CHAPTER ONE. TO BEG PARDON OF THE READER

At the outset I wish to impress on those who read this straightforward and unembellished narrative of my amazing and often exciting adventures, that I seek not to hide my own shortcomings, for they are alas! many; nor do I in the least desire to pose as a vainglorious hero. At least, I am not one who slops about in the oozy slime of the sex problem.

From leading the normal life of an ordinary young man about London, I was, by a strange freak of ill-fortune, and in the space of a single minute, plunged into a veritable vortex of doubt and misery, compelled to lead the life of a hunted criminal, and to resort to all sorts of ruses in order to retain my liberty. And yet, the events which led up to the sudden change in my life are such as might occur to any man, on any night, in any big city in the world.

I suppose, in order that I shall be understood right from the outset, I may as well explain that I am Lionel Hipwell. My old governor is the Honorable George Hipwell, of Hipwell Hall, near Bulwick, Northamptonshire, Deputy-Lieutenant for the County, and Member of Parliament for South-East Rutland. After Eton, I graduated at Oxford, and then read for the Bar, to which I was called; but I have never practised. For twenty-one years my father had sat for the same constituency in the Conservative interest, and it was my ambition also to sit in the House. With that object, I studied politics keenly, especially in reference to our relations with foreign countries; and I often addressed political meetings. I had the satisfaction of being hailed as sound in argument, with a clear and lucid delivery. Therefore, the decision of the Conservative party to adopt me as a candidate at the next election had recently placed me in the seventh heaven of delight. And, when I told Joan, to whom I was engaged, she regarded me as a prospective occupant of a seat on the Front Bench.

I have mentioned that I was engaged to Joan Gell, but it was only informally and secretly.

Joan was the only daughter of the famous King’s Counsel, Mr. John Gell, the stoutest man who had taken silk. But, unfortunately, he and my father were bitter enemies, arising out of a political quarrel of a couple of years before. Hence, both Joan and I thought it discreet to wait before announcing our engagement, until such time as the quarrel was patched up.

Nevertheless, we met often—more often than her parents ever guessed. Indeed, she not infrequently overstepped the bounds of strict propriety, sometimes coming to my rooms in Sackville Street and taking a cozy tea, with her feet upon my fender. I adored her, and she, on her part, reciprocated my affection. We understood each other perfectly, and though she was highly popular in a smart set, and much sought after as a dancing-partner, yet I had never any cause for undue jealousy. The society in which I moved in London—a fairly good one as judged in these hectic days of night-club dancing—had rather sickened me. I loved Hipwell, with its hunting with the Cottesmore, its one-day-a-week beagling, the fishing over our own stream, the walks in the park in spring, and the interviewing of our tenant-farmers. I had no use for the night life of London, with the marks that glow red on the pasty foreheads of callow youths and erotic widows, who rave about affinities and make the south of Sicily their winter home.

Though having quarreled with my father, the stout old King’s Counsel was always friendly towards me. Hence, I was frequently invited to his house at Queen’s Gate, a place noteworthy for the collection of antique furniture and an unrivaled assortment of ancient snuff-boxes. Mr. Gell was a connoisseur, and, making a very large income at the Bar, expended money lavishly on his hobby. His wife, a handsome, well-preserved, and much-traveled woman, who doted on Joan, gave frequent parties, and for each I always received a card. In the Temple it was an open secret that elevation to the Bench had been offered to “Jelly” Gell—a sobriquet bestowed on him by one of his adversaries on account of the shaking of his protruding stomach when he grew unduly excited while addressing a jury. But the famous K.C. had preferred to remain at the Bar, rather than forego his income and accept the high responsibility and the rather meagre stipend with which the Government rewards its judges.

As for myself, I held quite an important position in the Treaty Department of the Foreign Office, a post which, I confess, carried with it short hours and little work; for the Government does not make treaties with foreign powers every day—hence my office was almost a sinecure. I suppose family influence, that of my uncle, the old Earl of Whitchurch and ex-Minister of the Crown, whose favorite I was, had been responsible for my appointment, because from a clerk I had risen rapidly, being “pushed on” by some unknown hand, a fact, I know, which had aroused considerable jealousy in the Department.

