Thomas Godfrey (Ed) (75 page)

Florence Cookham excelled herself
that evening. Her guests were exhorted “to be young again,” with the inevitable
result that Underhill contained a company of irritated and exhausted people
long before midnight.

One of her ladyship’s more erroneous
beliefs was that she was a born organizer, and that the real secret of
entertaining people lay in giving everyone something to do. Thus Lance and the
R. A. —now even more startled-looking than ever—found themselves superintending
the decoration of the great tree, while the girl with the brandy-ball eyes
conducted a small informal dance in the drawing room, the lady novelist scowled
over the bridge table, and the ballet star refused flatly to arrange amateur
theatricals.

Only two people remained exempt from
this tyranny. One was Sir Philip himself, who looked in every now and again,
ready to plead urgent work awaiting him in his study whenever his wife pounced
upon him, and the other was Mr. Campion, who had work to do on his own account
and had long mastered the difficult art of self-effacement. Experience had
taught him that half the secret of this maneuver was to keep discreetly on the
move and he strolled from one part to another, always ready to look as if he
belonged to any one of them should his hostess’s eye ever come to rest upon him
inquiringly.

For once his task was comparatively
simple. Florence was in her element as she rushed about surrounded by
breathless assistants, and at one period the very air in her vicinity seemed to
have become thick with colored paper wrappings, yards of red ribbons, and a
colored snowstorm of little address tickets as she directed the packing of the
presents for the Tenants’ Tree, a second monster which stood in the ornamental
barn beyond the kitchens.

Campion left Lance to his fate,
which promised to be six or seven hours’ hard labor at the most moderate
estimate, and continued his purposeful meandering. His lean figure drifted
among the company with an apparent aimlessness which was deceptive. There was
hidden urgency in his lazy movements and his pale eyes behind his spectacles
were inquiring and unhappy.

He found Patricia Bullard dancing
with Preen, and paused to watch them as they swung gracefully by him. The man
was in a somewhat flamboyant mood, flashing his smile and his noisy witticisms
about him after the fashion of his kind, but the girl was not so content. As
Campion caught sight of her pale face over her partner’s sleek shoulder his
eyebrows rose. For an instant he almost believed in Lance’s unlikely
suggestion. The girl actually did look as though she had her back to the wall.
She was watching the doorway nervously and her shiny eyes were afraid.

Campion looked about him for the
other young man who should have been present, but Peter Groome was not in the
ballroom, nor in the great hall, nor yet among the bridge tables in the drawing
room, and half an hour later he had still not put in an appearance.

Campion was in the hall himself when
he saw Patricia slip into the anteroom which led to Sir Philip’s private study,
that holy of holies which even Florence treated with a wholesome awe. Campion had
paused for a moment to enjoy the spectacle of Lance, wild eyed and tight
lipped, wrestling with the last of the blue glass balls and tinsel streamers on
the Guests’ Tree, when he caught sight of the flare of her silver skirt
disappearing round a familiar doorway under one branch of the huge double
staircase.

It was what he had been waiting for.
and yet when it came his disappointment was unexpectedly acute, for he too had
liked her smile and her brandy-ball eyes. The door was ajar when he reached it,
and he pushed it open an inch or so farther, pausing on the threshold to
consider the scene within. Patricia was on her knees before the paneled door
which led into the inner room and was trying somewhat ineffectually to peer
through the keyhole.

Campion stood looking at her
regretfully, and when she straightened herself and paused to listen, with every
line of her young body taut with the effort of concentration, he did not move.

Sir Philip’s voice amid the noisy
chatter behind him startled him, however, and he swung round to see the old man
talking to a group on the other side of the room. A moment later the girl
brushed past him and hurried away.

Campion went quietly into the
anteroom. The study door was still closed and he moved over to the enormous
period fireplace which stood beside it. This particular fireplace, with its
carved and painted front, its wrought iron dogs and deeply recessed inglenooks,
was one of the showpieces of Underhill.

