PART TEN

GUNS, COUNTING-HOUSES, AND COUNTER-ESPIONAGE

§ 1

If ever man needed power of concentration on the immediate job, and, allied thereto, that particular quality only described by the crude Anglo-Saxon word “guts,” it was Peter Jameson during the two months during which the War Office dilly-dallied over his transfer from the 10th Chalkshire Battalion of the Line to 4th Southdown Brigade, Royal Field Artillery.

The year’s figures and a conference with Reid confirmed the worst about Nirvana Ltd. Their export-trade had begun to feel the shipping-difficulties; dropped weekly. Home sales were stationary; tending downward. The thing had lost momentum. Without more capital it must continue to slow down, eventually stop. Capital at the moment preferred war-bonds to cigarette-partnerships. The Bank pressed for a reduction of overdraft. And “Pretty” Bramson, as Peter phrased it, had “barely enough spunk to endorse his salary-cheque.”

So Marcus got his way. Peter fought him, pound by pound, and clause by clause, to the last farthing, the last signature. The agreement, as finally drafted, was flawless; the price, all things considered, a liberal one. But the gamble had cost, not including interest which the money might have been earning for years, ten thousand pounds—a third of Peter’s original fortune. In addition, it cost part of a man’s soul!

They signed the ultimate document at Brixton: Marcus friendlier than ever; Peter, biting on an unlit cigar—the good gambler, taking loss with a smile. Afterwards, they walked the factory together, old proprietor introducing new proprietor—explaining this labour-saving dodge, suggesting that improvement. And nobody, not even Patricia, realized the bitterness fought down, the courage that had to be nailed to the mast.

Bitter work, bidding one’s dreams good-bye!

The Jameson position, too, required concentration. The partnership deed between Peter and Simpson—a deed by which in case of one’s death the survivor could retain all the capital in the firm, paying out only interest—had expired. Under the peculiar circumstances, Peter wanted it to continue as before, for the “duration.” He was heavily insured, heavily enough to make good the Nirvana loss: and the balance of his fortune, should he be killed, would be safe under Simpson’s management. Simpson objected. “In the unlikely event of _his_ dying, with Peter still on service, who would manage the business?”

They compromised by renewing for two years, subject only to the condition that, if Simpson died first, Peter must pay out his widow in cash. “Payment to be made within twelve months of the valuation of the estate being completed.”

And then there was the irritation of Beckmanns. Try as Simpson would to replace it, many customers still insisted on the brand. Hartopp (_geborener_ Hagenburg) in particular! Hartopp’s turnover had increased threefold. “How he disposes of the stuff,” said Simpson, “is a perfect mystery. I believe myself that half of the cases we ship to Copenhagen and Amsterdam for him, eventually find their way to Germany. But what can I do? The man’s got a Government export-licence—and I can’t stop him taking advantage of it.”

“How much does he owe us?” asked Peter.

“Five thousand at the moment: but I’ve got some big orders pending.”

“You’re sure he’s all right.”

“Absolutely.” Simpson wagged brown beard. “He’s paying at ninety days to the second.”

For the past year, thanks to seven warless months of excellent trading, Jamesons had made almost their usual profits: but Peter’s capital account—with the closing of the Nirvana gamble and the money lent to his brother Arthur—showed a big drop; stood at considerably less than twenty thousand pounds.

It seemed only prudent to try and let furnished the house in Lowndes Square. The Rawlings’, hourly more prosperous, would have taken it gladly: but Peter refused to negotiate with them. Eventually he secured as tenant from March quarter-day a prominent Belgian _embusqué_ whose rent barely covered expenses.

Add to these circumstances the arrival of Arthur Jameson, demanding assistance of every kind from the loan of a dress-suit to the introductions necessary for a commission in the Flying Corps—and it will be seen that Peter’s civilian occupations (though he was honestly pleased to see his brother again) were neither pleasant nor unstrenuous.

§ 2

Patricia felt she could help but little, console even less. For it must be remembered that all such difficulties were dealt with in days of leave, extorted from a sulkily-reluctant Adjutant; failing that extortion, by telegraph, letter and long-distance telephone. The bulk of those two months, Peter had to live with his regiment. And the regiment provided no antidote for annoyances.

Major Fox-Goodwin’s promotion to the Command of the Chalkshires newly-formed twelfth Battalion, and the transfer-application of his two senior subalterns, gave Locksley, who accepted this answer to his _pourparlers_ in silence, his chance. Bromley and Peter, Peabody and Arkwright, found themselves swamped out with full lieutenants, all eager for promotion to Captaincies.

