isn't a sign of Sandy." "Have you tried the bar?" Lutchester inquired. "Both the bar and the grillroom," Ferrani assured him. "If he had been suddenly taken ill--" Molly murmured. "But there is no place in which he could have been taken ill which we have not searched," Ferrani reminded her. "And besides," Holderness intervened, "Sandy was in the very pink of health, and bubbling over with high-spirits." "One noticed that," Lutchester remarked, a little drily. "He might almost have been called garrulous," Pamela agreed. Ferrani took grave leave of them, and Holderness seated himself at the table. "Well, let's get on with luncheon, anyway," he advised. "It's no good bothering. The best thing we can do is to conclude that the impossible has happened--that Sandy has met with some pals and will be here presently." "Or possibly," Lutchester suggested, "that he has done what certainly seems the most reasonable thing--gone straight off to the War Office with his formula and forgotten all about us. Let us return the compliment and forget all about him." They finished their luncheon a little more cheerfully. As the cigarettes were handed round, Pamela's eyes looked longingly at a tray of Turkish coffee which was passing. "I'm a rotten host," Holderness declared, "but, to tell you the truth, this queer prank of Sandy's has driven everything else out of my mind. Here, Hassan!" The coloured man in gorgeous oriental livery turned at once with a smile. He approached the table, bowing to each of them in turn. Pamela watched him intently, and, as his eyes met hers, Hassan's hands began to shake. "The waiter is bringing us ordinary coffee," Holderness explained. "Please countermand it and bring us Turkish coffee for four." The man had lost his savoir faire. His wonderful smile had turned into something sickly, his bland speech of thanks into a mumble. He turned away almost sheepishly. "Hassan doesn't seem to like us to-day," Molly remarked. "I should have said that he was drunk," her brother observed, looking after him curiously. There was certainly something the matter with Hassan, for it was at least a quarter of an hour before he reappeared and served his specially prepared concoction with the usual ceremony but with more restraint. Molly and the two men, after Hassan had sprinkled the contents of his mysterious little flask into their coffee, gave him their hands for the customary salute. When he came to Pamela he hesitated. She shook her head and he fell back, bowing respectfully, his hand tracing cabalistic signs across his heart. For a moment before he departed, he raised his eyes and glanced at her. It was like the mute appeal of some hurt or frightened animal. "You don't approve of Hassan's little ceremony?" Lutchester asked her. She shrugged her shoulders. "In America," she observed, "I think we look upon coloured people of any sort a little differently. Well, we've certainly given your friend a chance," she went on, glancing at the little jewelled watch upon her wrist, "We've outstayed almost every one here." Their host paid the bill, and they strolled reluctantly towards the door, Holderness and Pamela a few steps behind. "Now what are your sister and Mr. Lutchester studying again?" the latter inquired, as they reached the lobby. Molly had paused once more before the notice on the wall, which seemed somehow to have fascinated her. She read it out, lingering on every word: MEFIEZ-VOUS! Holderness listened with a frown. Then he turned suddenly to Lutchester, who was standing by his side. "It would be too ridiculous, wouldn't it--you couldn't in any way connect the idea behind that notice with Sandy's disappearance?" "I was wondering about that myself," Lutchester confessed. "To tell you the truth, I have been wondering all luncheon-time. If ever a man broke the letter and the spirit of that simple warning I should say your excitable young friend, Captain Graham, did." "But here at Henry's," Holderness protested, "with friends on every side! Isn't it a little too ridiculous! We'll wait until the last person is out of the place, anyway," he added. The crowd soon began to thin. Ferrani, seeing them still waiting, approached with a little bow. "Your friend," he asked, "he has not arrived, eh?" "No sign of him," Holderness replied gloomily. "What about his hat and coat?" Ferrani inquired, with a sudden inspiration. "Great idea," Holderness assented, turning towards the cloakroom attendant. "Don't you remember my friend, James?" he went on. "He arrived about half-past one, and threw his coat and hat over to you." The attendant nodded and glanced towards an empty peg. "I remember him quite well, sir," he acknowledged. "Number sixty-seven was his number." "Where are his things, then?" "Gone, sir," the man replied. "Do you remember his asking for them?" The attendant shook his head. "Can't say that I do, sir," he acknowledged, "but they've gone right enough." A party of outgoing guests claimed the man's attention. Holderness turned away. "This thing is getting on my nerves," he declared. "Does it seem likely that Sandy should chuck his luncheon without a word of explanation, come out and get his coat and hat and walk off? And, besides, where was he all the time we were looking for him?" It was unanswerable, inexplicable. They all looked at one another almost helplessly. Pamela held out her hand. "Well," she announced, "I am sorry, but I'm afraid that I must go. I have a great many things to attend to this afternoon." "You are going away soon?" Lutchester inquired. She hesitated, and at that moment Mr. Fischer, who had been saying farewell to his guests, turned towards her. "You are not thinking of the trip home yet, Miss Van Teyl?" he asked. "Oh, I don't know," she answered a little evasively. "I'm out of humour with London just now." "Perhaps we shall be fellow-passengers on Thursday?" he ventured. "I am going over on the _New York_." "I never make plans," she told him. "In any case," Mr. Fischer continued, "I shall anticipate our early meeting in New York. I heard from your brother only yesterday." She looked at him with a slight frown. "From James?" Mr. Fischer nodded. "Why, I didn't know," she observed, "that you and he were acquainted." "I have had large transactions with his firm, and naturally I have seen a good deal of Mr. Van Teyl," the other explained. "He looks after the interests of us Western clients." Pamela turned a little abruptly away, and Lutchester walked with her to the door. "You will let me see that they bring your car round?" he asked. She shook her head. "Thank you, no," she replied, holding out her hand. "I have not yet said good-by to Captain Holderness and his sister. Good-by, Mr. Lutchester!" Her farewell was purposely chilly. It seemed as though the slight sparring in which they had indulged throughout luncheon-time, had found its culmination in an antipathy which she had no desire to conceal. Lutchester, however, only smiled. "Nowadays," he observed, "that is a word which it is never necessary to use." She withdrew her hand from his somewhat too tenacious clasp. Something in his manner puzzled as well as irritated her. "Do you mean that you, too, are thinking of taking a holiday from your strenuous labours?" she asked. "Perhaps America is the safest country in the world just now for an Englishman who--" She stopped short, realising the lengths towards which her causeless pique was carrying her. "Prefers departmental work to fighting, were you going to add?" he said quietly. "Well, perhaps you are right. At any rate, I will content myself by saying au revoir." He passed through the turnstile door and disappeared. Pamela made her adieux to Holderness and his sister, and then, recognising some acquaintances, turned back into the restaurant to speak to them. Fischer, who had just received his hat and cane from the cloakroom attendant, stood watching her. _ |
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