The Zeppelin's Passenger. E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.
a change,” Sir Henry declared. “The only thing is that if you strike a shoal one gets tired of hauling the beggars in. By-the-by, has Jimmy been up for me, Philippa? Have you heard whether there are any mackerel in?”
Philippa raised her eyebrows.
“Mackerel!” she repeated sarcastically.
“Have you any objection to the fish, dear?” Sir Henry enquired blandly.
Philippa made no reply. Her husband frowned and turned towards Lessingham.
“You see,” he complained a little irritably, “my wife doesn't approve of my taking an interest even in fishing while the war's on, but, hang it all, what are you to do when you reach my age? Thinks I ought to be a special constable, don't you, Philippa?”
“Need we discuss this before Mr. Lessingham?” she asked, without looking up from her paper.
Lessingham promptly prepared to take his departure.
“See something more of you, I hope,” Sir Henry remarked hospitably, as he conducted his guest to the door. “Where are you staying here?”
“At the hotel.”
“Which?”
“I did not understand that there was more than one,” Lessingham replied. “I simply wrote to The Hotel, Dreymarsh.”
“There is only one hotel open, of course, Mr. Lessingham,” Philippa observed, turning towards him. “Why do you ask such an absurd question, Henry? The 'Grand' is full of soldiers. Come and see us whenever you feel inclined, Mr. Lessingham.”
“I shall certainly take advantage of your permission, Lady Cranston,” were the farewell words of this unusual visitor as he bowed himself out.
Sir Henry moved to the sideboard and helped himself to a whisky and soda. Philippa laid down her newspaper and watched him as though waiting patiently for his return. Helen and Nora had already obeyed the summons of the dressing bell.
“Henry, I want to hear your news,” she insisted. He threw himself into an easy-chair and turned over the contents of Philippa's workbasket.
“Where's that tie of mine you were mending?” he asked. “Is it finished yet?”
“It is upstairs somewhere,” she replied. “No, I have not finished it. Why do you ask? You have plenty, haven't you?”
“Drawers full,” he admitted cheerfully. “Half of them I can never wear, though. I like that black and white fellow. Your friend Lessingham was wearing one exactly like it.”
“It isn't exactly an uncommon pattern,” Philippa reminded him.
“Seems to have the family taste in clothes,” Sir Henry continued, stroking his chin. “That grey tweed suit of his was exactly the same pattern as the suit Richard was wearing, the last time I saw him in mufti.”
“They probably go to the same tailor,” Philippa remarked equably.
Sir Henry abandoned the subject. He was once more engrossed in an examination of the mackerel spinners.
“You didn't answer my question about Jimmy Dumble,” he ventured presently.
Philippa turned and looked at him. Her eyes were usually very sweet and soft and her mouth delightful. Just at that moment, however, there were new and very firm lines in her face.
“Henry,” she said sternly, “you are purposely fencing with me. Mr. Lessingham's taste in clothes, or Jimmy Dumble's comings and goings, are not what I want to hear or talk about. You went to London, unwillingly enough, to keep your promise to me. I want to know whether you have succeeded in getting anything from the Admiralty?”
“Nothing but the cold shoulder, my dear,” he answered with a little chuckle.
“Do you mean to say that they offered you nothing at all?” she persisted. “You may have been out of the service too long for them to start you with a modern ship, but surely they could have given you an auxiliary cruiser, or a secondary command of some sort?”
“They didn't even offer me a washtub, dear,” he confessed. “My name's on a list, they said—”
“Oh, that list!” Philippa interrupted angrily. “Henry, I really can't bear it. Couldn't they find you anything on land?”
“My dear girl,” he replied a little testily, “what sort of a figure should I cut in an office! No one can read my writing, and I couldn't add up a column of figures to save my life. What is it?” he added, as the door opened, and Mills made his appearance.
“Dumble is here to see you, sir.”
“Show him in at once,” his master directed with alacrity. “Come in, Jimmy,” he went on, raising his voice. “I've got something to show you here.”
Philippa's lips were drawn a little closer together. She swept past her husband on her way to the door.
“I hope you will be so good,” she said, looking back, “as to spare me half an hour of your valuable time this evening. This is a subject which I must discuss with you further at once.”
“As urgent as all that, eh?” Sir Henry replied, stopping to light a cigarette. “Righto! You can have the whole of my evening, dear, with the greatest of pleasure.—Now then, Jimmy!”
CHAPTER VI
Jimmy Dumble possessed a very red face and an extraordinary capacity for silence. He stood a yard or two inside the room, twirling his hat in his hand. Sir Henry, after the closing of the door, did not for a moment address his visitor. There was a subtle but unmistakable change in his appearance as he stood with his hands in his pockets, and a frown on his forehead, whistling softly to himself, his eyes fixed upon the door through which his wife had vanished. He swung round at last towards the telephone.
“Stand by for a moment, Jimmy, will you?” he directed.
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Sir Henry took up the receiver. He dropped his voice a little, although it was none the less distinct.
“Number one—police-station, please.—Hullo there! The inspector about?—That you, Inspector?—Sir Henry Cranston speaking. Could you just step round?—Good! Tell them to show you straight into the library. You might just drop a hint to Mills about the lights, eh? Thank you.”
He laid down the receiver and turned towards the fisherman.
“Well, Jimmy,” he enquired, “all serene down in the village, eh?”
“So far as I've seen or heard, sir, there ain't been a word spoke as shouldn't be.”
“A lazy lot they are,” Sir Henry observed.
“They don't look far beyond the end of their noses.”
“Maybe it's as well for us, sir, as they don't,” was the cautious reply.
Sir Henry strolled to the further end of the room.
“Perhaps you are right, Jimmy,” he admitted.
“That fellow Ben Oates seems to be the only one with ideas.”
“He don't keep sober long enough to give us any trouble,” Dumble declared. “He began asking me questions a few days ago, and I know he put Grice's lad on to find out which way we went last Saturday week, but that don't amount to anything. He was dead drunk for three days afterwards.”
Sir Henry nodded.
“I'm not very frightened of Ben Oates, Jimmy,”