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Clubfoot the Avenger

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<h2 id="c8">CHAPTER VII THE UNSEEN MENACE</h2> It was about the time of the adventure of the top flat which I am going to narrate that I became aware of a remarkable change in my friend, Desmond Okewood. We were in the habit of meeting once or twice a week either for lunch or for a game of squash at the Bath Club. Now, Desmond Okewood, as his Christian name suggests, is, on the distaff side, Irish, and from his mother’s race he has inherited not only the intuition and reckless courage which have carried him so far in his career, but also that sublime indifference to anything like “nerves” that is one of the outstanding characteristics of the Irish. It was, therefore, with considerable surprise that, about this time, I became aware that my old friend was looking decidedly under par. His face had a drawn look that I did not like, and his eyes were haggard. I should probably have set it down to a succession of late nights had not old Erasmus Wilkes, the psychoanalyst, who was lunching at our table at the Club one morning, drawn me aside in the smoke-room afterwards and put the matter in an entirely different light. “You’re a friend of Desmond Okewood’s, aren’t you?” he asked me, and went on: “Then get him to tell you what’s on his mind. I’m not pryin’, young fellow, but I have some experience of these cases. If your pal doesn’t confide in some one . . .” He shrugged his shoulders and was about to turn away when I caught him by the sleeve. “We’re old friends, Desmond and I,” I said; “but there are some confidences one has to wait for. And Okewood’s a reserved beggar. It might help things, Doctor, if you’d give me a hint as to what is the matter, with him. He’ll never say a word unless I give him a lead.” Old Wilkes looked at me thoughtfully. “It’s fear,” he said. I burst out laughing. “Rot!” I exclaimed. “You’ve made a bloomer there, Doctor. Fear! Why, Desmond Okewood doesn’t know the meaning of the word!” Wilkes shook his head dubiously. “He looks like a man who goes in fear of his life,” he answered gravely. “He’s got the wind up about something. You ask him and you’ll see that I’m right!” “I’ll ask him like a shot,” I retorted, “but I bet you’re wrong!” And, in due course, I did ask Desmond Okewood. But he, as I expected, laughed my question off and protested that he had never felt better in his life. But old Wilkes was right, and it was Francis Okewood, as he afterwards told me, in whom Desmond ultimately confided. It happened in this way. Francis had had to make a quick trip to America on business connected with some property of his American wife, and Desmond had gone down in his car to meet his brother at Southampton. Storms in the Atlantic had delayed the arrival of the liner, and after they had cleared the baggage through the customs, it was close on midnight before they took the road to drive to Desmond’s bungalow in Surrey. Yet, belated as they were, Francis was quite unable to prevail upon his brother to exceed a modest twenty miles an hour, which, as they dropped down a deep slope into the sunken road that led past the front gate of Desmond’s bungalow, fell to somewhere about ten. Before them the road, like a profound black trench, wound its way down into the dark night. The bright headlights of the car showed the high hedges on either side and, above them, the tall trees that bordered the road swaying and tossing with the violence of the storm. The driving-glass was a blur of wet; the side curtains flapped and banged and strained to the fury of the gale, and again and again a smother of icy rain beat on the face of Desmond at the wheel and of his brother at his side. “Push her along, Des., for the love o’ Mike!” urged Francis for about the sixth time that night. “This is worse than the Atlantic. And I want to go to bed.” “Awkward bit of road, this,” was Desmond’s answer as, heedless of his brother’s remarks, he changed down to second. “But, good Lord, what are you going to meet at three o’clock in the morning? Open her up and let’s get home!” “We haven’t far to go now,” Desmond replied shortly, and so, without further speech, they came at length to their destination. At the front door Desmond handed his brother the latchkey and took the car round to the back of the house. Francis crossed the wide hall and went into the dining-room, where a pleasant fire glowed redly on the silver and crockery that decked the table. Without waiting to remove his heavy ulster, Francis Okewood switched on the lights and, going to the sideboard, mixed two stiff whiskey-and-sodas. He still had his hand on the siphon when there came an exclamation from the door, and the room was plunged into darkness. “Here . . .” he began in expostulation. There was a click at the window, followed by a grinding noise. Then the lights went up again. Desmond, a curiously tense expression on his face, stood in the doorway. “Sorry, old man,” he said