Part 2

“Not a bit. I’ve got two passports—different names, different faces. Inside half an hour every passport bureau in the country will be looking out for my face and Larson’s name; I couldn’t get out of England on that passport if I wanted to! But on the other, and with you to help, it’ll work. Anything will work with one of the nobility in it.”

“As court records prove!” And Durant chuckled. “Right-ho! We’ll see.”

* * * * *

The big Daimler purred along; Kensington Park fell behind; on to Hammersmith, on out past new built-up additions until the white square tower of Richmond church hove into sight past a long bend of highway. Durant knew barely enough of London to follow the road with understanding, and Larson did not cease to exclaim over the changes of fifteen years.

“Look here!” Larson turned suddenly. “You have a safe in your place, I suppose?”

Durant assented, trusting to luck.

“Well, I’d like you to take charge of my wad while I’m here,” went on the other. “I have a bit over sixty thousand, and—”

“Jumping Jerusalem!” ejaculated Durant, in stark amazement. “Sixty thousand dollars?” “In hundred-dollar bills, mostly—for spending on the Continent,” said Larson.

“I want to take care of my family there, buy ’em land, spend all I want, and so forth.”

“Good Lord, man, you must have cracked a bank!”

Larson chuckled. “No, not exactly. There’s been big money in liquor, you know. I made that sixty thousand, and a bit over, in three months, just to show! Well, if you’ll stow the coin away, I’ll feel better—I know these English servants, and I’d hate to trust ’em. While I can keep it under my eye, all right, but traveling here ain’t safe.”

Durant nodded. This request complicated the situation a bit. Beyond keeping Larson from being murdered, he had previously had little interest in the matter. Finding the man’s actual status, he had been cynically delighted at the game in prospect, since Makoff was likely to catch a Tartar. Now it seemed as though Larson would succeed in robbing himself—if Durant let the Russian know about the request.

He decided instantly to do no such thing. The outcome of the whole scheme was immaterial to him, though his sympathy was rather with Larson. Besides—why could not Larson be the man to put a bullet into Makoff? Possibilities here, but he would have to see Helen first. If Makoff were dead, the blackmail might only be transferred.

He threw over the whole problem as the car turned sharply out of the highway, between a pub and a brick wall, heading up the long hill of King’s Road, lined on either side with its walled English houses and gardens, dismal from the outside, comfortable and rich within, each one having that sense of privacy and ownership which means so little to the American, so much to his English cousin. Abruptly the car halted before a low house of gray brick, walled about, and Giles held open the door.

“Welcome home, Your Lordship!” he said cheerfully.

The two men left the car, entered the gate, walked up to the house. The door was opened by a maid, who curtsied; Durant saw at a glance that she was French, and nodded to her. Giles brought up their bags.

* * * * *

How Makoff had managed this at so short notice was a marvel to Durant. The house seemed unpretentious but comfortable, and was excellently furnished; the living-room windows gave glimpses of a well-kept garden behind, with walks and fountain.

“You’ve a room ready for Mr. Larson?” said Durant to the maid. “Good.”

She led them upstairs to two adjoining bedrooms; Giles put Larson’s grips in one, those of Durant in the other. Then he disappeared. The maid spoke to Durant: “We’ve kept luncheon waiting, sir.”

“Right,” said Durant heartily. “We’ll have a wash and be right down. Make yourself at home here, Larson—no ceremony. Come down when you’re ready.”

“Thanks.”

Larson’s door closed. Durant turned to the maid, who had waited, and spoke in French:

“Will M. Makoff be here?”

“Tomorrow, m’sieur,” she responded. “But he will not be seen.”

He nodded, and she departed. So she was in the outfit too!

In fifteen minutes Durant and his guest were sitting in a long, low dining-room that overlooked the garden, while the belated luncheon was served. Larson was full of admiration over the place, as well he might be; his first awe had departed, and he threw off restraint. Under his taciturn exterior he revealed a shrewd personality, as thoroughly American as that of Durant himself. He had spent fifteen years in America, ten years previous to that in England, while his education at home in Denmark had been excellent. To realize that he sat opposite a murderer, criminal, bootlegger, a charming old man who had made an excellent unmoral living off society, was continually astonishing to Durant. And Larson had asked no questions about his host or the reason for an incognito—if he was curious, he bottled it up. So Durant conjured up a history for himself, and it was accepted without a word.

