The Rain-Girl/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
THE PURSUIT TO FOLKESTONE
ON the morning following the meeting with Mrs. Crisp, Beresford was strolling down St. James's Street, still engaged upon the everlasting search, and speculating as to what had happened at the breakfast-party arranged on the previous night.
The idea of Drewitt and his Aunt Caroline going out to breakfast possessed an aspect of novelty and humour that appealed to him. He could see Drewitt finding in that meal a subject of complaint for months to come. In a way he pitied Hoskins. He could picture Drewitt keeping his man busy for the rest of the day in bringing fresh relays of coffee, and listening to his opinions on the mental capacity of those who allowed their gregarious instincts to triumph at the beginning of the day. Drewitt had always preached the doctrine that there should be no social intercourse before lunch.
Beresford paused at the bottom of St. James's Street to allow the stream of traffic to pass. Suddenly his heart started pounding with almost suffocating vigour. There in a taxi that was swinging round the curve was the Rain-Girl—alone. Beside the driver was some luggage. She was going away. In a flash he realised that this was his supreme opportunity.
With the wild look of a hunted man, he glanced about him. All the taxis were full. He could not hurl from one of them its occupants, and by threats make the driver follow that in which the Rain-Girl was seated. He could not ask some one to allow him to enter their vehicle, and instruct the driver to follow another taxi. They would think him mad. There seemed nothing for it but to follow on foot, to run for it.
The picture of a man in a top hat and morning-coat tearing down the Mall in pursuit of a taxi was bound to arouse comment, he told himself; yet there seemed nothing else to do. With a wild dash he got between two vehicles, his intention being to cut through St. James's Palace and thus save a corner. No doubt the Rain-Girl was making for Victoria. What irony of fate that he should be in the one spot in London where a taxi was most difficult to obtain!
Just as he was about to dive to the right, a taxi came out of the gates by St. James's Palace, bound northwards. It was empty. Dashing across to it he hailed the man.
"Swing round and drive to Victoria like hell, and I'll give you a sovereign."
Beresford jumped in as the man swung his vehicle round, amidst a perfect deluge of curses from a brother of the wheel, whose off mudguard he missed by a quarter of an inch. Beresford jammed his hat on the back of his head and, leaning out of the window, proceeded to urge the man to his utmost speed.
"What about the speed-limit, sir?" demanded the Jehu out of the corner of his mouth.
"Damn the speed-limit," yelled Beresford, causing the sentry pacing up and down outside St. James's Palace to stop suddenly and stare.
"Yes, that's all very well," grumbled the man.
"I'll pay fines and everything," said Beresford, "drive like hell."
Round the bend the man swung his cab into the middle of the Mall and let her rip. Beresford changed from the offside to the nearside, striving to get a glimpse of the Rain-Girl's taxi. Apparently it had disappeared. Had she gone in the other direction? For a moment he hesitated. Should he stop the man and turn back? Yet why should she be coming this way if she were not going to Victoria, or at least in that direction.
He strained his eyes and leaned far out of the window to see the other vehicles as they swung round by the Queen Victoria Memorial. Unconscious that he was attracting to himself the attention, not only of the occupants of the taxis he overtook, but of the passers-by, Beresford continued to watch and to despair. She had gone. Disappeared into thin air. What luck, what rotten luck! Probably she had gone away for
Suddenly he withdrew his head and plumped himself down on to the seat, and with his stick nearly broke the glass in front of him. The man looked round as if he had been shot. Beresford motioned him to ease up. There a few yards in front of him was the Rain-Girl's taxi, which had been obscured by a large car.
When the man had slowed down, Beresford put his head out of the window.
"Follow that taxi with the girl in it," he said.
"Right-o, sir," said the man with a wink.
Beresford leaned back, conscious for the first time of the strain of the last few minutes. He felt weak and giddy, and recalled Tallis' injunction to avoid anything in the nature of excitement. Avoid the Rain-Girl! He laughed. At last he was on her track. Where she went he would go. He watched her taxi as one hypnotised.
As it approached Victoria Station he saw the driver turn and make an enquiry, then he swung out to the left and made for the South-Eastern Station, Beresford's man keeping about twenty yards behind. As his taxi drew up, the Rain-Girl was just getting out of hers. Yes, there was no room for doubt, it was she. A porter was hurling her luggage on to a truck and apparently counselling haste. She was late, obviously.