I said I had no use for the circle in which I was compelled to move. My penchant for gambling, alas, led to my being hurled into the maelstrom of mystery. I loved a little “flutter,” and had been at Deauville, Cannes, Monte Carlo, and other places; and I had played for modest stakes with the usual varying success.

The night of November the twelfth was one of gloom and rain in London. It had rained incessantly the whole day, and still poured all the evening. Joan was down at Cannes with her mother; and, having nothing better to do, I took a taxi from the club, where I had dined at a house in Woburn Square, where they played “chemmy” nightly. As a frequent visitor there, I often had good luck. There were about fifty players present, most of them known to me by sight, and for a long time I risked nothing. But the temptation to play soon overcame me and I won over a hundred pounds.

Afterwards I had a drink, and foolishly returned to the table; for, not only did I lose all my winnings, but two hundred pounds into the bargain. Sick at my ill-fortune, I gave a check for my losses, and left the house in deep despondency, vowing never to return there again. I felt that gambling was getting the better of me, that I must give it up. This resolve I made as, heedless of the rain and darkness, I walked around Bloomsbury Square.

Suddenly I heard shouts. A moment later I came across a man and a woman having a violent altercation. The man was a burly fellow, and he was ill-treating a flashily-dressed young woman of the night-hawk class.

“Look here!” I cried, rushing up to him. “Stop that—quick! You low-down cur, to strike a woman!”

“And who the ’ell are you, mister?” the fellow asked defiantly. “You just keep your bloomin’ beak out of what don’t concern you! And take that for yer pains!” he added, aiming a heavy blow at my face, which I managed to avoid.

Next moment, however, he struck me full in the chest. In return, having done a good deal of boxing at Oxford, I landed him one full on the nose, in self-defence.

I saw his hand go swiftly to his hip-pocket, and next second there was a glint of steel. In an instant I closed with him, gripped his wrist, twisted it, and knocked his hand upwards just as he was about to fire.

We both fell. There was an explosion and the bullet went upwards through his jaw.

In a moment I shook myself free and sprang to my feet; but the man lay there motionless; the automatic pistol had fallen from his nerveless fingers and lay in the gutter.

“God! What have you done? You’ve killed my poor Dick!” the dark-eyed young woman shrieked resentfully, glaring at me.

In a moment I bent and breathlessly made a swift examination. He was certainly dead! I stood staggered, my senses for the moment being numbed.

“You’ve killed him!” yelled the woman, frantic in her anger and distress. “Police! Police!”

Only for a second I hesitated. In that instant I realized all that I had at stake—the ruin of my love for Joan, the extinction of my political ambitions, and a charge of manslaughter under such conditions which might easily lead to my social obliteration.

I fled. What would you have done in such circumstances?

I had acted only to protect a defenceless woman, and had closed with her adversary in self-defence. I hurried away, turned the corner, and walked quickly to the Russell Square Tube Station, where I took a ticket to Piccadilly Circus, composing myself as I descended in the elevator.

Meanwhile, I knew that the unknown woman, who had been so resentful of my defence, was calling the police and, as the event occurred beneath a street-lamp, she, no doubt, was giving a minute description of me! I was in a dinner-jacket and wore a black overcoat. In my soft shirt-front were two studs of bright green chrysoprases, and these might have attracted her attention, and so serve to identify me!

In the train were a number of people, therefore I buttoned my coat tightly to conceal those studs. My brain was in a whirl. Half an hour before, I was carefree and as full of the joy of living as a man under thirty should be. The money left me by my Aunt Mary gave me a comfortable income, and I was not a single penny in debt. Yet, at that moment, I was fleeing from justice, my description, no doubt, being circulated by telephone to every police-station in the metropolitan area.

While in the Tube, I realized that, in order to escape, I must leave London at once. No time was to be lost if I was to get away that night. But how? I dare not return to my rooms in Sackville Street, though I was sorely tempted to. If I dared, I could easily go home, change my clothes, and reappear differently dressed. But I hesitated, remembering that Bolland, my man, would greet me, and afterwards might be questioned. No. It would be best to completely disappear.