“You know, I liked you at the start!” said Larson, when they lighted cigars and adjourned to the garden for a look around. “You know Makoff well?”

“Not well,” said Durant. “I met him aboard the boat. Why?”

“I don’t cotton to him,” said the other. “He may be a nobleman and all that, and the cousin of Baroness Glincka—that the name?—but I know a crook when I see one. I’d ought to, eh? Yes sir. That bird, for all his society airs, is a bad one.”

“I believe you,” said Durant with a chuckle. Wary Makoff! The Russian had sensed this suspicion in Larson, and did not intend to show himself as a guest. “Makoff wont show up here, I’m glad to say. How do you know I’m not a crook too?”

Larson glanced at him and grinned. “You’ve the makings of one, and a good one—but I know a square-shooter when I see him! Let’s go attend to that money, shall we?”

Durant nodded, and they went upstairs. He brought one of his own bags into Larson’s room—a bag specially made, with Yale lock, though Durant had nothing in it except clothes. Being fully aware, by sharp experience, of the fallacious tourist belief that English-made clothes were better than American, he had loaded up at home with a large outfit.

Larson opened a suitcase and threw out on the bed half a dozen packages wrapped in oiled silk and sealed. He broke one open to reveal crisp new hundred-dollar bills.

“Six of ’em,” he said. “Open the others up if you like. Why the suitcase?”

“To hold them until I can get into the safe,” said Durant. “Better so.”

“Suit yourself.”

“What sort of receipt do you want?”

“Receipt, hell!” ejaculated Larson. “Don’t be a fool. I don’t need any receipt from you.”

Durant calmly opened all the packages, found them to be as stated, and then stowed them away in his grip, which he replaced in his room, after locking. He chuckled again to think what Makoff would say to this simple acquisition—after so much pains and expense had been bestowed to get Larson in a murder-trap!

“Decidedly,” he said cynically, “it pays to be an honest man!”

* * * * *

Had Larson been anything but what he was, the composition of Lord Northcote’s week-end party must have struck him as very singular, to say the least.

The only woman in the party was Baroness Glincka, who arrived for luncheon on Saturday. Count Dardent proved to be a worn-out, waspish little man with waxed mustaches and dyed hair, who spoke fair English and fluent Danish; he was French, and Durant made a shrewd guess that he had left Paris very much for his health’s sake, not to mention his liberty. He noted that Helen Glincka very obviously disliked the little count.

After their day together, Larson and Durant had become almost intimate.

Durant, at least, found his liking for the shrewd old rascal increased by acquaintance. Nothing had appeared in the newspapers in regard to the finding of a trussed-up detective aboard the boat-train, but this meant nothing, except that an extensive secret search was being made for Gunnar Hanson. No further word had come to Durant via Giles or the maid. No other guests arrived, and the four sat down to dinner Saturday night with Durant very much in the dark as to plans. Larson, however, was clearly charmed by thus mixing with Continental and English nobility, and enjoyed himself hugely.

Dinner was nearly over, when Giles leaned above Durant’s chair.

“There’s a gentleman asking for you, sir. In the library.”

Durant rose, excused himself without the fact appearing strange, and passed into the library. He found Makoff awaiting him.

“Ah!” exclaimed the Russian. “Glad to find everything smooth. No trouble?”

“None, with your perfect arrangements.”

“I’ll have to turn over the job to you and Michael after all,” said Makoff. “I’ve been called to Paris in haste—making the nine o’clock Southampton train tonight.”

“Who’s Michael?”

“Giles,” and Makoff chuckled. “Good man, eh? Dardent’s our regular London agent. Michael has full instructions; I’ll give you yours now. Larson, I believe, has fifteen or twenty thousand dollars in currency—”

“Sixty,” said Durant. Makoff whistled.

“Sixty thousand? Whew! Still better.” He winked delightedly, rubbed his hands. “This house was taken in his name, understand? The cook and so forth engaged in his name. Now—what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Durant, repressing his consternation at this news. “I was wondering what he’d say if he knew!”

