Part 15 (1/2)
At the sight of that poisonous place all the old bitterness welled up in me afresh. For a moment even my freedom seemed to have lost its sweetness, and I sat there with my hands clenched and black resentment in my heart, staring out of those grim unlovely walls. It was lucky for George that he was not with me in the carriage just then, for I think I should have wrung his neck without troubling about any explanations.
I was awakened from these pleasant reflections by a sudden blare of light and noise on each side of the train. I sat up abruptly, with a sort of guilty feeling that I had been on the verge of betraying myself, and letting down the window, found that we were steaming slowly into Paddington Station. In the farther corner of the carriage my distinguished friend Sir George Frinton was beginning to collect his belongings.
I just had time to pull myself together when the train stopped, and out of the waiting line of porters a man stepped forward and flung open the carriage door. He was about to possess himself of my fellow pa.s.senger's bag when the latter waved him aside.
”You can attend to this gentleman,” he said. ”My own servant is somewhere on the platform.” Then turning to me, he added courteously: ”I wish you good-day, sir. I am pleased to have made your acquaintance. I trust that we shall have the mutual pleasure of meeting again.”
I shook hands with him gravely. ”I hope we shall,” I replied. ”It will be a distinction that I shall vastly appreciate.”
And of all unconscious prophecies that were ever launched, I fancy this one was about the most accurate.
Preceded by the porter carrying my bag, I crossed the platform and stepped into a waiting taxi.
”Where to, sir?” inquired the man.
I had a sudden wild impulse to say: ”Drive me to George,” but I checked it just in time.
”You had better drive me slowly along Oxford Street,” I said. ”I want to stop at one or two shops.”
The man started the engine and, climbing back into his seat, set off with a jerk up the slope. I lay back in the corner, and took in a long, deep, exulting breath. I was in London--in London at last--and if those words don't convey to you the kind of savage satisfaction that filled my soul you must be as deficient in imagination as a prison governor.
CHAPTER IX
THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
My shopping took me quite a little while. There were a lot of things I wanted to get, and I saw no reason for hurrying--especially as McMurtrie was paying for the taxi. I stopped at Selfridge's and laid in a small but nicely chosen supply of s.h.i.+rts, socks, collars, and other undergarments, and then, drifting slowly on, picked up at intervals some cigars, a couple of pairs of boots, and a presentable Homburg hat.
The question of a suit of clothes was the only problem that offered any real difficulties. Apart from the fact that Savaroff's suit was by no means in its first youth, I had a strong objection to wearing his infernal things a moment longer than I could help. I was determined to have a decently cut suit as soon as possible, but I knew that it would be a week at least before any West End tailor would finish the job. In the meantime I wanted something to go on with, and in my extremity I suddenly remembered a place in Wardour Street where four or five years before I had once hired a costume for a Covent Garden ball.
I told the man to drive me there, and much to my relief found the shop still in existence. There was no difficulty about getting what I wanted. The proprietor had a large selection of what he called ”West End Misfits,” amongst which were several tweeds and blue serge suits big enough even for my somewhat unreasonable proportions. I chose the two that fitted me best, and then bought a second-hand suit-case to pack them away in.
I had spent about fifteen pounds, which seemed to me as much as a fifty-pound capitalist had any right to squander on necessities. I therefore returned to the taxi and, arranging my parcels on the front seat, instructed the man to drive me down to the address that McMurtrie had given me.
Pimlico was a part of London that I had not patronized extensively in the days of my freedom, and I was rather in the dark about the precise situation of Edith Terrace. The taxi-man, however, seemed to suffer under no such handicap. He drove me straight to Victoria, and then, taking the road to the left of the station, turned off into a neighbourhood of dreary-looking streets and squares, all bearing a dismal aspect of having seen better days.
Edith Terrace was, if anything, slightly more depressing than the rest. It consisted of a double row of gaunt, untidy houses, from which most of the original stucco had long since peeled away. Quiet enough it certainly was, for along its whole length we pa.s.sed only one man, who was standing under a street lamp, lighting a cigarette. He looked up as we went by, and for just one instant I had a clear view of his face. Except for a scar on the cheek he was curiously like one of the warders at Princetown, and for that reason I suppose this otherwise trifling incident fixed itself in my mind. It is funny on what queer chances one's fate sometimes hangs.
We pulled up at Number 3 and, mounting some not very recently cleaned steps, I gave a brisk tug at a dilapidated bell-handle. After a minute I heard the sound of shuffling footsteps; then the door opened and a funny-looking little old woman stood blinking and peering at me from the threshold.
”How do you do?” I said cheerfully. ”Are you Mrs. Oldbury?”
She gave a kind of spasmodic jerk, that may have been intended for a curtsey.
”Yes, sir,” she said. ”I'm Mrs. Oldbury; and you'd be the gentleman I'm expectin'--Dr. McMurtrie's gentleman?”
This seemed an accurate if not altogether flattering description of me, so I nodded my head.
”That's right,” I said. ”I'm Mr. Nicholson.” Then, as the heavily laden taxi-man staggered up the steps, I added: ”And these are my belongings.”
With another bob she turned round, and leading the way into the house opened a door on the right-hand side of the pa.s.sage.