It was already understood among the men that “Mr. ’Arold ’ad ’ad enough, of that there Locksley; and ‘P.J.’ ’e’d thrown his ’and in too.” At the slightest opening, the Cockneys would have shown on which side their sympathies lay. But no such opening was provided.

The two friends carried on loyally, helping their not-too-competent seniors towards efficiency.

And always, the Company improved. By now, it had khaki uniforms (though not its equipment): and a long rifle, servicable though not “Service Pattern,” for every man. It had, too, a band of its own—three flutes and two drums—to which it marched merrily along the sea-front.

Bromley, less externally occupied than Peter, grew very grave those days. It weighed on him to give up this weapon he had forged, to feel that other hands would carry it into action. To Bromley—not realizing his friend’s reticence in troubles—P.J. seemed positively heartless. He cursed about Locksley every now and then; avoided him at Mess or on the streets; drank rather more than usual; but gave no other sign of being harassed either about the loss of “B” Company or the loss of Nirvana.

It was P.J. who suggested applying to Torrington for some “books about this new gunnery game,” P.J. who insisted that they must study them together, “so as not to look bally idiots when our transfer does come through.”

And study they did—four hours an evening—for the whole two months.

It will be observed that the Weasel proved himself no mean judge of a man’s keenness when he picked out these two over a magnum of champagne!

§ 3

About this time, there arrived at the Stazione Centrale of Milan—one cold and foggy north Italian morning—an emaciated, unshaven priest, dressed in dusty _soutane_ and a black shovel hat; a priest whose hands were dusty and bleeding, whose eyes shone glassy with sleeplessness, whose feet—as he limped down from the crowded third-class carriage—were shod in cracked boots, soles worn to the welt, uppers caked and terraced with layer on layer of drying mud.

Humbly, but in excellent Italian, the priest enquired of a surly _facchino_ his way to the Via Rasori; and having been told in guttural Milanese to make for the _Galleria_, to take the “_Via Dant’_,” and then the “_Via Boccacc’_,” limped out into the fog. Had that fog been less dense, the _facchino_ might have noticed a hole in the priest’s shovel hat, a hole possibly made for ventilation purposes—for it had been drilled clean through the black furry felt, in at one side and out the other.

The hole was two days old; and had not happened to the hat in its passage across the _south_ frontier of Switzerland—but considerably further north, on one of those dark and rainy nights when sentries fire first and challenge afterwards.

Our priest limped out of the station, thanking God for the fog, through the dank gardens (from instinct he avoided main streets near railway stations), past the Hotel Cavour, and Finzi’s shuttered dress-making shop, past the dark bulk of the Scala Theatre, through the huge empty Arcade, and across the Piazza del Duomo into the Via Dante. . . .

He had no more money in his pockets, having calculated to report at Berne: but instructions as to compromising Consuls or Legations in neutral countries were particularly explicit: and in the Swiss Capital a gentleman with a turned-up moustache had evinced peculiar interest about his movements. At the Franco-Swiss frontier, other moustached gentlemen might be waiting. So the last of our priest’s notes—he experienced some difficulty in getting change for the five German “marks”—had paid for the journey from Chiasso to Milan.

It was ten years since his last visit to the city, but he managed to find the Via Boccaccio which runs past the Dal Verme Theatre, and followed it—rather painfully for he wanted to go to sleep on every bench—till he saw, hung at the corner of a high stone house, a shield, white lettered on a red ground, “His Britannic Majesty’s Consul General for Lombardy and Venetia.”

“_Gott sei Dank_,” said the priest—and, then remembering that it was no longer necessary to _think_ in German, “Thank God!”

He slinked past the porter’s lodge—the consulate is on the first floor—dragged himself up the marble stairs; and rang the bell.

Mr. Towsey, brown-bearded, short of stature, determined of eye, opened the door himself. He had just made his early cup of tea; his mother was still in bed; their servant gossiping downstairs.

“_Ma cosa vuole a cuest’ ora?_” he said.

“_Console Inglese?_” asked the priest.

“_Si. Ma cosa vuole?_”

“_Lasc’ entrare. Non posso parlarvi qui._”

The door closed behind them.

Mr. Towsey led into a square bare room, safe in one corner, desk near the window.