Makoff chuckled. “The cook will be discharged tomorrow night. The maid goes with Dardent—she’s his wife, by the way. The Baronne leaves tomorrow night also, via Southampton, for Paris. You and Michael will be here Monday morning. When Larson drinks his early tea, he’s done for. Places are already booked for you and Michael on the noon plane from Croydon for Paris. It’ll be another day or two at least before Larson’s body is discovered, perhaps much longer. You and Michael will bring the stuff. Your seat in the plane is booked in your own name, Michael’s in that of Giles Hopper—his passport identity. All clear?”

“Quite,” said Durant, “except the necessity for murder. Why not rob him and go? Murder in England means that the law will be at your heels for life.”

“Certainly.” Makoff eyed him with a grim smile. “But why talk of murder, my dear man? An empty vial of chloral, purchased in a New York drug-store; a dead American, who has rented a house for three months and occupied it for three days; a letter stating that speculations in exchange have wiped out his fortune—who would call it murder? Guests, servants, all dissipated as a dream!”

“It is artistic, certainly.” Durant’s tone was dry. “I only objected to so much work. Why bother to kill him?”

“Because Americans have loud voices.” Makoff chuckled. “And certainly we do not want the law after us! Surely you can realize this?”

Durant nodded and banished his frown. “Right! Indeed, it is magnificent. This Michael is an admirable fellow—I congratulate you on having him. He handles details wonderfully!”

“He should,” said Makoff. “He’s no other than Michael Korin, who killed Grand Duke Vassily last year in Tours and turned over all his papers to me. Well, I’ve no time to lose. Give my regards to the charming Baronne—and this envelope. It’s her passage to Paris.”

Durant took the envelope, shook hands with Makoff and returned to the dinner-table.

Inwardly he was in a ferment of anxiety and excitement; had it been his own neck in peril, he would have lost no whit of his usual icy coolness—but here was another matter. By this time, perhaps, the fact would be known that Larson had rented a house in Richmond—and Scotland Yard would be down on him full force. Had Boris Makoff only known it, he could have robbed Larson with absolute impunity!

Durant looked at Giles, too, with new eyes, appreciating now the frightful danger from this man. He knew of Grand Duke Vassily’s murder—all Europe knew of it! The exiled Russian noble had been hideously murdered and robbed—a crime so horribly brutal, so well conceived and executed, that it was supposed to have been perpetrated by Soviet agents. Indeed, the name of Korin had been mentioned as that of the murderer, but the man had never been found.

Things were getting a bit thick, thought Durant to himself. In other words, the simple situation was becoming extremely complex and correspondingly threatening. The only relief in sight was that by Sunday night the group would be scattered, leaving him and Larson alone here with Giles—or Michael Korin. Yet would it be safe for Larson to remain here another twenty-four hours? There was the rub.

The quartet adjourned to the garden for coffee. While Dardent and Larson were deep in floods of Danish, the Baronne was temporarily left to Durant.

“It’s confounded hard to get a word with you!” he complained, handing her the envelope. “You’re booked for Southampton-Havre tomorrow night.”

Her eyes questioned him anxiously. “And you?”

“Paris on Monday. I’ll show up, never fear! But Boris has caught a Tartar this time and doesn’t know it, so I’m afraid you wont see our honest Giles again.”

“Explain!”

“Sha’n’t do it. I’m going by results. I intend to show up in Paris and open the fight on Boris—”

“You won’t find him!” she breathed. “He disappears. No one knows—”

“Tell that to the marines,” said Durant confidently. “Now, you suggest a motor-trip tomorrow—I want to get out of here for the day. Anywhere!”

* * * * *

The others rejoined them, and the coffee finished, they went into the house and settled down to an evening of bridge. Durant had no more chance that evening for a word with her—he had more than a suspicion, indeed, that Giles was keeping a sharp eye on the Baronne. The motor trip was settled upon for the next morning, with general acclaim.

It was late when the game broke up, and Durant saw his supposed guests to their rooms, then turned in, dismissing his problems. He did not waken until roused at seven-thirty by Giles, who bore his “early tea” after the approved English fashion. Then he sat up in bed.

“Shut the door—that’s right! Look here, these Americans aren’t used to the English custom of early tea, and I’m afraid your scheme will slip up in the morning. Suppose you fix us up some coffee tonight, after we take Baroness Glincka to her train—eh? That would make the matter more certain.”