Immediately she had turned to follow her porter, Beresford jumped out and, handing the taxi-man two one-pound notes, followed her, leaving the man inarticulate.
Yes, there was undoubtedly reason for haste, the porter was dashing along, the Rain-Girl keeping up with him. As she went she fumbled in her bag, obviously for her ticket. How well she walked, he decided. She passed through the barrier, the guard was looking in her direction shouting. In his hand was a green flag ready to be unfurled.
Making a dash for the barrier, Beresford shouted something about it being a matter of life or death that he should catch that train. He pushed a note into the ticket-collector's hand, dashed through and had hurled himself into a first-class compartment just as the train began to move. With a feeling of relief he noticed that the compartment was empty.
As he leaned back panting, more from excitement than loss of breath, he was conscious of a feeling of triumph. His search had not been in vain. Somewhere in that train was the Rain-Girl. He would watch carefully at each station, and where she left the train he would leave it. What luck, what astounding luck! Would she recognise him? What was he to do if
"Where for, sir?"
He looked up suddenly. A guard was looking down at him from the door leading into the corridor.
"Er—er" he began, then paused. "I haven't got a ticket. I only just caught it as it was. I told the collector I would pay on the train."
"Yes, sir, where for?" asked the guard, bringing a receipt book out of his satchel.
Where for! Where was he for? Where on earth was the train going to? There had been no time to enquire. He could not say that he was going as far as the Rain-Girl went, the man would in all probability have him put out at the next station as a lunatic. Suddenly he had an inspiration.
"All the way," he said casually.
"To Paris, sir?" interrogated the man.
To Paris! Was she going to Paris? What on earth should he do in Paris with not so much as a tooth-brush? It was bad enough to be travelling in a continental train in a top hat and a morning-coat
"Did you say Paris, sir?" enquired the guard.
Beresford nodded. If she got out on the way he could do likewise. It was always possible to terminate a journey at an intermediate station. Suppose she were going to stay with friends at a small French town, or at some station between London and Dover, or Folkestone, whichever way the train went. Sometimes these trains stopped at odd stations, he told himself. What on earth should he do on a country platform in a top hat?
"Did you get your luggage in the van all right, sir?" enquired the guard civilly.
His luggage? Oh, damn it! Why were people so infernally interested in the affairs of others? Why should it be assumed that because a man was going to Paris he required to carry luggage? All that was necessary could be bought there, surely? What on earth was he to tell this man? Then he decided to risk telling the truth.
"I'm afraid I haven't got any luggage, guard," he said, looking up with a smile and handing the man five one-pound notes. "Keep the change," he said casually.
"Thank you, sir," said the guard, still standing half in the carriage, as if Beresford's remark required some explanation.
"I saw a friend coming by this train and—and" he hesitated.
"I understand, sir," said the man without the flicker of a smile. "If I can help you, sir," he added significantly, "perhaps you would like to take a walk through the train and see if you can find her."
"Her!" There was a vast fund of humanity in this guard. Beresford looked at him.
"If you tell me what she is like, sir, perhaps I can find out where she's going. I've got to examine all the tickets."
"What a brainy idea," exclaimed Beresford, looking up at the man in admiration. "She's dark, and she was wearing a long, browny-grey sort of coat, you know."
The man nodded.
"And" he hesitated. "What the devil did she have on her head?"
"A hat, sir?" suggested the guard.
Beresford looked up and laughed. "I'm blessed if I know what you would call it, guard. It was a round thing, browny-grey too, with some yellow on it like a candle-snuffer, you know, the hat I mean."
Again the man nodded comprehendingly. He was a most unusual guard, Beresford decided.
"I'll be back in about twenty minutes, sir," said the man, and he disappeared.
Beresford lighted a cigarette and, putting his hat and stick on the rack, leaned back and smoked contentedly. This was indeed a day of happenings. Not only had he found the Rain-Girl; but he had stumbled across an official who clearly ought to have been in the diplomatic service. The Foreign Office was notoriously lacking in diplomatists. Tact was as little likely to be found there as in a nagging wife; yet here was a man, an ordinary guard on the South-Eastern and Chatham Railway, who combined the discretion of a Lord Chesterfield with the tact of a rising politician. It promised to be a wonderful day.