“_Ebbene?_” began the consul.

“For the Lord’s sake give me a cigarette,” said Francis Gordon.

* * * * *

He had no papers to prove his identity. His eyes kept closing all the time he talked. The hand which held the cigarette shook like a jelly on a plate. He would neither say whence he had come, nor why, nor how. But he knew exactly what he wanted: he wanted Mr. Towsey—he said it over and over again—to send a telegram, a telegram in Embassy cypher addressed to the British Foreign Office for transmission to I. D. War Office. Also, he wanted to go to bed until the answer arrived.

“But hang it all,” said the Consul, “I don’t know anything about you. You turn up at seven o’clock in the morning. You start by talking Italian. Then you ask for a cigarette in English. Now you want me to let you use our secret code-book, and to pay for the cable out of government funds. . . .”

“And after that,” yawned Francis, “I want to sleep in your spare bed-room till the answer arrives.”

Mr. Towsey felt himself in an awkward position. Italy was still neutral; the diplomatic situation growing hourly more complicated. Then he looked sharply at the bedraggled weary man in the black _soutane_; decided to take the risk.

“Here, write your telegram,” he said, pushing paper and pencil across the desk. “I suppose you don’t want to code it yourself.”

“Oh, Lord, no.” Francis, eyes dizzy with sleep, wrote rapidly. “_Please inform I.D.W.O. that No. 63 has arrived consulate Milan with important information. Stop. Can arrangements be made for him to be met at Modane by car and proceed direct to G.H.Q. France. Stop. Please request consul here to advance one thousand lire for clothes and travelling expenses. End._”

Said Mr. Towsey, reading it, “I think I’d better address this to Mr. Montgomery. . . .”

But Francis Gordon had fallen fast asleep.

* * * * *

He awoke, some fifteen hours later, frightened out of his wits; remembered that the need for fear had passed; crawled off a sofa; fumbled about for the electric switch; clicked on the light.

The noise of his getting-up disturbed his host from the deciphering of a cable which read, “_Please advance to person for whom you sent cable No. 3426 any monies he requires. Stop. Order him proceed Modane soonest possible and report to French authorities who will have full instructions. Montgomery._”

* * * * *

“I’m most awfully obliged to you, Mr. Towsey,” said Francis Gordon next morning: a clean-shaven Francis Gordon dressed in a green ready-made Italian suit, bright yellow boots on his feet, bright yellow bag in his hand. “Just as a last favour, would you mind having these posted for me.”

He handed over three letters, one—which began “My dear Beatrice, I have to apologize for leaving you so long without news”—addressed care of the Guaranty Trust Company, New York; the second to “P. Jameson, Esq.,” and the third to “H. T. Prout, 10 Mecklinburgh Square, London W.”

Then, having shaken hands with his host, he lit a cigarette, and strolled creakily downstairs to the waiting taxi. . . .

§ 6

Francis’ letter reached his cousin on the morning Peter and Bromley saw their transfer gazetted in the _Morning Post_. The answer to it, a packet containing two letters and a postcard addressed “Poste Restante, St. Omer,” was in Peter’s pocket as they stood in the Chalkshires’ Orderly Room, bidding Colonel Andrews good-bye.

“I’m very sorry you’re both leaving me,” said the Colonel. “Very sorry indeed.”

“We’re sorry to be going, sir,” from Bromley.

“I’m sorry we’re leaving, sir,” from Peter.

They shook hands with the diffident kindly man, saluted; clanked out, booted and spurred—the Gunner grenades already on their lapels; ran into Locksley-Jones.

“Hallo, you chaps,” he stuttered. “Just off. What?”

“Yes,” said Bromley grimly. “We’re going to a show where they’ve got a _soldier_ for their Adjutant. It will be quite a change. . . .”

But when—(having said good-bye to Mr. Smith, the Regimental Sergeant Major, to Gladeney and Sergeant Atkins and Corporal Pearson, to Peabody and Arkwright and Mackenzie, Mosely and Simcox and half a hundred others who came crowding round the bar at “the Feathers,” to their two servants who stood watching the train as it slid out of Worthing Station towards Brighton)—the two friends at last settled themselves in the corner of a first-class carriage, they both grew very silent—thinking how others would lead into action those hard-drinking, hard-swearing Cockneys who sang, as they marched:

_“It’s a long vai, ter get ter Berlin,_ _Ter pai back all we owe.”_