“Good,” approved the other, his high cheek-bones lending his aquiline face a distinctly Tartar look. “Yes, a good idea. Thank you!”

Twenty minutes later, after a light knock at the adjoining door, Durant stepped into Larson’s room. Larson was shaving, and nodded cheerfully to him. Durant lighted a cigarette, drew up a chair, and played the idea that had come to him.

“What do you think of that man of mine—Giles?”

Larson grimaced. “If you ask me, I think he’s a crook!”

“He is.” Durant laughed. “I overheard an interesting conversation this morning. It seems that tonight, after our party breaks up, a nice little game is to be played on you and me. Giles will fix us up some coffee and sandwiches, and when we go to bed, we’ll stay a long time—long enough for the get-away.”

Larson, holding his razor in air, turned and stared at him.

“Is that straight? Would they pull that stuff on a lord?”

“You ought to know—you’ve lived in England.”

“Hm! Good gosh, man—do they know about my money?”

“Probably suspect you have some, while they know I have some,” said Durant. “What’s more, I gather that our friend Giles is wanted by the police in several countries. Rather interesting to think what might have happened, eh? I’ll turn him over to the police—”

“Don’t do that!” Larson faced him earnestly. “Not until I’m safe, anyhow. Don’t you know their ways here? All hands would be gone over with a fine-tooth comb, and that’d mean my finish!”

“Oh!” said Durant. “But what to do, then?”

“Take him with us,” said Larson promptly, and his blue eyes sparkled. “We’ll take the Baroness to her train, see? But we’ll have our own luggage aboard too. Then you spring it on Giles that we’re going somewhere for the night—we can go to a hotel—and tell him to meet us tomorrow and go to Paris with us. That’ll knock him off his feet, believe me! I thought that fellow had a bad look to his eye, all along.”

“All right; we’ll drop him in Paris, then. Meantime, about your money: Giles will drive us today, and that’s why the place is safe enough until tonight. We’ll go over by air, and there’s no Customs examination that way; better make the money into a separate packet and take it with you, however, as the luggage is packed in a separate compartment.”

Larson nodded, and his wrinkled, shrewd old face cracked in a grin. “Fine, My Lord, fine! We’ll have some fun, eh?” Durant rather thought they would—before it was over.

* * * * *

At ten that Sunday morning the big Daimler, with the lunch packed and aboard, was standing before the gate of the King’s Road house, and Giles had just announced that all was ready, when Larson flung open the door of Durant’s room with an excited word.

“Durant! Come here—quick!”

Durant joined him. Standing well back from a window, which overlooked the street, Larson pointed. No words were needed. Coming up the hill, and looking at the house with evident interest, was the man they had left trussed and gagged aboard the boat-train.

“Pinched!” said Larson.

“Not yet.” Durant turned. “Shut your door—get packed!”

He darted to the stairs. “Giles! Here—quick, man!”

Michael Korin came up on the jump, and Durant pulled him into his bedroom.

“Look at that man across the street. Know him?”

One look, and the Russian drew back, a gray pallor in his face.

“Sacred name of a dog!” he exclaimed. “Yes! That’s Sir John Brentwood himself—of Scotland Yard.”

Durant gripped him by the arm, hard. “All right. Brace up, now! He’s looking the place over—we have time to get away. Something’s slipped; perhaps they’re after you, perhaps after me. We’ll get our luggage aboard the car, drop Baronne Glincka downtown, drop Dardent and his wife, get out to Croydon and make the noon plane. Understand? I’ll telephone for bookings. Warn Dardent, get rid of the cook instantly, clear the place. Go!”

The man slipped away, obviously badly shaken by what he had seen. Durant turned into Larson’s room.

“Get ready! I’ve got your money in my bag. We’re off in five minutes.”

“I’ll need ten,” said Larson, calmly enough. “I must get rid of this mustache, clap on some hair-dye, fix my face.”

“Take seven—move like hell!” snapped Durant.

Larson was already plunging for his bag. Catching up his own grips without bothering to pack his scattered belongings, Durant hurried downstairs to the telephone. In two minutes he had the Croydon aërodrome on the line.

“Mr. Durant speaking,” he said. “I have bookings for myself and a friend on the noon Paris bus tomorrow. We want to change and go over today. A third may go with us.”