Presently the guard returned and, with perfect composure of feature, informed Beresford that there were two ladies answering to his description, one was bound for Folkestone, and the man rather thought that this must be the one, and the other for Boulogne.
"So I had better change your ticket, sir?" he suggested.
This man was indeed a paragon, not only of discretion, but of economy. Beresford handed him the slip.
"Make it out to the station I get out at," he said, "and keep the difference for yourself."
"Thank you, sir," said the guard gratefully. "And now, would you like to see the ladies?" His tone was that of a landlady inquiring if a potential lodger would like to see the rooms.
"See them!" repeated Beresford dully. Then he added quickly, "of course; yes, guard; but—but"
"I'll point out the compartments, sir. I don't think you need be seen," he remarked, anticipating Beresford's objection.
"Right!" he said as he rose and followed the guard along the corridor.
Presently he paused to let Beresford come up with him. "One of them's in the third compartment of the next carriage at the further window," he whispered.
Beresford nodded, conscious that his heart was again pounding like a hammer.
"It's the Folkestone lady, sir," added the guard.
Again Beresford nodded and proceeded along the corridor. When he arrived at the third compartment he was almost too nervous to look in. A glance sufficed to show him that it was, indeed, the Rain-Girl sitting at the further corner, gazing out at the bricks-and-mortar that was now giving place to green fields.
Beresford nodded to the guard to indicate that the search need not be proceeded with. The man indicated a compartment of the same carriage in which the Rain-Girl sat.
"Perhaps you'd like to sit here, sir," he said. "I'll fetch your hat and stick."
Until that moment Beresford was unconscious of having left them behind him; but then there was no need to remember anything with so able a henchman.
Once more he threw himself down into a corner-seat, and, when the guard had carefully, almost reverently, placed his hat and stick on the rack above him, Beresford found himself faced with the problem of what he was to do on arriving at Folkestone. Obviously the first thing was to secure a vehicle, preferably a taxi, and instruct the driver to follow the Rain-Girl. Once he had discovered where she was going, he could decide upon his course of action.
At Folkestone he was one of the first to leave the train. He had no difficulty in securing a taxi. His request for the hood to be put up seemed likely to produce trouble, the man was obviously of the opinion that his fare was a lunatic; but the promise of double fare mollified the Jehu's grumblings, and achieved Beresford's object. Out of sight he sat and watched. Presently the Rain-Girl emerged, followed by a porter. She, too, chose a taxi, which a minute later drew out, and Beresford instructed his man to follow it.
At last he felt that he had achieved his object. Nothing short of some unforeseen accident could now intervene. He hoped the tyres of his vehicle were all right, and that the man had an ample supply of petrol. As the taxi turned on to the Leas, Beresford decided that the Rain-Girl was going to the Imperial. As a matter of fact there was nowhere else for a taxi taking that direction to go. His own driver, taking his instructions literally, drew up within half a yard of the Rain-Girl's vehicle. Beresford cursed him under his breath, and strove to squeeze himself out of sight. The man evidently appreciated the situation, as he showed no surprise at Beresford's not alighting.
Having opened the door of the Rain-Girl's taxi and handed her out, the hall-porter lifted down her luggage and placed it on the ground beside him. He then came to Beresford's vehicle and was about to open the door when Beresford leaned forward. "Can I have a room?" he enquired.
"Yes, sir, I think so, if you'll enquire at the office."
"I want you to enquire for me. Perhaps you'll ask the clerk to come and speak to me," and he handed the man a half crown.
"Certainly, sir," and the man ran up the steps, reappearing a minute later followed by a dark little man, perfect in dress and deportment.
Beresford explained his requirements.
Yes, everything could be arranged to monsieur's entire satisfaction. When would monsieur want the room? That night? Certainly, and would he take dinner? He would. A deposit? It was not necessary. Monsieur insisted? The man shrugged his shoulders to imply that he took the two one-pound notes merely as a concession to monsieur; as for himself, well "Back to the station? Oui, monsieur," and with a word to the driver the taxi swung out from the drive, and Beresford once more had cause to congratulate himself upon his luck.
Everything seemed to come quite naturally to him now. He would return to London for some suitable clothes, be back in Folkestone that evening, and then