Okewood of the Secret Service Part 32

"Isn't that a car?" he asked, "that'll be they. I sent Max to Wentfield station to meet our friends!"

There was the sound of voices, of bustle in the hall. Then the door opened and a man came in. Desmond had a brief moment of acute suspense. Was he supposed to know him?

He was a short, ugly fellow with immensely broad shoulders, a heavy puffy face, a gross, broad nose, and a tooth-brush moustache. He might have been a butcher to look at. In the top edge of his coat lapel, he wore a small black pin with a gla.s.s head.

"Well, Max," said Mortimer. "Have you brought them all?"

The man was mustering Desmond with a suspicious, unfriendly stare.

"My friend, Bellward!" said Mortimer, clapping Desmond on the shoulder. "You've heard of Bellward, Max!"

And to Desmond's surprise he made some pa.s.ses in the air.

The man's mien underwent a curious change. He became cringing; almost overawed.

"Reelly," he grunted, "reelly now! You don't siy! Glad to know yer, mister, I'm sh.o.r.e!"

He spoke with a vile snuffing c.o.c.kney accent, and thrust out his hand to Desmond. Then he added to Mortimer:

"There's three on 'em. That's the count, ain't it? I lef' the car outside on the drive!"

At this moment two more of the guests entered: One was a tall, emaciated looking man of about fifty who seemed to be in the last stages of consumption; the other a slightly built young fellow with a shock of black hair brushed back and an olive complexion.

He wore pince-nez and looked like a Russian revolutionary. They, too, wore the badge of the brotherhood--the black pin in the coat lapel.

"Goot efening, Mr. Mortimer," said the tall man in a guttural voice, "this is Behrend"--he indicated the young man by his side--"you haft not meet him no?"

Then, leaving Behrend to shake hands with Mortimer, he literally rushed at Desmond and shook him by the hand exactly as though he were working a pump handle.

"My tear Pellward," he cried, "it is a hondred year since I haf see you, not? And how are the powers!"

He lowered his voice and gazed mysteriously at him.

Desmond, at a loss what to make of this extraordinary individual, answered at random:

"The powers? Still fighting, I believe!"

The tall man stared open-mouthed at him for a moment. Then, clapping his hands together, he burst into a high-pitched cackle of laughter.

"A joke," he yelled, "a mos' excellent joke! I must tell this to Minna. My vriend, I haf not mean the great Powers."

He looked dramatically about him, then whispered:

"I mean, the oggult!"

Desmond, who was now quite out of his depth, wagged his head solemnly at the other as though to indicate that, his occult powers were something not to be lightly mentioned. He had no fear of the tall man, at any rate. He placed him as a very ordinary German, a common type in the Fatherland, simple-minded, pedantic, inquisitive, and a prodigious bore withal but dangerous, for of this stuff German discipline kneads militarists.

But the door opened again to admit the last of the guests. A woman entered. Desmond was immediately struck by the contrast she presented to the others, Mortimer with his goggle eyes and untidy hair, Max, gross and b.e.s.t.i.a.l, Behrend, Oriental and s.h.i.+fty, and the scarecrow figure of the tall man.

Despite her age, which must have been nearly sixty, she still retained traces of beauty. Her features were very regular, and she had a pair of piercing black eyes of undimmed brightness. Her gray hair was tastefully arranged, and she wore a becoming black velvet gown with a black lace scarf thrown across the shoulders.

A white silk rose was fastened to her bodice by a large black pin with a gla.s.s head.

Directly she appeared, the tall man shouted to her in German.

"Sag' mal, Minna..." he began.

Mortimer turned on him savagely.

"Hold your tongue, No. 13," he cried, "are you mad? What the devil do you mean by it? You know the rules!"

By way of reply, "No. 13" broke into a regular frenzy of coughing which left him gasping for breath.

"Pardon! I haf' forgot!" he wheezed out between the spasms.

The woman went over to Mortimer and put out tier gloved hand.

"I am Mrs. Malplaquet," she said in a pleasant voice. "And you are Mr. Mortimer, I think!"

Mortimer bowed low over her hand.

"Madame, I am charmed to meet one of whom I have heard nothing but praise," he said.

"Verry pretty!" replied Mrs. Malplaquet smiling. "They tell me you have a great way with the ladies, my dear sir!"

"But," she went on, "I am neglecting our host, my dear Mr.

Bellward. How are you, my friend? How well you are looking... so young... so fres.h.!.+ I declare you seem to have got five years younger!"

The keen black eyes searched Desmond's face. He felt horribly uncomfortable. The woman's eyes were like gimlets boring right into him. He suddenly felt that his disguise was a poor one. He remembered Crook's warning to be wary of women, and he inwardly quailed.

"I am so glad to meet you again!" he murmured. He didn't like Mrs. Malplaquet's eyes. They a.s.sorted strangely with the rest of her gentle and refined appearance. They were hard and cruel, those black eyes. Thy put him in mind of a snake.

"It is so long since I've seen you," she said, "that positively your voice seems to have changed."

"That's because I have a cold," said Desmond.

"Fiddlesticks!" retorted the lady, "the timbre is quite different! Bellward, I believe you're in love! Don't tell me you've been running after that hank of hair that Mortimer is so devoted to!" She glanced in Mortimer's direction, but that gentleman was engaged in earnest conversation with Behrend and the tall man.

"Whom do you meant" asked Desmond.

"Where are your eyes, man?" rapped out Mrs. Malplaquet. "The dancer woman, of course, Nur-el-what-do-you-call-it. There's the devil of a row brewing about the way our friend over there is neglecting us to run after the minx. They're getting sharp in this country, Bellward--I've lived here for forty years so I know what I'm talking about--and we can't afford to play any tricks.

Mortimer will finish by bringing destruction on every one of us.

And I shall tell him so tonight. And so will No. 13! And so will young Behrend! You ought to hear Behrend about it!"

Mrs. Malplaquet began to interest Desmond. She was obviously a woman of refinement, and he was surprised to find her in this odd company. By dint of careful questioning, he ascertained the fact that she lived in London, at a house on Campden Hill. She seemed to know a good many officers, particularly naval men.

"I've been keeping my eyes open as I promised, Bellward," she said, "and I believe I've got hold of a likely subject for you--a submarine commander he is, and very psychic. When will you come and meet him at my house?"

Mortimer's voice, rising above the buzz of conversation, checked his reply.