“Very sorry, sir, we’ve just booked the last seat,” came the reply. “Hold on just a moment, will you?”

Durant held on, cursing softly to himself. Giles appeared, breathing hard.

“Off in five minutes,” he said. Durant nodded. Then came the voice on the wire: “Hello! I think we can take care of you, sir. We’re sending over a D H special to bring back a party of officials, and we can put you and the mail-sacks aboard, if you like. Would there be any trunks?”

“No, nothing but hand-luggage,” said Durant in sharp relief.

“Can do, sir. She’ll take off a bit ahead of the regular bus, though—about eleven-thirty. Can you get out here by eleven?”

“We’ve our own car,” said Durant. “Yes, we can get out by eleven or shortly after.”

“Right-ho!”

Durant hung up and glanced at the man beside him.

“Special plane going over to Paris. We must get to Croydon at eleven. You, I, Larson.”

“Good,” said the Russian. “I’ll arrange to have the Daimler picked up at the aërodrome—it’s a rented car. Or Dardent can attend to that detail.”

“We’d better all go out at once, carry our luggage, pile in and be off,” said Durant. “The house is being watched—you’ll have to make a dash for it and throw ’em off.”

Dardent appeared, waspishly excited, and the maid—in reality his wife—followed. Helen Glincka was on the stairs, and Durant took her bags and set them with his own.

“It’ll be touch and go,” he said, perceiving that the general feeling was that the police were after them all. Naturally, he alone knew the actual facts. “Depends on getting off on the jump. Not a word of anything wrong, now, before Larson! Helen, we’ll drop you at the Savoy. Go on to Paris tonight via Havre, as arranged; you’re in no danger. Dardent, where’ll we drop you?”

“Brompton Road,” said the little Frenchman. “Our apartment is there—Michael knows.”

“Good. Here’s Larson. All together, now—out to the car, pile in anyhow!”

* * * * *

And how Michael drove, out through Victoria and on to Croydon! Durant marveled at it; no American, accustomed to wide highways and a gradual sweep around other cars, could have tooled a car at any speed along these narrow English lanes, except with long practice. With a head-on collision apparently imminent, each car would give a jerky twist, out and back—and they would be past. There was a peculiar knack to it, and the Russian had this knack at his fingers’ ends.

“Why the general rush?” inquired Larson, when the two of them were alone in the car. “Everybody seemed in a devil of a hurry to get gone!”

Durant had already prepared for this, and broke into a laugh.

“We had to get out quickly—so I told ’em the cook had developed smallpox. Cleared out the maid and all, as you saw! Our pleasant chauffeur goes over with us. Here’s my bag—I’ll get out your money. Wrap it in this newspaper.”

They suited action to word, Durant having put his own bags inside the car. With a newspaper-wrapped bundle of sixty thousand dollars in his lap, Larson relaxed and lighted a cigarette. Now, for the first time, Durant had a good view of him, and whistled.

“You certainly have changed yourself! Hope you have your extra passport handy.”

“No danger. As to the change—that’s a cinch.”

It was also a complete success, to which Larson now added a pair of black-rimmed spectacles. With his mustache gone and his hair changed from gray to a glossy black, he looked twenty years younger; eyebrows had become black too, and subtle changes in the outline of his face, due probably to wads of cotton against his teeth, gave him an entirely new look, as did the goggles—stamping him in London as an American tourist.

Now they had turned past the Croydon Arms, and the big car thrummed along wide open until the huge gray hangars loomed ahead. They swung in between the rows of low buildings and came to rest in the parking-space beside the office. Two planes were already warming up—a huge silver giant, triple-engined, and a smaller De Haviland, on the concrete take-off. An orange-brown French machine was just circling to land.

“Mr. Durant?” A crisp, energetic youngster pulled open the car door. “Come along and I’ll rush you through—plane’s waiting now. We’ll have you off the ground before the bus gets here for the regular flight. Into the office, please.”

“The car will be sent for,” said Durant, and the other nodded.

There was no time lost in weighing in and checking the luggage, which was sent on to the Customs shed and put through perfunctorily, as it would be put through at the other end. In three minutes they were crossing to the passport control office. The Russian went through first; and as they waited, Larson jogged Durant’s elbow, indicating a man who sat beside the passport officer.

“Scotland Yard,” he said under his breath. “Now watch him!”