When I emerged at Piccadilly Circus, I came face to face with a police constable. It gave me a great shock, for I fancied he eyed me with distinct suspicion. Yet, surely, news of the tragedy could not have traveled so swiftly. Nevertheless, there are always thousands of keen eyes on the look-out for a wanted man in London.

I recollect that in those moments of terror I dubbed myself a snob. I like people who know how to behave. To me, the dull, public-school man or the ruined gentleman is preferable to the declaiming Communist or the demented lover. To those, life is a dreary business. But, as for me, I thank my Maker, each day, that I am alive to accept what He, in His munificence, has given me; though I would beg of you not to think that I am more pious than any other man. Yet I am strong in my belief.

Haunted by dread and the knowledge that the young woman would most certainly allege that I deliberately had shot the man because he had insulted me, I remained on the pavement at the corner of Coventry Street for some minutes, heedless of the home-going crowd of theatre-goers, heedless of being frequently jostled by them.

The risk of going to any railway terminus in order to leave London was too great; for, I knew that the police always keep watch on the railway-stations on receipt of such warning as had been given. A man had been shot dead in Bloomsbury Square, and the supposed murderer—I—was being actively sought for!

Suddenly an idea crashed through my brain, and, turning back, I joined the throng, entered the Tube station again, and requested a ticket to Golder’s Green.

In due course, I arrived there, walked out, turned to the left, and continued along the high-road leading northward.

It was still raining heavily and my coat was soon very wet. I had upon me, very fortunately, a blank check—for it is my habit always to keep one with my cigarettes, in case of emergency—as well as about twenty pounds in Treasury notes, which I had received at the gaming-house as balance of the check I had given there.

I suppose I had gone about half a mile when I came across a small public-house, before which stood a heavy lorry marked “Osborne, Nottingham.” The driver, no doubt, was inside, having a final drink before starting out on his night drive.

I loitered about until, at last, he emerged, a thin-faced young man, clad heavily in an old leather motor-coat, evidently a relic of war days, smoking a cigarette.

“Good evening,” I exclaimed, “May I speak to you a moment?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied politely.

“Well, I want you to do me a favor,” I hastened to say, “You’re going north, aren’t you?”

“Yes. To Wolverhampton,” he returned.

“Will you let me come with you? I’ll make it worth your while to take me,” I suggested.

He regarded me suspiciously beneath the light of the street-lamp. I was in a soaked condition. No doubt he was surprised at being accosted by a man in rain-sodden evening-clothes, who begged a lift on his night drive to the Midlands.

I noticed his hesitation and added:

“I’ll tell you the reason on the way. I’ve made a fool of myself and I want to get away from London. The fact is that I’ve run foul of the racing crowd—and they’re after me.”

“Ah! I’ve read in the papers how a set of race-course roughs are going about, trying to ‘do in’ people who object to their ways,” he said. “Yes, sir, I’ll give you a lift. But you’re a bit wet, ain’t you?”

“A little bit,” I laughed. Whereupon he climbed into the covered lorry and produced an old overcoat, which he bade me exchange for my wet one, and a spare cap which I put on in place of my crush hat. In that moment I was already disguised as a lorry-driver, and a few minutes later we moved away, along the broad, wet high-road, in the direction of Barnet.

In the first hour that I sat at his side gossiping, I was ignorant that we were not alone, until he casually mentioned:

“My mate, Dick, is having a good snooze inside. He drove to London to-day, and I’m driving back. We do this trip three days a week.”

Then I realized that inside the lorry, which was half-filled with wooden cases, apparently from the docks, there was lying, upon a heap of tarpaulin, the figure of a young man, deep in sleep. This was somewhat disconcerting. I had to reckon with two men keeping their mouths shut next day when the papers would give an account of the tragedy in Bloomsbury. On the other hand, I had further design than that of travel—that of disguise.

As we went along to St. Albans, I related to the driver a fantastic story of how I had denounced a small bookmaker, and thereby, quite unconsciously had brought upon myself what I feared was a vendetta. I had had secret warning that something serious was to happen to me, and I had thought flight the most discreet course to adopt.

My story was, of course, a very lame one, but the young man, being fond of racing, listened to me intently, because, fortunately for me, three members of a racing gang, only a few days before had been given heavy sentences at the Old Bailey.