awkwardly. “I noticed that the shutter wasn’t closed. We . . . we don’t turn the lights up here as a rule unless the shutter is down . . .” Francis Okewood turned his eyes to the French window, which, as he knew, opened on the croquet lawn at the back. It was now concealed by a close-fitting steel shutter that reached to the floor. He raised his eyebrows and looked at his brother as though about to speak. But there was close communion between these two. In all the years they had spent together in the Secret Service their one invariable rule was that if no explanation were vouchsafed, none was asked for. So Francis held his peace. “You must be starved,” said Desmond. “Sit down and have some supper. You’ve got a drink? Good. There’s a hot-pot here . . .” and he struck an electric plug in the wall, connected with a chafing-dish on the table. They ate in silence. The sympathy between the two brothers was not of the kind that requires expression in words. When they had done, Desmond pushed a box of cigars over to Francis and made up the fire. Then only Francis spoke. “And Clubfoot?” he said. Desmond, his feet stretched out on the fender, appeared to study the end of his cigar. Scrutinizing his features between his half-closed eyes, Francis noticed for the first time how worn his brother looked. The lines on his face and an air of restlessness, most unusual in him, were unfailing symptoms of prolonged strain. “Vanished into the Ewigkeit. Since the affair of the Russian ikon he has not been seen. The Chief thinks he has left the country. In fact, two days ago the old man went off to Holland on a clue . . .” “Went in person, eh? It must be a good one . . .” Desmond shook his head wearily. “Clubfoot’s still here, I think,” he said. “He’s lying low, that’s all. Waiting . . .” “For what?” “To get you, me, the Chief . . .” He shrugged his shoulders, drew on his cigar. “He’ll never quit while breath is in him, Francis. We beat him in Germany, brought him to the ground, the man of might and mystery, as they used to call him. When he reappeared so mysteriously in the Pacific, I spoilt his little game, and since he started this campaign of vengeance against us, we have pretty well held our own. But though we have the honours he means to win the rubber. Let him try . . .” He sprang to his feet. “It’s this cursed uncertainty that . . . that wears one down.” “Sit down, Des.,” said Francis gently. “I’m going to break the rules and ask you a question. Why did you bring us up from Southampton to-night like an old woman driving a governess cart? That six-cylinder of yours used to do better than twenty . . .!” Desmond frowned moodily. “I’m . . . I’m ashamed of myself,” he replied. “I’m windy, Francis—have been ever since they put a steel cable across the sunken road outside the gate here.” “Ah!” said Francis. “That bus of mine will touch sixty when I open her out. By the mercy of God on this particular evening, a black night like this with no moon, I had slowed down to tighten up the wind-screen. The glass suddenly shattered, but I had time to duck. There was a steel rope spanned at the height of my head from hedge to hedge . . .” “I see. Any clue as to who put it there?” “Not a trace. The Chief was wild when I told him. But it gave me the jumps. I stopped Marjorie driving her two-seater and sent her off with the boy to her father’s. She didn’t want to go, poor girl, but, by George, I couldn’t stand the strain of looking after her as well as myself. And I know that if this doesn’t finish quickly, she’ll come back. You know what a loyal pal she is!” Francis nodded. “And that contraption of yours at the window?” Desmond heaved himself out of his chair. “Come here. I want to show you something.” He led the way across to the sideboard which stood against the wall opposite the shuttered window. “Six nights ago,” he said, “I was mixing myself a drink here just as you did to-night. Suddenly there was a shiver of glass from the window behind me, and something struck the woodwork not an inch from my head. After that I had steel shutters fitted to all the windows. Look! You can see the slug!” Projecting from the polished oak of the Jacobean buffet was a grey, irregular mass of metal. “Air-gun, eh?” commented Francis. “And a devilish heavy one, too, Des.!” He clapped his brother affectionately on the shoulder. “Well,” he remarked, “there are two of us now. I shall have to try what trailing my coat-tails in front of old Clubfoot will do . . .” “The only consoling thing about it,” said his brother, “is that it shows that old Clubfoot is afraid to come out in the open.” Francis rubbed the bridge of his nose meditatively. “I wonder! He may be planning something fresh and wants to get you out of the way. Has any attempt been made on the Chief?” “No!” Francis Okewood shook his head. “Bad, bad! Clubfoot has got him out of the country, Des., and he’ll strike at once!” They had not long to wait. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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