At the moment the fire had died down
and the interior of the cavern was dark, warm and inviting. Campion stepped
inside and sat down on the oak settee, where the shadows swallowed him. He had
no intention of being unduly officious, but his quick ears had caught a faint
sound in the inner room and Sir Philip’s private sanctum was no place for
furtive movements when its master was out of the way. He had not long to wait.

A few moments later the study door
opened very quietly and someone came out. The newcomer moved across the room
with a nervous, unsteady tread, and paused abruptly, his back to the quiet
figure in the inglenook. Campion recognized Peter Groome and his thin mouth
narrowed. He was sorry. He had liked the boy.

The youngster stood irresolute. He
had his hands behind him, holding in one of them a flamboyant parcel wrapped in
the colored paper and scarlet ribbon which littered the house. A sound from the
hall seemed to fluster him for he spun round, thrust the parcel into the inglenook
which was the first hiding place to present itself, and returned to face the
new arrival. It was the girl again. She came slowly across the room, her hands
outstretched and her face raised to Peter’s.

In view of everything, Campion
thought it best to stay where he was, nor had he time to do anything else. She
was speaking urgently, passionate sincerity in her low voice.

“Peter, I’ve been looking for you.
Darling, there’s something I’ve got to say and if I’m making an idiotic mistake
then you’ve got to forgive me. Look here, you wouldn’t go and do anything
silly, would you? Would you, Peter? Look at me.”

“My dear girl.” He was laughing
unsteadily and not very convincingly with his arms around her. “What on earth
are you talking about?”

She drew back from him and peered
earnestly into his face.

“You wouldn’t, would you? Not even
if it meant an awful lot. Not even if for some reason or other you felt you
had
to. Would you?”

He turned from her helplessly, a
great weariness in the lines of his sturdy back, but she drew him round,
forcing him to face her.

“Would he what, my dear?”

Florence’s arch inquiry from the
doorway separated them so hurriedly that she laughed delightedly and came
briskly into the room, her gray curls a trifle disheveled and her draperies
flowing.

“Too divinely young, I love it!” she
said devastatingly. “I must kiss you both. Christmas is the time for love and
youth and all the other dear charming things, isn’t it? That’s why I adore it.
But my dears, not here. Not in this silly poky little room. Come along and help
me, both of you, and then you can slip away and dance together later on. But
don’t come in this room. This is Philip’s dull part of the house. Come along
this minute. Have you seen my precious tree? Too incredibly distinguished, my
darlings, with two great artists at work on it. You shall both tie on a candle.
Come along.”

She swept them away like an
avalanche. No protest was possible. Peter shot a single horrified glance
towards the fireplace, but Florence was gripping his arm; he was thrust out
into the hall and the door closed firmly behind him.

Campion was left in his corner with
the parcel less than a dozen feet away from him on the opposite bench. He moved
over and picked it up. It was a long flat package wrapped in holly-printed
tissue. Moreover, it was unexpectedly heavy and the ends were unbound.

He turned it over once or twice,
wrestling with a strong disinclination to interfere, but a vivid recollection
of the girl with the brandy-ball eyes, in her silver dress, her small pale face
alive with anxiety, made up his mind for him and, sighing, he pulled the
ribbon.

The typewritten folder which fell on
to his knees surprised him at first, for it was not at all what he had
expected, nor was its title, “Report on Messrs. Anderson and Coleridge, Messrs.
Saunders, Duval and Berry, and Messrs. Birmingham and Rose,” immediately
enlightening, and when he opened it at random a column of incomprehensible
figures confronted him. It was a scribbled pencil note in a precise hand at the
foot of one of the pages which gave him his first clue.

“These figures are estimated by us
to be a reliable forescast of this firm’s full working capacity,” he read, and
after that he became very serious indeed.