We had traveled perhaps forty odd miles when the sleeping Dick awakened and seemed greatly surprised to find that they had a passenger. After he had slipped in between us, his friend explained the reason of my presence, hinting that I had promised a reward for their assistance.

“Yes,” I said. “For certain reasons I don’t want my friends to know anything. You may think I’m a crook, but I assure you I’m not. In these evening-clothes I might be even a cat-burglar.”

Both men laughed.

“Well, I’m not!” I said. “But if you fellows will keep a still tongue, I’ll give you five pounds each at the end of the run, and if one of you will sell your clothes to me, I’ll give you money to buy a new suit—what shall we say—seven pounds?”

A brief silence fell.

“Make it a tenner, guv’nor, and you can have mine,” Dick said. “You’re about my build.”

“Very well,” I replied. “Let’s both get into the back and change.”

My companion, the driver, laughed heartily as we both crept into the back among the cases, and there, while we were traveling, we exchanged clothes.

“What’ll your wife say when you arrive home in the morning dressed as a gentleman—eh, Dick?” shouted the driver, turning his head back a moment.

“She’ll think I’ve come into a fortune when I give her a couple o’ quid,” laughed his pal, as he drew off his trousers and handed them to me in return for mine.

“You fellows won’t utter a word. Promise me!” I shouted.

“Of course we won’t, sir,” both assured me, setting me considerably at my ease.

Up to that moment I had been full of fear lest the driver, suspecting me, and desirous of being in the good graces of the police, might pull up before a constable and express his suspicions. In that case, my only chance of escape would have gone, with only ruin before me.

While traveling over that interminable wet road in that lumbering lorry, I had realized the scandal which must ensue if I were hauled before a magistrate, and the scene with the flashy daughter of the night described by her! Her enmity, turning upon me as she had done, would result in a charge of wilful murder!

I thought of dear Joan. What would she think? How would she judge me?

At last I had changed my evening-clothes for the garb of a lorry-driver, a decent, gray tweed suit of cheap material, fairly good boots, a thick, well-worn overcoat, and a rather greasy, brown golf-cap, while, in the uncertain light of the candle-end he had lit, he presented a grotesque figure in my crumpled shirt, with its two attractive studs, his black tie awry, and his collar limp with the rain.

“Pull up and look at me, Teddy!” he shouted to my acquaintance, the driver.

Teddy slowed down, put on the brakes, and came to a standstill on the brow of a hill. Then, turning to look in, exclaimed:

“By gum! You look a real treat! Going to the theatre—aw!”

Meanwhile, Dick produced from beneath the tarpaulin upon which he had been sleeping, two bottles of beer, one of which he handed to me. Then, after taking a swift draught from the other bottle, he handed it to his mate.

“I wonder if old boss-eye has left one out for us as usual,” remarked Teddy, wiping the mouth of the bottle and handing it back to his fellow-driver. Then, turning to me, he said:

“Old boss-eye keeps the Hen and Chickens, five miles before we gets to Coventry, and on the nights he knows we’re passing he leaves out a bottle for us underneath a bush. We’ll take a look and see if it’s there as we pass.”

Dick and I crawled over the cases and resumed our seats, while Teddy put in the clutch, and we moved off again.

At the Hen and Chickens the men found the beer and drank it between them. Day was breaking when at last we rumbled through Coventry, and I confess I had then had sufficient jolting; for, being accustomed to a well-sprung car, my limbs ached and I felt very tired.

My companions, however, were a humorous pair. During the night Dick had assumed my crush hat which he wore jauntily as he took the wheel for a spell. The effect was humorous. But no policeman on the road noticed it. For several hours I had been planning the best way to avoid detection. At length I decided to leave the lorry at Birmingham, have breakfast, and then make further plans.

Therefore, when we arrived just outside the city, I redeemed my promise of payment. At the end of New Street they drew up for me to dismount. Swearing secrecy, they bade me farewell, and drove on to their destination.

And now relating what actually occurred to me, without concealing anything, I here lay bare the solemn truth—facts which, I venture to believe, the readers of this strange chronicle will find astounding—even amazing.

In any case, they shed light on the calamities that can befall any man who roams the London streets after nightfall, alone.

CHAPTER TWO. THREADS OF IRON