Two hours later it was bitterly cold
in the garden and a thin white mist hung over the dark shrubbery which lined
the drive when Mr. Campion, picking his way cautiously along the clipped grass
verge, came quietly down to the sundial walk. Behind him the gabled roofs of
Underhill were shadowy against a frosty sky. There were still a few lights in
the upper windows, but below stairs the entire place was in darkness.

Campion hunched his greatcoat about
him and plodded on, unwonted severity in the lines of his thin face.

He came upon the sundial walk at last
and paused, straining his eyes to see through the mist. He made out the figure
standing by the stone column, and heaved a sigh of relief as he recognized the
jaunty shoulders of the Christmas tree decorator. Lance’s incurable romanticism
was going to be useful at last, he reflected with wry amusement.

He did not join his friend but
withdrew into the shadows of a great clump of rhododendrons and composed
himself to wait. He intensely disliked the situation in which he found himself.
Apart from the extreme physical discomfort involved, he had a natural aversion
towards the project on hand, but little fairhaired girls with shiny eyes can be
very appealing.

It was a freezing vigil. He could
hear Lance stamping about in the mist, swearing softly to himself, and even
that supremely comic phenomenon had its unsatisfactory side.

They were both shivering and the
mist’s damp fingers seemed to have stroked their very bones when at last
Campion stiffened. He had heard a rustle behind him and presently there was a
movement in the wet leaves, followed by the sharp ring of feet on the stones.
Lance swung round immediately, only to drop back in astonishment as a tall
figure bore down.

“Where is it?”

Neither the words nor the voice came
as a complete surprise to Campion, but the unfortunate Lance was taken entirely
off his guard.

“Why, hello, Preen,” he said
involuntarily. “What the devil are you doing here?”

The newcomer had stopped in his
tracks, his face a white blur in the uncertain light. For a moment he stood perfectly
still and then, turning on his heel, he made off without a word.

“Ah, but I’m afraid it’s not quite
so simple as that, my dear chap.”

Campion stepped out of his friendly
shadows and as the younger man passed, slipped an arm through his and swung him
round to face the startled Lance, who was coming up at the double.

“You can’t clear off like this,” he
went on, still in the same affable, conversational tone. “You have something to
give Peter Groome, haven’t you? Something he rather wants?”

“Who the hell are you?” Preen jerked
up his arm as he spoke and might have wrenched himself free had it not been for
Lance, who had recognized Campion’s voice and, although completely in the dark,
was yet quick enough to grasp certain essentials.

“That’s right, Preen,” he said,
seizing the man’s other arm in a bear’s hug. “Hand it over. Don’t be a fool.
Hand it over.”

This line of attack appeared to be
inspirational, since they felt the powerful youngster stiffen between them.

“Look here, how many people know
about this?”

“The world—” Lance was beginning
cheerfully when Campion forestalled him.

“We three and Peter Groome,” he said
quietly. “At the moment Sir Philip has no idea that Messr. Preen s curiosity
concerning the probable placing of government orders for aircraft parts has
overstepped the bounds of common sense. You’re acting alone, I suppose?”

“Oh, lord, yes, of course.” Preen
was cracking dangerously. “If my old man gets to hear of this I—oh, well, I
might as well go and crash.”

“I thought so.” Campion sounded
content. “Your father has a reputation to consider. So has our young friend
Groome. You’d better hand it over.”

“What?”

“Since you force me to be vulgar
whatever it was you were attempting to use as blackmail, my precious young
friend,” he said. “Whatever it may be, in fact, that you hold over young Groome
and were trying to use in your attempt to force him to let you have a look at a
confidential government report concerning the orders which certain aircraft
firms were likely to receive in the next six months. In your position you could
have made pretty good use of them, couldn’t you? Frankly, I haven’t the
faintest idea what this incriminating document may be. When I was young,
objectionably wealthy youths accepted I. O. U. ‘s from their poorer companions,
but now that’s gone out of fashion. What’s the modern equivalent? An R. D.
check, I suppose?”